Ring of Fire

by Pierdomenico Baccalario

  Beneath the old underground church is an even older temple.

  They can hear the river now.

  The temple beneath the church is dark and damp. Water gurgles around it, inside the walls. Elettra has the sensation she’s been caught up in the current of an invisible river held back by only stones and darkness.

  She fights back a shiver.

  “It’s this way, if I remember correctly …,” says Ermete, turning down a corridor with a tall, narrow ceiling and then down a second one illuminated by a single beam of electric light reflecting off its golden archways.

  All around them is the sound of the water. And it’s cold. But since the very moment they stepped into the temple, into the damp embrace of the underground river, Elettra’s felt hot.

  “We’re close. … I can feel it …,” she whispers.

  The mitreo is a long, narrow room with a vaulted ceiling and a row of seats carved into the stone walls. In the center is an altar, rising up over which are four head-shaped sculptures. Elettra stares at the altar through the bars of the gate, the only way in.

  “That’s the third altar, the oldest one of them all,” Ermete says, pointing. “If I remember well, over it is a sculpture of the god Mithra battling a bull. Funny, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” replies Elettra, although she doesn’t see anything funny in it at all.

  Ermete kneels down by the gate’s lock. “An altar to the sun god, located underground and surrounded by water.”

  Maybe that’s what he finds funny. …

  “An altar over which is the depiction of an ancient god defeating a bull …,” murmurs Ermete, examining the lock carefully. “Who knows what the bull ever did to him?” He pulls a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket. “I used to be crazy about locks. And I found that basically none of them are really foolproof.”

  “You’re going to pick the lock?”

  “Something like that, yes,” the engineer admits. “If I’m lucky, that is.” At first, the little knife turns around uselessly, and then, suddenly … the lock gives off a clack. “Done.”

  The gate creaks open.

  “After you, mademoiselle!” jokes Ermete, spreading his arm out into the empty room.

  Elettra takes a deep breath and walks in.

  “See anything?” the engineer asks, his hand brushing over the seats carved into the walls.

  “No. But it’s really small.”

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  “I’m burning up,” replies Elettra.

  They walk all the way around the room twice. The altar to Mithra is a sculpted parallelepiped with the image of the god in human form. The floor around it is slick and smooth, having been worn down over the centuries. There are eleven openings in the ceiling.

  “Is this where Emperor Nero worshiped the sun?” Elettra asks in a hushed voice, afraid she’ll disturb the atmosphere of such an ancient place. Her hand brushes over the bas-relief work on the altar and she can feel her skin burning.

  Ermete shrugs. “I haven’t got the slightest idea. But if you need to search a mitreo, this is the right place to start.”

  “We don’t even know what we need to look for.”

  “Or how to look for it. Ring of Fire?” whispers Ermete. “Ring of Fire, you there?”

  Elettra can’t help but smile. “I don’t think you can just call it like it’s your pet cat. …”

  “Who knows?”

  It’s not easy to find anything unusual in the ancient simplicity of the room. Stone, shadows and eleven niches in the ceiling. An altar with four heads sculpted over it. And the water flowing by on the other side of the walls.

  “Well, unless you have any ideas, I give up,” Ermete says after a while. He leans against the damp wall. “It’s like playing a game when you don’t know the rules.”

  “Ring of Fire … Ring of Fire …,” repeats Elettra, standing in the center of the room. “It’s hot in here.”

  “You think so? I’m freezing.”

  The girl kneels down on the ground and rests her hands against one of the stones.

  Cold. Cold. Cold.

  She starts to move, crawling along on the floor.

  Cold. Cold. Cold.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh…,” responds Elettra. “You can’t understand how much energy I’ve got inside of me.” She shuts her eyes and tries to concentrate, keeping her hands resting on the stones. The further she goes, the more her fingers start to move on their own, like antennas. They’re sensing the mitreo’s ancient signals, which have remained unchanged over time.

  Cold. Cold. Cold.

  Warm.

  “I think I’m getting closer …,” she whispers.

