Beneath the quiet streets of Rome, where candlelight flickers against walls of bone, lie the jeweled remains of forgotten martyrs — the Catacomb Saints. In the 16th and 17th centuries, these skeletons were unearthed from the dark tunnels of the early Christian catacombs and sent across Europe as holy relics. Each one was believed to be a protector of faith, a bridge between heaven and earth.

Nuns and artisans spent years adorning them with thousands of gemstones, gold thread, and silken robes. Every rib was gilded, every finger crowned with jewels, until death itself shimmered with divine radiance. These were not mere skeletons — they were symbols of incorruptible faith, wrapped in splendor to reflect eternal glory.

But time dimmed their purpose. Many were forgotten, sealed away in dusty chapels or lost during revolutions. Now, when their jeweled skulls are rediscovered, they speak not of vanity but of devotion — a paradox of mortality dressed in gold.

Their empty eyes still glitter with the question:
When faith turns to treasure, do we worship the divine… or the beauty we create in its name?