Chapter 19 - The Truth about the Sibyls

Villa d'Este photo by Lapping from Pixabay

"You mean you knew she did?"

Usignolo threw him a look of pure disdain. At least he stopped the bobbing. "No, of course not. It's been an—ah, rumour. We did not know. You have evidence?"

He did. It had been hard to get as Ike—apart from a terse text message—was up to her usual tricks and had fallen silent. Fortunately, Brigitte, risen early to ferry the guests to the airport, had mailed him some shots taken in the catacombs.

Those he paraded under the eager eyes of the expert. Who sniffed. "Hm. May I?" He snapped the phone from Gary's hands and peeped myopically at the last image, already much enlarged. "It is hard to read, eh?"

You have my fullest sympathy!

"What would you say it means?"

Usignolo waggled his head, like a mournful turkey. "What you say. She has hidden the prophecies of the Sibyl. They are supposed to have burned with the temple of Jupiter at the end of the Roman Republic."

"They don't seem to be in the grave."

Usignolo made a sweeping gesture, and Gary feared for his smartphone. "They would not be. She was a prisoner, eh? Condemned to a ritual death. Impossible to smuggle scrolls under her tunic. No, no, she would have entrusted them to somebody. But this is not mentioned here."

He deflated, and Gary felt sorry for getting his hopes up. "What do we know about this Cecilia? Perhaps that will help us find out who might have helped her?"

Usignolo stared at the shiny black surface of his phone for another moment, then handed it back. "Send me these photos, will you? I must have them. As to her relations, I will check. Cecilia was born to a Patrician family in the last day of the Republic. She had three more sisters, so she was called Cecilia Maxima. Little is known of her other than her being a Vestal. And the rumour she was one of those few priestesses who got condemned. Nobody knew why."

"Is it possible? I mean that she stole those scrolls, and they buried her for that? And why would she do such a thing in the first place?"

Usignolo shrugged. "I do not know, eh?" He pointed at the phone. "If you ask me, this appears authentic. The grave I mean. Republican times. She died in or around 85 BCE. The year when the temple burned. It is possible. But where are the scrolls? What a drama if she died for them and they got lost anyway, eh? Not so many books survive from Roman times."

"Really? They wrote so much."

Usignolo tapped his nose and grinned. "Yes, of inscriptions we have many. Of books—not so many. Very valuable. And those prophecies, they would cause a sensation."

"In monetary terms, you mean."

"No. You think of it, eh? The words of the Sibyl speaking to us now."

"Like Nostradamus?"

The professor tittered. "Ah, no. You will not find predictions in those texts about what will happen to our society. We do not need the Sibyl for that, eh? Her words guided the rites in Roman times. They—would not be of practical value for us. But so fascinating! You know what they say about the Sibyl? Or any of the old oracles for that matter?"

"No?"

Usignolo, who had returned to the bench, leaned forward on his perch and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "They say, these women could slip into books. In person. See, what was written. By the author. The original vision. That is how they got their insights."

"Slip into books? You mean, physically?"

"Nobody knows what they did. Or how. Just imagine. The skill got lost. But to find one of those prophecies now. Ah!" He kissed the tips of his fingers, then leaned back in his bench and gave Gary a wink from a beady eye.

All too obviously, the good professor had spent too much time in the sun, safari helmet or not.

###

"Are the busses here always so full?" Jon asked. Luck had shone upon them, and they managed to snatch the last two seats in the Bus from Tivoli to Rome's main train station. It was crammed to capacity, the cabin filled with a multicultural babble and the miasma of sweaty bodies, soiled seat covers and rust. One backpack on Gary's lap, the other, together with his crutches, squeezed between his splayed legs, endangered not only the family jewels but added additional discomfort the ride. Still, it was the cheapest and fastest way into Rome, and sitting down was better than standing all the way, with the backpacks in constant danger of knocking somebody out. The blasted things weighed a ton; perhaps he needed to reconsider his concept of "bare minimum".

The phone in his pocket buzzed and shrilled.

"Jon, could you fish the thing out? I can't reach there."

A tugging at his jeans, then the phone was pressed into his hand.

"Thanks. Sands here?"

"Talked . . . They will have to . . . accident . . ." A male speaker. The raspy tones sounded suspiciously like Adrian.