  She touches the stones around the warm one. Cold. Cold. Cold.

  But the one in the center is hot.

  “It’s here …,” the girl tells Ermete, resting the palms of both hands against the stone, which is identical to the others and yet so different at the same time.

  The engineer kneels down beside her. He raps on the surface of the stone with the handle of his Swiss Army knife.

  “It sounds hollow,” he says with a faint voice.

  Elettra doesn’t reply.

  “I could try to pry it out,” suggests Ermete. “But I’m not sure I’ll be able to.”

  “Try,” the girl whispers.

  Just then, they hear the sound of footsteps. Ermete barely has time to say, “I think someone’s coming …,” when a creak echoes through the underground room. A stocky man in a black leather jacket and a dirty T-shirt walks into the mitreo.

  “So in the end … rrr … I found you, huh … rrr …?” he exclaims. His rough, raspy voice is amplified by a little black plastic box pressed up against his throat.

  “Joe?” Ermete asks, astonished. “What are you doing here?”

  “Let’s just say … rrr … that I stopped by to hear … rrr … your … rrr … answering machine … rrr …,” hisses Joe Vinile. “And I said to myself … rrr … It looks like old Ermete … rrr … wants to do this all on his own.”

  “Ermete,” asks Elettra. “Who is that man?”

  “Ermete … rrr …? Who is that girl … rrr …?” Joe Vinile lets out a burst of bloodcurdling laughter.

  Ermete starts to get to his feet, but the man stops him in his tracks by aiming a shiny black gun at him. Then he coughs. “Hold it … rrr …”

  Elettra doesn’t understand. “Ermete!” she cries in disbelief.

  “Be a good girl … rrr … you brat … rrr. … You know, I think Ermete … rrr … tricked … rrr … both of us … rrr. …”

  “Why are you following us?” the engineer asks.

  Joe Vinile’s gun darts around threateningly with his every move. “No, you tell me something … rrr … Are they all … rrr … little kids?”

  Ermete nods.

  Joe Vinile cackles. “So who’s going to tell … rrr … Mahler … rrr … that he’s been fooled … rrr … by a group of little snot-noses … rrr …?”

  Beatrice walks into Mistral’s room and orders, “Let’s get out of here, now!”

  The girl jumps to her feet. “Was that a gunshot I heard?”

  “It doesn’t matter!” shouts Beatrice. “We’ve got to get out of here! Right away!” She goes back into the hallway, finishes tying up and gagging Jacob Mahler, grabs him by the arms and starts to drag him toward the bathroom. She kicks the door open and lifts up the killer’s body just enough to dump him into the bathtub.

  “Be good, now. …”

  “Beatrice?” Mistral calls out to her.

  “Coming!” The young woman looks down at Mahler one last time and runs out of the bathroom.

  Mistral is standing in the hallway, staring down at the bloodstains on the floor. “Is he dead?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But I put him out of action for a while,” Beatrice says in a low voice. “Now we’ve got to do one last thing. Grab that!” she orders, pointing at the violin case. “And
I … I’m calling a few friends.”

  She runs into another room, picks up the manila envelope full of computer-printed photographs and returns to Mistral’s room. “A little evidence here …,” she says, scattering photos around on the floor. “And a little in the other rooms.” She leaves only a couple of pictures inside the envelope. “We might need these, just in case.” She looks at Mistral. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  They rush down the stairs.

  Once outside, Beatrice points at the yellow Mini parked at the curb. “Good,” she repeats. She grabs her cell phone out of her pocket and hurriedly punches in the number of the carabinieri.

  With the shadows of the afternoon stretching out like dark clouds, the archway leading into Coppedè looks like a portal in a fantasy film, the kind that divides the world of the heroes from the world of the villains.

  “Everything okay?” Harvey asks Sheng.

  “My arm hurts, but it’s nothing,” he answers, clenching his teeth.

  “Should we keep going?”

  “Well, since we came all the way back here … I guess so.”

  The two boys walk through the arch. Once on the other side, nothing seems to have changed. The same crisp air, the same people rushing along and the same heaps of snow. But the buildings rising up all around them have different expressions.

