The Toyota pick-up had given Myles the cover he needed to slip down a hole into this buried Roman room. The underground room which the Senator had seen — the last act of the great Sam Roosevelt had been to save his life.
But the day was ending, and the dim light in the space where Myles was hiding was becoming dimmer. Myles knew he could not stay underground forever. He needed to escape. He also needed food and, more urgently, water.
Drops of clear liquid were falling from the front of the vehicle onto the mosaic floor. Myles looked down at the dusty puddle. He held out his palm and caught some drops, then put them to his tongue. Immediately he spat it out: it was soapy windscreen fluid. Nothing he could drink.
He moved back into the Roman room. Was there anything here he could use?
The paved floor of the chamber depicted a well-dressed Roman man — perhaps an emperor — holding a sword at the neck of another man, who had a dark face and was kneeling in submission. The body of a beheaded man lay on the ground beside them both. The emperor seemed to have taken the throne. Given there was blood on his sword, he may have killed for it. Myles marvelled at the image — the beheaded man reminded him of the Senator.
Myles stamped on the floor: it was solid. The room was professionally built — probably by artisans who expected their civilisation to survive for many more centuries.
He walked around the walls of the room, thumping them with the side of his fist, looking for a way out. Nothing presented itself.
The only item in the room was at the end furthest from the entrance, and so furthest from the fading light. Myles’ eyes had to adjust to see what it was. There seemed to be a stone bench with a head-shaped indentation, and space for chains in case someone needed to be tied in position. Above the indentation was an iron spike mounted in a large stone, itself attached to a rod. The rod reached down into an axle through the bench. Myles touched the stone, then pushed it gently. As the stone tipped forward, it began to accelerate with its own weight, forcing the metal spike to crash down onto the head-shape indentation on the bench.
Clang.
Myles looked behind him, worried that the noise could have alerted Juma’s men. He waited, listening in the dark. Several minutes passed, but there was nothing.
Myles was definitely alone.
He returned to the device. The head-shape indentation, around where the spike now rested, was slightly darker than the rest of the bench. Very old bloodstains.
Now Myles recognised what the machine was. He remembered reading about them when he had studied with Placidia. Wounded or defeated gladiators would have been brought down from the arena and their head laid on the bench. Then the spike would have been allowed to fall, piercing their skulls. For mercy killings…
This was how the Romans dealt with their entertainment after it no longer entertained. Far easier to use than a sword, this was a Roman killing machine, the pre-industrial equivalent of a guillotine.
Myles withdrew his hand, leaving the spike where it was, and trying to respect the many people whose lives had ended here. Ancient Rome had become truly brutal before its collapse.
Myles looked around the remainder of the chamber, checking it again for nooks and weak points. He pressed and checked every surface he could reach, especially where the stone crumbled. But there was no way out. The only exit was the entrance, and that was covered by the Toyota.
He stood again below the overturned vehicle, and tried to work out how he could climb up into it. The crushed roof was almost within reach. He jumped and grabbed the engine cover, but it came off in his hands, and Myles fell back down onto the floor.
He looked up again: the engine block was above him now. No way through it. And round the sides the Toyota had wedged itself in solidly.
Again, Myles jumped up and tried to grab hold. He swung his legs up and tried to kick through.
No use. He wasn’t even close: the Toyota was very firmly in place and there was absolutely nothing he could do to move it or get through it.
He felt a chill. The temperature was dropping, and he wandered whether he would catch hypothermia. Dehydrated, he knew he’d succumb more quickly.
He jumped up and grabbed a seat belt, then pulled himself towards the dashboard.
He checked the radio — dead.
He checked the fire extinguisher — empty.
He checked the battery — useless.
Nothing. With each passing thought he also felt himself weaken. His arms were losing strength and he had to allow himself to drop back to the floor.
Daylight was almost gone. He felt the wound on his head again: it was still bleeding. His thirst was beginning to subside as his dehydrated body started to shut down. He felt faint.
He tried to tighten his muscles, forcing his body to keep up his blood pressure. He was trying to think of ways to escape, almost as a distraction, knowing that he needed to keep his mind busy, knowing that to fall asleep might be deadly.
He tried to imagine Helen, the best reason of all to escape. She should be cured of septicaemia by now, he thought. She should be safe — probably back in America. He wanted to be with her. Would he ever see her again?
He still hoped that, together with Helen, he could stop Juma. If only he knew how they were planning to bring Rome’s fate onto America. If only he could get out of here.
As the last glow of sun disappeared from the chamber, Myles found himself immobile on the ancient mosaic floor. Involuntary shivers twitched through his body.
His last image was of the killing machine used by Romans for fighters who, like him, had been defeated. And like all those exhausted gladiators so many centuries ago, his resistance had left him.
Day XI
Sixty-One
Paul Pasgarius the Third’s trip to Italy was the first time he’d ever left the United States. It had been a struggle to get from the airport to the place he had been told to meet Constantine. Just as he had been warned, security cordons were everywhere.
He glanced anxiously at his watch. Constantine was late. Had he been scared off — or stopped at one of the checkpoints? Paul wondered how Constantine would carry the large bag of cash he had promised.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, and saw an unexpected face.
‘Constantine?’ he asked.
The man nodded. ‘Thanks for coming, Paul.’
Paul recognised Constantine immediately, from all the news about the terror threat to America. He tried to pretend he hadn’t, swallowing hard to hide his nerves. ‘Can we make it quick, please?’ He looked Constantine up and down, disconcerted that the man didn’t seem to be carrying a bag of currency. ‘Do you have the money?’ he asked.
Constantine nodded. ‘I do,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. But instead of cash, he pulled out a packet of gum and presented it to Paul as if they were two friends passing the time.
Paul instinctively took the stick he was offered, unwrapped it and folded it into his mouth. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
He was surprised to see Constantine put the packet back in his jacket pocket, and equally surprised by the gum’s strange taste. ‘Er, you’re not having gum yourself?’ queried Paul.
The man shook his head. Within moments Paul understood why, as he felt his throat tighten.
‘No gum for me,’ said Constantine matter-of-factly. ‘Some people would say gum-chewing is disrespectful, and disrespect for authority can bring down empires,’ he mused. ‘But for me, I just try to avoid gum which has been dipped in strychnine.’ He sauntered away.
Paul Pasgarius the Third’s dead body slumped behind him.