The Nokia kept ringing, a sharp, mechanical trill that seemed to pierce the silence of the night. Valesi stared at it in the palm of his hand, the bright screen illuminating his fingers dirty with dust and sweat. The number was the same. Private.
Martinez had straightened up, her breath still labored. "Don't answer."What if it's the mayor? Or Neri?" Valesi's voice was hoarse.
"What if it's them again?" She indicated the phone with her chin. "They found us. They followed us through that... that thing. And now they know where we are."
The trill ceased. A sudden silence, heavier than the sound. Then, after exactly three seconds, it started again.
Valesi closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them, there was an iron decision in their gray depths. He pressed the green button and brought the phone to his ear without speaking.
On the other end, the synthetic breathing. Then the flat, assembled voice.
"The threshold has closed. Your unauthorized access has been recorded."Who are you?" Valesi growled, his jaw clenched.
"We are the memory. We are the cure. Roma is sick. You are the symptom."
Martinez moved closer, her ear almost brushing the phone. Valesi tilted the receiver.
"What do you want?" asked Martinez, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Cease. Your investigations interfere with the restoration. Every foreigner remaining is a focus of infection. Every question is a delay."The restoration of what?" pressed Valesi.
"Of the essence. Of the purity." An electronic pause. "Agent Martinez is a foreign body. She will be removed upon cycle completion. Twenty-three hours, forty-two minutes, seven seconds."
An icy shiver, despite the heat, ran through Martinez. She checked her watch. It matched.
"What if we stop?" said Valesi, his eye seeking Martinez's, a silent message. *I'm buying time*. "If we drop everything?"
The synthetic voice emitted a sound that might have been programmed to be a sigh. "Too late. You have seen. You have crossed over. You are contaminated. Your removal is inevitable. But it can be... painless. Unlike that of the architect Silvestri."
The image of the model surrounded by personal effects, of the note with the words "Removed from Roma," flashed in their minds.
"What should we do?" asked Martinez, playing the part.
"Deliver to us the Custodian. The man who protects the Door. He has disobeyed. He protected a foreigner. His punishment will grant you clemency. A delay in your removal. Time to... settle your affairs."We don't know who he is," Valesi lied.
"The professor. Claudio Valente. The last of the three who dared to pry where it was not permitted. Silvestri has been removed. The other, the woman, Beatrice Conti, will be found. Valente is the primary target. Bring him to us. The place is his refuge. You know it."
The line went dead.
Valesi lowered the phone, his knuckles white. Silence returned, broken only by the distant roar of an airplane approaching Ciampino.
"A trap," Martinez said immediately. "They want us to do their dirty work."They might be divided," murmured Valesi, staring at the anonymous building in front of them. "One faction that wants the restoration, and a Custodian who has rebelled. Or who has taken pity." He ran a hand over his face. "Claudio Valente. The professor. Conti didn't give the name, but it's him."And the 'refuge we know'?"
Valesi thought. The places linked to the Temple of Vesta. The Roman Forum. The House of the Vestals. Then a flash. "The book. In Silvestri's apartment. That book about the Forum. There was a bookmark. A museum ticket."The Museum of the Imperial Forums? Or the Crypta Balbi one?"No." Valesi raised his gaze toward the distant dome of St. Peter's, then turned his head to the left, as if tracing an imaginary line on the map of the city in his mind. "More hidden. The book was about the *mundus*, the ritual openings. The bookmark was a faded postcard. There was a photo... the Church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin. The Bocca della Verità."
Martinez looked at him, perplexed. "The tourist rock where tourists put their hand in the mouth?"Underneath. The foundations. There are remains, an ancient *heroon*, a small temple. Accessible only with special permits. A place where an archaeology professor could hide, or... stand guard."
They decided to go on foot. The Giulietta was stuck on the other side of the "threshold," in that surreal little square with the sentinels. They were in the Tuscolano district, to the southeast. Santa Maria in Cosmedin was to the northwest, near the Circo Massimo. Crossing Roma at that hour, devoid of outsiders, was a dreamlike and claustrophobic experience.
