Sebastian. Somewhere off in the hardened soil around him are the now well-trodden tombs and crypts of martyrs.
Brave people who died fighting for what they loved most.
123
Shooter grabs Valentina by the throat.
He’s a couple of inches taller than she is, and despite his age, he’s muscular enough to force her up on to her tiptoes.
‘Lesson number one, you only speak when I tell you to.’
His hand tightens. She can feel her airway closing off.
Shooter’s smirk widens as he walks her backwards to the rear of the cell. He crashes her into the rough stone wall and lets go.
Valentina opens her mouth and gasps for air.
She never sees his punch.
It catches her full in the lips and teeth.
She wobbles and starts to fall backwards.
Her feet almost cross and she falls.
But not flat out, just into an undignified sitting position.
Shooter smiles and holds up his grazed fist. ‘Teacher says you’ve still got some learning to do.’
Valentina puts her hands submissively to her face.
Blood trickles over her fingers. Her lip is split wide open, almost exactly in the same place where Anna caught her back in the Carabinieri cell block.
Shooter drops to his knees and grabs her by the throat again.
It’s exciting to hold her like this. To look into her eyes and see the fear rising.
It’s what he likes most.
He slips a hand between her legs and claws savagely at her trousers.
He sees the fear turn to panic.
‘Not so feisty now, are you?’
She’s terrified, he can see it. She recognises his power; knows he can do to her whatever he wants.
Valentina doesn’t struggle.
She reminds herself that what happens next is not about pride, it’s about survival.
124
The walls of the new tunnel are covered in ornate plaster paintings on white backgrounds, the lavish and intricate kind found on some sarcophagi.
Tiny human figures are crowded into horizontal and vertical storylines and from afar make no sense at all.
Tom tries to decipher the dozens of cryptic scenes. There are people mourning: women and children kneeling and crying, men carrying bodies, funeral pyres being built.
There are battle scenes too: soldiers fighting on foot and on horseback, swords half raised, shields fully lifted in desperate defence of the cruel slashing blades.
Towards the end of the gallery, a particular stretch of sarcophagi catches his eye.
A number of women are clambering out of a chariot.
They’re being chased by soldiers.
Some get caught.
They’re pulled to the ground by the men.
It is the Rape of the Sabines.
One woman has escaped.
She is running towards a bridge, a crossing guarded by a fierce she-wolf. A handful of soldiers are pursuing her.
Tom has to rub soil away to see more clearly.
The soldiers are crossing the bridge, tracked by the wolf. The woman is hiding underneath. She’s shown alongside a wide stretch of river.
He has to clear more dirt away to see the continuation.
Beneath the bridge is what looks like a crucifix.
It isn’t.
On closer inspection it’s a soldier, lying on his back, a sword stuck in his stomach.
The woman has vanished from the scene.
Guilio appears at Tom’s side. ‘What are you doing?’
He points to the wall and the start of the sarcophagi. ‘This story – it’s the one Anna told us.’
Guilio doesn’t understand.
He looks at the wall, and as it begins to make sense, he feels a sharp and unexpected stab of grief.
He puts his fingers to the clay and lovingly traces the outline of the female figure.
Anna.
The strange connection makes an even greater sadness well up inside him. His eyes fill with tears.
Tom’s attention has already drifted on to a new scene.
A woman in fine long robes is in the centre of what looks like a market square. Again she is surrounded by soldiers.
He directs his flashlight and looks closer.
It’s the same woman.
Cassandra.
She looks identical to Anna. Identical to Cybele.
Tom leans closer.
Perhaps his eyes are playing tricks. Maybe these evocative surroundings are influencing him.
For a moment he dismisses it.
If you reduce any woman’s facial features to those the size of a fingernail, then they all probably look the same.
But Tom knows that’s not true.
All around him is evidence of craftsmanship so supreme that he’s sure the perpetrators could fashion any different feature they wished.
The woman is Anna. Anna in the image of Cassandra and Cybele.
Tom looks at the crowd massed around her. They’re angry, waving their fists, stretching out their fingers to grab at her noble robes.
There’s a man on high ground holding a scroll. He’s reading to the mob and the woman is now being dragged towards him by the soldiers.
Tom turns away briefly to check on Guilio.
The eunuch is on his knees. Eyes blood-red from crying. Fingers still fondly touching the tiny sculptures of Anna.
Such grief threatens to undermine any attempt to free Valentina. Tom has to get him to snap out of it.
He puts his hands on Guilio’s shoulders and tries to comfort him. ‘You’ll always have good memories of Anna. Your thoughts of her and your love for her are precious and will stay with you until the end of time.’ In a deliberate and almost priestly gesture, he puts the palm of his right hand to Guilio’s forehead. ‘I pray that your suffering will pass quickly. In return, I beg you now to ignore your grief. Put it aside for the moment and have the strength to help
