The Rome Prophecy

by Jon Trace

  Guilio gets to his feet and looks lost.

  Tom takes him into his arms and holds him tight.

  ‘What’s been done and is being done down here is evil. Pure evil. We can’t let these people get away with it. You must be strong now.’

  Guilio pulls away.

  He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘I haven’t cried since I was a child.’

  He turns and leads the way into the darkness again.

  As Tom follows, he looks to his side.

  On the wall is the final scene in the market square.

  Anna’s hand isn’t placed inside the Bocca della Verità.

  It’s on a sword that has been plunged into the guts of one of the guards.

  125

  Shooter looks down on Valentina.

  The cop bitch doesn’t look so smart and arrogant now.

  Flat on her back, face bloodied up, smart white blouse and black trousers full of filthy marks.

  Now she looks different.

  Now she looks like she knows who’s boss.

  Shooter is.

  Mater wouldn’t approve. She doesn’t like violence. Well, not unless it’s violence that she’s ordered, then of course it’s fine. Justified. Necessary. But Shooter’s violence is much more than those things.

  It’s pleasurable.

  And as Battakes, chief of the Galli, he’s entitled to indulge himself once in a while.

  He pulls the cell door shut and enjoys its terrifying clunk.

  He stares at Valentina through the bars. Despite the battering he’s given her, there are still no tears.

  She has guts, he’ll give her that.

  And she’s pretty, too.

  No, more than pretty – she’s really quite beautiful.

  Shame he doesn’t have the equipment to rape her, because he’d like to.

  That’s what Mater doesn’t understand.

  He still has the urge.

  A raging urge.

  Sex is in the mind, not just in your balls, the old woman should know that.

  He looks again at Valentina. She’s sitting up now, trying to get her shit together. Very nice. Those long legs stretched out like that are a fine sight. Shooter would like to see her undressed. Maybe jam things in her. Ram her full of sticks and dirt until the rage dies down.

  He turns from the bars. Walks away while he still can.

  She’s lucky.

  Lucky that he remembered his place. His sacred place in Mater’s universe.

  There’s a noise behind him.

  A clank.

  And now his back feels wet.

  He turns and can’t believe what he sees.

  She’s thrown her bucket of cell piss over him.

  He’s soaked in urine.

  And she’s laughing at him. Grinning through the bars.

  ‘You ball-less fucking faggot!’ She flaps her arms with anger. ‘Is that the best you can fucking do?’

  She bangs the bucket crazily on the bars. Metal on metal. Loud echoes bounce all over the place. ‘Is it? Is that really your best shot?’

  She keeps cracking the bucket, venting all her anger in a wild, frenzied outburst.

  It amuses Shooter.

  Amuses and arouses him.

  She’s like a lioness.

  Maybe it’s his job to tame her.

  ‘Testa di cazzo!’ She throws the bucket at the bars and turns her back on him.

  ‘Big mistake,’ says Shooter, slipping his key into the lock. ‘You just made the biggest mistake of your life.’

  126

  Tom and Guilio quickly descend two more levels.

  It seems odd that the further beneath ground they go, the bigger the space around them gets.

  They turn a corner.

  Ahead is a giant statue of Cybele, flanked by two stone lions.

  ‘Wait,’ instructs Guilio, with raised hand. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

  Tom comes to a halt.

  Ahead he can see that instead of crude sandstone, there’s a lavish array of spectacular wall paintings, devotional graffiti and decorated amphorae.

  The face of Cybele is everywhere.

  ‘This is one of the main veins,’ explains Guilio. ‘That’s what the sisterhood call the approaches to the womb. The exits are known as arteries.’

  ‘So we’re close?’

  ‘Very.’ Guilio looks tense. ‘And that means we’ll soon encounter traps.’ He points ahead. ‘Maybe even along here.’

  Tom feels his heart hammering. ‘What kind?’

  ‘I only know of a few.’ Guilio gestures at the painted ceiling. ‘Some veins are rigged to bleed. There are pipes hidden in the ceiling that can shower us in acid.’

  Tom looks up.

  ‘You won’t be able to see them. They’re well concealed. And they’re pressure-activated. One step on a trigger plate and our flesh will be melting.’

  Tom feels his skin crawl.

  ‘Mater, or chosen ones like the chief priest of her Galli, sometimes deactivate them so that searches can take place. We may get lucky.’

  Tom doesn’t feel lucky. ‘Is that it? That’s the end of the Indiana Jones stuff?’

  Guilio smiles. ‘No. We might have a chance to get past if that was all there was to worry about.’ He points at the ground. ‘There are gravitational floors in some of the veins.’

  ‘What do you mean – the floors tilt?’

  ‘Exactly. Sections are supported only in the centre. Walk on one side and they’ll tip. If that happens, we’ll just drop into a pit below and be left to die.’

  ‘And all these horrors have been here for how long?’

  Guilio shrugs. ‘Hundreds, maybe thousands of years. They’re effective, though.’

