The Chamber of Ten

him all the way.

“So where’s the rest of the footage?” Finch asked. “And what the hell was he doing down there? He didn’t look like much of an archaeologist to me, not when—”

“Just shut up!” Geena shouted, turning on Finch. He looked away, embarrassed, and stood beside the window staring out.

“Geena, I think you were saying the same,” Domenic said.

“What?” She frowned at him, confused, angry at everyone speaking at once when all she wanted to do was go after Nico, hold him, find out what was wrong.

“On the film. I couldn’t quite hear what you were speaking, but it didn’t interrupt Nico’s words. It flowed with them.” He frowned as if struggling to verbalize his thoughts. “It’s like … you were repeating what he said.”

“But I …” I don’t know that language, she wanted to say. But then she recalled the vision she’d had, broadcast to her from Nico, of those men in the chamber so long ago. The words they were speaking, and how she had understood every one.

“I need to go to Nico.” She stood and left the room, and it was a relief. Glancing back once before entering the bedroom, she saw that all eyes were on her.

Domenic was the last to leave. Ramus had guided Finch from the flat with the promise of a meal in one of Venice’s better restaurants—on the BBC’s expense account, of course—and as Geena heard the two men leave she knew that Finch was in good hands. Ramus was gregarious but circumspect, and he’d leave Finch later that evening with nothing but an impending hangover. Sabrina went next, quiet and brooding. And then Domenic, sparing a glance into Geena’s bedroom as he passed the open door. They locked eyes for a moment, and Geena offered a soft smile. Nico was asleep beside her. She didn’t want to talk in case he woke up.

Domenic smiled back, feigned speaking into a phone—Call me if you need me—and left.

You were repeating what he said, Domenic had told her. She shivered and wondered what that meant.

“Cold?” Nico asked.

Geena jumped. She’d been certain that he was asleep. Nico turned on his side and rested one arm across her chest, hand cupping her left breast through her shirt.

“Just worried,” she said. “I didn’t know where you’d gone, and for a while today I thought …” She shook her head and gasped, trying to hold back the tears. She hated crying. It took her back to that long period of grief following the death of her mother, after which she had vowed to live well in tribute to her mother’s memory. Tears wasted time that could be happy.

“I’m sorry, Geena,” he said. Nico’s English was excellent, but he knew that she adored his accent. And she knew that he could speak English fluently, if he so desired. Usually he did not.

“Just don’t do that again.”

He caressed her breast slightly, then let go and sat up. Looking around the bedroom, he sighed with what sounded like contentment. But when he turned back to her, she realized that he’d been working himself up to saying something.

“For a while yesterday it was as if I was … somewhere else,” he said. He spoke quietly, as always when he was serious, leaning down on one elbow and not quite meeting her eyes. He looked past her at the bedside table piled with books on history and archaeology, as if the truth of what had happened could be contained within them.

“What did you feel?” she asked. She could never quite get used to talking like this; his strange ability was always acknowledged between them, but rarely discussed.

“Everything was suddenly old. Not just that chamber and the things in it, but the air around us, the water pressing at the walls. The time that was passing us by. I was removed from everything, letting it all flow past. Like a stone in a stream. But everything that passed me left a taint. Old. All old.”

“Something in the jar,” she said, sitting up so that he had to look at her. “When the water burst through you were holding something. Feeling it.”

Nico looked away, running a hand through his hair. He sniffed. Said nothing.

“I felt a lot of what you—”

“I know!” he snapped. “I can’t help it.”

“I wasn’t blaming you.” He was suddenly exuding disinterest—a palpable, almost offensive attitude that made her feel queasy. They’d spoken of love and even marriage, but right then he felt like a stranger. She shuffled behind him and put her arms around his chest, resting her chin on his shoulder. Hugged tight. He resisted for a few seconds, then softened into her embrace, leaning back against her and reaching around to stroke her thigh.

“Let’s sleep on it,” she said, mainly because she was exhausted thinking about it all. He was alive and back with her, and whatever had happened down there would fade with time. Sleep makes everything better, her father had told her in the days and weeks following her mother’s death. And though she knew that was not literally true, she had come to realize that the passage of time did make difficult things easier to cope with. They became history, which could be mused upon and recalled, instead of a painful, injurious present.

They stripped and lay down, Geena cautious about making advances in case that morning’s episode in the shower was repeated. But later, when the sun had fully set and moonlight cast the silvery light of make-believe through the room, she woke to find Nico pressing against her. He was stroking her, hard against her leg, and passion rose from sleep with her, making her wet and receptive to his touch. She turned on her side and hooked a leg over his hip. As he entered her he sighed heavily, and she buried her face in his neck because his breath still carried the taint of Venice.

He took complete control, making love to her as if it were the first time in months. She welcomed the passion and opened her mind to him, seeking the mysterious union that made their loving so powerful. Her skin tingled, and as she closed her eyes she felt Nico’s movements as if they were her own, felt her breath gasping against his neck, the feel of her breasts squeezed gently in his hands. It was always the most powerful sensation she had ever experienced, the sense of someone else enveloped in the open and frank throes of passion. She lost herself to it, tasting Nico’s skin and tasting herself through his mouth, penetrated and penetrating, and she also experienced that brief moment of sheer delicious panic that this would be too much for her, this would drive her mad. But beyond that always lay the staggering impact of mutual climax, and she held him tight, embracing and embraced as they cried out together.

As Nico came he growled, then chuckled in a voice far too low to be his.

“Nico?” she said after she’d caught her breath. She was shaking. Their minds were suddenly parted, and when he lifted his head and looked down at her, his face was expressionless. “Nico?” He slid aside and lay on his back, one arm above his head. His eyes closed. Asleep.

But Geena lay awake for a long time. Her heart was thumping, but no longer with exertion. She wanted to rouse him, look into his eyes to see who she would see. The lovemaking had been as amazing as ever, but somewhere there at the end, hazed by passion, there had been an instant of utter dislocation … as if she were making love with a stranger.

She lay down beside him at last, but still she could not sleep. And with every intake of breath, she searched warily for the scent of that old flooded chamber.

There’s a mist coming in from the sea. On the left is the Madonna dell’Orto church, its facade glittering with moisture from the mist. To the right, a canal leading out to open water. It’s quiet—no motors, no voices, only the gentle wash of water against the shore. It’s a very long time ago.

The man through whom she is viewing this memory—the same tall man from that flashback in the chamber, she is sure—walks beside the canal, heading for a boat moored against a wooden jetty. Several steps ahead of him walks another man, wearing wide trousers and tights, a narrow cloak, and a codpiece studded with fine jewels. He carries a sword, which remains in its scabbard. There’s a grace about him, but when he glances back his face shows signs of illness. The left side droops, eye downturned and opaque, mouth dipped.