Shrouded in Silence (2 page)

Two days earlier, the emperor had dispatched the army to halt the burning of Rome. Rumors raged that Nero had set the fires, but a few harsh reprisals should end the murmuring of the masses driven from their smoldering homes. To stop the accusations, Nero had dispatched a unit of executioners to catch the arsonists whom he claimed were Christianios.

Plautius knew the Christianios sounded strange even by Roman standards. The great city was already filled with members of every odd group, from bizarre cults to practitioners of the Terebullium, a rite where members walked under the slit throat of a bull to allow the animal's blood to flow over their naked bodies.

But the Christianios were different. These believers followed a crucified Jew whom the Roman army had killed in Jerusalem. Arising before the sun came up, they gathered in catacombs where no decent Roman dared go at night. The reports that they drank blood and ate flesh were answered with whispers that it was only wine and bread, but the stories persisted.

In the darkness before him, Plautius recognized the outline of the stone entrance to the Circus. Huge arches ran across the front of the racetrack joined with houses that stood along the far edge and to the rear. Holding his arm up to stop the soldiers, Plautius turned in the saddle.

"Scipio, a significant number of innocent Roman citizens lives over there. Remember, we only want the Christianios; don't let your troops get blade happy."

Scipio nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Charge onto the racetrack and go immediately to the far back side," Plautius shouted to the soldiers. "Grab everyone and haul them into the arena where we can interrogate them. No indiscriminate killing! Just gather the citizens together. "He pulled his sword from its sheath. "Attack!"

With a hard kick, Plautius sent his horse racing through the archway toward the farthest end of the track where the tall Egyptian obelisk towered over them. With a leap, he slid off the stallion and ran up the stone tier that lined the race course. His intent was to be the first into the stone-walled houses and to catch one of these so-called believers.

"Take the men to the left," he called to Scipio. "I'm going straight ahead."

Plautius hustled toward the two-story house just a few feet back from the top of the steps. Out of the corner of his eye, he recognized a small clay marker near the bottom of the door. Two linked half circles made a sign that looked like a fish. Maybe the sign indicated the mark of a fisherman. The house could be important.

Plautius flattened against the side of the front wall and listened. His men were making far too much noise securing the horses and climbing the bleachers. People would be awakened and investigate the racket. Pointing his sword straight ahead, Plautius rushed into a narrow entryway only to discover a short passageway led into an interior garden area with bedrooms situated around the open space. No one stirred in any of the rooms, suggesting it could be a trap. Gossips reported that the believers didn't kill—they were pacifists. Of course, rumors were rumors. Plautius exercised caution.

He bent near the ground to make himself a smaller target. As he drew closer to a doorway, he smelled olive oil. Peeking in, he saw an oil lamp still burning in one corner. The usual low, flat Roman bed with covers thrown back suggested someone had just leaped up and disappeared into the night.

Plautius carefully stepped into the room. A clay pitcher had been tipped over on the floor and cracked. A stylus and ink pot stood next to a wall. The terrazzo tiled floor with geometrical motifs looked normal enough. Then Plautius saw the fragment.

A piece of papyrus with a torn edge lay on the floor near the door. It appeared to be a section of a scroll or part of a writing that had been ripped off when someone dashed out. Moving closer to the flame of the small oil lamp, Plautius recognized the writing as Greek:

They went out and fled from the tomb; for trembling and astonishment had come upon them; and they said nothing to any one, for they were afraid. But behold Jesus of Nazareth returned on that very night and stood in their midst. The apostles were afraid and retreated from him, but Jesus raised his hand and showed them the wound on his wrist where the soldiers had driven the nail through. "Be not afraid. I bring you peace. Come and see for I have gained the victory over death and prepared for you the path that you might follow me—

Plautius jerked his head up, startled by a racket outside, then looked back down at the document in his hand. Instantly he thought of his two brothers and their mother's grief. This testimonial was not about death but life, and he wasn't about to destroy a writing with such promise. Turning it over to his centurion would be disastrous. There was much more to be read, but other soldiers would soon overtake him. Sweeping aside the
sagum,
his old military cape, he rolled the document and slipped it under his metal breastplate. Hurrying back to the interior patio, he turned and strode to the front of the house.

Although he had no idea what had happened, something had touched him in that bedroom. Maybe these Christianios were just another cult drifting through Rome. Maybe not. He would study this piece of papyrus carefully.

Walking out onto the street, Plautius watched the soldiers rush back and forth from house to house, carrying their torches high and herding citizens to the race track for examination. The locals would be irate at such rough treatment, and they might have a hard time proving they weren't believers. It wasn't fair, but there wasn't much in Rome that was.

Part One

Night Falls

1

September 1, 2008

M
urky shadows spread down the streets of Rome and darkened the narrow lanes winding through ancient thoroughfares. A heavyset man in a trench coat trotted down the steps of
La Metropolitana,
the metro system, not far from the
Fontana di Trevi.
When he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, the smell of hot pizza offered by a vendor near the metro entrance slowed him, but he didn't stop.

The fountains always attracted a bevy of tourists with cameras flashing like machine guns. They fluttered around the statue of Neptune in his shell-shaped chariot surrounded by a court of seahorses and giant tritons. Cold had already permeated the stone. The stout man walked at a quick clip as if he could distance himself from the chill of the evening. The press of late-night tourists strolling through the quaint streets only helped cover his movements.

