The late light of afternoon was already fading as Angelina, Ben and Thomás stepped off a city bus at a stop near the end of the tree-lined Viale Carlo Felice. A few paces from the stop no fewer than nine streets converged in a complex interchange of lanes and lights that managed, by the happenstance of city planning over a span of millennia, to create the uniquely triangular courtyard in front of the Archbasilica of St John. The street lamps were already coming to life, though they were hardly necessary yet, and the shadows of an orange sky ahead of them and a purple sky behind cast an unusual, spectral light on the enormous facade of the ancient church.
The structure was stunning. Even though Angelina had never harboured warm thoughts for religion, she’d always been awed by the architecture the faiths of the world could inspire. In this city, Christianity had mounted its finest monuments. St John Lateran gazed solemnly westward with a vast white edifice of enormous pillars in offset spacing, those lining the face an uncommon square style while those at its centre were more typically cylindrical, all capped in ornate Corinthian capitals. Destroyed by earthquakes and rebuilt several times over its nearly two-millennia-long history, the current building looked more like a palace than a church, but was eminently impressive. High atop the structure stood twelve monumental statues of the apostles, added in the eighteenth century at the instruction of Pope Clement XI, and perfectly centred at ground level was the Holy Door, depicting the crucified Christ surmounted over the image of his mother and disciples, all cast out of solid bronze.
‘So, that’s the actual centre of the Catholic Church?’ Thomás asked. He still seemed unable to accept that St Peter’s wasn’t the heart of things as he’d always believed.
‘It’s the cathedral of the Bishop of Rome,’ Angelina answered as they walked closer, ‘and since the Pope is Pope by virtue of being Rome’s pontiff, it’s ultimately from here that his papal authority has its origins.’
‘From the . . .’ Thomás struggled to remember the word Angelina had used when speaking with him earlier about it, ‘the . . . cathedra . . . inside?’
‘Most people aren’t aware,’ Ben offered his own answer into the conversation, ‘that the term “cathedral” technically refers to a church in which there is a throne, or chair, which in Latin is cathedra, on which the reigning bishop sits. The presence of a cathedra in a church – technically it doesn’t matter if the building is immense or tiny – is what makes it a cathedral.’
Thomás shook his head, gazing up at the awesome structure in front of them. ‘This certainly isn’t tiny. You’re saying the actual papal throne is in there?’
‘A version of it,’ Angelina answered. ‘The original is thought to be in the Vatican Museums, though it isn’t shown to the public. But we’re not here for the history.’ She was going against her natural impulse, but necessity demanded it. ‘Night’s falling, which means that if we’re right about all this, something is going to happen here. Soon.’ She glanced meaningfully at both men. ‘Keep your eyes open.’
The triangular courtyard before the basilica was, uncharacteristically, not filled with crowds of tourists. The frightening events of the past two days had Rome’s citizens hunkered down, locked into their homes, and Angelina couldn’t help but notice that even most of the curtains on the neighbouring buildings were drawn, as if their inhabitants simply didn’t want to see whatever was coming next. There were a few brave ones out in the square, determined not to be ruled by the fear that had gripped the city expecting another ‘plague’, but even these appeared tense, sticking together, looking entirely ill at ease.
At the edges of the courtyard, beyond the lanes of depleted traffic, the traditional array of religious stores, coffee shops and tabacchi were scattered on the ground level of old buildings. Ben gazed at the tobacco shops with a longing that couldn’t quite be concealed, but once again Angelina noticed the unusual absence of activity. Shops that never closed, day or night, had blackened fronts and bolted doors. The one food shop whose glass windows she could see through appeared to have its shelves almost entirely depleted, as if the local neighbourhood had panic-bought supplies in anticipation of being holed up for an indeterminate period ahead.
The evening sky was normal, but nothing else was. The city was tense. For a moment, Angelina thought she could still catch a whiff of the fog’s strange scent in the air, left over from the morning. And she remembered the river, as they all did. And the darkness. And their terror started to creep into her bones – bones she could not, however, allow to be governed by that fear. She marched forward with Ben and Thomás in tow.
The church was locked, of course. Six p.m. was its standard closing time, like most major churches in the city, after which only the exterior of edifices could be enjoyed, not the glories contained within. So she and Ben surveyed the structure, Thomás following them and doing his best to join in the work. But beyond its overwhelming proportions and beauty, there was little that appeared to relate to the purpose of their search. There were no crosses to set alight. No cauldrons or fonts or foundations that might suddenly burst into flame. There were no monuments at all outside St John’s, apart from an obelisk that was off to its side at the rear of the connecting palace. Hardly a focal point for a plague.
Angelina was beginning to wonder if their interpretation had been wrong. They had come to it so surely, so quickly – perhaps too quickly. Perhaps this wasn’t where fire would consume—
It was then that Angelina caught the first, and the only, thing that seemed unusual in her whole survey of the space around the basilica.
Across the Piazza di Porta San Giovanni, a car was parked in front of a closed magazine shop. Within it, Angelina could just make out the figures of two men.
Of itself the sight shouldn’t have startled her, yet something tugged at the nerves in Angelina’s neck as she watched them. They were not getting into the car, nor getting out. Neither appeared to be talking on a phone. They weren’t passing the time reading the paper. They sat in their car, statuesque, motionless.
Increased nervousness pulsed through Angelina’s skin. Two men . . . two men . . .
Could these be the two from before? Could these be—
But the question was never completed. Angelina’s words faltered in her head as the massive structure of the Archbasilica of St John Lateran burst into a ball of fire.