Free Midnight in Madrid by Noel Hynd

arms, body, robes, and legs of two figures remained clear.
    “It is believed to be from the time of Constantine the Great,” Rivera said. “Perhaps three centuries after the time of Christ. It was under the rule of Constantine that the eastern and western Roman Empires were united, and the new capital of Constantinople was founded on the site of Byzantium. Constantine also issued the Edict of Milan, which made Christianity legal throughout what remained of the Roman Empire. He himself converted to Christianity on his deathbed. It was thus an era when much early Christian art flourished among the artisans who were faithful to the church. So it is believed that this particular piece is from that time.”
    Alex and the others in the room followed along as Rivera, switching back and forth now between very precise English and his native Castilian Spanish, explained the background of the stolen object.
    “This category of art is, strictly speaking, a lamentation,” he said, backtracking slightly. “A lament or lamentation is, in artistic terms, often a song or poem expressing grief, regret, mourning. Many of the greatest and most timeless poems in human history have been lamentations. They can be found in the Iliad and the Odyssey , in Beowulf, in the Hindu Vedas. There are laments in the Jewish Tanakh , what Christians know as the Old Testament. In many oral traditions, the lamentation is or has been typically performed by women. Similarly, in the traditional music of Scotland, a lamentation is a genre of musical composition for the bagpipes. In this form, these slow pieces are a theme and variations, beginning with a slow air that is played with embellishments. The simple melody returns to finish the piece. These laments are usually named after a person; traditionally, a warrior slain in battle.”
    Down the table, the Frenchman LeMaitre was pouring water from a plastic container into a glass. Rolland Fitzgerald, the young man from Scotland Yard, was looking steadfastly at the hard copy of the photograph while simultaneously jiggling his laptop screen to life. Alex did a quick count and noticed that she was one of three in the room who had arrived with a laptop. The rest, older school, worked off note pads and pens. Rizzo sat resolutely with his arms folded, nothing in front of him, listening, his own personal computer in his head.
    Rivera continued. “The term pietà originated from a custom of the Roman Empire around AD 64,” he explained, “referring to the act of prostrating oneself, and putting forth an emotion of intense spiritual love, accompanied with a reverence for the Roman gods. Eventually, the term slipped from Latin into Italian, taking the meaning ‘pity.’ But in the context of these pieces of art, the early Christians also adopted the term and took la pietà to connote the great grieving sorrow over the death of Christ, as well as a reverence for the Almighty.”
    Rivera paused.
    “Now look at the photograph.”
    The missing piece, he explained, was an extremely rare example of late third-century sculpture. The early pietà had been created by a craftsman in an unusual manner. The covered body of Christ was limestone. The exposed head, arms, legs, and feet were marble of a faint pink hue. On the base of the sculpture was ancient writing that looked possibly like Arabic. And the work was small by the standard of a pietà. Alex recalled Mike Gamburian mentioning that it was about six-by-eight inches.
    “The original provenance of the carving has never been known for certain,” Rivera explained. “But studies during the twentieth century suggested that it might have been excavated originally at Morgatina. Morgatina was a site in central Sicily well known for having been looted frequently and the abundance of artifacts that resulted from it. It was believed that an early civilization of Christians from Rome established a colony and a fortress there. With the fortress came a church and a monastery. And