“Catacomb?” I grabbed the map back and stared at it. “This signal is coming from a fucking maze under the city?”
And now, in the back of another taxi, I’m checking the Wikipedia entries on Roman catacombs. There are over forty catacombs, and the one in which Luca—or his ring, anyway—is in, is not one of the ones open to the public, and is mostly used by homeless Romans as shelter at night.
When I arrive, I’m actually guided by some of those rough sleepers to the hidden entrance. “No, no,” one says, when I nod my thanks and turn away, making for the entrance.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m forgetting my manners.” I hold out a twenty-euro bill to him, but he slaps my hand away.
“No, no,” he insists, trying to pull me back. “Not in there.” He abandons any attempts to speak English, but his Italian is easy enough to understand. “There are bad people in there.”
I take his hand and push the money back into it. “I understand,” I tell him. “Don’t worry. I’m bad people, too.”
* * *
It might seem obvious,but before I went in, I didn’t realize how creepy it would be to descend into a dank catacomb in the middle of the night with only my phone as a light. I’d been picturing walls of skulls and gates made out of bones, but the reality—rough-hewn limestone worn down over the millennia, and walls so close together in some parts that I have to turn side-on to get through—is somehow worse. All I can do is keep one eye on the blinking signal light on the tracking app, and the other on the path so I don’t stumble, while I listen out for any noise.
Pretty soon, though, the light stops blinking, stays a dull blue color, and a message pops up next to it:Last known location. For a second I panic, until I realize I’ve lost reception on my cell phone. I must be too deep in. But if I just keep going, Ishouldfind Luca.
Or his last known location.
The next problem, as I judge I must be getting closer to the coordinates for Luca’s ring, is that the passages begin to branch out into two, sometimes three tunnels. Next to each branch, though, there are phrases in chalk, paint, even cut into the rock walls, and after I manage to translate one or two of them, I realize that they’re directions.
Big open area this way, reads one.
Stinks like piss, reads a response,but stays warm overnight.
Along the way there are empty and broken bottles, piles of cigarettes butts, screwed-up foil balls and old hypodermics, scraps of moldering clothes, newspapers grown wet and clumpy. All in all, it looks like these catacombs are used pretty regularly. But I meet no people along the way, alive or dead. Those bad people must have scared away all shelter-seekers for the night.
More than once I have to backtrack when I hit a dead end. But eventually I think I’m getting closer. I probably haven’t even come that far in terms of distance, but the darkness, the creep factor, and the time it takes me to translate some of the directions scribbled on the rock walls are all slowing me down. Based on the graffiti marks I’m currently following, the area I’m in has not been widely explored. And it doesn’t take long before one dire, chalked prediction—Caved in—is proved right, and I’ve reached another dead end.
The tunnel must be closer to the surface here, with tree roots and coming in from the ceiling. The piled-up rocks that block the way are all pretty small, except for one large marble block at the bottom of them all. When I helplessly check the app again on my phone, even though it won’t update in real time, I spot a cemetery marked on the map, nearLast known position.
I have an intrusive vision of bony fingers stretching down towards me, of Death grasping for me to keep me here in this underground chamber of despair, and I have to lean over and slow my breath down.
I’ve failed. I have no idea where I am.
More importantly, I have no idea where Luca is.
And now maybe I’m lost in this maze of passageways and I’ll never find my way out, never have another chance to find Luca…
“Shut up,” I spit at myself, and try to think rationally. Panicking will not help.
Since I’m not moving right now, I turn off the flashlight to conserve phone battery. Somehow the complete darkness is more comforting than seeing the narrow walls, the reaching tree roots, the clumps of dirt and rocks. It’ssodark that I start thinking I can actually see a glow in the darkness, and I blink a few times and rub my eyes to help them adjust.
But I’m not seeing things. There’s definitely a faint light coming from somewhere behind this caved-in part of the tunnel. I take a step to one side, then the other, judging where the light gets brighter, and then all at once, like one of those fuzzy hidden image pictures suddenly coming into focus, I see that there’s a space in the cave-in that a person could squeeze through, if they really wanted to.
If they were crazy enough to do it.
Me? I’m pretty fucking crazy.
I slide through the gap slowly and carefully. The glow is definitely getting brighter. On the other side is more tunnel, but only a short distance, and the end of it is lit up with a yellow light.
And as I shuffle forward, I hear a voice. A low murmur. Thereissomeone—maybe someones—up ahead, and whether it’s the Roman homeless or an Irish asshole, I’m about to find out. The tunnel curves around so it hides me from view, but it opens up abruptly into a larger area. I have to scramble backward again to stay out of sight.
“The fuck was that?” mutters a rough, Irish-accented voice. There’s a silence, and I try to keep even my breathing as quiet as I can. But I’m just about shitting myself. If the guy is talking, who is he talkingto? How many of them are there? I can maybe stopone.
If I have time enough to aim, and if they’re not moving.
Or shooting back.
