But they could not coexist, of course. Francesca had seen that straight away, felt it on a deep gut level. The other “Crypt” had to be broken up, assimilated.

If you uncovered a problem you were expected to fix it yourself: that was the Order’s central mode of working. So Francesca had made a quick decision. Leo would find soldiers to cleanse the parallel crypt, and the Order would break through and occupy the abandoned chambers. At a stroke the Crypt’s effective size would be increased by more than half, and the Order would gain many servants.

If Francesca succeeded in her scheme she would gain great prestige within the Order—and, she hoped, get close to the matres. She had realized a year ago that Livilla, oldest of the matres, was dying. And it had been only a few months later that her own blood had started to flow—at the age of twenty-three, for the first time in her life. Then had come the realization that she, through skill, cunning and luck, might take Livilla’s place.

The next time a bachelor was brought in from the city, it would be her body that would bewitch him, her loins that would bear his child. When she thought about that prospect she felt a dull ache in the pit of her belly, and a soreness in her breasts.

Conversely, if Leo’s Venice adventure succeeded he would gain great influence in his family. They were both the same, really, she thought. The pursuit of individual ambitions, tied into the goals of the group: it was the way things were. As she studied his face, she saw that Leo understood this.

Leo still wasn’t sure, though. He rubbed his nose. “I’m no soldier, Francesca. I’ve no idea if this plan, of sending mercenaries into the Catacombs like field mice into a sewer, will work.”

She smiled. “Then hire a general who will know.”

He laughed. “I don’t think we need a general. But I do know somebody who might be able to help, as it happens . . .”

“Then bring him to me.”

They concluded their business. When they parted he made playfully to kiss her cheek, despite its thick plastering of cream, but she would not allow it.

Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Peter turned up at my hotel a couple of days after my first descent into the Crypt. He stood there in the lobby, as big as Fred Flintstone, crumpled, faintly smelling of sweat, and yet untroubled. He arrived oddly short of luggage, bringing not much more than a carry-on bag, and he was out of money.

The first thing he said was, “Did you bring your duffel coat?”

“What? . . . No, I didn’t bring my duffel coat. What’s that got to do with anything?”