  “See what I mean?” asks Sheng.

  “It’s fantastic …,” replies Harvey.

  Sheng shakes his head, reassured by his friend’s calmness. “Glad to hear you say that.” After a while, he adds, “I was thinking about Ermete. If he really is one of them …”

  “Yeah?”

  “If he really is, then something doesn’t make sense: the phone call last night at the professor’s apartment.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, if Ermete was one of them, he wouldn’t have called. He’d already have known that the professor was dead.”

  Harvey nods, impressed. “You’re right,” he says. “You’re absolutely right.”

  Sheng looks up and points down one of the tree-lined lanes. “There. That’s the house.”

  The little villa’s windows and shutters are still closed. An icy wind whistles through the empty arcades. Seen from the outside, its layout escapes all comprehension. It’s as though it changes shape depending on which side it’s viewed from.

  The boys walk all the way around the garden, protected by the wrought iron gate. Twisted frost-covered trees rise up in the winter snow like skeletons. On the opposite side, a black gate creaks in the wind.

  “It’s open,” says Harvey.

  Cleared of snow, a little path and three steps lead up to a patio with two small yellow columns.

  “The front door looks open, too …,” adds Harvey.

  “That’s strange,” Sheng murmurs. “Why would it be open? It wasn’t open before.”

  Harvey walks through the gate, keeping his eye on the front door. It’s definitely ajar. Sheng follows him, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Harvey stops a few meters from the partially open door.

  He sees a doorbell.

  He rings it.

  27

  THE STONE

  METERS AND METERS BELOW THE BASILICA DI SAN CLEMENTE, THREE people are struggling with a large stone. With their panting, pulling and pushing, the stone has begun to give, wobbling like an old loose tooth. The time has gone by slowly. No one has come down to disturb them.

  After much effort, the stone is finally pushed to the side, revealing a large niche. Full of dust, the space is about as large as a shoe box. Barely big enough to trap a mouse in.

  As the niche is revealed at last, Joe Vinile raises his gun. His raspy voice warns Ermete to move aside. Then he points the gun at Elettra. “Take a look … rrr …,” orders Joe. “See what’s inside … rrr … !”

  Mice in a trap, thinks Elettra, kneeling down beside the gap.

  There’s dust. Her hands are as hot as lightbulbs. Beneath the dust is more dust. And beneath that are strips of linen.

  “Anyone home?” asks Harvey, slowly pushing open the front door to the house.

  On the other side of the door is a dark room with a stairway leading up to the second floor. A few paintings on the walls. A little table. A lamp, which is switched off.

  A cold wind howls down the staircase.

  Harvey repeats his question and then walks in. The foyer leads into other rooms. The doors are all arch-shaped. The ceiling is painted light blue.

  Harvey turns around. Sheng joins him, his face pale.

  “Scared?”

  “You bet.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know.” Sheng looks around. “The top warned us about the guard dog … maybe we’d better not bother him.”

  Harvey stares at the steps leading upstairs. “Should we go up?” he asks.

  Crouching down on the floor of the mitreo, Elettra brushes away the dust. Her fingers touch an object carefully wrapped in old strips of linen. It’s long and slender, sticking out edgewise from the niche.

  “Well … rrr …?” Joe Vinile asks impatiently.

  Water gurgles noisily from behind the walls around them.

  In the opposite corner of the room, Ermete nervously bites his fingernails.

  Elettra grabs hold of the object and begins to pull it out, discovering that it’s very light. Her hands are burning up. Trembling, she rests the bundle of linen on the floor of the room.

  It’s held together by a golden seal.

  “Well … rrr …?” rasps Joe Vinile. His voice is as pleasant as a handful of salt on an open wound. “Take off … rrr … the cloth … rrr … !”

  Elettra turns toward Ermete, but the engineer is staring off into space.

  “What are you waiting for … rrr …?” coughs Joe. “Open that thing up … rrr … ! Let me see … rrr … what the heck … rrr … it is!”

