Jon Tracy - The Rome Prophecy

Guilio gets to his feet and looks lost.

Tom takes him into his arms and holds him tight.

‘What’s been done and is being done down here is evil. Pure evil. We can’t let these people get away with it. You must be strong now.’

Guilio pulls away.

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘I haven’t cried since I was a child.’

He turns and leads the way into the darkness again.

As Tom follows, he looks to his side.

On the wall is the final scene in the market square.

Anna’s hand isn’t placed inside the Bocca della Verita.

It’s on a sword that has been plunged into the guts of one of the guards.

Shooter looks down on Valentina.

The cop bitch doesn’t look so smart and arrogant now.

Flat on her back, face bloodied up, smart white blouse and black trousers full of filthy marks.

Now she looks different.

Now she looks like she knows who’s boss.

Shooter is.

Mater wouldn’t approve. She doesn’t like violence. Well, not unless it’s violence that she’s ordered, then of course it’s fine. Justified. Necessary. But Shooter’s violence is much more than those things.

It’s pleasurable.

And as Battakes, chief of the Galli, he’s entitled to indulge himself once in a while.

He pulls the cell door shut and enjoys its terrifying clunk.

He stares at Valentina through the bars. Despite the battering he’s given her, there are still no tears.

She has guts, he’ll give her that.

And she’s pretty, too.

No, more than pretty – she’s really quite beautiful.

Shame he doesn’t have the equipment to rape her, because he’d like to.

That’s what Mater doesn’t understand.

He still has the urge.

A raging urge.

Sex is in the mind, not just in your balls, the old woman should know that.

He looks again at Valentina. She’s sitting up now, trying to get her shit together. Very nice. Those long legs stretched out like that are a fine sight. Shooter would like to see her undressed. Maybe jam things in her. Ram her full of sticks and dirt until the rage dies down.

He turns from the bars. Walks away while he still can.

She’s lucky.

Lucky that he remembered his place. His sacred place in Mater’s universe.

There’s a noise behind him.

A clank.

And now his back feels wet.

He turns and can’t believe what he sees.

She’s thrown her bucket of cell piss over him.

He’s soaked in urine.

And she’s laughing at him. Grinning through the bars.

‘You ball-less fucking faggot!’ She flaps her arms with anger. ‘Is that the best you can fucking do?’

She bangs the bucket crazily on the bars. Metal on metal. Loud echoes bounce all over the place. ‘Is it? Is that really your best shot?’

She keeps cracking the bucket, venting all her anger in a wild, frenzied outburst.

It amuses Shooter.

Amuses and arouses him.

She’s like a lioness.

Maybe it’s his job to tame her.

‘Testa di cazzo!’ She throws the bucket at the bars and turns her back on him.

‘Big mistake,’ says Shooter, slipping his key into the lock. ‘You just made the biggest mistake of your life.’

Tom and Guilio quickly descend two more levels.

It seems odd that the further beneath ground they go, the bigger the space around them gets.

They turn a corner.

Ahead is a giant statue of Cybele, flanked by two stone lions.

‘Wait,’ instructs Guilio, with raised hand. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

Tom comes to a halt.

Ahead he can see that instead of crude sandstone, there’s a lavish array of spectacular wall paintings, devotional graffiti and decorated amphorae.

The face of Cybele is everywhere.

‘This is one of the main veins,’ explains Guilio. ‘That’s what the sisterhood call the approaches to the womb. The exits are known as arteries.’

‘So we’re close?’

‘Very.’ Guilio looks tense. ‘And that means we’ll soon encounter traps.’ He points ahead. ‘Maybe even along here.’

Tom feels his heart hammering. ‘What kind?’

‘I only know of a few.’ Guilio gestures at the painted ceiling. ‘Some veins are rigged to bleed. There are pipes hidden in the ceiling that can shower us in acid.’

Tom looks up.

‘You won’t be able to see them. They’re well concealed. And they’re pressure-activated. One step on a trigger plate and our flesh will be melting.’

Tom feels his skin crawl.

‘Mater, or chosen ones like the chief priest of her Galli, sometimes deactivate them so that searches can take place. We may get lucky.’

Tom doesn’t feel lucky. ‘Is that it? That’s the end of the Indiana Jones stuff?’

Guilio smiles. ‘No. We might have a chance to get past if that was all there was to worry about.’ He points at the ground. ‘There are gravitational floors in some of the veins.’

‘What do you mean – the floors tilt?’

‘Exactly. Sections are supported only in the centre. Walk on one side and they’ll tip. If that happens, we’ll just drop into a pit below and be left to die.’

‘And all these horrors have been here for how long?’

Guilio shrugs. ‘Hundreds, maybe thousands of years. They’re effective, though.’

‘Being a former Galli, you know all these traps; you know where to walk, right?’

Guilio’s face says that that’s not the case. ‘The Chief Priest is the only man who knows that.’ He looks apologetically at Tom. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

Tom’s in shock. ‘What?’

‘I’ve only ever been through the main entrance.’ He reads the expression on Tom’s face. ‘There is no possibility we could have gone that way. It is too well guarded.’ He sees he needs to explain. ‘Across the fields, off the Appian Way, there is a farmhouse and some outbuildings. There are barns stacked with straw and the sisterhood tend a small dairy herd. Everything appears normal. The main stone house is large and looks like it is being modernised and extended. In fact, it’s like a fortress inside. Off the kitchen is a door to the cellar. The cellar itself is a huge antechamber in which the guards live and sleep. At the far end is the easiest entrance to the womb. Every gateway – and there are many – is controlled by fingerprint sensors. So if your prints are not registered with the guards,’ he waggles his right hand at Tom, ‘and believe me, it’s a long time since mine were, then you don’t get access to the stairways and you can’t get to the sacks – that’s what they call the cells where your friend is being held.’

‘So that triangular key that you’re using, that’s more symbolism and tradition than anything?’

Guilio touches it as he talks. ‘It is important as both. The angles of the triangle physically locate the positions of the secret ways. Throughout the centuries it has been both a symbol and a key, and as symbolism is based on maintaining traditions, Mater has ensured that the old veins are kept healthy and functional.’

Tom can’t help but feel sickened by the whole thing. He sees similarities to the Josef Fritzl case – the Austrian monster who imprisoned and abused his own daughter underground for more than twenty years, forcing her to bear seven of his children.

‘We have to get moving,’ says Guilio, his body half turned towards the treacherous tunnel that lies ahead. ‘Now you need to follow several metres behind me and walk as close to the centre as possible. The paintings and art are designed to draw you over to them. Give in to their allure and you may well end up giving away your life.’