by Jon Tracy
‘Somewhere between the mentally ill and the spree killers? You want coffee or anything?’
‘ Non, grazie.’ She picks up her glass and swirls the last of her wine.
Tom tries to beckon a waiter to pay the bill, but has no luck. ‘You remember the number ten came up when we first talked about Cybele and the cults and the myths of the other sibyls, the prophetesses?’
Valentina has to force herself to remember. ‘Something to do with the number on the shelf at the depository where the poor left their cremated loved ones.’
‘The Columbarium, that’s right. Well, it’s been driving me crazy. I realised afterwards that while ten doesn’t mean anything to me, nine does.’
Valentina sits back. She fears a long and difficult story is about to keep her from the soft comforts of her bed. ‘Treat my brain gently. I’ve had a few glasses of wine, I’m stressed to the limit. And I’m getting very tired.’
‘Okay, I’ll make it simple.’ Tom blots his mouth with a white napkin before he begins. ‘According to Roman mythology, a sibyl offered nine books of prophecies and wisdom to Tarquinius Superbus, the last king of Rome, in return for a vast fortune.’
She grimaces. History – Roman or otherwise – was never her strong subject. ‘For how much?’
‘No idea. I don’t think anyone ever knew. Legend just says it was a fortune. Anyway, Tarquinius says no deal, and so the sibyl burns three of the books and then says she wants the same amount of money for the remaining six. Tarquinius still says no deal, so she torches another three.’
‘Plucky girl.’ Valentina drains the dregs of her glass in appreciation. ‘She’d be my choice to beat the Deal or No Deal banker every time.’
‘So, we’re down to three books, for which the sibyl demands exactly the same amount of money she did for the original nine. This time Tarquinius cracks and hands over the cash.’
‘Why? What made these books so valuable?’
‘Good questions. Sibyls were prophetesses. As well as foresight, apparently these texts gave great advice on what to do as and when disasters fell upon the empire.’
‘A sort of Dummy’s Guide to Pestilence and Plague?’
Tom can’t help but laugh. ‘Yes, if you like. Joking aside, the three sibylline books that remained were so treasured that they were kept in a guarded vault in the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. They were only brought out and consulted during times of crisis.’
‘Such as?’
‘Pretty much what you said: famine, pestilence in the agricultural areas, meteor showers, slave rebellions, invading armies, those kinds of things.’
‘I’ve never heard of these books. Are you thinking that they somehow have a connection with Anna and all her alters?’
‘We know there’s a connection to Cybele; it’s pretty likely that that extends to associated cults and the sibylline books or teachings.’
‘I suppose these books are in Latin or Greek or something horribly hard?’
‘Worse. They’re gone.’ Tom catches the eye of a passing waiter. ‘ Il conto, per favore.’
The young man nods and takes a split second to check out Valentina before waltzing away to get the bill. ‘The temple they were kept in was burned down and the books destroyed along with it.’
‘If only they’d backed it all up on hard disk,’ jokes Valentina.
‘Actually, they tried to do what I suppose is almost the ancient equivalent of that. They had scribes write down verbal accounts given by everyone and anyone who’d ever read or heard anything from the books. They called the new volumes the Sibylline Oracles.’
It makes her laugh. ‘God, could you imagine asking everyone who’d read the Bible to give their own account of various passages and lessons? It would be hysterical!’
Tom sees the funny side. ‘Or maybe a best-seller. Uncharac teristically, the Church seems to have missed a trick there.’
The waiter arrives with a small bill on a big silver plate.
Tom counts out cash and adds a handsome tip, despite the fact that the young man can’t stop staring at Valentina.
‘I guess you get that a lot?’ he jokes as the waiter glides away.
‘Never happened before,’ she says innocently. ‘You ready for bed?’
Tom puts down his napkin and courteously steps behind her chair to hold it as she rises. ‘I’ve been ready since we got rid of Federico almost two hours ago.’
90
‘She’s waking up.’
