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Sienna gently laid the mask on the font while Langdon retrieved more towels, which he used like oven mitts to slide the mask from the Ziploc bag, careful not to touch it with his bare hands. Moments later, Dante’s death mask lay unsheathed and naked, faceup beneath the bright light, like the head of an anesthetized patient on an operating table.
The mask’s dramatic texturing appeared even more unsettling in the light, the creases and wrinkles of old age accentuated by the discolored plaster. Langdon wasted no time using his makeshift mitts to flip the mask over and lay it facedown.
The back side of the mask looked markedly less aged than the front—clean and white rather than dingy and yellow.
Sienna cocked her head, looking puzzled. “Does this side look newer to you?”
Admittedly, the color difference was more emphatic than Langdon would have imagined, but this side was most certainly the same age as the front. “Uneven aging,” he said. “The back of the mask has been shielded by the display case so has never suffered the aging effects of sunlight.” Langdon made a mental note to double the SPF of his sunscreen.
“Hold on,” Sienna said, leaning in close to the mask. “Look! On the forehead! That must be what you and Ignazio saw.”
Langdon’s eyes moved quickly across the smooth white surface to the same discoloration he had spied earlier through the plastic—a faint line of markings that ran horizontally across the inside of Dante’s forehead. Now, however, in the stark light, Langdon saw clearly that these markings were not a natural blemish … they were man-made.
“It’s … writing,” Sienna whispered, the words catching in her throat. “But …”
Langdon studied the inscription on the plaster. It was a single row of letters—handwritten in a florid script of faint brownish yellow.
“That’s all it says?” Sienna said, sounding almost angry.
Langdon barely heard her. Who wrote this? he wondered. Someone in Dante’s era? It seemed unlikely. If so, some art historian would have spotted it long ago during regular cleaning or restoration, and the writing would have become part of the lore of the mask. Langdon had never heard of it.
A far more likely source quickly materialized in his mind.
Bertrand Zobrist.
Zobrist was the mask’s owner and therefore could easily have requested private access to it whenever he wanted. He could have written the text on the back of the mask fairly recently and then replaced it in the antique case without anyone ever knowing. The mask’s owner, Marta had told them, won’t even permit our staff to open the case without him present.
Langdon quickly explained his theory.
Sienna seemed to accept his logic, and yet the prospect clearly troubled her. “It makes no sense,” she said, looking restless. “If we believe Zobrist secretly wrote something on the back of the Dante death mask, and he also went to the trouble to create that little projector to point to the mask … then why didn’t he write something more meaningful? I mean, it’s senseless! You and I have been looking all day for the mask, and this is all we find?”
Langdon redirected his focus to the text on the back of the mask. The handwritten message was very brief—only seven letters long—and admittedly looked entirely purposeless.
Sienna’s frustration is certainly understandable.
Langdon, however, felt the familiar thrill of imminent revelation, having realized almost instantly that these seven letters would tell him everything he needed to know about what he and Sienna were to do next.
Furthermore, he had detected a faint odor to the mask—a familiar scent that divulged why the plaster on the back was so much whiter than the front … and the difference had nothing to do with aging or sunlight.
“I don’t understand,” Sienna said. “The letters are all the same.”
Langdon nodded calmly as he studied the line of text—seven identical letters carefully inscribed in calligraphy across the inside of Dante’s forehead.
PPPPPPP
“Seven Ps,” Sienna said. “What are we supposed to do with this?”
Langdon smiled calmly and raised his eyes to hers. “I suggest we do precisely what this message tells us to do.”
Sienna stared. “Seven Ps is … a message?”
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