"Hello? The connection's rotten! I'm on a bus. In Italy." The bus roared in response, and the babble got even louder. The stink of burnt oil got added into the mix.

"Dad, don't shout like that."

A whitish blur dangled past his face and plugs landed in his earlobes, blocking at least part of the noise.

"Gary?"

Definitely Adrian. Gary held the phone in front of his mouth. "Can you hear me?"

"Just fine. No need to shout. I get the impression you might be riding a tractor rather than a bus."

The vehicle bumped over a rut in response, and the backpack nudged a sensitive part of his body. "Ow. Feels like it for sure. Public transport."

"Same wherever you go. Anyway, I was saying I talked to a contact of mine in the Carabinieri. That's not the same as the state police, but it has the advantage that the two forces don't like each other."

"That's an advantage?" Another bump and Gary hastened to push the backpack and crutches away from his privates.

"Yes, the guy jumped at the chance to play a trick on the Polizia. Basically, there's no evidence of malicious intent on the side of the husband, and they will have to let him go. It seems to be an accident. Mr Baxter is as furious as a ferret with a tail on fire and has threatened to sue."

"Whom?"

"Not you, old chap, take it easy. He's after the cops and the other tour company. Or rather their guide. For leading them into an unsafe place."

"That's bollocks. I checked the safety measures when I got told there might be some dodgy bits. The last thing I needed was more—trouble."

"Yes, yes. No doubt that will all be fine. That isn't the problem though." Adrian hesitated. Gary visualised him sitting at his battered desk in an office crammed with cupboards and filing cabinets a front of floor-length glass behind him, opening the vista on a rain-swept London. There were stressed overtones in his voice, unlikely he would be doing what he usually did: Lean back on his swivel chair, one fake-snake leathered boot on the paper bin. Instead, Gary saw him hunched over his desk, frown lines on his forehead.

"I don't like your vocabulary. Words like 'problem' or 'trouble' should be struck."

"If it were that easy. Sorry, old bean, there's no soft way of breaking the news. But there's been another death. This one is clearly a murder. They've taken in that lady of yours for questioning. Ike, I mean."

"What?"

The bus rattled over what could only be a cattle grid, and for a moment Gary's teeth chattered like castanets.

"Adrian?"

The phone had fallen silent. Somehow, he must have cut the call. He checked again. Saw his face staring back at him from the black oblong, eyes large, pupils distended.

The mask of shock.

###

Brigitte wasn't in her room. The elegant young thing at reception had insisted both Signoras to be in the hotel which had caused a major landslide of relief in Gary's mind. If Ike was in the hotel, she couldn't be in a cell, arrested for murdering—who? He still had no idea. His phone had run out of juice, and when Jon rang back from his, there was an engaged tone. He left a message but so far had got no response.

Gary used a crutch to call the elevator, headed for Ike's abode.

In front of the door, he hesitated and strained his ears. But not a single syllable penetrated the thickly carpeted corridor decorated with charcoal drawings of Roman theatre masks, monochromatic outlines of fake emotions that did nothing to brighten his mood.

He sucked in the purified air and knocked on the door.

Silence.

Followed by a series of determined barks from inside. Well, somebody was in.

The lock clicked, and the door cracked open.

"If it's you again, Ben, just come on in. I need somebody to vent."

Ike. In the flesh.

Behind her, another person scolded the dog.

Brigitte.

More rocks tumbled from Gary's pile of worries.

"I'm not Ben, but feel welcome to vent."

Half a face with a green eye flecked with brown and topped by honey-blond curls appeared in the gap. "Gary? It can't be you?"

"Why not?"

"You're in the UK."

"Not anymore."

"Really?"

"Really."

The door closed in his face.

Gary stared at the wooden panel centimetres from his nose. He raised his fist, ready to pound out his annoyance when the door swung open again.

For somebody who had been taken in by the police twice in two days, Ike looked remarkably composed. She wore some sort of furry green thing that went nicely with her eyes and somehow softened the contours of a face that, with a bit of goodwill could be called purposeful. Without, stubborn would come to mind.

She ran a hand through her dishevelled locks and made a gesture he interpreted to be an invitation. "Come on in. It's not a bad thing to have you around. Not sure if you heard the latest disaster."

Gary limped inside. "Adrian told me somebody's been murdered."

"Yes."

"Who?"

"The tour guide from Serious Study Tours. Shalon."

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.