we first talked about Cybele and the cults and the myths of the other sibyls, the prophetesses?’
Valentina has to force herself to remember. ‘Something to do with the number on the shelf at the depository where the poor left their cremated loved ones.’
‘The Columbarium, that’s right. Well, it’s been driving me crazy. I realised afterwards that while ten doesn’t mean anything to me, nine does.’
Valentina sits back. She fears a long and difficult story is about to keep her from the soft comforts of her bed. ‘Treat my brain gently. I’ve had a few glasses of wine, I’m stressed to the limit. And I’m getting very tired.’
‘Okay, I’ll make it simple.’ Tom blots his mouth with a white napkin before he begins. ‘According to Roman mythology, a sibyl offered nine books of prophecies and wisdom to Tarquinius Superbus, the last king of Rome, in return for a vast fortune.’
She grimaces. History – Roman or otherwise – was never her strong subject. ‘For how much?’
‘No idea. I don’t think anyone ever knew. Legend just says it was a fortune. Anyway, Tarquinius says no deal, and so the sibyl burns three of the books and then says she wants the same amount of money for the remaining six. Tarquinius still says no deal, so she torches another three.’
‘Plucky girl.’ Valentina drains the dregs of her glass in appreciation. ‘She’d be my choice to beat the Deal or No Deal banker every time.’
‘So, we’re down to three books, for which the sibyl demands exactly the same amount of money she did for the original nine. This time Tarquinius cracks and hands over the cash.’
‘Why? What made these books so valuable?’
‘Good questions. Sibyls were prophetesses. As well as foresight, apparently these texts gave great advice on what to do as and when disasters fell upon the empire.’
‘A sort of Dummy’s Guide to Pestilence and Plague?’
Tom can’t help but laugh. ‘Yes, if you like. Joking aside, the three sibylline books that remained were so treasured that they were kept in a guarded vault in the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. They were only brought out and consulted during times of crisis.’
‘Such as?’
‘Pretty much what you said: famine, pestilence in the agricultural areas, meteor showers, slave rebellions, invading armies, those kinds of things.’
‘I’ve never heard of these books. Are you thinking that they somehow have a connection with Anna and all her alters?’
‘We know there’s a connection to Cybele; it’s pretty likely that that extends to associated cults and the sibylline books or teachings.’
‘I suppose these books are in Latin or Greek or something horribly hard?’
‘Worse. They’re gone.’ Tom catches the eye of a passing waiter. ‘ Il conto, per favore.’
The young man nods and takes a split second to check out Valentina before waltzing away to get the bill. ‘The temple they were kept in was burned down and the books destroyed along with it.’
‘If only they’d backed it all up on hard disk,’ jokes Valentina.
‘Actually, they tried to do what I suppose is almost the ancient equivalent of that. They had scribes write down verbal accounts given by everyone and anyone who’d ever read or heard anything from the books. They called the new volumes the Sibylline Oracles.’
It makes her laugh. ‘God, could you imagine asking everyone who’d read the Bible to give their own account of various passages and lessons? It would be hysterical!’
Tom sees the funny side. ‘Or maybe a best-seller. Uncharac teristically, the Church seems to have missed a trick there.’
The waiter arrives with a small bill on a big silver plate.
Tom counts out cash and adds a handsome tip, despite the fact that the young man can’t stop staring at Valentina.
‘I guess you get that a lot?’ he jokes as the waiter glides away.
‘Never happened before,’ she says innocently. ‘You ready for bed?’
Tom puts down his napkin and courteously steps behind her chair to hold it as she rises. ‘I’ve been ready since we got rid of Federico almost two hours ago.’
90
‘She’s waking up.’
Louisa hears them talking before she sees anyone. People are moving all around her.
Her fluttering eyes finally focus.
She’s staring up at a ceiling.
A real ceiling.
Not the rough roof of a cell.
The picture before her slowly becomes clear.
She’s in a strange room that smells of dust and wet plaster.
It doesn’t matter.
At least she’s not underground. She’s not in a cell. Not in an enclosed space.
She hunches up on to her elbows.
A blurred shape enters her eyeline.
‘You passed out.’ It’s the man in the purple cloak. ‘You panicked and collapsed when we were moving you.’
Louisa looks around. His scarlet-robed henchmen are hovering in the background, along with a woman in a shimmering pale cloak who turns and walks away as soon as she notices Louisa looking at her.
The woman in her apartment block? Purple Cloak’s accomplice?
No, Louisa doesn’t think so.
She looked older. Somehow more important.
Purple Cloak leans over her again. ‘Let’s get you some water. You haven’t drunk anything for about twelve hours.’
Twelve hours!
The words crash around in her mind like a frightened bird stuck up a chimney.
‘What?’
‘It’s a little after eight a.m. You’ve slept through the night. Probably a combination of shock and stress.’ He remembers the circumstances of her abduction. ‘And perhaps a little after-effect of the chloroform.’
Louisa takes a plastic cup of water from him. She notices he’s right-handed and wearing a heavy gold ring bearing the image of a woman astride some ugly wild animal. ‘ Grazie.’
She drinks it in two gulps.
He smiles. ‘I’ll get you some more.’
Louisa can see the room better now.
It’s weird.
She can’t quite think what it reminds her of.
Then she gets it.
It’s like a half-decorated room in a new house. The walls are dark peach, the colour of fresh plaster. There are ladders lying on the floor, dust sheets piled in a corner, and a strong smell of gloss paint.
She sits up a little more.
No windows.
It panics her slightly.
There are workmen’s portable lights off to her left, cables snaking away to some hidden power source or generator.
She’s certainly in some newly built or newly refurbished building – somewhere that is going to be seen by the public, otherwise what’s the point of decorating it?
