SALVE ROMA! A Felidae Novel - By Akif Pirincci Page 0,31
but actually quite cozy. But then I let the suicidal nosiness guide me, made an effort, ran to the balustrade and jumped upon it.
Saying that what I saw now was hell might be over the top. No, it was the musical version of hell. In fact, featuring Giovanni and Co. from the Largo Argentino in starring roles.
8.
The circular vault resembled an arena, architecturally as well as dimensionally. The ceiling was a hemisphere, the floor was a jigsaw of slates. The place was lined with a rather vast number of arc-shaped portals. Those revisited on the upper level, giving the walls a perforated appearance. Stony staircases connected the individual levels, so that one could go upstairs very easily, regardless of the catacomb one just had left. Without a doubt, this temple had once been built by people who were forced to practice their religion secretly. Whether they had been Early Christians or some other bullied religious association, I had no clue.
My high look-out on the balustrade offered an amazing sight, not just from architectonical aspects. First of all, there were burning candles. Candles? Yeah right, my glimpse down spotted something more like a sheer sea of lights. Fixed to head-high holders, they illuminated the place in addition to the torches surrounding us. There was as many bats as candles – but in human form. An army of figures looking like bats crowded between the candleholders. Shiny toppers, tailcoats with long laps, long black capes and exquisite canes in velvet-gloved hands. All of them wore masks to hide their identities. Prince Savoyen totally got lost in the shuffle. The whole thing looked a little like an international conference of ancient sorcerers.
Actually, hocus-pocus did seem to be involved, and apparently a pretty dangerous one. Intonating some Latin sing-song, which left the vaulted cellar trembling, all of the batmen clustered round a place in the center, some sort of stage. On this podest, clearly visible from all sides and flanked by two torches, stood a guy in a hooded robe. The costume reminded a little of the Klansmen’s working clothes, though this one consisted of shiny black silk. The vision slits on the hood had scarlet edgings, and instead of a cross, some garish gold jewelry in the shape of a smiling sun dangled on the protagonist’s neck. The hooded man rested upon a saber, which sparkled so bright as if it had been polished for days.
Out of the corners of my eyes I noticed a minor matter, which nevertheless gave me an answer to my minor questions from a few minutes ago. Underneath the vaulted ceiling I spotted four giant portholes. They were positioned according to the four cardinal directions and had wooden hatches in the front. An ancient cable operation with steel wires, big levers, cogs and dangling sandbags used as tension weight could be used to open the hatches. It didn’t take much brain acrobatics to figure out the function of these hatches. They acted as fresh air supply and sucked oxygen from the world above us down to this point. This was why the quality of air in the temple was better than that in the catacombs. Right now, there was just one hatch open, probably the one that benefit the most of the current wind direction.
The sight of the countless toppers and black capes in candlelight wasn’t quite enough to catapult my blood pressure (which by the way hadn’t been that low anyway) into alarming heights. No, the reason for my increasing panic was something that was behind the cape man: a cage that sparkled in the same chrome color than the saber in his hand. It was a funny construction: about seven feet high and so roomy that a whole mid-range car would have fitted inside. The bars on the side were tied into rectangles only by matted drawstrings and simple knots. There wasn’t any grating, so the whole thing looked like an oversized playpen. These safety defects didn’t quite offer any chance of escape to the prisoners though, as they were inferior to even such a primitive cage due to their size and strength. Inside, the whole crew of the Largo Argentina was gathered, some apathically squatting on the floor, some nervously jumping over the others’ heads. The frightened whimpering of our brothers and sisters was drowned out by the choir’s sing-song; only the distress could be seen in their twisted faces. In the first row Giovanni crouched and stared down on the creepy goings-on just as