by Jenn Stark
I couldn’t help smiling as the driver kept up a nonstop stream of chatter. His banter, detailing the trials of being an on-command limo driver to the stars, kept me energized at least, and that, along with caffeine pills and some mumbo jumbo Armaeus had muttered at me when I’d left for the plane, was apparently all the rest I was going to get before this day was done. As we sped toward Rome, I went through the plan again. According to Armaeus, I would have to navigate through a mile of catacombs and underground passageways, one of them, notably, under water—before emerging into the subterranean underpinnings of the Vatican. The necropolis was relatively close to the surface but still deep enough that I shouldn’t be disturbed at the hour I would be reaching it. I patted the pocket of my jacket, locating the deck I’d hijacked from Henri. This underground journey was going to be a series of yes-nos viewed by penlight, so I separated a few of the Major Arcana cards, sliding the rest back into the—
“Mademoiselle?”
“What!” I jumped about a foot, and the driver had the good grace to wince. We stopped at a light, and he turned around.
“Apologies,” he said, his gaze falling to my hands. “Oh! You are a student of the Tarot. Formidable!”
“Thanks.” Several additional cards had fallen out of the deck, and I scooped them off the floor, keeping them separate from the pack along with my Majors. Cards didn’t jump out of a deck for no reason, even if the reason was a bad one—like a driver who wouldn’t shut up.
“I wanted to let you know we’re almost there,” the driver said, swinging back around to drive. “Is there anything you need before I leave? Mini bottled water? Tourist map?” He handed both items to me over the back of his seat, seemingly out of habit, his eyes never leaving the road once we started moving again. I took his offerings just as automatically, though I wasn’t thirsty—and a map wasn’t exactly going to get me where I needed to go tonight.
As I tucked the map into my jacket pocket along with the cards, the car slowed and angled over to the right. I peered out the window, taking in the uplit view of the Roman Forum. We were at one of the main entrances, as requested, some enormous old building half standing off to our left, its arched columns looming in silent testimony to a world gone by.
“Thanks,” I said, pulling out some folded euros. “Oh, and here—I appreciate you driving me this late.”
“No problem at all, mademoiselle.” The young man turned around, his eyes eerily black despite the brightly lit interior of the limo. With a boyish grin, he touched his fingers to his head in a smart salute. “And no tip needed, but my number’s on the map. You need a ride out of here, call that line and ask for me by name.” He winked at me. “I’m Max Bertrand.”
“Bertrand of the French mausoleum Bertrands?”
His grin broadened. “The very same.”
I watched as the dark sedan shot down the Via dei Fori Imperiali, waiting until it was well out of sight. It was a few hours before dawn, and the Forum’s lights had been dimmed, throwing the ruins into shadow. Not even the most energetic of tourists was out at this hour, but I knew better than to waste any time.
Without hesitating, I hurried to the nearest fold in the imposing but ultimately harmless fence surrounding the long rectangular field of enormous ruined temples and scattered buildings. Where the structure dented inward, I paused, pulling on my gloves. I’d learned over time that sometimes, when it came to handling artifacts, it paid to cover your palms. The unexpected bonus was that for most modern climbing tasks, gloves came in quite handy.
The beautiful wrought iron gate proved easy to climb, and I was on the other side in less than a minute. And then it was off through the maze of ruins toward the Temple of Vesta, one of the few circular structures (or what was left of it) in the space. The temple had once been the home of the Palladium, the ancient statue of Athena carved of olive wood and said to have fallen from the heavens themselves. The piece had long since disappeared into the mists of history, but I was banking that the other great feature of the temple had not: its famed hearth, once kept constantly lit by an intrepid team of virgins.
I trotted the short distance through the Forum, past the Temple of Antonius and Fostina, and something called the Regia, which looked like a whole lot of nothing at all. When I reached my destination, however, my steps slowed, disappointment tightening my jaw. The hearth of the Temple of Vesta was intact, all right—mounted ornately on stacked slabs of rock in front of the temple.