  ‘Being a former Galli, you know all these traps; you know where to walk, right?’

  Guilio’s face says that that’s not the case. ‘The Chief Priest is the only man who knows that.’ He looks apologetically at Tom. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  Tom’s in shock. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve only ever been through the main entrance.’ He reads the expression on Tom’s face. ‘There is no possibility we could have gone that way. It is too well guarded.’ He sees he needs to explain. ‘Across the fields, off the Appian Way, there is a farmhouse and some outbuildings. There are barns stacked with straw and the sisterhood tend a small dairy herd. Everything appears normal. The main stone house is large and looks like it is being modernised and extended. In fact, it’s like a fortress inside. Off the kitchen is a door to the cellar. The cellar itself is a huge antechamber in which the guards live and sleep. At the far end is the easiest entrance to the womb. Every gateway – and there are many – is controlled by fingerprint sensors. So if your prints are not registered with the guards,’ he waggles his right hand at Tom, ‘and believe me, it’s a long time since mine were, then you don’t get access to the stairways and you can’t get to the sacks – that’s what they call the cells where your friend is being held.’

  ‘So that triangular key that you’re using, that’s more symbolism and tradition than anything?’

  Guilio touches it as he talks. ‘It is important as both. The angles of the triangle physically locate the positions of the secret ways. Throughout the centuries it has been both a symbol and a key, and as symbolism is based on maintaining traditions, Mater has ensured that the old veins are kept healthy and functional.’

  Tom can’t help but feel sickened by the whole thing. He sees similarities to the Josef Fritzl case – the Austrian monster who imprisoned and abused his own daughter underground for more than twenty years, forcing her to bear seven of his children.

  ‘We have to get moving,’ says Guilio, his body half turned towards the treacherous tunnel that lies ahead. ‘Now you need to follow several metres behind me and walk as close to the centre as possible. The paintings and art are designed to draw you over to them. Give in to their allure and you may wel
l end up giving away your life.’

  127

  Shooter grabs Valentina by the shoulder and spins her round.

  He slaps her so hard with the flat of his right hand that the left side of her face feels like it’s been set on fire.

  She cannons into the cell wall.

  She recovers her balance, sticks her bloodied chin out and spits in his face.

  Plucky bitch.

  Shooter smiles at her. He’s enjoying this.

  Really enjoying it.

  He unleashes a vicious backhand slap to the right side of her jaw.

  Valentina totters and then falls.

  She shuffles back in the dirt. Tries to squash herself into the corner of the cell.

  ‘You stupid bitch! Did you think you could disrespect me and I’d just walk away?’

  He steps forward and tries to grab her feet.

  Valentina kicks out at him.

  He stamps hard on her thigh.

  The dead leg stops her kicking.

  Now he grabs her feet. Grabs them and pulls them until she’s in the centre of the cell.

  Valentina can’t help but scream.

  Shooter leans over and punches her in the face.

  The blow shuts her up.

  He rips open her blouse.

  Her stomach is irresistible. He claws a five-finger scratch mark down to her waistline.

  The rage is growing.

  Boiling up inside him.

  He grabs at the top of her trousers and tears open the button.

  Shooter glances up to see her face. To catch the fear about to flicker in her eyes.

  But he’s a fraction too late.

  Valentina slams her right hand against his stomach.

  It feels like nothing.

  A girlie slap that doesn’t even knock the wind out of him.

  But it’s more than it seems.

  He knows that from the expectant look in her eyes.

  Valentina places her left hand on top of her right, and keeps pressing.

  Now he gets it.

  He knows exactly what she’s done.

  She’s stabbed him.

  He sees it now. She’s broken the thin wire handle off the bucket and stuck him with it.

  Skewered him like a pig, and won’t let go.

  Shooter grabs her hands, but Valentina uses the shock to shift her weight and push him back.

  He tries to fight her off. The more he strains forward, the more he pushes the rusty metal further into his gut.

  Shooter topples backwards.

  Valentina follows. Driving the metal deep into the abdominal wound.

  Her soldier’s instinct and training have kicked in.

  No let-up. No mercy. No rest.

  Not until he’s dead.

  128

  The dusty wooden boards creak and groan like a dying man.

  Tom and Guilio stop in their tracks.

  Both glance to their left.

  The noise is coming from the wall.

  Tom glances to his right.

  The floor is rising on that side. ‘Stay still!’ he shouts.

  He takes half a stride to his right and hopes he’s corrected the balance.

  The ground steadies again.

  Both men take a deep breath and try to work out what has happened.

  They’re standing on a section of false flooring. Centuries of dirt have shifted under their weight and are now spilling like the sand of an egg-timer over the edges of the trap.

  Tom guesses that once it’s been dislodged, the floor will become increasingly unstable.

  Guilio needs to walk at least another metre to get off it, Tom another five, unless he turns and goes back a metre.

