The cabbie, perhaps noting his passengers constantly checking their watches, drove like he was a Formula One racer. Weaving in and out of the traffic, he was able to deposit them just shy of twenty minutes at the Arch of the Bells, or Arco delle Campane, in the shadow of Saint Peter’s. The rain was now coming down in sheets. Shawn and Sana huddled together under a single umbrella and made a run for the relative protection of the arch. The moment they stepped out of the rain, their further progress was blocked by two Swiss Guards dressed in their colorful black-and-orange vertical-striped uniforms accented by white ruffs and floppy black berets. One of the guards accepted Shawn’s Vatican ID, checked the photo against Shawn’s rain-soaked face, handed it back, saluted, and waved them in. There had been no words.

Emerging into the open, back into the wind-whipped rain, they ran across the cobblestoned piazza abutting the south side of Saint Peter’s basilica. Now they were fighting not only the rain but also the torrents of water issuing forth from the church’s gargoyles as well as splashes of water from fast-moving traffic heading out of Vatican City.

Gesturing with his head, Shawn said, “Can you see that flat black stone with a white border set into the ground we are passing?”

“Yes,” Sana said without much enthusiasm. She was intent on getting out of the weather.

“Remind me to tell you about it when we get indoors.”

Luckily, they didn’t have far to go, and a few moments later they ducked in under a portico. They whisked the water off themselves as best they could and stomped their feet.

“That black stone out there in the piazza is supposed to mark the center of Nero’s circus, where many early Christians, including Saint Peter, were martyred. For many years the Egyptian obelisk that’s now in the center of Piazza San Pietro stood there.”

“Let’s get inside,” Sana said. She wasn’t interested in touristic details. She was wet and chilled, and night had fallen.

A few steps away, they entered the office of the Necropoli Vaticana. Despite it looking ramshackle to Sana to the point of resembling an inner-city principal’s office, she was glad to be out of the weather. A large old-fashioned steam radiator hissed and thumped in the corner. Facing them was a counter fronting a battered government-issue desk. A man’s head bobbed up. His expression suggested he was not happy about being disturbed.

“The Scavi is closed for the day,” he said with a heavy accent. “The last tour left half an hour ago.”