The Rome Prophecy

36

Tom folds himself into the back of the Punto and they trundle towards the Field of Mars.

It’s a near-impossible fit.

Certainly a feat worthy of a Guinness World Record for the biggest ex-priest carried in the smallest ever space.

Tom remembers just a few days ago standing on top of the Eiffel Tower with his friend Jean-Paul, looking down at the Parisian park by the same name.

Coincidence?

He certainly hopes so.

There must be dozens of military parade grounds throughout the world dedicated to the god of war. The only nagging doubt is that while looking out across the great darkness, he felt the overwhelming conviction that he would not be returning to France. Since then, he has increasingly felt that Rome is where his own god wants him to be, the place where a very specific type of modern battle is about to be fought.

His type.

Louisa coaches Valentina on the route. ‘You’ll have to cross the river twice because of our stupid roads. Go west at the Popolo, south down the Lungotevere, all the way past the Ospedale Santo Spirito and keep on until I tell you.’

‘Frankly, I’m struggling with all this,’ says Valentina. ‘Not the roads, the case. I thought I was making sense of the Cassandra Complex, then phew, straight out of the blue, another alter breezes in and turns everything upside down.’

Louisa smiles. ‘I know. I find it difficult too. There is a pattern, though.’

‘There is?’

‘Our patient is fixating on special women and events. Cassandra is the name of a goddess.’

‘And Claudia?’

‘Almost as special. The Claudii were among the most powerful and respected clans of ancient times. Just as the Cassandra alter was caught up in the history of the Bocca della Verita, Claudia is caught up in the epic chapter depicting the Rape of the Sabines.’

‘Not rape as we generally refer to it,’ adds Tom from the back seat.

‘No, that’s right. It wasn’t enforced intercourse. Well, at least not initially. We’re way back in history, probably the days of Romulus, when Rome was mainly male and there was a shortage of wives. The incident she was living out was when Roman soldiers crossed into Sabine, the area we now call Lazio, Umbria and Abruzzo, and carried off the women. They brought them back to the Seven Hills to raise families.’

The thought makes Tom shudder. ‘Horrendous.’

‘Well, actually, after the kidnapping, the women were treated very well. Most became dutiful wives and mothers. They probably wouldn’t have returned even if they’d been able to.’

Valentina thinks she understands. ‘An early form of Stockholm Syndrome?’

‘Something like that.’ Louisa points through the wind-screen. ‘That’s Tiber Island, the Insula Inter-Duos-Pontes.’ She half turns to Tom. ‘It means the island between two bridges. We’re on the wrong side of it. Claudia would have been on the eastern side, so you need to take the road to your left.’

Valentina turns the wheel and takes them across the Ponte Garibaldi, a fast modern carriageway that speeds traffic both ways across the Tiber.

For the next half-hour or so they loop back and forth over this causeway and the Ponte Cestio, a bridge that runs to Tiber Island from the south side of the river, leading to the Ponte Fabricio, which in turn connects the island to the eastern bank. During the day it’s a walkway teeming with musicians, artists, hustlers and pickpockets.

Now it’s deserted.

They park up and walk back and forth along the bridge and both embankments.

Just after midnight, a cruel winter wind begins to swirl off the Tiber and hits their faces like a million skimmed stones.

Tom insists Valentina and Louisa go back to the Fiat to get warm while he does a final search on the walkways running north and south of the old bridge.

They don’t argue.

Tom isn’t exactly sure what he’s looking for.

A sign, he supposes.

Some strange clue, like the one he and Valentina found in the Sacro Cuore del Suffragio.

Anything that links the harsh, cold reality of this winter’s night to the ramblings of some mentally ill woman he’s never met.

He tries to tune out the modern world – the street noise, the cars and the fashionably dressed couples hurrying home arm in arm. He wants to imagine the early days of Rome, the fear of the Sabines during a time when rape and pillage were as common as breakfast and supper. It was a savage age. An era when a pantheon of gods was thought to guide every mundane act and superstition cast its shadow over everyone and everything.

Walking the pavement along the Lungotevere, he realises that if, like Claudia, he was on the run from soldiers, he’d be on much lower ground, on the eastern bank of the river, so that he couldn’t be seen from the vast open plains around.

