Jon Tracy - The Rome Prophecy

‘Valentina, it’s Doctor Verdetti.’ Louisa leaves no pause for a usual response. ‘I don’t have much time, so please don’t chatter like you normally do; just listen carefully for once.’

Valentina is instantly on edge.

Louisa has never called herself doctor, and the off-hand reference to chattering is peculiar, to say the least.

‘Tell me first,’ Louisa continues, almost brusquely, ‘what kind of night did Anna have? She looked awful when I last saw her. I’m hoping she’s much better this morning.’

Valentina quickly picks up on the verbal clues. Whoever Louisa is with, whoever has been scaring Anna so much she felt it necessary to sleep in a bed of bibles, doesn’t know she is dead – mustn’t know she’s dead – and is probably listening in right this second.

Valentina plays her part. ‘ Anna is all right. A little weak. I think you need to see her for yourself. When will you be coming in?’

‘Good, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Actually, I won’t be coming in. Just the opposite. I’ve been looking through Anna’s notes and have decided that therapeutically she needs another trip out. It will give us a chance to learn more about how she reacts to certain surroundings. Could you get her wrapped up nice and warm and bring her out to the Piazza di Santa Cecilia? I’ll meet you there.’ Louisa looks to the man in the purple cloak leaning close to her and whispers, ‘What time?’

He holds up his watch and jabs the dial with a stubby index finger.

‘Can you get her there by eleven o’clock?’ she asks.

Valentina guesses she has no choice in the matter. ‘I’ll do my best.’ She reaches for a hotel pen and notepad. ‘Is there anywhere in particular in the piazza you want to meet? Anything special you want me to bring?’

Louisa whispers again to the man at her side: ‘Where exactly do you want her brought?’

He hesitates. ‘The fountain outside the church. That will do for now.’

‘The fountain outside Santa Cecilia. No need to bring anything other than your normal baggage and Anna.’

Valentina understands the ‘baggage’ to be back-up police. ‘Okay. We’ll see you at eleven.’

The line goes dead.

Valentina glances at her watch. She has two hours to get a plan together.

Father Alfredo Giordano is in an unusual and awkward position when his cell phone rings.

He’s bare-chested, in only his pyjama bottoms and has just come out of a Downward Facing Dog.

Right now, he’s balanced on his hands counting a five breath in The Crow.

Alfie has never held The Crow pose for a full five before. He usually crashes sideways at the start, slips backwards on reaching two or bangs his forehead on a very shaky-handed three count.

Right now, his palms are well spread and he’s rock solid on a four, so no way is he going to answer that phone until he’s made the full five.

‘ Cinque! Yee-haaaw!’ He rolls out of the yoga pose and pads across the polished wooden floor of his tiny room. He pulls his cell phone from the charger cable stuck in a wall socket and answers with gusto: ‘ Pronto, Giordano – il padrone di yoga fantastico!’

His old friend daren’t ask what he’s up to. ‘Alfie, it’s Tom. I need your help.’

‘You have it, my friend.’ He takes a deep yogic breath. ‘ Il padrone can fold you into a Bird of Paradise or twist you into a One-Legged King Pigeon. Which would you prefer?’

‘Alfie, this is serious. What do you know about St Cecilia’s?’

He drops the comedy routine. ‘St Cecilia’s in Trastevere?’

Tom switches on the speakerphone function so Valentina can hear, then glances at notes on a pad. ‘The one in Piazza di Santa Cecilia; that’s Trastevere, right?’

‘Yes, yes, it is. What’s wrong, Tom?’

‘I’ll fill you in later. Please, Alfie, just tell me what you know.’

‘Okay. The church is very famous. Let me think… it was built in something like the third century. It has an amazing Romanesque campanile… lots of rebuilds over the ages, notably the ninth and I think eighteenth centuries.’

Tom scribbles furiously. Valentina watches over his shoulder.

Alfie continues with his list. ‘Oh, one of the weirdest things, there’s a convent adjacent to the church, and the sisters there shear the lambs from Sant’Agnese fueri le Mura and use the wool to make sacred vestments. Inside the church there are paintings depicting the beheading of St Cecilia. You remember the story of her?’

Tom has to jog his memory. ‘Lived her life wearing sack-cloth, married but stayed a virgin out of devotion to the Lord?’

‘Haven’t we all,’ interrupts Alfie with a tang of irony.

Tom continues to download the rest of what he knows about St Cecilia. ‘Patron saint of musicians, feast day in October – no, sorry, November. And her killers had great trouble putting her to death.’

‘Seven out of ten, or B plus, whichever you prefer.’

Valentina flaps her hands in frustration. Fascinating as this is, it isn’t helping rescue Louisa.

Tom ignores her. ‘I’m not finished. Didn’t she suffer some Rasputin-like death? Her persecutors tried to kill her two or three times and failed?’

‘I’ll up you to an A minus. They attempted to suffocate her in the bath at her house. When that failed, they decided to behead her. That didn’t go well either. The executioner tried three times to decapitate her, and then, seeing that she was still alive, fled in fear.’

‘And she didn’t die until three days later, after she’d received Holy Communion.’

‘Another thing,’ adds Alfie. ‘The original church is widely believed to have been built on the place of her home and martyrdom.’

Tom writes down ruins of old home beneath church and underlines it as Valentina reads over his shoulder. ‘So are there a lot of tunnels and open areas beneath the ground at Santa Cecilia?’

‘A lot?’ Alfie sounds almost incredulous. ‘Tom, there’s a whole city beneath Rome. The place is built over this soft volcanic rock and there are miles and miles of catacombs. Have a look at the crypt at Santa Cecilia and you’ll understand what I mean.’

The blindfold is a big improvement on the hood.

Louisa is hugely relieved not to have her head covered and a rope tied around her neck.

It’s the kind of observation she never dreamt she’d make, but it’s true.

‘Relax. It’s okay,’ says a man holding her right elbow and helping her walk.

But it’s not okay.

Louisa still feels claustrophobic. Hidden claws are scratching at her lungs. She knows it’s only a matter of time before she has another fit if they don’t get this damned thing off her.

They make her climb several steps.

Steps that are steep and turn sharply in on themselves.

It’s a spiral staircase.

A never-ending one.

Her heart rate is alarmingly elevated, and it’s increasing all the stress she’s feeling.

‘You’re doing fine, it’s nearly over,’ says the voice at her side.

Louisa steps up, but there’s no step there. She stumbles. Unseen hands catch her. ‘You’re at the top. It’s okay.’

A door opens and she feels a rush of cold, wintry air.

Paradise.

The sensation of being outside stops her feeling panicky.

They make her walk for about ten seconds.

A car door clunks open.

‘Watch your head,’ says her new minder. ‘We’re putting you in a vehicle; you’re going to have to slide in.’

He grabs her by the back of her hair and manhandles her into the rear of the car.

Louisa can smell leather.

Leather and sweat.

She puts one down to the car’s upholstery and the other to the bulky body pressed against her.