Louisa hears them talking before she sees anyone. People are moving all around her.
Her fluttering eyes finally focus.
She’s staring up at a ceiling.
A real ceiling.
Not the rough roof of a cell.
The picture before her slowly becomes clear.
She’s in a strange room that smells of dust and wet plaster.
It doesn’t matter.
At least she’s not underground. She’s not in a cell. Not in an enclosed space.
She hunches up on to her elbows.
A blurred shape enters her eyeline.
‘You passed out.’ It’s the man in the purple cloak. ‘You panicked and collapsed when we were moving you.’
Louisa looks around. His scarlet-robed henchmen are hovering in the background, along with a woman in a shimmering pale cloak who turns and walks away as soon as she notices Louisa looking at her.
The woman in her apartment block? Purple Cloak’s accomplice?
No, Louisa doesn’t think so.
She looked older. Somehow more important.
Purple Cloak leans over her again. ‘Let’s get you some water. You haven’t drunk anything for about twelve hours.’
Twelve hours!
The words crash around in her mind like a frightened bird stuck up a chimney.
‘What?’
‘It’s a little after eight a.m. You’ve slept through the night. Probably a combination of shock and stress.’ He remembers the circumstances of her abduction. ‘And perhaps a little after-effect of the chloroform.’
Louisa takes a plastic cup of water from him. She notices he’s right-handed and wearing a heavy gold ring bearing the image of a woman astride some ugly wild animal. ‘ Grazie.’
She drinks it in two gulps.
He smiles. ‘I’ll get you some more.’
Louisa can see the room better now.
It’s weird.
She can’t quite think what it reminds her of.
Then she gets it.
It’s like a half-decorated room in a new house. The walls are dark peach, the colour of fresh plaster. There are ladders lying on the floor, dust sheets piled in a corner, and a strong smell of gloss paint.
She sits up a little more.
No windows.
It panics her slightly.
There are workmen’s portable lights off to her left, cables snaking away to some hidden power source or generator.
She’s certainly in some newly built or newly refurbished building – somewhere that is going to be seen by the public, otherwise what’s the point of decorating it?
‘Here.’ Purple Cloak pushes the topped-up water cup into her hand. ‘Don’t even think about wondering if you can run away. Even if I took you outside, you’d have no idea where you are, and our people are guarding all the tunnels and exit routes.’
Tunnels.
Was that a slip?
Louisa sips the water.
The more she thinks about it, the more she realises that the word tells her nothing. Rome is like a rat run.
The whole subsoil of the city is riddled with secret tunnels, caves, dungeons and ruins.
She could be anywhere.
She passes back the empty cup.
‘Good. Now, how about you make that call to your office and explain to us how we can recover Anna?’
‘I need my phone,’ she says wearily.
He clicks his fingers and someone goes off to fetch it. ‘I know. We brought you here so you
can get a signal. It would have been impossible in the cells.’
Cells.
Plural.
Cells.
And tunnels.
Louisa pushes her luck. ‘I’ll need to go back home and change. I can’t go into work wearing yesterday’s clothes; it’ll look suspicious.’
He seems amused. ‘If necessary, we can give you fresh clothes, but you won’t be going home until all this is over. And if you don’t achieve what we want, then you won’t be going home at all.’
One of the henchmen returns and hands his boss Louisa’s phone.
Purple Cloak flashes a thin smile. ‘We’ve even charged it for you.’ He gives Louisa a long and considered look. ‘Now, who are you planning to call? What are you going to say? And how exactly do you intend to help us get Anna back?’
Louisa has thought this through. A hundred times. She clears her throat with a rusty cough. ‘We’ve taken her out of the hospital before. We took her to Cosmedin, near to where she was arrested, to see if we could unlock any memories that would help us with her therapy.’
Purple Cloak stays poker-faced. ‘Go on.’
‘I’m going to call my assistant and tell her to get Anna ready to go out again. I’ll say I’ve been reading through the case notes and want to take her on another cognitive trip.’
