The Chamber of Ten

II

FOR A moment as they were frozen in shock, Geena’s gaze settled on Nico. His expression was pale and twisted with fear, but not of the water. His eyes looked beyond those ancient walls, perhaps lingering in the vision they’d just shared, wondering whose eyes he had been looking through.

Then someone grabbed her shoulder and pulled, and the room erupted into chaos.

A voice shouted in Italian, so fast that she lost track of what it was saying. Something about steps and cold and black, but she could not place the words in order or context. Water washed around her feet and splashed up at her ankles and shins, cold and thick with slime. The chamber filled with the rumble of tumbled stones and the roar of gushing water. The shouts and cries of her friends echoed strangely around the round room.

“Dr. Hodge!” Ramus shouted, grabbing her shoulder again, but she tore herself away to focus on Nico.

What’s he seeing? she thought, and then she saw Nico turn and trip over something on the floor. She grimaced against the flash of sensation she expected from him—

Pain, that must have hurt, and I’m sure I heard him cry out.

—but none came. Nico was on his hands and knees, feeling around under the rapidly rising water as if he’d lost something valuable.

“Nico!” Domenic shouted, hauling at the old wooden door with the X stamped on the metal bracings. “Geena! All of you, come here and help!” He pulled harder, but the water was up to their knees now and rising quickly. It was not only the weight of the water against the door that kept it closed, but the force of the flow. Finch went to help, grabbing the wooden jamb and prizing at the door.

Geena thought of all the submarine suspense films she’d ever seen, every one of which featured a scene when a heroic submariner would sacrifice himself to save the rest of the crew. She let out a burst of terrified laughter, and Ramus grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the door.

“Nico!” she shouted.

He was still scrabbling about on the floor, dipping his head under the rising flood again and again. The water carried a rich, oily chemical smell, and beneath that was the rank odor of sewage. The darting flashlights could not pick out color, but she knew the waters would be almost black with filth and shit. “Nico, come on!”

He surfaced at last, standing, backing against one of the three central columns for support. He had something in his hands, a thick substance that slipped slowly through his fingers. He’s gone insane, she thought briefly, opening her mind and urging him to touch her. But there was nothing there at all—no excitement or fear, no joy or confusion.

“Nico,” she said, so quietly this time that she could hardly hear her own voice above the roar of water. He looked up and met her eyes, but he did not see her.

A higher, larger section of the curved wall fell, and the flow of water became a torrent.

“Help us!” someone screamed. As Geena turned she saw Domenic prop one foot against the wall and pull against the door. Finch helped, and Ramus, and old timbers crumbled and split. The door disintegrated, metal bracings dipping into the water, and Sabrina and her camera were ushered through first.

Ramus went next, standing with his back against the curving staircase wall and helping Finch after him. The producer disappeared, his jerky shadow thrown back by Sabrina’s camera light.

Geena was leaning against the flow of water now, feeling almost solid things grabbing at her thighs, trying to pull her down. Just the rush of water, she thought, and she cursed her imagination as she felt long fingers, curved nails …

“Geena!” Domenic shouted from the open doorway. He was two or three steps up and leaning into the room, and seeing him there made her realize how high the water had already risen. She jumped for him and grabbed his hand, then tripped on something she was sure had not been there before. She’d lived in Venice for long enough to know to squeeze her mouth shut, not cry out, as she fell forward into the water.

Domenic’s hand closed tight around her own as she went under, crunching her fingers together. She closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose, but still she tasted the rankness of the water, a slick touch across her tongue. Then she kicked, Domenic pulled, and she surfaced to fresh shouting, finding her footing on the staircase’s first step.

Nico was pushing past her, reaching for purchase.

“Take my hand,” she said, reaching out to him. But he forged on past the others and toward the flashlight beams waving frantically from above.

“Come on,” Domenic shouted. “We have to save what we can from the library!”

The library, she thought, and the staggering weight of ages pressed down around her. This was just another moment in the endless history of this city, and in years to come no one would know of what had happened here. They might save much of Petrarch’s library and find a moment of fame amongst the archaeological community, and perhaps even further afield. Or if the ceilings came down and the walls fell in, burying them and destroying the manuscripts, perhaps there would be a plaque with their names on it. Either way, the effects on the city would be minimal.

But screw that. The past was her passion, and she was here to make sure it was known.

They rushed up the curving staircase into the library room, panting, soaked and stinking, and she looked for Nico. Members of the team were bustling around, asking if they were okay, and then Ramus pointed across the chamber at the far wall. Beside where the preservation tent had been set up, several spurts of pressurized water were gushing against a polythene curtain.

“Get everything out!” Domenic shouted. “We’re below sea level here. We’ve got to assume the chamber’s going to flood.”

“What happened down there?” someone asked.

