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which it completely disappeared from Christian art.
    So, then, the monogram that our Ethiopian bore on his torso was exactly the same as the one that the emperor saw upon the sun before his fateful battle. It bore the telltale crosspiece, distinguishing it among the many variations and making it a curious—indeed, downright strange—detail. It hadn’t been used in fourteen centuries, as the father of the church, Saint John Chrysostom, attested to the symbol in his writings, recording that by the end of the fifth century the symbol had largely been replaced by the one True Cross, the same one that to this day continues to be publicly displayed with exuberance and pride. It is true that during the Romance and Gothic periods, the monogram would reemerge, but these symbols had evolved away from the simple, concrete monogram that Constantine used.
    So, once the mystery of the chrismon was apparently solved (with that of the word STAUROS spread over the body), we were then mired down in a matter even more perplexing. Every day our desire grew to unravel that imbroglio, to understand what that strange cadaver was trying to tell us. Still, we stuck to our assignment, to explain the symbols, despite what all the other clues were trying to tell us. We had no choice but to continue down the path we were assigned and to clear up the meaning of the seven crosses.
    Why seven, and not eight or five or fifteen? Why were all the crosses different? Why were they all framed by geometric forms like medieval windows? Why were they all dignified by a small radiate crown? We would never figure it out, I told myself. It was too complicated, too absurd, too random. I raised my eyes from the photos and the sketches and turned my attention to the paper silhouette, hoping the placement of the crosses would provide a clue, but I saw nothing that would help me figure out the hieroglyphic crosses. I lowered my eyes back to the table and focused wearily on studying the strange small crowned windows.
    Glauser-Röist hardly said a word those days. He wasted hours typing away on the computer. I started to feel quite bitter toward him for foolishly wasting his time in front of that screen while my brain was slowly turning to mush.
    Sunday, March 19—the day of San Giuseppe and the festival in honor of my father—was fast approaching, and I began preparing for my trip to Palermo. I didn’t go home very often, maybe two or three times per year; but, like any good Sicilian family, the Salinas remained inextricably united, for better or for worse, and beyond the grave if need be. Being the next-to-last of nine siblings (that’s where my name, Ottavia, comes from) has many disadvantages, especially where survival tactics are concerned: There was always an older brother or sister ready to torture you or crush you under the weight of their authority. (Your clothes are all hand-me-downs, “your” space actually belongs to the first person to get there, your triumphs and failures have already been experienced by those who came before you.) Nevertheless, the bond I shared with my eight brothers and sisters was an indestructible one: Despite my twenty-year absence, as well as that of Pierantonio (a Franciscan in the Holy Land) and Lucia (a Dominican stationed in England), we could be counted on to organize any family activity, buy any gift for our parents, or make any group decision that would affect the family.
    The Thursday before my departure, Captain Glauser-Röist returned from lunch in the Swiss Guard’s barracks with a strange metallic gleam in his gray eyes. I was slogging away reading a disjointed treatise dealing with Christian art of the seventh and eighth centuries. I hoped in vain to find some allusion to the design of one of the crosses.
    “Dr. Salina,” he whispered the minute he closed the door. “I’ve thought of something.”
    “I’m listening,” I replied, pushing away the tedious abstract in front of me.
    “We need software that