tour of the place, circling each pillar and pew, stopping at every plaque or monument. After one circuit it seemed our search would be in vain—the only lady present was the Holy Virgin, the only tombs those of Neapolitan knights of old.
“We’re missing something,” insisted Brother Guido, his voice low, his eyes on the distant priest. “Perhaps we should ask . . .”
“Wait!” My eyes had been idling upon a stone carving on the wall. “Here’s a lady!”
We moved nearer and Brother Guido peered closely in the candlelit dim. He moved his long fingers over the carving, in an attempt to make it out better, then shook his head. “No good,” he said, his voice colored with disappointment. “ ‘Tis Saint Veronica, for see, here is Christ carrying the cross, and she wipes his brow with a cloth.”
He was right. Chastened, I looked farther up the wall as my companion moved away. “And what of these scratches above? What do they mean?”
“Scratches?” He turned.
“Yes, see, a point and a line.” I moved my fingers over the deep indents scored into the stone: V and I. “Here.”
Then I saw his eyes do that odd thing that they do when he has a revelation: they burned such a bright blue that they almost lit the gloom. “Not scratches,” said he. “Numbers.”
Now, as I said before, I cannot read, but I do know my numbers—at least from one to ten, then my knowledge becomes a little sketchy. Working girls need to know about numbers, for money comes in numbers, does it not? “Those aren’t numbers,” I scoffed. “At least, the line could be a one, I suppose, but the point is more like an arrowhead, or—”
“Roman numbers,” he interrupted me, urgently. “In Roman numerology, the characters are different from the Arabic numbers we use in everyday life. Here, the point or V means five, and the I is indeed a one. This is a number, the number six.”
My mind was as dim as the church. “But why is this carving named six? Are you sure it isn’t V for Veronica?”
His eyes burned even bluer. “Because it’s one of a series. Saint Veronica wipes Christ’s brow. Six. This is the sixth station of the cross.”
“Ah, yes.”
“You know of the stations?” He seemed skeptical.
“Convent educated. The stations are the steps that Jesus took toward his death on the cross. There are fourteen in all,” I said smugly.
“Then see here”—he moved to his left—“another relief—carving, sorry—of a man who takes the cross from Christ to help him with the burden. Simon of Cyrene carries the cross for Christ—the fifth station of the cross.”
“So?” I was lost. “What does this have to do with Fiammetta?”
“Forget Fiammetta.” He flapped his hands impatiently. “We were working from the wrong clue. If this is five, and the next is six, then there must be a—”
“Seven!” I almost shouted the number and Brother Guido turned on me.
“Be silent!” he hissed. “Remember, we saw a priest as we entered—we do not want our business known.”
“Shit, sorry,” I mumbled, but I was too excited to truly repent. “Come on.” We moved to the right, past Saint Veronica, to the seventh station.
“Christ falls for the second time,” whispered Brother Guido, indicating the fallen figure below the burden of the great cross. “And here.” His fingers traced upward. “V-I-I, the Roman number seven.”
“All right,” I breathed, my eyes on the beaten figure beneath the cross. “Now what?”
“Perhaps a door or a passage? There must be a way to open this panel!”
“Maybe the cross itself?” I whispered urgently.
“It has fallen sideways to make an X,” he noted. “Perhaps X marks the spot?” Brother Guido almost smiled. “Worth a try.”
We pressed the cross, first he alone, then I too. Our urgency so great and our hopes so high that we did not heed our fingers pressing intimately together in the task. Then, frustrated, we pressed and pulled every part of the carving, even Christ himself, before standing back, beaten.
“Surely,” I said, in a last desperate attempt. “It is the number that is important. The seven.”
“You’re right,” agreed Brother Guido rapidly, and before I could even reach out, his strong fingers were on the VII pressing and manipulating. I heard before I saw—the V de-pressed inward and the panel opened in a grating of stone upon stone. It was not as you might expect, the sound of a portal that had not been opened for centuries, but rather one that had seen recent use. Inside was a door