“They disturbed something and the waters came in,” Finch said, a hint of accusation in his voice.

“No, that’s not what happened at all,” Geena said, but Domenic and the others frowned at her, because it wasn’t clear what had happened. Disturbed something, yes, she thought, but none of us touched that wall.

“Nico?” Ramus called. “Help me with …” But he looked around the chamber, and Nico was nowhere to be seen.

Geena turned back to the door into the lower chamber as Domenic was about to push it closed.

“No!” she shouted.

“It might hold the water back for a minute more,” he said. “Geena, we have to save—”

“In case he went back down.” Saying it made her feel sick. That stuff slicking between his fingers … She closed her eyes briefly and opened herself up to his touch, but there was nothing there at all. No fear or pain, for which she was glad. But no thoughts for her, either.

“Where the hell is he?” Ramus asked.

“I saw someone running a load of books up,” Finch said. “It could have been him.”

“Then let’s get the rest of this stuff out of here.” The archaeologist in Geena took over, and her mind settled around what needed to be done. Nico would have to wait. One crisis at a time.

She barked orders, and her team reacted. Confusion and fear had given way to a plan of action, and they appreciated that. She darted around the chamber, dodging between polythene sheets, shadows cast by the lights strung from the ceiling moving around her, bumping into people, loading her arms with manuscripts that should have been removed in airtight containers, moisture content measured, tests carried out for acidic contamination, and she could already see dampness from her clothes soaking into the old books.

She had instructed Sabrina to continue filming for as long as she could, concentrating on the several tables and old shelving units where so much material was stacked. But she also saw the girl aiming her camera at the chaos around them, the water now spewing in great gouts from the crumbling western wall, and the BBC man, Finch, following like her shadow. He should be helping! she thought, but she could see the stunned, hungry look on his face. It seemed that the BBC would have their documentary after all.

The door to the lower chamber drifted open and water from below gushed into the library. At the same time, the far wall crumbled and fell, a huge drift of rock and silt slumping across the chamber’s floor. Water washed in farther, and Geena saw an old bookcase leaning forward as waterlogged sand built up behind it.

Ramus ran for the bookcase, and she saw in a blink what was going to happen.

“Ramus!” she screamed, but the noise filling the chamber stole her voice away. She grabbed a student dashing past with a heavy Hessian bag, dropped her armful of ancient, priceless texts into the bag, and sent him on his way to the surface. Then she splashed across the room, lifting her legs high to move faster.

Ramus was at the tilting bookcase, trying to select which books and rolled manuscripts to save. His eyes were wide and smarting from the stench … or perhaps he was crying.

Geena grabbed his arms and pulled him back.

“Dr. Hodge—” he shouted, but she pulled harder, tugging him back past a polythene curtain as the bookcase fell and followed them through, a slick of silt rushing after it.

“We get our legs stuck in that and we’ll drown!” she shouted.

Ramus nodded grimly. She pushed him on his way, then turned and shoved another curtain aside, looking desperately for any sign of Nico. Not here, she thought, rushing back toward the door to the lower chamber. To her left she saw Sabrina filming her, and behind her Finch stood with mouth open and eyes wide, perhaps assessing which prime-time slot this could fill. She waved them away.

“Go!” she shouted. Sabrina obeyed immediately, and for a moment Finch grabbed her arm and frowned, saying something unheard and gesturing to the flooding chamber. Sabrina pulled away and ran for the staircase leading up, and Geena thought, Good girl.

She pushed back toward the far end of the chamber, knowing how foolish she was being; the water was around her thighs now, pulling at her, the silt trying to suck her down. But she stood transfixed for a moment, looking at that doorway and trying to figure out just what the hell had happened down there. Thirty feet below sea level for hundreds of years, and it was as if their arrival had broken a seal.

Or a jar, she thought. When she closed her eyes to squeeze filthy water from them, she saw those men cutting their palms, and when she opened them again the water around her legs looked red.

“Nico!” she screamed. “Nico!” But there was no answer. If he had gone back down, there was nothing she could do for him now. He’ll be dead already, she thought, and that unfamiliar blankness she felt from him—no sensation, no images—suddenly felt darker and more ominous than ever.

Then she turned and left the chamber, scooping up one last handful of books on the way. And started to cry for everything she knew was lost, and everything that might yet be.

They were gathered in the main library, carefully depositing all that they had rescued on one of the long tables there. The few readers were standing back in surprise, and the librarian was helping, laying each book and manuscript flat. An air of panic hung over the scene, and when they noticed Geena approaching she saw their eyes flit past her at the shadows. She turned, but there was no one behind her.

“Has anyone seen him?” she asked. Heads shook.

“I’ve called the police,” Ramus said. “Told them what’s happening. They’ll bring the engineers.”

