James Rollins - Map of Bones

VIGOR SENSED they were on the right track.

Finally.

He guided the others through Porta San Sebastiano, one of the city wall’s most striking gates. It also served as the gateway to the parklands that surrounded the Appian Way, a preserved section of the famous ancient Roman road. Immediately past the gates, however, stood a series of dilapidated mechanics’ workshops.

Vigor dismissed the ugliness of these junkyards by directing attention ahead. At a fork in the road rose a small church. “The Chapel of Domine Quo Vadis,” he said.

His only real audience was Kat Bryant. She strode alongside him. Kat and Gray seemed to have had a falling-out. The others followed behind. It was good to have this moment with Kat. It had been three years since they had shared a role in cataloguing evidence against a Nazi war criminal, living in rural New York. The target had been trading in stolen artwork in Brussels. It was a long, convoluted investigation, requiring subterfuge on both their parts. Vigor had been most impressed with the young woman’s ability to slide into any role as easily as changing shoes.

He also knew the pain she had experienced recently. Though she was a good actress, hiding her feelings well, Vigor had spent enough time serving his flock as priest, confessor, and counselor to recognize someone still grieving. Kat had lost someone close to her heart and had not healed yet.

He pointed to the stone church, knowing there was a message for Kat within those walls. “The chapel here was built at the site where Saint Peter, fleeing the persecution of Nero, beheld a vision of Jesus. Christ was heading into Rome, while Peter was running out. He asked those famous words, Domine, quo vadis . ‘Lord, where are you going?’ Christ replied he was heading back into Rome to be crucified again. Peter then turned back to face his own execution.”

“Ghost stories,” Kat said without malice. “He should’ve run.”

“Ever the pragmatist, Kat. But you of all people should know that sometimes one’s own life is less important than the cause. We all have a terminal disease. We can’t escape death. But as the good works in our life celebrate our time here, so too can our deaths. To lay one’s life down in sacrifice should be honored and remembered.”

Kat glanced to him. She was sharp enough to understand the tack of the conversation.

“Sacrifice is a final gift we mortals can give in life. We should not squander such a generous gift with misery, but with respectful appreciation, even joy for a life fully lived to its end.”

Kat took a deep breath. They crossed before the small chapel. Her eyes studied it — though Vigor suspected she looked just as intently inward.

“There can be lessons even in ghost stories,” Vigor finished, and guided the group down the fork to the left.

Here the road turned to cobbles of volcanic stone. Though the stones were not original to the Roman road that once led out from the gates of the city all the way to Greece, it was a romantic approximation. Slowly the way opened around them. Green swards of hillsides opened in parklands, dotted with occasional sheep and shaded by umbrella pines. Crumbling lines of walls crisscrossed the landscape, along with the occasional tomb.

At this hour, with most of the attractions closed and the sun near to setting, they had the Appian Way to themselves. An occasional stroller or bicyclist nodded to him, noting his collar. “Padre,” they would mumble and continue past, glancing back at the road-weary group of backpackers he led.

Vigor also noted a few scantily clad women lounging at roadside spots, along with some seemlier-looking figures. After dark, the Appian Way became a roost to prostitutes and their ilk, and often proved dangerous to the average tourist. Brigands and robbers still prowled the ancient road, as they had the original Appian Way.

“It’s not much farther,” Vigor promised.

He headed through an area of vineyards, green vines tied to wood and wire, that traversed the gently sloping hills. Ahead appeared the courtyard entrance to their destination: the Catacombs of Saint Callistus.

“Commander,” Kat asked, dropping back, “shouldn’t we at least scout the area first?”

“Just keep your eyes open,” he answered. “No more delays.”

Vigor noted the firmness in the man’s voice. The commander listened, but he seemed less willing to bend. Vigor was unsure if this was good or bad.

Gray waved for them to proceed.

The subterranean cemetery had closed at five o’clock, but Vigor had called the caretaker and arranged this special “tour.” A petite snowymaned gentleman in gray coveralls stepped out of a sheltered doorway. He hobbled over, using a wooden shepherd’s crook as a cane. Vigor knew him well. His family had been sheepherders of the surrounding campagna going back generations. He held a pipe firmly between his teeth.

“Monsignor Verona,” he said. “Come va?”

“Bene grazie. E lei , Giuseppe?”

“I’m fine, Padre. Grazie .” He waved toward the small cottage that served as his homestead while watching over the catacombs. “I have a bottle of grappa. I know how you like a bit of the grape. From these hills.”

“Another time, Giuseppe. The day grows late and we must be about our business with much haste, I’m afraid.”

The man eyed the others as if they were to blame for the rush, then his eyes caught on Rachel. “It cannot be! Piccola Rachel …but she is not so little anymore.”

Rachel smiled, clearly delighted to be remembered. She hadn’t visited here with Vigor since she was nine years old. Rachel quickly hugged him, kissing him on the cheek. “ Ciao, Giuseppe.”

“We must raise a cup to piccola Rachel, no?”

“Perhaps when we finish our business below,” Vigor pressed, knowing the man, lonely here in his cottage, only wanted a bit of company.

“Si…bene…” He waved his crook toward the doorway. “It is open. I will lock after you. Knock when you come up and I will hear.”

Vigor led them to the gateway to the catacombs. He pulled open the door. He waved the others through the threshold, noting that Giuseppe had left the string of electric lights lit. The staircase descended ahead of them.

As Monk stepped through with Rachel, he glanced back to the caretaker. “You should introduce that guy to your grandmother. They’d hit it off, I bet.”

Rachel grinned and followed the stocky man inside.

Vigor closed the door behind him and took the lead again, heading down the stairs. “This catacomb is one of Rome’s oldest. It was once a private Christian cemetery, but it spread out when some of the popes chose to be buried at this site. It now covers ninety acres and descends in four levels.”

Behind him, Vigor heard the door lock snap closed. The air grew danker as they descended, rich with the smell of loam and seeping rain-water. At the foot of the stairs, they reached a vestibule with loculi cut into the walls, horizontal niches for bodies to be laid to rest. Graffiti etched the walls, but it was not the work of modern vandals. Some of the inscriptions dated back from the fifteenth century: prayers, laments, testimonials.

“How far in do we have to go?” Gray asked, stepping next to Vigor. There was barely room for two to walk side by side as the way narrowed from here. The commander eyed the low ceilings.

In here, even those who didn’t suffer from claustrophobia found these crumbling subterranean necropolises unnerving. Especially now. Deserted and empty.

“The Crypt of Lucina lies much deeper. It’s located in the most ancient area of the catacomb.”