The imposing columns, brought from the ancient Roman Forum and the Palatine Hill, rose like titans amidst the dimness of that ancestral basilica. Their surfaces, worn by time, reflected fragments of the yellowish glow of the lamps, casting shadows that moved like specters on the cold marble floor. Each step echoed in the vast interior, mingling with an ancient, almost mystical murmur, as if the stones whispered stories of empires, martyrdoms, and forgotten sins.
Above, the clerestory, supported by gigantic columns, displayed its rectangular windows that filtered the weak light of the Roman dawn. The air was heavy, saturated with incense and silence.
After a few meters, the woman—pale, disfigured by fear—began to moan, a muffled sound that mingled with the distant lament of the wind that passed through the cracks in the church. They passed in front of the side altar of the left transept. When the coldness of the stone met the echo of her voice, she screamed and punched Fabrizzio, the driver, in the back.
— Be quiet, you bitch — he growled, holding her brutally.
— Watch your manners, we're in a sacred place, Fabrizzio — warned Tito, the other boy, in an almost offended tone.
The third man, Father Raphaniè Marin, paused for a moment before an ornate reliquary, and replied in a deep, measured voice, as if preaching a sermon:
— It is here that the bones of the mother of Emperor Constantine rest... Saint Helena.
— If it weren't for her, the world would still be worshipping pagan gods to this day — commented Tito, admiringly, as he observed the altar. "She was the one who brought the sacred utensils of Christ's crucifixion from Jerusalem.
— If all the seminarians thought like you, Titus, the flock would be lost — Raphaniè replied with clerical coldness.
— But we are the ones who do the dirty work, Father — murmured the young man, more to himself.
The priest glanced at him sideways, and his voice echoed with the authority of someone who has confessed too many times to believe in forgiveness:
— The victory of Christianity is a miracle of God. Constantine's mother was merely a divine instrument. To grant her the merit is blasphemy.
He pushed open a heavy side door and added, now impatient:
— To give her importance is to disrespect the blood of the martyrs who made our faith cross the centuries.
Hypocrite... — thought Fabrizzio, clenching his teeth. — He's about to rape that woman and then he's lecturing us... pretentious idiot...
RAPHANIÈ led them to a display case with saints' relics, one of the oldest in the convent. The glass and wood doors weighed as heavy as time. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the display case with a click that echoed through the silent sacristy.
In the center, a golden object — a metallic head studded with precious stones — reflected the flickering light of the candles. The transparent visor revealed the interior: a yellowish human skull, resting as if still observing the world with empty eyes.
— What a macabre helmet... — murmured Fabrizzio, fascinated and disgusted.
— It's a reliquary, you ignorant fool — reprimanded the priest. — When you're out of here, Tito, explain to your friend the meaning of what he calls a "helmet".
Raphaniè discreetly moved a small lever hidden behind the reliquary. A dry click sounded, and the bookcase slid on a hidden track, revealing a secret passage. He used another key, old, almost corroded, to unlock the iron door.
— So much work to fuck that bitch... — Fabrizzio thought disdainfully, observing the priest's theatricality.
The priest turned on the interior light and gestured for them to follow him. The hidden chamber was no more than six square meters. The air inside was dense, almost still. Before the octagonal window, illuminated by a pale ray of moonlight, stood a delicate image of Saint Mary, enveloped in gold and shadows.
— The authentic Madonna di Aracoeli — sighed Tito, moved. His eyes shone, and for a brief moment the weight of the night seemed to dissipate.
On the opposite wall, a painting of Saint Michael the Archangel stepping on the red dragon seemed to observe every movement. The two side walls, marked by cracks, displayed rows of silver crucifixes.
Below them, four simple wooden chairs formed a symmetrical line in front of the center of the room. There, a single red velvet chair, fixed to the floor, reigned like a profane throne. Beside it, a small table held a worn, old leather briefcase, perhaps full of unspeakable secrets.
Raphaniè pointed to the center of the room:
— Tie this unfortunate woman to that chair... and get out.
Fabrizio lifted the woman with the ease of someone carrying a sack of flour. Tito, more hesitant, unwrapped the leather straps—wide, firm—and began to fasten her. He avoided looking directly at her thighs or breasts, but the discomfort was visible on his face.
When he finished, she whispered, in the voice that
A cry of pleading eyes:
— What am I doing here?
It was the first time she had spoken in hours. The sound was almost too human for that setting of stone and sin.
— You've already done your work — Raphaniè interrupted impatiently, her gaze incandescent like a man on the verge of ecstasy and madness.
— Please... — she begged desperately — don't leave me here with him. I'll do whatever you want, I swear...
Tito looked away, overcome by a pang of guilt. The priest, however, raised his hand and decreed the end of the discussion:
— You know the way, Tito.
The seminarian nodded silently.
— Let's go, Fabrizzio — he said, his voice choked with emotion.
The two young people left the room and, as they crossed the sacristy again, heard the heavy door close behind them with a metallic bang, like the sound of a tomb being sealed. And Father Raphaniè Marin was left alone with the woman — and with her demons.