It was the entrance to the grotto of the Cumaean sibyl, the timeless prophetess mentioned by Virgil and whose image was painted on the Sistine Chapel, marking her as one of the five seers who had predicted the birth of Christ.
Leopold had been instructed on precisely what he must do from here. By now, the Damnatus should have secured the First Angel. Leopold must do the same with another. A chill swept his cold skin, threatening to drive him back.
How dare I assault such a one?
But he pictured Avernus Lake, where peace and grace were born out of fire and brimstone. He must not balk when their goal was so close.
The passageway stretched a hundred yards into the depths below the crater. According to Virgil, the path to the sibyl was a hundredfold, hinting at the maze buried beneath these ruins. What was visible to the tourists was but the tiniest fraction of the true lair of the prophetess.
Still, he reached the tunnel’s end and lingered at what was considered the sibyl’s inner sanctum. Standing at the threshold, he examined the carved archways and empty stone benches. Once it had been grander, filled with frescoes and flowers. Beautiful offerings would have lined the walls. Blossoms would have released their scents to the underground air. Fruit would have ripened and rotted here.
Across the way stood her carved throne, a simple bench of stone.
He pictured the Sibyl of Cumae singing her prophecies from there, imagining the stir of leaves that were said to accompany her predictions, leaves upon which she recorded her visions of the future.
Despite the ancient accounts, Leopold knew the true power did not lie in this room—but far below it. The sibyl had chosen this site because of what lay hidden at the heart of her lair, something she protected from the world at large.
Before he lost his courage, he rushed across the chamber to her throne, to the archway behind it. Drawing up to the far wall, he studied the pattern of stones found there. Following the directions given to him by the Damnatus, he pushed in a series of the stones, forming the rough symbol of a bowl, the ancient icon representing this sibyl.
As he pushed in the last stone, he heard a crack, and black lines formed, spilling dust, marking a door. He knew there were other secret ways to the maze below, but the Damnatus had been clear that he must approach her from this path. The Damnatus knew her from another life, learned of this sanctuary of hers. Over the centuries, he had tracked her steps across the earth, knew she resided here now, likely awaiting them.
Leopold shoved open the door with a grate of stone but remained at the threshold. He dared not enter her domain without permission. He retreated to the front of the throne and knelt before it.
He drew a knife and cut his wrist.
Dark blood welled out, letting the blessing of Christ inside him shine forth.
“Hear my prayer, O Sibyl!” he chanted. “The time has come for your final prophecy to come to fruition.”
He waited on his knees for what seemed like hours, but was likely minutes.
Finally to his keen ears came the soft pad of bare feet on stone.
He looked beyond the stone seat to the dark doorway.
A shred of shadow melted out, stepping into view, revealing the lithe perfection of a dark-skinned woman. She wore a simple linen shift. Her only bits of adornment were a gold cuff upon her upper arm and a shard of silver hanging from a gold chain. Not that she needed any such decoration. Her dark beauty captured his every imagination, stirring even sinful ones. How could any man resist her? She was mother, lover, daughter, the very embodiment of womanhood.
But she was not a woman.
He heard no heartbeat as she stepped around and sat atop her throne.
She was something far greater.
He lowered his face from her beauty. “Forgive me, O Great One.”
He knew her name—Arella—but dared not use it, finding himself unworthy.
“My forgiveness will not ease your burdens,” she said softly. “You must put them down of your own accord.”
“You know I cannot.”
“And he sent you in his stead, unable to come himself.”
He glanced up, noting the depth of sorrow in her eyes. “I’m sorry, my blessed lady.”
She laughed quietly, a simple sound that promised joy and peace. “I am beyond your blessing, priest. But are you beyond mine? You can yet set aside the task he set for you. It is not too late.”
“I cannot. From fire will come a lasting peace.”
She sighed, as if scolding a child. “From fire comes only ruin. It is only love that brings peace. Did you not learn that from He who blesses the very blood you spill at my doorway?”
“We only seek to bring His love back to this world.”
“By destroying it?”
He remained silent, resolute.
The Damnatus had tasked him with this mission—and one other. He felt the weight of the emerald rock in the inner pocket of his robe. It would have to wait. Now, he must complete his first duty, no matter how much it pained him.