Chapter 29 - The Message from the Past

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The coffee had done wonders for Ike's little grey cells. After the shock of finding herself a target she had felt a little woozy. Now her thoughts were whizzing around as if on skates, skipping from one corner of her brain to the next, helpful little minions in search of clues. One came back, holding the scrolls. The precious documents the Vestal had hidden. Not something the Commissario would care much for. But somehow, they were important to the case. Somehow she knew, had known from the start and got thrown off track. Time to go back and embark on her own brand of sleuthing, where neither Brigitte nor Gary could ever join her.

She needed to go on a book dive.

For that, she needed her peace and quiet. And the rubbing Graziano had taken from the Vestal's inscription on the wall.

The former was easy. She feigned exhaustion, claimed she needed a rest and sent the others, Boris included, on their way towards the old film studios.

The latter was a tick more difficult, but she had seen Viktor and Graziano earlier, coming from the terrace, deep in discussion. Graziano carried a large piece of paper that looked like the rubbing, Viktor had been studying his phone, it appeared they were still busy with the scroll puzzle.

The next part was not so straightforward. How to make the two blokes part with their treasure?

As she rode the lift towards Viktor's room, the little minions zipped around in her brain and presented the answer.

Gary's expert would want to see the rubbing. He could help them in their quest.

They would deliver it to the professor. And beforehand, Ike would take a little dip.

Said—and done. Half an hour and an animated discussion with the two archaeologists later, Ike closed the door to her room, the rubbing in her hand.

She closed the curtain and placed the document next to her on the bed. That was as far as she got. A little minion popped up and screamed a warning about the age and the unique nature of the text. Others joined, hopping up and down in agitation.

Should she risk it?

She was headed for the unknown. Without an airbag or safety belt. Well, this wasn't a novel, just a report, a simple statement of facts. Admittedly, it couldn't be as dangerous as a piece of literature?

Just a note. Written by a dying woman in her underground tomb.

Whatever she wanted to pass on to posterity must have burned so heavy on Cecilia's mind, she spent her last hours carving the words into stone. A note, long forgotten by the world. About a lost book, the words of the Sibyl. The riddle Ike believed to be at the centre of all the strange things that had been happening recently.

A risk for sure. Should she leave things well alone?

Perhaps she ought to, but she could not.

Like the explorers of old, she needed to journey into the unknown. Respond to the calling that came from the square sheet of paper spread out on the duvet.

Perhaps the document would be blocked to her. It was a copied message after all, not a print edition of a novel.

Only one way to find out.

Ike ordered thermos flask of fresh coffee from room service and when she had been served, placed her fingers on the greasy paper of the rubbing and voided her mind.

Not the familiar aroma of old books this time, no vanilla, no almonds, just the faintest touch of mould, as if the wall had transferred its essence onto the paper together with the words.

Like steam rising from a pot, they reached out to Ike, dared her to follow. As the letters blurred on the paper, spinning and turning like water down a drain, her head dizzied and whirled along with them until it got sucked under.

Sucked into the scene.

As usual, it was sepia-coloured, with a faint white mist at the edges that indicated she was in a copy. But unlike her other book-dives, the colours did not change, stayed dull, brown and lifeless.

Across the scene rippled a film. Almost invisible, like a set piece of Saranwrap, it protected her from the story unfolding.

Somebody sobbed.

The stink of mould, of damp, cold earth got stronger. Followed by something sweetish.

Perfume? No, not quite.

Wine? Before Ike could explore, the molecules of overripe fruit entered her nose. Not unpleasant. Not yet.

Something burned, somewhere.

Movement at the edge of her vision. Fabric swishing. The foetid stench of faeces coming from the other side of the chamber.

Which wasn't all that far away. The place was walled in on all sides. Walls, hidden by the shadows that crowded this confined space. But there. Oh, definitely there.

And no way out.

Next, a hand came into view. Rosy and chubby like a child's, fingers shimmied before Ike, then steadied.

The hand was holding a knife. Carved words into the brick of the wall, illuminated only by a small oil light, flickering and emitting an acrid wisp of smoke.

It scratched at Ike's throat with tiny claws, and as if in response the owner of the hand coughed and muttered something in a language Ike did not understand.

She did understand the desperation that trembled in the voice before the sobs returned.

Never to be heard.

Before she could stop it, Ike's hand reached out, wanting to touch, to share comfort. With a faint scritching noise, her fingers slid off the slick screen between the scene and her.

Cecilia, the doomed Vestal, was out of reach. Had been for over two millennia.

With tears blurring her eyes, Ike watched the young woman as she painfully etched her last message into the wall.

No fiction. This had been reality once.

Ike knew because nowhere did she spot the blue images superimposed on the scene, the images that showed her how the author adjusted reality.

Back in Germany, she had seen the bluish face of young Viktor Frankenstein, superimposed on the worn features of the old alchemist who gave Boris his new lease on life.

Here, she saw was history replaying itself. She hadn't slipped into an author's creation. She only saw the story Cecilia was telling, but from an outsider's perspective, not the Vestal's point of view.

Which meant, they would never learn who the doomed priestess had been thinking about when she wrote her note.

That was—unfortunate.

Cecilia, her message almost finished, muttered something under her breath, hiccupped another sob and laughed. No joy rode in that laugh, it was born from despair so deep it almost became tangible.

Another sob. Another word. A name?

"Marcus!"

Yes, a name.

But then, she might only be whispering the name of the lover who caused her death.

What was she saying now?

"Libras sacris." Aha. Sacred books. Trust the books to be responsible. And something that sounded like "protect".

More words, a whole stream of them. The meaning was lost in a rush of rapid Latin.

A wail rose from Cecilia's throat as she pounded her fists against the wall.

Her pain was so physical, so real.

It was too much to bear and Ike threw herself at the screen.

She bounced off the surface as if it were a rubber castle.

Pain and sorrow constricted her throat, her eyes swam with tears.Ike had to get out of here. As she visualised the paper lying on her bed, thought of the words that covered the sheet, the scene shimmied, wobbled and dimmed before her eyes.

The vortex of letters returned, whirling the other way.

As Ike bounced out of the scene, Cecilia's scream rose to a distorted screech, then fell silent. Light pierced Ike's eyes as she found herself back in her hotel room, with her head hammering away and her stomach heaving.

From the paper next to her came two more words, a message from beyond the grave.

"Libras sacris. Biblioteca," the paper whispered. "Herculaneum."

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.