‘Go to hell,’ said the young man.
‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘How long have you been dead?’
‘Not as long as you’ll be.’
‘Don’t count on it.’ She turned to Patrick. ‘Let’s get them inside and tied up. Keep them covered while I check the house.’
She slipped round the door, crouching low, her gun at the ready. The house was silent. No one challenged her. The place was little more than a one-storey wooden shack with half a dozen rooms. It took Francesca less than a minute to confirm that the coast was clear.
‘It’s okay,’ she shouted. ‘Bring them in.’
While she took her turn watching their prisoners, Patrick found rope in an outhouse. They tied the two men back to back on the floor in what looked like an extraordinarily uncomfortable position.
‘They teach you to tie like that in Egypt?’ Patrick asked.
Francesca nodded.
‘Along with the knitting,’ she answered.
The entrance to the catacombs was in the outhouse. Francesca remembered it clearly from her previous visit. A small trapdoor opened onto a flight of wooden steps. Beside it, half a dozen kerosene lamps hung on hooks. There was a box of matches to hand. They each took a lamp and lit it.
Francesca hung back at the top of the steps.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Patrick.
She shivered.
‘I told you, I couldn’t face this place when I was a child. The bodies are still down there, you know. Or what’s left of them. Thousands of loculi, a mile or more of passages. And only what light you can carry with you.’
‘Sounds like a nice place to take little girls for a day out. Would you like me to go first?’
She nodded.
‘Funny though, isn’t it?’ she smiled. ‘Here I am, the ghost, frightened of a few musty old tombs, while you slip in without a care.’
‘What makes you think I’m not scared shitless?’
‘Are you?’
‘No. Of course not. I do this sort of thing every weekend for kicks.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
Holding the lamp in one hand, he swung his legs over the edge onto the ladder and began to climb down. Francesca waited until his head was clear, then followed him gingerly.
The ladder ended about forty feet down. Patrick stepped off, turning the knob on the side of the lamp to increase the illumination. He found himself in a broad paved area that led to a low, monumental doorway. The walls and edges of the doorway itself were painted with rows of symbolic motifs: vines, bowls of wine, lotus and acanthus leaves, peacocks, doves, and angels with gentle, faded wings.
Francesca joined him, adding her light to his.
‘Do you have any idea of the layout of this place?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Not a very clear one. It’s on several levels. They’re divided into passages with niches for the dead. I remember some larger tombs as well, and some side chapels. My father told me the large tombs contained the sarcophagi of martyrs or members of the Seven and the Pillars who’d died in Rome.’
Patrick took his gun out.
‘I’ll leave the ghosts to you,’ he said.
She did not smile in reply.
They met their first ghosts moments later, as they passed through the doorway. The narrow passage swelled to form a small antechamber where mourners had held the funeral agape. Its stucco walls were covered from floor to ceiling with paintings, small portraits, each about ten inches square. The style was that of Roman Egypt, the faces replicas of those painted on mummy cases of the period - honest, lifelike representations of men and women who had lived and breathed some eighteen centuries ago.
Everywhere Patrick and Francesca looked, their eyes met the steady gaze of the dead. There were family groups marked out by a border of lilies or laurel, couples side by side, fathers, mothers, lovers - all serious and composed in death. Francesca shuddered and took hold of Patrick’s arm.
‘I’d forgotten this,’ she whispered. ‘They’re so alive, they seem to be accusing us. Or waiting for us to join them.’
‘If we don’t find Migliau soon, they won’t have long to wait. Come on, through here.’
Cobwebs hung at intervals like tattered flags in a dark cathedral. Patrick felt them brush his face as he moved along the first narrow passages, hemmed in by row upon row of marble slabs. Some of the slabs had fallen away, revealing pathetic heaps of cloth and bone.
At its end, the passage opened out again, becoming a mortuary chapel. A simple altar stood by one wall, flanked by twin sarcophagi. Above it, angels hovered, wingless in God. The face of Christ looked down, bearded, large-eyed, a man on the verge of Godhood, his hands outstretched to receive his sacrifice. Patrick shuddered.
There was a sound of feet climbing steps a few yards away. A light appeared, then a voice called out.
‘Paolo? Che cosa stai facendo?’
Patrick put down his lamp and pulled Francesca back against the wall of the chapel. The light wavered, then started in their direction. A man came into view, carrying a lamp like theirs. Patrick grabbed for him, taking him off balance and completely by surprise. He tried to cry out, but Patrick had already thrust an arm hard against his mouth, choking off his scream. The man’s lamp dropped to the ground, splintering and bursting into flames. Francesca hurried forward and stamped them out.
With an easy movement, Patrick brought the gun to the stranger’s head and hissed in his ear.
‘One sound out of you and you really are dead. Capisce?’
The man grunted and made what seemed like a nodding motion. Francesca frisked him, taking his gun.
‘Okay, listen,’ Patrick whispered. ‘We’ve come for Migliau. I want you to take us to him. Understand?’
The man struggled, trying to break free. Patrick tightened his grip.
“Which way? Down the stairs?’
The man jerked his head. Patrick turned him and pushed him towards the opening out of which he had come. At the top of the stairs, he released his grip and took his lamp from Francesca.
‘Go down one step at a time,’ he told the man. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
The prisoner seemed about to protest, then thought better of it. One by one, he descended the flight of stone steps. Patrick followed him closely.
Ten steps from the bottom, the man jumped. He landed awkwardly, stumbled, and got to his feet.
‘Aiuto!’ he shouted in a loud voice. ‘Astolfo! Alberto! Correte qui presto!’
Patrick shot him as he started to run, pitching him back against a funerary slab. Followed closely by Francesca, he rushed to the bottom of the stairs. They had no choice. They had to go on. Migliau must be here. Patrick glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. Just over an hour to go.
‘Patrick, quickly - change into his clothes! They don’t know who fired. The acoustics are bad, they may not be able to distinguish one voice from another. Hurry!’
Patrick shouted, ‘It’s all right! I’ve got him,’ then hurried to do as Francesca had suggested. He ripped off Roberto’s suit and pulled on the trousers of the dead man. He heard footsteps running further along the passage, then voices.
‘Nico? Che succede? Was that you? Who were you firing at?’
‘An intruder. It’s okay, I got him.’ Patrick’s voice was muffled and distorted among the tombs.
Lights appeared, still some distance from them.
‘Hurry, Patrick! Don’t bother with the shoes.’
Just in time, Patrick pulled the man’s sweater over his head. He moved behind Francesca, holding his gun at her head.
There were three men, all holding lamps and guns.
What’s up, Nico? The cardinal’s frightened. Who’s this woman?’
‘Now,’ Patrick whispered.