A steep flight of stairs takes him down from road level and opens up on to a wide, potholed gravel path. To his right is Tiber Island. Straight in front of him is an isolated ancient arch in the middle of the Tiber. Behind him, the Ponte Palatino.

He begins to head towards the Fabricio, then on instinct turns and heads south. Close to the edge of the lower walk-way, he sees there’s a further drop on to a banking of rocks.

In places it’s almost sheer, and threatens a comedic slip into the fatally icy water. Gradually it becomes less treacherous, and eases out into a gentler incline that he’s able to work his way down.

Being next to the roaring black beast of the Tiber makes him nervous.

The river is astonishingly fast and dangerous.

He can easily envisage its spectral claws grabbing his ankles and sweeping him away to an unseen death.

Tom looks off into the darkness towards the Field of Mars, the place where centuries ago the most formidable army on earth trained for battle.

Lights of apartments flicker now where there were once the camp fires of soldiers.

He gets out the Maglite that Valentina gave him and shines it along the banking.

Soon he reaches the point where the Ponte Fabricio joins the Lungotevere dei Pierleoni. Out in the furious flow of the river there’s a giant scrub of land between the bank and Tiber Island. Centuries ago, before it was eroded by the relentless Tiber, it was probably connected to either the bank or the island.

Tom turns away and steps over some rocks.

He shines the torch beam in front of him to make sure he doesn’t twist an ankle and take a tumble. The ray catches something pink to his right.

Flesh.

A human face.

His heart jumps.

‘ Vaffanculo!’ A male voice shouts at him.

A hand comes up to dark, angry eyes.

Tom can see the man now.

He’s sitting on a patch of grass with his back against some rocks. His trousers are around his ankles and a woman is bent attentively over his crotch.

Tom diverts the light and walks on. He wonders whether the closeness to the murderous water adds a fetishistic frisson to the sex act he’s just fleetingly witnessed.

He starts to work his way up the banking towards the street.

There’s no grass now, just mounds of rocks, gathered as a sort of breakwater for the tide. He crosses them as you would stepping stones in a small stream, moving sideways almost as much as forward.

The bouncing Maglite picks out another couple.

No, not a couple, just a man.

A tramp sleeping off too much booze, or perhaps he’s just sheltering from the wind and the abuse on the street.

Tom plays his light over the hobo.

At first his mind tricks him.

He thinks he can see all of the guy’s outline.

But he can’t.

He can only see a leg – and part of the man’s right side and arm.

The rest of him is buried.

He’s dead.

Tom puts the torch down.

It rolls off a rock and blackness hides everything.

He feels around for the Maglite.

Re-positions it.

The beam illuminates the corpse.

He steps closer to the body.

Carefully he pulls away several boulders and stacks them so they don’t roll down into the river and lose any evidence that might be attached to them.

He still can’t see the entire corpse, but he sure can smell it.

His own body momentarily blocks the light and his hands touch something.

Something soft and broken.

The skull has been caved in.

He fingers a crawling moist mass inside the shattered cavity and jerks his hand away.

Something is still slithering over his fingers.

Maggots and crustaceans that have been feeding on the brain.

He furiously rubs his hands on his jacket and feels them turning sticky and dry.

It takes almost a full minute for him to catch his breath and calm down.

He reaches for the torch and plays the light across the exposed cadaver.

It’s bloated. Swollen. Pumped up.

Tom feels his stomach flip. He turns away and vomits.

He spits his mouth clean and tries to suck in fresh air.

He can’t help but feel ashamed at his revulsion. His thoughts should be of sympathy and respect for the stranger who died in this barren place.

The ex-priest leans over the body, joins his hands and briefly prays. ‘O Lord, let perpetual light shine upon this poor soul and may he rest in peace. Amen.’ He crosses himself and looks around.

He knows he should step away now and phone Valentina. He certainly shouldn’t touch the corpse or disturb the scene any more than he already has done.

But he can’t do that.

The curiosity is too great.

He has to see.

He turns the body over.

Even in the darkness, it’s obvious what’s happened.

There’s a gaping hole in the man’s abdomen.

He’s been stabbed to death.