  They’re both now standing slightly off-centre. Guilio a little too much to the left. Tom too much to the right.

  They look at each other.

  They know their lives now depend entirely upon mutual trust.

  If Guilio makes a run for it, Tom is dead.

  And vice versa.

  ‘On three,’ Guilio suggests. ‘We both step to the middle, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘One … two …’

  They take a final glance at each other.

  ‘Three!’

  They move.

  The floor creaks.

  Then slowly corrects itself.

  They smile at each other.

  So far, so good.

  ‘Let’s try again,’ says Guilio. ‘Nice and slowly.’ He extends his arms and stretches a foot out in the manner of walking a tightrope. ‘Just take really careful, slow steps.’

  There’s a creak over towards the left-hand wall. Tom ignores it and copies Guilio.

  The creak grows louder.

  Much louder.

  Tom looks left.

  A whole section of painted wall cracks and crumbles.

  Pieces of it fall on to the tilting floor.

  Heavy pieces.

  Tom takes another step.

  Guilio is just one stride from safety.

  A huge piece of plaster falls from the ceiling.

  ‘Run!’ shouts Tom.

  Guilio glances over his shoulder and sees the falling debris.

  He jumps to safety.

  Tons of rubble crash down.

  The floor tips violently.

  Tom is only two metres from the edge.

  He moves quickly.

  The rubble is still falling. The angle of the tip worsens. One metre from safety.

  Tom loses his footing.

  He seems to fall in slo-mo.

  His right leg slides as the floor rises.

  He spins. Skids. Tumbles.

  Guilio stretches out a hand.

  It’s no use.

  He’s too far away.

  Their fingertips brush each other.

  Tom disappears into the blackness.

  129

  Valentina’s hands are glistening with viscera and blood.

  She wipes them on Shooter’s corpse and doesn’t even flinch. There’s a gun tucked into his belt. The idiot thought he didn’t need it.

  Valentina takes it.

  And his cell keys as well.

  She searches his body for anything else of value. There’s a special radio, like the ones used by subway staff, a cell phone, a small Maglite, some matches, cigarettes and money.

  That’s all.

  She searches his shirt pockets, flips him over and checks the back pockets of his pants.

  A spare magazine for the Glock.

  She looks again at the old cell keys. They may well open the cages just down from her, but she knows they won’t open the security gates on the levels above. She heard electronic buzzing. That means he must have a swipe card of some kind.

  She searches him again.

  Nothing.

  Valentina feels a jolt of panic. Her plan is in ruins. Without a card of some kind, there’s no way out.

  Still, she has the gun.

  She checks it.

  It’s the one he fired in the church. The magazine’s been refilled since then. She slides it back in and flips off the safety catch. If she can’t get out, then at least she’ll kill a lot of people trying.

  Slowly she emerges from the cell, and makes her way towards the torches and the staircase.

  As she feared, the gate there is a modern one, with an electromagnetic catch.

  She shines the tiny Maglite across the lock and over a pillar next to the gate.

  Her heart sinks.

  There’s a fingerprint sensor.

  Valentina looks across to the dead man in the cell.

  Maybe she could carry him this far. That’s possible.

  She sprints back to the cell and jams the torch in her trousers.

  Just lifting Shooter is a Herculean task.

  His limbs are floppy. His flesh slippery with blood.

  She sits him up. Grabs him under the armpits and lifts him. He’s heavier than she thought. She has to press her body against his
and force him against the wall to stop him collapsing like a rag doll.

  Within seconds, she needs a breather.

  It means standing face to face with the corpse, his head on her shoulder, his dead cheek pressed against her skin.

  Valentina takes a deep breath, squats and executes an almost perfect fireman’s lift.

  With Shooter draped over her shoulders, she makes her way across the uneven floor to the security gate.

  Once there, there’s a new problem.

  She can’t reach his hand and lift it to the sensor.

  She drops the corpse and there’s a sickening squish of loose organs and spilling body fluids.

  She manoeuvres him so he’s facing the gate.

  His hand still won’t reach the sensor pad.

  ‘Damn!’

  Once more she grabs him under the arms and heaves him into an upright position.

  She doesn’t have enough hands.

  She needs to shift one hand from under his armpit to grab his right hand, select a finger – presumably his index one – and swipe it across the sensor.

  If she tries that, then the body will fall.

  She drops him again and looks across to the cells.

  The girl she saw in the nearby cell is watching her.

  Valentina moves towards her.

  The poor kid looks frightened to death.

  Valentina remembers that she’s soaked in Shooter’s blood. It must be all over her face, her hands and her blouse. ‘It’s all right, don’t be afraid.’ She holds up the keys she took from Shooter. ‘I’m a policewoman. I’m coming to get you out.’

  The kid backs away, eyes wide with fear.

  Valentina wipes blood from her face.

  She finds the lock, and slips the key in.

  A splash of light shows that the girl is covered in bruises.

  There are cuts all over her hands, legs and arms.