A few people milled around the platform, looking indifferent. Leaning against the back wall, oblivious to the crowd, a young man stood locked in an embrace with a black-haired Italian woman. No one looked at them for more than a few seconds.

A rush of air surged out of the murky tunnel and signaled the arrival of the train. The roar of steel wheels clattered against the rails and telegraphed that the speeding vehicle would stop in a matter of moments. Waiting until the last second, the heavyset man jumped into the coach just before the train left the station and settled into a seat at the rear.

At this hour, there weren't many people traveling in his direction—only those who had worked hard all day. The men wore pullover long-sleeved jerseys underneath worn sport coats; tired women in wrinkled dresses paid no attention to him.

A surge of anxiety swept over him when he realized that his hands were sweating. Beads of perspiration popped up on his forehead. Never had he done anything like he planned. His face appeared calm, but his stomach churned. He gnawed at his bottom lip.

All the trains stopped running around 1:30 a.m., but that should give him plenty of time to set up in the tunnel just outside of the
termini
in the Piazza dei Cinquecento. Without moving his head, his eyes roamed around the car to make sure the police hadn't followed him.

He thought about Rome and how it had pushed the present moment into the tiny cracks left from three thousand years of history. It was a tight fit, particularly when the objective was to destroy a portion of the city. He remembered reading a historian who called Rome a palimpsest: a piece of parchment used again and again with the present day squeezed between the lines or written over the top of the faded original. Yet, the city really wasn't so hard to decipher. Central Rome was contained in only two and a half miles from the Basilica de San Pietro to the
termini
station as the crow flies, but for three millennia an entire world had been crammed into the small space.

The train suddenly lurched back and forth, jolting his body. Gingerly, he ran his hand down the side of his coat, feeling with a tender touch. Too much was at stake to risk an inadvertent disaster caused by an erratic train.

"Got a match?" a male voice said.

A worn young man in his late twenties appeared in front of him, wearing a black leather jacket. A cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth. It was illegal to smoke on the subway, but this wasn't the time for a lecture or an argument with an Elvis retread.

"No," he said flatly and looked the other way.

With the cigarette still hanging from his lips, the youth walked on up the car, but no one else responded affirmatively either.

The train slowed as it pulled into the next station. Signs along the wall read Piazza dei Cinquecento. Doors opened. The few remaining people filed out, leaving him alone at the rear. The crowd started up the steps toward the exit. He allowed them to move along in front of him before darting into a dim corner next to the wall. Reaching through the slit in his trench coat, he cradled the Glock 9mm pistol strapped in a holster on his hip.

The sound of shoes trudging up the cement steps died out, and in a few moments the platform emptied. Jogging on quiet soles, he rushed to the end of the tunnel as soon as the train left. One last glance around the area revealed he was alone. With a quick hop, he leaped from the platform down to the subway floor and hurried into the tunnel. Not ten feet in, the darkness swallowed him.

From rummaging around in the basement of the public archives, he had found the remnants of the plans for the metro system, which revealed that forty feet down this section of track there had been a storage area in the side of the tunnel. The architectural renderings indicated the area to be the size of a small room that would serve his purposes well. Feeling along the wall next to the steel tracks, he found that the plans were correct. Once inside the chamber, he pulled out a flashlight and made a quick inspection of the space. An old pickax stood against a blackened wall. Small hunks of volcanic rock covered the ground and made a slight crunching sound under his feet. With lights still beaming from the station, he could detect the subway tracks well enough to work quickly.

Settling against the brick wall, he unzipped the lining of his trench coat and pulled out the paper-wrapped briquettes that he set in a row in front of him. The plastic explosives should not detonate until the blasting caps were ignited, but he was no expert, and the narrow clay-like bars made him anxious.

In the dim light, he studied the packages of C-4, the same material terrorists used when they attacked the
U.S.S. Cole
in October 2000 and killed seventeen sailors. In his other pocket, he carried the materials for the detonator that would set off the bomb. Expanding plasma from a small explosion of foil would drive a metal piece called a "slapper" across a gap and a shock would be detonated, exploding the C-4 with a bang about the size of Mount Vesuvius. From what he had learned, it should all go off like clockwork when the next subway coach rolled by in about three hours during the early morning commute.

Lights along the station platform flashed off, plunging the entire area into blackness except for his flashlight. It shouldn't take him long to set the C-4 on the tracks. His hands began to shake, and sweat poured down his face. The detonator mechanism wasn't fragile, but his unsteady hands were a liability. Leaning over the bars of plastic explosive, he took a deep breath and unwrapped the first paper package.

A single, piercing light suddenly appeared on the platform in the darkness, sending a beam down the tunnel. Probably a night watchman, maybe a
polizia,
making a final check for the evening. The stout man clicked off his flashlight and hugged the wall. His glimmer of light might have been spotted from the terminal platform. If so, he was in trouble. Pulling the Glock from his pocket, he dropped to one knee and aimed at the entrance to the tunnel. If whoever had the flashlight entered, one shot in the man's chest would end the threat, but it might also ruin his plans. He caught his breath and waited. The light bobbed his way, and then it stopped.