The Lost Testament

The man was running out of time. He staggered across the marble floor of the Baptistery of San Giovanni, his breath ragged, one hand pressed to the wound in his side. Warm blood seeped through his fingers, dripping onto the mosaic tiles that had witnessed eight centuries of worship and betrayal. Above him, the golden dome shimmered in candlelight. Christ Pantocrator loomed in tessellated glory, his solemn eyes fixed on the dying intruder, as though judging him for the secret he carried.
The intruder clutched a leather folio to his chest. Inside, wrapped in linen, lay a single sheet of parchment. He had stolen it only hours ago from a private archive in Ravenna. He had thought himself careful. Invisible. He had been wrong. A sound behind him. The scrape of a shoe. He spun, his vision tunneling. A figure stepped out from the shadows between the columns. Tall, composed, face obscured by the hood of a black cloak.
In his hand gleamed the unmistakable curve of a blade."No further, " the hooded man said in Italian, his voice measured, unhurried. "You've done enough damage."