The Rome Prophecy

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.