Page 75 of Skotos
Marble columns rose like solemn sentinels, some snapped in half like broken bones, others still proud and reaching. Cracked pediments and weed-choked pathways whispered of gods long gone and power long spent.
It felt a bit like standing at the edge of a memory.
Then came the Pantheon—silent, magnificent, eternal. The dome crowned the night like a celestial eye, lit from below and reflected in the sheen of the surrounding piazza. The columns out front stood like giants in prayer. A few tourists loitered near fountains, their laughter mingling with the splashing water. In the halo of soft yellow light of the dying day, it felt more like a temple to time than to gods.
“The Pantheon,” our guide said, his voice swelling again. “The dome still holds the record—no steel, no rebar, just Roman genius—surviving almost two millennia. Rain comes in through the hole at the top—theoculus—but the building never floods. The floor is slightly curved so it drains like magic.”
Beside me, Thomas sat quietly, his gaze fixed out the window. I watched the reflection of the monuments flicker across his face. For a single, aching moment, I imagined this was all real, just the two of us on a well-deserved holiday with no mission, no threat, no enemies tailing us in a Fiat.
I reached over and gently brushed the back of his hand with mine. He turned, his deep brown eyes meeting my blue ones, and gave a faint smile—a shared breath in a life that so rarely let us exhale. I wanted to freeze that second and keep it somewhere safe, but it slipped away in a blink—no, a heartbeat—like everything else in this damn line of work.
“Tail,” Thomas murmured, his voice suddenly low.
I glanced backward, pretending to stare back at the history vanishing behind us. Two cars behind us was a black Fiat. It was not just following anymore; it was crowding us, keeping pace like a wolf waiting for us to slow so it could pounce.
Still, we let the tour continue. The city gleamed in its shroud of brilliant sunset hues, but our peace had vanished.
“Change of plans,” Thomas said, casually leaning forward. “Could you take us to the Vatican now?”
“Feeling like forgiveness?” The driver grinned through the rearview mirror. “Si. We go.”
He veered onto the broad Via della Conciliazione, and the Vatican rose before us. St. Peter’s Basilica shone like a lantern of the old world, towering above the cobblestones of the piazza.
Behind us, the Fiat remained close, hugging every curve of the road like a second shadow.
“We’ll get out here,” Thomas said as the car rolled to a stop near the edge of the square.
We climbed out of the cab, cool air hitting us like a warning. Priests, nuns, and monks scurried about, their cassocks stark reminders of the Holy City in which we walked. Tourists paid them no mind, snapping photos, pointing, and gawking, more annoyed by the clerical presence than enlightened by it.
Across the vast square, another Fiat slowed to a crawl, then stopped.
Two men stepped out. More dark suits. Cigarettes already lit. They leaned against the hood of their car as if they had all the time in the world.
We drifted toward the colonnade, the great arms of Bernini’s design wrapping the square in silent majesty. The fountain gurgled quietly.
In the distance, a nun’s laughter echoed faintly.
Thomas and I found a bench halfway between the basilica and the obelisk, its marble cool beneath us. For a moment, we just sat there in the open, bathed in the glow of centuries, trying not to look back at the men who had followed us for miles—or forward at our newly arrived sentries.
I rubbed a hand down my face without turning toward him. “What now?”
Thomas exhaled through his nose. “We could try to get in. Rinaldi might still be here.”
I glanced toward the Vatican gates. Swiss Guards stood stiffly under the arch, halberds gleaming, faces unreadable. “You think they’re just going to wave us through and offer espresso while we wait?”
Thomas cracked a smile. “Maybe if you ask nicely or flash ’em a little leg.”
“Idiot,” I grumbled, unable to keep my lips from curling. “They’ll laugh us away. We don’t exactly have an appointment, and the last time we visited, we found a dead priest.”
“We found amissingpriest. He was only dead after we left the Vatican,” Thomas corrected. Clearly, one of us was taking this whole episode with far more grace than the other.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We could find a phone. Call Manakin.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, sharper than I meant to, then softened. “You know we can’t call him on an open line, not with bugs in our hotel and tails on our ass.”
“I’d love to tail your ass.”
“Thomas! Be serious.”
