The ceiling is as beautifully painted as that of the Sistine Chapel. The floor is covered in minuscule mosaics.
The whole place is lit by dozens of torches burning in triangular cones fixed on the walls.
Against the longest wall is a huge elevated altar covered in hundreds of multicoloured flower petals. Opposite, three metres off the ground, is what looks like a marble ledge. Valentina presumes it’s a pulpit for priests or priestesses.
In the middle of the temple floor there is a large triangular grid. Valentina doesn’t walk across it, but she peers down and can see that it’s a big drop. She knows enough about ancient religions to guess that this is a sacrificial pit.
A loud, dull thud makes her turn.
The heavy oak door they came through has swung shut.
There’s another sound.
Dull and repetitive.
Muffled.
Valentina thinks it’s coming from beneath her feet rather than outside the temple.
She struggles to place it.
It’s an even, almost rhythmical knocking noise, now so loud she really should be able to see what’s causing it.
But she can’t.
It stops as unexpectedly as it started.
But the peace lasts barely a second.
An even stranger noise starts.
A high-pitched buzz.
Not electronic. Something more natural.
The sound grows quickly.
More bass than treble.
The kind of noise you feel more than hear.
The kind of tone that makes your heart shake.
A black fountain erupts from the triangular pit.
It springs up as though someone has struck oil.
Valentina pulls Sweetheart close to her.
The spray spins high in the air, swirls like a typhoon and slowly starts to lose its shape.
It’s not oil.
It’s a dense cloud of frenzied flies.
Sarcophagidae.
Flesh flies.
Gruesome insects that feed on the dead. Mannerless little monsters that lay their eggs in corpses.
Valentina’s seen them many times.
But only under a microscope. Only dead and clamped between the metal teeth of a pathologist’s tweezers.
Never like this.
Never loose and wild and in their millions.
132
Tom’s fall isn’t as bad as it looks.
He’s had the wind knocked out of him and his cracked clavicle is screaming like a werewolf.
But he’s sure nothing else is busted.
The main problem is, he can feel the rubble moving beneath him.
Sliding.
Shifting slowly, like brown sugar.
His left hand grips loose rock.
Despite the pain, he manages to work his right elbow between hard chunks of stone.
Up above, Guilio is shouting, but he can’t work out what he’s saying.
He gets some leverage and manages to roll on to his back.
He can see Guilio now, panic on his face, mouthing something.
The rubble pile beneath him drops. It’s like a plane hitting an air pocket. He falls half a metre and almost slips off.
Tom digs his heels in.
Pushes himself back up.
Edges towards the wall.
Glancing down, he sees something strange.
Two shining dots.
Eyes.
They’re moving towards him.
The head of an emaciated lion appears in the half-light.
Its mane is thick with dust and grime.
Its jaws are wide open.
Tom scrabbles for a rock, and instantly realises that because of his shoulder injury, he can’t throw right-handed.
Nor can he lift one-handed the size of boulder necessary to bludgeon to death a hungry lion.
He throws a medium-sized stone.
It whacks the beast on the shoulder but does nothing to stop it.
The animal roars and becomes wary.
It can feel the rubble shifting as it climbs towards its surprise meal.
Tom hurls a chunk of plaster.
It catches the beast on the nose.
Another growl.
Tom’s ears have cleared of the buzzing. He can hear again. Hardly a bonus, given the circumstance.
He pulls his legs up.
The rubble slips some more.
So does the lion.
It slides back and scrambles and scratches to keep its footing.
The bright eyes twinkle.
A blood-curdling roar rolls from its greedy yellow mouth.
It starts to charge.
Tom throws another rock.
It misses.
The lion is inches away.
He draws his knee back and slams the sole of his foot into its face.
It’s a good connection, enough to put a man flat on his back.
But not enough to stop a wild animal.
It rolls its head and comes again.
Tom can’t get enough of an angle to kick out.
The lion is on him.
Growling and biting.
He shifts his leg and the giant jaw crunches into stone.
There’s a loud thump next to him.
Guilio is in the pit.
The animal reacts quicker than Tom.
But not quicker than Guilio.
The nozzle of his nail gun finds the fur of the beast. He pumps a five-inch nail into its head.
The lion is dead before it even starts to roll away.
But Guilio is trapped beneath it. The pile of rubble shifts again.
Tom reaches out for him.
The pile collapses.
Guilio and the lion disappear into the darkness.
There’s a crash of rock and a cloud of dust.
Tom clings to a section of still crumbling rubble.
He looks up.
The edge of the floor is within touching distance.
If the pile he’s standing on slips any more, he won’t make it.
But if he jumps, Guilio will be stranded.
The dust blows away.
The beast’s body is wedged between boulders halfway down the pile.
There’s no sign of Guilio.
Tom cups a hand around his mouth. ‘Are you okay — can you hear me down there?’
The answer is faint. ‘I’m stuck. My leg’s jammed.’
‘Hang on.’
Tom can’t see further than the dead animal.
The pile starts to shift again.
He looks up at the edge of the floor above.
He jumps.
There’s no point them both being stranded.
If he can get out, he can get help.
Tom dangles by his fingers.
His right shoulder is a ball of pain. He knows he has to ignore it.
If he doesn’t, he won’t survive.
Nor will Guilio.
He fumbles for a better grip, and manages to pull himself up a little.
His left leg bangs against the wall.
He explores it with his foot.
It’s worn and jagged.
Uneven enough for him to get a toehold.
The precious leverage enables him to get up on to his elbows.
He can hear shouting below as he swings his right leg up and rolls to safety.
There’s shouting — and something else.
Growling.
Across the ground, he notices again the statue of Cybele.
The goddess is flanked by two lions, not one.
He peers back into the pit.
The growls come from way beyond the body of the dead lion.
Guilio’s agonising screams rise from the bottom of the black hole.
There’s nothing Tom can do.
Except listen to him being eaten alive.
133
The flesh flies are everywhere.
They swarm around Valentina and Sweetheart, settling on their skin and crawling into their ears.
Valentina remembers her mortuary lessons.