What in the…I moved forward and circled the ancient building, still standing tall if somewhat tattered in her old age, a scant few of her columns remaining. I broke a few more city laws by clambering up onto the temple and skirting around it, then dropped back onto the rubble that marked what had once been the interior of the shrine.
Not helping, not helping, not helping. Dirt lay in huge piles all around the space, and only a few areas of actual rock were cleared off completely. I squinted into the darkness, trying to get a fix on where the center point might be, but it was almost impossible to tell. What were they doing here? Some sort of latter-day excavation? I grimaced, dropping to my knees to where it seemed that the rock that had been unearthed was actual bedrock and not simply stones moved around for the hell of it. And then I started searching.
It took me a full half hour to find what I wanted—deep, tool-cut grooves etched into a stone just off the center of the temple, the rest of the surface worn down. The section was bordered on all sides by more rock, which also boded well. However, I saw no cut marks in the stone’s surface to indicate that there was some sort of hatch I could unlock. Suddenly unnerved by the thick darkness around me, I pulled out the Ceres seal and considered Armaeus’s words anew. How could this be a key?
No time like the present to find out.
Trying not to wince at the damage I was doing to the millennia-old seal, I turned the relic upside down and gingerly pressed it onto the stone.
Nothing happened.
I pressed harder. No dice.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I forced all my weight onto the seal. Still nothing. I settled back on my heels, then shoved forward, forming my gloved hands into fists that I banged down on the seal like it was a square peg I was trying to hammer into a round hole. Nada. The rock stayed very rocklike. Very rocklike and solid. And hard, I realized belatedly, shaking out my hands.
“This isn’t happening.” I rolled up to my feet and scowled down at the stone. In the distance, I heard a police siren, and I jerked my head toward it, belatedly aware that I was, at a minimum, acting like a lunatic. At worst, I was doing my level best to deface state property with a stolen artifact.
“You know, I don’t have time for this.” I pitched my words calmly, quietly even. Never let it be said I didn’t know how to negotiate with a chunk of metal. “I need to get to the Vatican, and you need to help me.”
The seal remained stoic.
“There’s gotta be a way. That’s how he works. You know that.” I paced around the seal, then tentatively hopped onto the gold plate. Still nothing. “Totally not joking here.” I hopped again. Then harder. And then I did a rat-a-tat march on it. I worked on my samba, my pogo-stick, even some Irish dancing.
Nada, nothing, zip.
And then, finally, in the hushed corner of the Temple of Vesta, something deep within me sort of…snapped.
“Sweet Father Christmas on a tricycle, stop messing with me!” I stood off the edge of the seal, then raised my foot to stomp down on it with my heavy boot. “I have more!” stomp. “Money!” stomp. “Riding on this!” stomp! “Than I’ve ever seen!” stomp stomp! “In my life!” I backed up, launching myself forward again to execute a two-footed jump onto the now-battered seal. “DO SOMETHING!”
There wasn’t even a crack, and I half stumbled to the side, turning around and staring into the distance as I desperately tried to work out another solution, my lungs heaving, my head filling with a bone-rattling roar that pounded through my brain and—
The who
osh of movement took me completely by surprise as a storm of smoke shot up around me and the rock surface suddenly gave way beneath my feet. I plummeted into darkness and smashed hard into a wall, bouncing off it into a shower of rocks and debris that chased me down to an equally hard floor, accompanied by a tumble of stones that clattered around me. I blinked for a moment, then an ominous creaking sound stretched overhead in the now-pitch darkness, motivating me to scramble to the side until I came up against another wall, spitting out rock dust as I pulled the penlight out of my jacket.
“One use only,” I muttered, angling a narrow beam of light upward. I squinted at the completely blocked opening above me. Which meant—no exit either. So after I found the Magician’s relic, I’d have to come up with some other way to get out of here.
Armaeus hadn’t mentioned that part, of course.
I swung the penlight around as the rock dust cleared, relieved to see a darker opening cut into the rock opposite from where I was sitting—and only one said opening. This cut down on my possible options of which way to go, for sure. Even better, the dust seemed to be moving into that hole, versus hanging stagnant in the air, which meant somehow, somewhere, there was an opening up ahead.
