Free The Tower by Valerio Massimo Manfredi Page B

in his mind’s eye saw his mother lying among hundreds of white flowers, his father kneeling next to her with his face hidden in his hands.
    ‘Years went by before we heard from him again,’ continued the friar. ‘But he did come back and he stayed with us for a brief time. That was about ten years ago. I don’t know if he ever found what he was looking for.’
    ‘Thank you, Father,’ Philip said, ‘for your kindness. I regret what I said before. In reality, I admire your faith. Actually, I envy it, in a certain sense. Let me ask you this: in looking for my father, I’ve found a . . . a clue, I suppose you could say, a phrase that he wrote, which seems to be devoid of meaning, but perhaps it might mean something to you. This place just brought it to mind.’
    ‘Speak freely, son,’ said the friar.
    ‘The phrase is: “The sound is beyond the gate of the dead.” Does that mean anything to you? Could there be a door beyond all these shelves full of bones?’
    The friar smiled, nodding. ‘Do you know the legend of the earthquake bells?’
    ‘No. I’ve never heard of it.’
    ‘Well, it seems that every time an earthquake is about to take place, a bell can be heard ringing in the underground passages of this monastery. A soft, silvery sound of just a few notes. They say that the sound has always protected these walls, which, in truth, have never given way. But that may be because they stand on the formidable structure of a Roman villa.’
    ‘Have you ever heard the sound?’
    ‘No. But your father told me that he had heard it. There was a tremor here in the area just when he was visiting. But it might have been the power of suggestion. Your father was a very emotional man, was he not?’
    Philip did not answer. ‘Please, could you tell me exactly what my father said about the sound he had heard?’
    ‘I don’t remember well, I’m afraid. What I do remember is that he was dead set on finding out where it came from.’
    ‘Before . . . you said you suggested a route my father could follow . . .’
    ‘Come with me,’ said the friar, walking towards the end of the crypt. ‘You surely don’t believe that a monastery as ancient as ours has no secret passageways?’
    ‘I’d be surprised if there weren’t any,’ admitted Philip.
    ‘To tell you the truth, it’s no great secret. Look. Behind here,’ he said, pointing at a shelf full of bones that covered most of the wall, ‘is the passage to the lower levels, a true labyrinth of tunnels. Mostly catacombs; their location corresponds to what may have been the south-eastern quarter of ancient Pompeii. You know how little of the old city has been explored.’
    The friar stretched out his hand and unhooked a bracket that held up a shelf, which rotated on a hinge fixed to the floor. He swung it out, revealing the little iron door behind it, which was bolted shut.
    ‘As you can see,’ continued the friar, ‘no mysterious mechanisms. An unsophisticated secret, worthy of the poor friars of St Francis.’
    ‘ “The sound is beyond the gate of the dead . . .” Fantastic! Can I get official permission to go down?’ asked Philip with a certain apprehension, indicating the door.
    The friar shook his bald head. ‘No. Your father wasn’t able to either. My superiors don’t want anyone venturing down there. Not because there’s anything particularly exciting apart from our mysterious bell, but someone could easily get hurt down below and we don’t want trouble if anything should happen. As far as I’m concerned, you can start as soon as you like, but you’ll need an acetylene lamp, a miner’s hat and a haversack for your gear. Keep me informed, if you will. Your father always did. Somewhere I think I still have the map he drew up, with a partial layout of the tunnels, at the end of his first week of exploration. I’ll find it for you. Officially, you’ll have permission to study the structure of the Roman domus. Mind you, be careful and don’t do anything