The Vault of Bones by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

Mummery it may have been, but the crowds parted before us as water divides around the prow of a ship. Through the broad ways we passed, through squares where marketing wives gawped at us, under beetling towers hung with flags, past knots of urchins who mocked us with great skill, for mockery was their stock-in-trade and they took pride in it. I did not notice much of this, for despite the Captain's easy words I did not feel at ease, and kept my eyes on the ground, watching my feet pace out the flagstones that lay between me and God knew what fate. The towers of the noble families loomed over us on all sides like a sinister forest of branchless trees: columns of brick all emblazoned and battlemented with the furious pride of their makers. Then we were in that quarter where the ancient ruins are more plentiful than the works of modern man, but even these are piled up with more brick towers and strange little fortlets that perch upon the ancient marble like the daubed nests of swallows.
    And then a great shape rose before us, squatting, heavy as the sins of the world, upon the earth. The Coliseum, almost domestic at this time of day: as we skirted it, I noticed that here and there a face peered out of a window in a crudely bricked-up arch, or a flag of newly washed clothing flapped pathetically.
    Our escort whisked us past and into a quarter I had never entered. We had left the city behind - or so it seemed, for past the Coliseum the buildings thinned out and suddenly we were in farmland. Or rather, it was like entering a vast garden, for in the distance, all along the skyline, the jagged walls of Rome stood guard. We were climbing a hill, walking past churches and here and there a lone tower that threatened the poor farmers' huts that stood amongst the vineyards and fields of vegetables that were just now sprouting shoots and fronds of exultant green. Olives and figs grew on either side, and the din of human tongues was supplanted by the chit-chat of starlings and finches. Away to our right our path - in truth it was a rather grand road, paved with cut stone - was flanked by a high brick bridge, which began down near the Coliseum but which ran away out of sight over the crest of the nearest hill, upon which stood a great church rising amidst a village of smaller churches and cloisters. The strange bridge seemed to be purposeless, for it forded no stream and carried no road, but where it led was no mystery, for though I had never seen it, like every Christian man I knew what church stood upon a hill just within the city walls of Rome: Saint John Lateran, the pope's church, and next to it his palace.
    At our swift pace we were there in the broad square before the church much faster than I would have liked, and our escort ushered us past the broad rise of steps that led to the church and through a gate into a courtyard. I fully expected to be strung up on the spot, but instead the officer gave us a courteous bow and led us inside the palace.
    We were met, in some inner state chamber, by a cardinal, a sick-looking man in late middle age, who nonetheless was the first cardinal I had ever met and who therefore set my knees atremble with awe until I remembered that I had long since left the Church, and that I need not fear its lords, at least in principle: for as our current predicament showed, in practice any lord was dangerous whether he wore purple or cloth-of-gold. This cardinal was not especially happy to see us, and I suspected we had disturbed either prayer or breakfast, for he sniffed at us impatiently, and informed us that His Holiness desired to speak with one Michel de Montalhac, whom he presumed one of us to be. His Holiness was currently residing in Viterbo whilst the populace of Rome overcame its troubles and ceased to act like feral children - this last delivered with a sniff of extra severity - and so he regretted, et cetera et cetera, but we would have to take horse. This very moment. No delay possible. And out he