MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, 9:42 A.M.

Here, my distinguished guests, is the object we’re looking for,” José Rivera, the museum curator, continued in Spanish. “The Pietà of Malta. Let’s take a close look at the pilfered object.”

He passed around the table a series of identical files, one for each person present. Inside each, on the top page, was a color portrait of the object recently stolen. To a casual observer, it might have appeared to be a smaller and less refined version of Michelangelo’s majestic sculpture, The Pietà, as it was known to millions of art lovers and Christians around the world. Michelangelo’s masterpiece has remained at St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City to this day.

“The Pietà,” Rivera began, “is not just a single sculpture in Rome, but rather a singular subject in Christian art, normally depicting the Virgin Mary cradling the slain body of Jesus. As such, it is a particular form of the devotional theme of Our Lady of Sorrows. Any pietà depicts a scene from the Passion of Christ and is the thirteenth of the Stations of the Cross. When Christ and the Virgin are surrounded by other figures from the New Testament, the subject is strictly called a lamentation, although pietà is often used for this as well. The pietà-as an expression of faith and as an enterprise of religious art-gained popularity in Italy in the sixteenth century. Many German and Polish fifteenth-century examples in wood greatly emphasize Christ’s wounds and are seen as precursors to the genre. Woodcuts from Russia in the fourteen hundreds suggest a similar fascination with the form.”

Rivera paused. A trace of a smile crossed his face. “The most famous pietà, of course, is Michelangelo’s in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Michelangelo’s last work was another pietà, a different one, featuring not the Virgin Mary holding Christ, but rather Joseph of Arimathea.” He paused, then added, “Michelangelo carved Joseph’s face as a self-portrait. A final act of piety wherein the sculptor humbly placed himself in a biblical context.”

There was laughter around the room. Alex always enjoyed listening to an expert on anything.

“But what we are here today to discuss, however, is what is believed to be the definite origin of this genre of work. The Pietà of Malta. Please look at the top photograph I’ve presented to you. Five centuries ago Michelangelo gained inspiration for his greatest work from gazing for many hours upon the very sculpture that was stolen from us. The Pietà of Malta was held by the Vatican at the time, AD 1500, and would have been accessible to him. That is the treasure that disappeared from our museum. It goes without saying that our most prized pietà must be found and returned to the government of Spain and this museum as soon as possible.”

There was a rustling of documents around the room.

“I’m just curious,” Rivera continued as those in the room perused the files, “as to who here might have ever seen The Pietà of Malta before, directly in our museum. Or how many of you are even familiar with it?”

Only one hand went up in acknowledgment, that of Rizzo, the Roman. Rivera nodded to him.

“I’ve also seen the big one at the Vatican,” Rizzo said. “Does that count?”

“En absoluto. Not in the slightest,” Rivera said with a sly smile.

In the photographs from the files was a small piece of artwork from antiquity. It was part sculpture in stone, part carving in wood. It was well worn from the centuries, but it was easy to distinguish what it represented.

“What you see before you,” Rivera said, “is the first sculptural lamentation in recorded history.”

The carving was that of Mary comforting the body of her slain son. The faces had eroded over the centuries, but the 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 with the monastery came early artwork, much of it from the islands of Sardinia, Corsica, and Malta. Much of this was plundered or destroyed during the fifth century AD when the Roman Empire disintegrated under the press of barbarian invasions from the east, and Vandals finally sacked the city.”