  Elettra touches the ring-shaped seal. She pulls on it gently, just enough to undo the strips of cloth.

  Inside is a circular object. It’s made of iron.

  Elettra’s hands hastily unravel the last strips of linen.

  She takes it in her hand. She holds it up.

  It’s a mirror.

  On the second floor of the house is a hallway with four doors. One is open, and it leads into a small bedroom with a light blue ceiling. Closed shutters seal off its only window, and streaming in through the slats are the last traces of daylight.

  “Whoever was staying here,” observes Harvey, “they didn’t leave very long ago.”

  Sheng picks up a few of the photos and then drops them with a shout. “The professor!” Harvey picks them up again and takes a look. They’re all very similar: Alfred Van Der Berger’s lifeless body sprawled out on the ground. And, standing beside him, the man with the violin.

  A shiver of terror runs down the boys’ backs.

  “We’ve got to get out of here …,” murmurs Sheng.

  Harvey steps out of the room and into the hallway. Trailed across the floor is a long smear of blood. It leads into a bathroom.

  “Harvey …,” Sheng insists. “It’s not a good idea to stay here.”

  Harvey follows the red smear, his heart in his throat.

  The bathroom door is open. Inside is a large mirror, a sink and a bathtub hidden behind a plastic shower curtain.

  The trail of blood disappears behind the curtain.

  Very slowly, Harvey moves closer.

  And, very slowly, he pushes it aside.

  “Harvey …,” Sheng whispers from the hallway. And then, the instant he hears his friend scream, he shouts, “Harvey! Harvey!”

  28

  THE RING

  JOE VINILE’S GUN SNAKES AROUND BEFORE ELETTRA’S EYES.

  “Let me see … rrr … !” the man growls, making her move back.

  His forehead is beaded with sweat and his hair is plastered down against his shiny skull. He kneels on the ground, p
anting, and rests his sweaty fingers on the mirror.

  “That’s … rrr … all … rrr …?” he remarks. He turns it over in his fingers, baffled. “What the hell … rrr … did we find?”

  Ermete comes closer. The object casts out gleams of cracked silver and mercury. And it looks just like what it is: an old concave mirror, its reflective side slightly larger than a melon. It has an irregularly shaped edge, as if it was one piece of a much larger mirror, later set in a bronze frame.

  “The Ring of Fire …,” whispers Ermete.

  Elettra refuses to look at it. It’s a mirror, she thinks.

  “A mirror … rrr … a broken mirror … rrr … !” growls Joe Vinile. His large, flabby body shakes in a violent fit of laughter. He sets it down on the ground and struggles back to his feet. “We … rrr … did all that … rrr … just to find … rrr … a broken … rrr … mirror … rrr …? Ha! Ha! Ha! If Little Linch … rrr … knew what he died for … rrr … ! A stupid … rrr … mirror … rrr … !”

  “A mirror …,” Ermete whispers. Then he adds, as if in a trance, “Light that turns into fire. Life that turns into destruction. Why didn’t I think of it before?”

  “What are you … rrr … babbling about?” croaks Joe Vinile.

  Ermete looks at Elettra, his eyes sparkling with excitement, but this time she’s the one staring into empty space. Her curly black hair is an impenetrable barrier around her face.

  The engineer continues to think out loud. “That’s what Prometheus used to steal fire from the gods! A simple concave mirror! Just what you need to concentrate the rays of the sun and transform light into fire.”

  “So what … rrr …?” breaks in Joe Vinile.

  But Ermete is a raging river. “Now I understand all those references, those incomprehensible steps that Alfred was trying to piece together. The entire history of the Ring of Fire, which reappears every hundred years … and was passed down from hand to hand. From the ancient Chaldeans, who worshiped fire, to the Greeks, who invented the myth of Prometheus, from Magna Graecia, with Archimedes using mirrors to defend Syracuse from the Romans, to the Romans themselves, who brought the mirror here. Don’t you see, Elettra? Nero didn’t burn down Rome at night, but during the day … with this!”