They walked along wide, empty avenues. The traffic lights flashed yellow in hypnotic sequences. In a bar, the shutter was half-lowered, and from the crack came the bluish light of a television and the chatter of a soccer match. Roman voices. Normal. Life went on, in a bubble of unawareness.
"Why don't they strike everyone?" Martinez asked at one point, observing a group of kids laughing by a scooter. "Why let these Romans live their lives, while... while they do what they do?"They might need them," Valesi hypothesized. "For the 'restoration.' A city isn't just stones. It's people. They need the real Romans as... as part of the work. As unwitting witnesses."And us?"We are the grains of sand in the gears. And Martinez..." He stopped, looked at her. "You are the proof their system isn't perfect. You're still here. Maybe by mistake. Or maybe you're something they didn't foresee."
They reached the lungotevere. The river flowed slowly, oily under the streetlights. The air was cooler, but carried the smell of algae and basement damp. Turning a corner, they saw the low, massive silhouette of the church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, with its Romanesque bell tower. The little square in front was deserted. The famous Bocca della Verità, a large stone disk with a bearded face, was covered by a tarp and closed off by a barrier, a surreal image in the night.
There was no one.
"And now?" whispered Martinez.
Valesi headed not toward the main entrance of the church, but toward one side, where a small wrought-iron gate, almost hidden by ivy, protected a staircase descending into darkness. The padlock was new, shiny, in contrast with the ancient, rusted iron.
"That's not the church's," Martinez observed.
Valesi didn't answer. He looked around, picked up a stone from the edge of a flower bed. With a sharp blow, he broke the padlock. The noise was extraordinarily loud in the still air.
They went down. The steps were worn travertine, slick with damp. The smell was of earth, of enclosure, of millennia. At the bottom, a massive wooden door, reinforced with iron bands. It looked more like a cell door than a crypt door.
Valesi knocked. The sound was muffled, absorbed by the thick wood.
No answer.
He tried the handle. It was locked.
"Professor Valente!" he called, his voice echoing in the small underground space. "We are "Valesi. We are not with *them*. We want to talk."
Silence.
Then, from inside, a noise of chains being moved. A bolt sliding. The door opened a few centimeters, held by a chain. In the opening, a blue eye, shiny with fear and a strange excitement.
"Valesi?" The voice was hoarse, a whisper. "The Roman policeman? The real one?"The real one. I was born in Trastevere. Are you Claudio Valente?"How do you know my name?" The eye shifted to Martinez. "And her? She's not Roman. I can tell. Is she... is she still here? How is that possible?"My name is Sarah Martinez. FBI agent. I've been here less than twenty-four hours."
The eye widened. "The cycle isn't complete. Interesting. Very interesting." The chain fell with a metallic thud. The door opened. "Come in. Quickly. Before the shadows notice."
Beyond the door, it wasn't a crypt, but something like a mad scholar's den. The room, carved into tufa, was crammed with books stacked to the ceiling, with yellowed topographic maps pinned with thumbtacks, with dusty display cases containing fragments of terracotta, coins, small idols. In the center, a work table was buried under papers, intricate drawings of temples and energy lines, and a scale model even more detailed than Silvestri's: not just the Temple of Vesta, but the entire Forum, with tiny points of light – LEDs – glowing in specific positions.
And the man matched his lair. Claudio Valente was painfully thin, as if consumed by an inner flame. His gray hair radiated from his head in electric tufts. He wore a tweed jacket patched at the elbows over striped pajamas. His blue eyes burned with a feverish intelligence.
"I knew you would come. Sooner or later. Them, or you." He ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Silvestri... they took Silvestri, didn't they?"Yes," Valesi confirmed, closing the door behind them. "They 'removed' him. And Doctor Conti?"Beatrice? I don't know. I hope she's safe. But safe... no longer exists." Valente approached the model, stroking with a finger the tiny dome of the Temple of Vesta. "He wanted to stop them. Silvestri. He believed one could reason with them. That they were a force of nature to be channeled. A romantic fool."Who are 'they'?" asked Martinez, looking around, fascinated and repulsed.