‘You can authorise that?’
‘Of course. That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?’
He accepts her point. ‘Where would you say you were taking her? How will she get there?’
Louisa knows she has him hooked. ‘Wherever you like. You tell me.’
He thinks for a moment, then looks pleased with himself. ‘Piazza di Santa Cecilia. Do you know it?’
Louisa does.
It sends a shudder rippling through her.
‘Yes. I can go into work, collect Anna and bring her there with my assistant.’
He holds up the phone. ‘No. You’ll get your assistant to bring her. You only go free as and when we see Anna.’
That’s not the way Louisa was hoping to play things. ‘I’ll have to be there to sign her out,’ she lies. ‘It can’t be done.’
‘It can. Find a way. And remember, if you try to trick us, we will kill you.’ He passes the phone over. ‘Show me on the display who you are going to call before you press any buttons.’
Louisa takes her cell and thumbs her way through the electronic directory.
Her hands are shaking. She can feel her breathing quickening.
Another panic attack is on its way.
Finally she holds up the name and number for him to see.
He peers closely at the display. ‘Okay. Make the call.’
91
Valentina’s been lying awake for ten minutes.
She’s naked in bed, facing Tom and doing nothing but watch him breathing gently. Just being beside him makes her feel calm and safe. She can’t remember looking at a man in this way before. Just staring at him, studying him, trying to understand more about him.
She lifts her left hand from beneath the warmth of the quilt and puts it gently on the side of his face.
He shifts a little.
Right now he seems more like a baby than a man, and she has to stifle a laugh.
She scrutinises his face.
Her old boss Vito always said a man’s face was a map to his life. A thin white scar runs just below the hairline on the left side of Tom’s head.
A fall as a child?
A tumble off his first bike?
This little white snake looks old enough to be either.
She touches his hair. It’s thick and dark, but not completely black. It’s somewhere north of chestnut brown. She looks closer. She spots a few grey hairs in the part that joins his almost military-short sideburns. It suits him. Makes him look distinguished. He may be one of those rare beasts who gets even more handsome with the passing years.
Valentina’s cell phone rings. Her eyes dart in the direction of the noise.
It’s on the dressing table and out of reach.
Tom stirs.
She was hoping to keep him asleep a little longer.
She slips from the covers and quickly grabs the phone.
She intends just hitting the dismiss button, but recognises the caller.
Louisa.
‘Pronto,’ she says, somewhat apprehensively.
‘Valentina, it’s Doctor Verdetti.’ Louisa leaves no pause for a usual response. ‘I don’t have much time, so please don’t chatter like you normally do; just listen carefully for once.’
Valentina is instantly on edge.
Louisa has never called herself doctor, and the off-hand reference to chattering is peculiar, to say the least.
‘Tell me first,’ Louisa continues, almost brusquely, ‘what kind of night did Anna have? She looked awful when I last saw her. I’m hoping she’s much better this morning.’
Valentina quickly picks up on the verbal clues. Whoever Louisa is with, whoever has been scaring Anna so much she felt it necessary to sleep in a bed of bibles, doesn’t know she is dead – mustn’t know she’s dead – and is probably listening in right this second.
Valentina plays her part. ‘ Anna is all right. A little weak. I think you need to see her for yourself. When will you be coming in?’
‘Good, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Actually, I won’t be coming in. Just the opposite. I’ve been looking through Anna’s notes and have decided that therapeutically she needs another trip out. It will give us a chance to learn more about how she reacts to certain surroundings. Could you get her wrapped up nice and warm and bring her out to the Piazza di Santa Cecilia? I’ll meet you there.’ Louisa looks to the man in the purple cloak leaning close to her and whispers, ‘What time?’
He holds up his watch and jabs the dial with a stubby index finger.
‘Can you get her there by eleven o’clock?’ she asks.