“Divers,” Domenic said, and the room fell silent. They all knew what divers would mean. Air pocket, Geena thought. If he’s anywhere down there, he might have found somewhere to breathe. But it was a foolish thought. Nico had hardly seemed to know where he was the last time she had gotten a good look at him.

“Dr. Hodge,” Finch said, his voice fraught with concern, “I was close to the staircase, and I’m fairly sure I saw …” He trailed off when he saw how everyone else looked at him.

“If he made it out of there, he’d be here with us,” she said, and felt the shakes closing in. “He must have banged his head, something like that.” But even as she spoke she was reliving those few strange moments before the wall had started to give way, and wasn’t sure. The look in his eyes … he hadn’t been himself.

“Did you see anything?” she asked the room, and was met with confused, uncertain frowns.

“After he dropped that jar, he fell,” Ramus said. “Then you hit your head and said something.”

“What?”

“I couldn’t hear. Then the water.”

Faintness washed over her and she closed her eyes, leaning on the table. Her hand touched the rough edge of an old manuscript and she looked down at its yellowed blank cover, wondering what incredible stories it might contain.

“He’s not dead,” she said, but no one answered. And in her voice was desperation rather than certainty. “He could be disoriented, right? Could have … gone home or something? I need to get home. He might go there.”

“I’ll go with you,” Domenic volunteered. “And we should hurry. If we’re still here when the police arrive, they might hold us up.”

He held her arm and guided her from the library. Geena looked back at the others. They were all watching her leave. She hated the pity and hopelessness she saw in their eyes. Even Finch.

“Get this to the university,” she said, waving vaguely at the little they had managed to save. But right then the tragedy of what they had lost could not touch her.

The sunlight hit them when they exited the library, as did the whipping of pigeons flapping overhead and the bustle of tourists going about their business, oblivious to what had been happening below their feet. Geena and Domenic approached the canal silently, attracting a few curious glances and wrinkled noses. She expected to see a stretch of canal boiling with bubbles from the tumult below, but there was no sign of any upset, only the gentle waves that lapped constantly over the pavement. She’d often wondered where these waves came from when there was no boat traffic, since they were far from the open sea, but Nico had told her it was Venice’s heartbeat. She was glad that the waves were still there.

“Are we going to his apartment, or …?” Domenic asked.

“Mine,” she said. “It’s closer.” And I think he’s happy there, she thought. Domenic smiled at her as they jumped down into the water taxi. None of her students or fellow lecturers had ever openly mentioned her relationship with Nico, though she’d known for a while that it was common knowledge. Secrecy seemed foolish now.

The journey took longer than it should have. They caught a water taxi south across the Grand Canal. Her gaze focused as it always did upon the white façade of San Giorgio Maggiore to the east, but then, as the water taxi approached the dock at Fondamenta de la Crosa, she spotted a gondola motionless across the waterway. A man argued with the gondolier, who was talking in a never-ending stream of fast Italian, waving his arms and looking at the heavy old buildings surrounding them, while a fat woman knelt and looked down into the water. She had one sleeve rolled up and was saying, “But, my phone, my phone. It has my pictures, all my pictures. My phone!”

Their driver honked his horn and gesticulated, and the gondolier redirected his stream of invective. Domenic shouted something to their driver and pointed toward the side of the canal. Their motor roared, and the taxi drifted in that direction.

“Shortcut,” Domenic said. “I know a way.”

Geena could see no way to exit the boat into the building, but she knew better than to question Domenic. As the boat stilled again he stepped into the water. Geena looked over the side and saw the small wooden dock just below the canal surface.

“Is it safe?” she asked, but Domenic grabbed her hand and urged her over the side without answering. He paid their driver then reached up to a pair of heavy wooden shutters, fiddling with the catch and sighing audibly when they fell open.

“I once loved someone here,” he said, explaining before Geena asked. They ducked into the building, climbed some stairs, passed through two empty rooms whose uses were lost to history, then descended to exit onto a narrow alley between buildings.

Did Nico really come this way? Geena wondered. Ever since leaving the library she’d felt that she had also left Nico behind. She tried to shrug this idea away because it spoke of terrible things, but the air around her was empty of him, the sun beating down on streets no longer touched by his shadow. She sobbed once, and a fat man glanced at her with a look of disgust.

“What?” she snapped, and Domenic steered her away.

There was not enough room to run, yet they moved quickly. Perhaps it was their expressions that prompted people to step aside and let them pass, or maybe it was simply the stink rising from their clothes. As they reached the end of a narrow alley and emerged into a small square filled with trees, Geena felt some outside influence blossoming deep in her mind.

She paused and grinned, and thought, Nico! She caught a shimmer of other streets—how he saw them, not how she saw them. Venice was his home; he’d been born here, and everything was familiar.

