The Rome Prophecy

105

They cover Valentina’s eyes.

Not in any sophisticated way. They don’t use a hood or a blindfold. They just throw a coat over her head and tie a belt around her neck to keep it there.

For a professional like Valentina, it’s the kind of action that gives away a lot of clues.

For a start, they seem more bothered about her not seeing where they’re going than the fact that she’s already had a good look at all their faces and can identify them.

She’s not sure if this is a good thing or not.

It’s good if they’re as disorganised as she hopes they are. If they’re simply coping with things as they blunder their way along.

But it’s bad – very bad – if they’re not so amateur. If they’re thinking that once they’ve questioned her about where Anna is, they’re going to kill her rather than let her go.

A sobering thought.

Only one thing brings Valentina some comfort. For now they want her alive.

She has time on her side.

Not much. But time enough.

Time to think. Time to bluff. Time to escape.

The coat over her head is doing a good job of stopping her seeing, but all her other senses are working overtime.

They’ve walked her downstairs, into the crypt, then walked her some more. Made her stand still. Turned her sideways on and then pushed her through a doorway.

Valentina’s memorised it all.

She can retrace her steps, follow her senses, if she has to. If she gets the chance to.

Now the air is colder.

It smells different too. Not of candle wax and church polish; of something earthier, something much baser.

Damp.

It has the metallic smell of damp and animal droppings, probably from mice or rats.

Someone grabs her shoulders, turns her round and holds her as she walks forward.

She’s guided down three or four wide steps.

They turn her left for a few steps and then right again before straightening her up.

They let go of her shoulders and allow her to walk along the flat again.

The twisting and turning has made her a little unsteady. She puts her hand out to avoid falling over.

It touches stone.

She’s sure it’s stone.

It’s rough, hard and lumpy. Totally unlike the plaster or marble of a church.

She rubs her thumb across her two fingers.

Wet and slimy.

The walls are damp.

She guesses she’s in some kind of underground passageway. Perhaps an ancient bolt-hole for priests or nuns at the nearby convent, a place they would hide from persecutors.

Or perhaps it’s something else.

Tom’s comments spring to mind. Pre-Christian cults, castrated followers of Cybele and Attis, ceremonies and rituals involving human sacrifices.

Is she in the midst of all that?

She remembers too the writing on the walls of the Sacro Cuore del Suffragio – DOMINA. DOMINUS. TEMPLUM. LIBERA NOS A MALO. Mistress. Master. Temple. Deliver us from evil.

Is that where she’s being taken? To the temple?

Valentina realises that she’s not gagged.

She wishes she was.

It’s not a good sign that they’re not afraid of her screaming or shouting for help.

Maybe it’s because the gun is still on her. Occasionally jabbing into her flesh and often accompanied by a command for her to hurry up. Or is it because they’re now so far underground that she could scream herself hoarse and no one would hear her?

She thinks it’s the latter.

She knows they’re already a very long way below and beyond Santa Cecilia, where her fellow soldiers are now no doubt swarming all over the church.

But that’s where her knowledge stops.

And that’s what frightens her most.