Nevertheless, I put the penlight in my mouth and took the extra second to reach into my jacket and palm the cards, randomly flipping one upright into the thin stream of light.
The Devil stared back at me, grinning and fierce, rocking his evil badassery in the old-style illustration. I much preferred the more modern depictions of the horned beast, but either way, this wasn’t helping. I reached for another card, focusing my question more specifically. Two cards came free in my hand, and I nodded when I saw them. That’s more like it.
The Hierophant and the Eight of Cups—the Eight clearly one of the Minor Arcana cards that had tumbled out of the deck when the limo driver had startled me. So, apparently this road wouldn’t be a yes-no journey after all. The Eight of Cups was a sign to get a move on, and the Hierophant was also known as the “Pope” card.
Couldn’t get more literal than that.
I checked my watch’s compass feature to reassure myself I was facing northwest. Then I got to my feet and headed out. Time suddenly seemed far too short. I had to get Armaeus’s box and get to Vegas, if he was right about the twin sisters from Kavala being shipped there. And I had no reason to doubt him. According to Father Jerome, the sisters were Greek girls of exceptional beauty, and from what the priest had been told, their gifts apparently extended to a kind of shared cognition—they could wield the Sight in tandem, piercing the veil of the future or the past simultaneously. In a world constantly searching for the next magical curiosity, they would be coveted treasures indeed.
I picked up the pace.
True to Armaeus’s words, the world of Ceres made heavy use of ancient underground passageways hewn through the rock. The space remained blessedly empty of anything but stone and the occasional rat at first, but after the first quarter mile or so, bodies started showing up. I had clearly made it beyond the boundaries of the Old City. Some of the chambers were stacked with cloth-wrapped corpses as old as time itself, but others were filled with figures with a distressingly fresher feel. Holding my breath as much as I was able, I darted through the makeshift crypts, using the cards to guide me when I had a choice of more than one passageway. From time to time, I could sense the passages soaring above me and almost hear the distant traffic as the catacombs reached toward the streets of Rome. Other times, I could barely move, once shimmying on my stomach through a crevice carved into the rock, slick with running water. Apparently, I’d reached the Tiber River. I made pretty good time despite all that, covering the terrain in a little over an hour, before something decidedly different hung in the air around me.
It all started feeling…cleaner.
I slowed my steps, sweeping the penlight on the ground and up around the walls. Fewer cobwebs and dust, I decided. That was it. Someone had clearly strolled this way recently—at least within the last century or so. The air was lighter here as well, the narrow passageway between the stacked bodies seeming almost spacious.
I pulled another card, rolling my eyes as the Devil once again showed his ugly mug. The second proved more useful, however: the Sun.
I dimmed my light and advanced, realizing that the gloom of the space had lifted somewhat as well. Not enough for me to get away without using light of any sort, but enough to make me feel like I was no longer trudging through the bowels of hell. As I moved from one chamber to the next, I felt something else too.
The sudden sense of eyes on me.
“Hello, there.”
I turned around quickly, sweeping the light.
“Who’s that?”
Silence greeted me. “Armaeus?”
But no. And truth to tell, the voice in my head hadn’t sounded like Armaeus. It was…younger. More carefree. Either way, “you’re not invited, whoever you are.” The silence continued, and I felt unreasonably satisfied about that. So there, imaginary friend. Go pound sand.
To make certain that no one was behind me, or ahead of me either, I arced the beam around. Nope, nada. I shook it off. After having traveled through the graves of what felt like half the ancient Roman population, I should expect to be a little jumpy. I hit it again, moving through the passages with more determination. They had begun to tilt upward, and as I passed one cleft in the rock, I paused, something once more murmuring in the back of my mind, just out of reach.
I cycled up my penlight and flashed it over the surface to the right. Not stone at all here, but a metal door, deeply recessed into the wall and hung with shadows. I didn’t need to pull the Hierophant card this time—the papal seal was boldly emblazoned on the metal, immediately above the door’s old-style lock.
