spiralling skyward on soft marble treads, pitted and worn. I urge my leaden legs up the narrow staircase . . . I turn the handle and step into the passage from which I know there will be no return. snaking through the early-morning vendors in Piazza di San Firenze with their hoarse voices smelling of lampredotto and roasted olives.Ĭrossing before the Bargello, I cut west toward the spire of the Badia and come up hard against the iron gate at the base of the stairs. I pass behind the palazzo with its crenellated tower and one-handed clock . . . for the Apennine Mountains are blotting out the first light of dawn. Here above ground, I raise my eyes to the north, but I am unable to find a direct path to salvation . . . labouring beneath the earth like a chthonic monster. Their persistence has kept me underground . . . Their footsteps grow louder now as they hunt with relentless determination.įor years they have pursued me. turning left on to Via dei Castellani, making my way northward, huddling in the shadows of the Uffizi.
'Robert Langdon gazed at the veiled woman across a river of blood.' PROLOGUEĪlong the banks of the river Arno, I scramble, breathless . . .
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