Valentina guesses she has no choice in the matter. ‘I’ll do my best.’ She reaches for a hotel pen and notepad. ‘Is there anywhere in particular in the piazza you want to meet? Anything special you want me to bring?’
Louisa whispers again to the man at her side: ‘Where exactly do you want her brought?’
He hesitates. ‘The fountain outside the church. That will do for now.’
‘The fountain outside Santa Cecilia. No need to bring anything other than your normal baggage and Anna.’
Valentina understands the ‘baggage’ to be back-up police. ‘Okay. We’ll see you at eleven.’
The line goes dead.
Valentina glances at her watch. She has two hours to get a plan together.
92
Father Alfredo Giordano is in an unusual and awkward position when his cell phone rings.
He’s bare-chested, in only his pyjama bottoms and has just come out of a Downward Facing Dog.
Right now, he’s balanced on his hands counting a five breath in The Crow.
Alfie has never held The Crow pose for a full five before. He usually crashes sideways at the start, slips backwards on reaching two or bangs his forehead on a very shaky-handed three count.
Right now, his palms are well spread and he’s rock solid on a four, so no way is he going to answer that phone until he’s made the full five.
‘ Cinque! Yee-haaaw!’ He rolls out of the yoga pose and pads across the polished wooden floor of his tiny room. He pulls his cell phone from the charger cable stuck in a wall socket and answers with gusto: ‘ Pronto, Giordano – il padrone di yoga fantastico!’
His old friend daren’t ask what he’s up to. ‘Alfie, it’s Tom. I need your help.’
‘You have it, my friend.’ He takes a deep yogic breath. ‘ Il padrone can fold you into a Bird of Paradise or twist you into a One-Legged King Pigeon. Which would you prefer?’
‘Alfie, this is serious. What do you know about St Cecilia’s?’
He drops the comedy routine. ‘St Cecilia’s in Trastevere?’
Tom swi
tches on the speakerphone function so Valentina can hear, then glances at notes on a pad. ‘The one in Piazza di Santa Cecilia; that’s Trastevere, right?’
‘Yes, yes, it is. What’s wrong, Tom?’
‘I’ll fill you in later. Please, Alfie, just tell me what you know.’
‘Okay. The church is very famous. Let me think… it was built in something like the third century. It has an amazing Romanesque campanile… lots of rebuilds over the ages, notably the ninth and I think eighteenth centuries.’
Tom scribbles furiously. Valentina watches over his shoulder.
Alfie continues with his list. ‘Oh, one of the weirdest things, there’s a convent adjacent to the church, and the sisters there shear the lambs from Sant’Agnese fueri le Mura and use the wool to make sacred vestments. Inside the church there are paintings depicting the beheading of St Cecilia. You remember the story of her?’
Tom has to jog his memory. ‘Lived her life wearing sack-cloth, married but stayed a virgin out of devotion to the Lord?’
‘Haven’t we all,’ interrupts Alfie with a tang of irony.
Tom continues to download the rest of what he knows about St Cecilia. ‘Patron saint of musicians, feast day in October – no, sorry, November. And her killers had great trouble putting her to death.’
‘Seven out of ten, or B plus, whichever you prefer.’
Valentina flaps her hands in frustration. Fascinating as this is, it isn’t helping rescue Louisa.
Tom ignores her. ‘I’m not finished. Didn’t she suffer some Rasputin-like death? Her persecutors tried to kill her two or three times and failed?’
‘I’ll up you to an A minus. They attempted to suffocate her in the bath at her house. When that failed, they decided to behead her. That didn’t go well either. The executioner tried three times to decapitate her, and then, seeing that she was still alive, fled in fear.’
‘And she didn’t die until three days later, after she’d received Holy Communion.’
‘Another thing,’ adds Alfie. ‘The original church is widely believed to have been built on the place of her home and martyrdom.’
Tom writes down ruins of old home beneath church and underlines it as Valentina reads over his shoulder. ‘So are there a lot of tunnels and open areas beneath the ground at Santa Cecilia?’