Transferring my penlight to my teeth, I reached up high inside my jacket and pulled my picklocks free. This would not be delicate work with a structure so old, but torque was important. I didn’t want to lose my precious tools in the mouth of a stubborn iron lock.
The mechanism worked, though not without protest, my wrists easing the picks through their dance with steady pressure and a few choice swear words. Clearly this wasn’t a common entrance or exit for the Vatican staff. That also boded well.
I pushed past the door and found more catacombs on the other side, along with a fair number of empty indentations in the wall. Too small for dead bodies, but clearly something had been placed here at one point—placed and then removed.
At length, the passage ended, and I was left in a room with no exit—just four stone walls and the entryway I’d come in. I flickered the penlight up over the stone surface overhead and frowned. A constellation had been etched into the chamber’s ceiling, the earth at its center, the planets and sun revolving around that overlarge orb. I slid the light to the right of the earth, past the moon and to the large sun, its center pierced with a thick dot. A circumpunct, one of the oldest symbols of the sun—or of God—that existed. Peering up into it and remembering the last card I’d pulled, I flashed around the space at my feet until I found a big enough chunk of stone that was not so large I couldn’t move it. I shoved it into place, then stood upon it, dimming my penlight again and flipping it over. I stuck the bottom of the flashlight into the groove created by the chiseled dot and pushed hard.
This time, I didn’t have to wait for my reward. The penlight broke right through the thin layer of dirt, and shavings cascaded around me as a burst of light poured down over my face. The block moved easily enough at the push of my fingertips, stone scraping on stone, and with two hands, I was able to push it up and to the side, revealing a hole large enough for me to climb through. Dim yellow light shone down from the chamber above, and I could see a tiny portion of its flaking ceiling.
I’d reached the Vatican necropolis.
Chapter Nine
I hauled myself up through the opening, trying to get my bearings. I was in an ancient room, but not as ancient as where I’d come from. It was o
ne of the painted crypts of the necropolis, the sides layered in a rich terra-cotta orange, the floor decorated with an elaborate ornate mosaic. My entry square was in the center of a long line of similar squares, each with a hole in its center, and I was familiar with their function. The tiles had been used originally as food portals so that the ancient Romans could more easily deliver feasts to their dead relatives.
Very thoughtful, the Romans.
Now, the centers of most of the tiles were stuffed with dirt and clay, sealing them off. I swung my feet clear of the hole and scowled around, every sense on high alert, but no guards came pounding toward me, no alarmed cries went up. Nevertheless, I set the stone back in place and scattered rock dust over it for good measure. Wiping my gloved hands on my leggings, I reached the doorway of the ancient tomb and glanced back. From this vantage point, I couldn’t tell the floor had been disturbed. Good.
I found myself in a long brick-and-stone corridor bathed in an eerie yellow glow coming from a line of recessed lights. I quickly made my way to the end, glancing into the empty crypts on either side of the passage, noting the ornate frescoes and striking images in some, the utter barrenness of others. At the end of the corridor, just as Armaeus had described, I found the original tomb of St. Peter, or whatever they were calling it these days. No way the guy’s actual bones were still here, but the space itself had a strange feeling to it that made me slow down, the cards seeming to almost shift in my jacket as I poked my head into the narrow space.
Bingo.
I saw the gold box almost immediately, but it wasn’t as if that took any special skill. It was lying right in the open, sitting in a sort of cut-out section of the wall, enshrined on purple and red vestments, candles lying around its base. A strip of red cloth lay crisscrossed over the relic, which, as Armaeus had suggested, was about the size of my hand from fingertip to wrist. There was no high-tech energy force field down here protecting the thing, just the cloth sash, and I frowned at the setup, inching closer. The light seemed particularly strange, surrounding the reliquary in a luminous glow. Was it a luminous electrically charged glow? That remained to be seen. I glanced around, listening, but no sound emanated from anywhere in the crypt except my own thundering heart.