Valente stared at her. "Not 'who'. 'What'. They are not people. Not anymore. They are Roma's immune system. An ancient memory, awakened. A promise made on stones, on blood, on the milk of the she-wolf." His voice became singsong, like a priest of a dark cult. "Roma has always been an idea, agent. An idea so powerful it generated a... a field. A reality field. For centuries it absorbed everyone, molded them, made them Roman. But the idea has weakened. It has become polluted. The city is full of foreign bodies it no longer absorbs, that resist. The idea... has fallen ill. And like any sick organism, it has activated its defenses."The disappearances," murmured Valesi.
"The fever that expels the pathogen," Valente nodded. "A purge. Systematic. Selective. Based on essence, on birthplace. On the bond with the land. The not-born-Roman are the pathogen. You, commissario, are a healthy cell. She, agent..." He pointed at Martinez. "She is a particularly tenacious virus. Her immune system – her being American, rational, skeptical – shields her. For a while. But the cycle will complete. The twenty-four hours are the time the idea takes to recognize, isolate, and... expel."And the Gate?" pressed Valesi. "The sentinels?"The Gate is not a physical place. It is a moment. An alignment. A breach in the field. The sentinels are its guardians, physical manifestations of the immune system. I..." His voice cracked. "I am a mistake. I was born in Viterbo. My mother was Roman, my father was not. I am a hybrid. Half pathogen, half healthy cell. They do not fully recognize me. They tolerate me. And I... I have learned to see the breach. To hear their thoughts. To keep the secret."Why?" asked Martinez. "Why protect them?"Because there is no alternative!" shouted Valente, suddenly furious. The veins in his neck bulged. "You cannot stop an idea! You can only be swept away! Silvestri tried and now he is... removed. I keep watch because it is the only way to survive! And because... because by keeping watch, I can save someone." His voice faltered. "Someone like Silvestri. Like... like you."
He moved closer to Martinez. His smell was of book dust and an acidic, ancient sweat. "You two have crossed the breach. You are marked. They will hunt you. But you... you have something. A partnership. A bridge. Roman and foreigner." He paused, his eyes scrutinizing first one then the other, as if seeking confirmation in their expressions. "You can do what we, the pure or the hybrids, cannot."Which is?" asked Valesi, wary.
"Speak to the idea. Not fight it. Not submit to it. Speak to it. Ask it... for a compromise."
Martinez burst into a bitter, nervous laugh. "Speak to a city's immune system?"To its soul! To the *Roma Aeterna*!" Valente's eyes shone with an almost mystical light. "There is a place. The center of the field. The point where the idea is strongest. Where it all began."The Palatine? The Capitoline?"Older. Deeper. The *Lupercal*. The cave where the she-wolf suckled Romulus and Remus. The true, primordial navel of Roma. It is there the field generates. It is there you can... whisper in the monster's ear."
At that moment, from upstairs, through the staircase, came a noise. The metallic sound of the iron gate being shaken.
Valente paled. The excitement vanished, replaced by pure terror.
"Too late," he whispered. "They are here."
Heavy footsteps, more than one person, descended the steps.
Valente rushed toward a pile of books, pressing something behind it. A section of the tufa wall, perfectly camouflaged, slid away with a hiss, revealing a dark tunnel.
"You, inside! It's an escape route, leads to the ancient sewers, then to the Tiber."And you?" asked Valesi.
"I'll hold them back. I still have a little... credit." He smiled, a sad and brave expression. "Find the Lupercal. Not the tourist one. The real one. Beneath the House of Augustus. Look for the water that drips from the rock and does not wet the stone. And... commissario?"Yes?"Take her hand." He pointed to Martinez. "The foreigner's hand. It might be the key."
The wooden door began to tremble under the blows. They weren't knocking. *Blows*. Dry, powerful.
Valente pushed them into the tunnel. "Go! And if you see Beatrice... tell her I was right. About everything."
The tufa slab slid back into place, leaving them in absolute darkness, while on the other side of the door, the wood began to splinter.