But beneath that sensation was one of fear and pursuit, and she felt Nico’s hairs prickling on the back of her neck.

“What is it?” Domenic asked. Geena could not answer. She waved him away, trying to make sense of what she sensed and felt, and trying to discern whether it was her pursuit of Nico that troubled him so. But already the contact was gone, leaving a dark void within her, and a terrible sense of doom.

She waited for another touch, but perhaps it had been wishful thinking.

Domenic guided her through the streets, steering her through the neighborhood like only a person who had lived here all his life could. When she would have gone left onto one of the main streets, he went right and they ducked through archways and courtyards, lost in a part of that amazing city where even the ever-inquisitive tourists rarely found themselves. She let him lead, but when she realized where they were she started running, heading for her building and trying to gasp out Nico’s name. But she was too out of breath, and felt queasy from the filthy water she had swallowed.

He’ll be in the apartment, in the shower, confused at what happened and apologetic for scaring us all so much. She dug out her keys as she ran, narrowly avoiding being run down by a boy on a scooter. She burst through the main doors and hurtled upstairs to the second floor, and Domenic was still behind her when she unlocked her own door and threw it open. Nico wouldn’t have locked it behind him, she thought, and even before the emptiness of the flat became apparent she knew he was not there.

“I’ll call Ramus,” Domenic said quietly, because the people back at the library would need to know that they might be looking for a body.

Geena folded into her sofa and let the tears come, but when she shifted she started retching. Domenic was with her when she vomited, holding a towel and wiping her mouth afterward. She looked into the towel and all she could think of was that slick stuff dripping between Nico’s fingers.

“What has he done?” she asked. But Domenic shook his head, because he did not, could not, understand.

In Geena’s dream, she relived that afternoon on a continuous loop. They arrived, Domenic made some food, she ate even though she thought she could not, and then he fetched a bottle of wine from the kitchen. Pouring, she knew she could not drink. Drinking, she knew she could never sleep. And finally falling asleep, she would find herself arriving at the flat’s front door again, realizing its emptiness and knowing she could never eat, drink, or sleep until they had found Nico, one way or another. The dream was disturbing partly because it was so normal, and partly because she knew she was dreaming. Her life would be stuck in a loop until Nico was found, and her subconscious stated that most obviously whilst asleep. Each time she reached the drinking part and Domenic reached for the phone, her hopes would rise… but then she’d see his face when he answered, and recognize her friends’ concern when he turned away to tell them how she was. I’m not good, she thought, downing another glass of wine and knowing she would never sleep.

I know I’m dreaming yet still I hope, and how cruel is that? She finished the bottle of wine and Domenic helped her into her bed, her body showered clean and filthy clothes replaced with a loose shirt and pair of sweatpants, and she fell asleep again, waiting for her arrival at the flat’s front door with hope once more burning bright.

This time the door did not open. Darkness flooded her mind, and when she opened her eyes she saw the vague outline of the bedroom windows, curtains shifting slightly beneath the sea breeze.

“This is different,” she whispered, and then she knew she was no longer dreaming. She sat up and breathed in deeply, ran a hand across her chest and felt the buttons of the clean shirt she’d put on. Nico’s shirt. He liked seeing her dressed like this.

Then she turned and saw Nico’s body lying on her bed.

Geena screamed. She couldn’t help it, even when Nico sat upright and reached for her, muttering calming noises, tears glittering on his cheeks. She screamed because her dreams had convinced her there was no hope and that nothing changed, and here she was with Nico lying beside her as he had so many times before.

Domenic rushed into the room and snapped on the light, silver hair in disarray and eyes squinting from sleep.

“Nico!” he shouted, and the joy in his voice drove away the last of Geena’s fear. She fell sideways with her arms out, and because Nico had already been coming for her they propped each other up, hugging and crying.

“I thought you were dead,” she said with her face pressed into his neck. She felt his pulse against her cheek and that made her cry even harder. He stank, and she breathed in the stink because even below that she could smell his familiar scent.

“I thought I was lost,” he said, sobbing into her neck.

“Nico, you crazy bastard!” Domenic said. He joined them on the bed and hugged them both, and Geena took so much comfort from the contact that she did not allow either man to let her go for some time.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” she said at last.

“Which part?” Domenic gushed. “Petrarch’s library, almost drowning, or nearly losing this idiot?”

He laughed out loud, and beneath his laughter Geena heard her love whisper, “I can’t tell you it’s no dream.”

She was too relieved for it to register. Later, she’d have cause to think back to that moment, go over what he had said again and again, and she would realize that Nico had lost the ability to discern the difference between reality and nightmare. I thought I was lost … I can’t tell you it’s no dream.

But right then all that mattered was the rising sun, the City of Bridges welcoming in another day, and that they were alive.