Chapter 120

           

           Eleven-fifty-oneP.M.

           NecropolisliterallymeansCityoftheDead.

           NothingRobertLangdonhadeverreadaboutthisplacepreparedhimforthesightofit.Thecolossalsubterraneanhollowwasfilledwithcrumblingmausoleums,likesmallhousesonthefloorofacave.Theairsmelledlifeless.Anawkwardgridofnarrowwalkwayswoundbetweenthedecayingmemorials,mostofwhichwerefracturedbrickwithmarbleplatings.Likecolumnsofdust,countlesspillarsofunexcavatedearthroseup,supportingadirtsky,whichhunglowoverthepenumbralhamlet.

           Cityofthedead,Langdonthought,feelingtrappedbetweenacademicwonderandrawfear.Heandtheothersdasheddeeperdownthewindingpassages.DidImakethewrongchoice?

           Chartrandhadbeenthefirsttofallunderthecamerlegno’sspell,yankingopenthegateanddeclaringhisfaithinthecamerlegno.GlickandMacri,atthecamerlegno’ssuggestion,hadnoblyagreedtoprovidelighttothequest,althoughconsideringwhataccoladesawaitedthemiftheygotoutofherealive,theirmotivationswerecertainlysuspect.Vittoriahadbeentheleasteagerofall,andLangdonhadseeninhereyesawarinessthatlooked,unsettlingly,alotlikefemaleintuition.

           It’stoolatenow,hethought,heandVittoriadashingaftertheothers.We’recommitted.

           Vittoriawassilent,butLangdonknewtheywerethinkingthesamething.NineminutesisnotenoughtimetogetthehelloutofVaticanCityifthecamerlegnoiswrong.

           Astheyranonthroughthemausoleums,Langdonfelthislegstiring,notingtohissurprisethatthegroupwasascendingasteadyincline.

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