AN HOUR AND A half drive northwest of Nice, the ancient city of Herculanum spread over a large hillside, houses and villas crouching behind walls denuded of their roofs, temples and halls awaiting the crowds of two thousand years ago, public baths dry and silent, soaring arches untouched by time and massive columns rearing into the sky seeking a purpose.
A large sign explained that a Neolithic settlement had been here originally and was then rebuilt in about the year 150 A.D. by the Greeks. They did not establish a colony but moved on, leaving the site to be developed by the Romans a hundred years later. The location was perfect for the Romans’ purpose as it lay close to both of the routes between Spain and Italy, one over the Alps and the other along the coast. Work to restore it was continuing, a sign said. We sat for a moment, awed by the thought of a city dead for so many centuries, destroyed by the barbarian hordes from the East, though its stones remained.
Veronique had said little on the drive here. I presumed she was having mixed thoughts about a reunion with a husband who had so mysteriously disappeared. I had presumed that Morel would be at his office when we arrived. The finding of the note and the key made it appear that the change of venue had been planned and that he had no intention of being at the office. The choice of the Roman city of Herculanum was peculiar, but perhaps a public place suited Morel’s plans better.
“There should be cars and people here,” Veronique said.
She was right. Where were all the tourists and visitors? It was evening and perhaps the place was closed. Ahead of us was the triumphal arch of Augustus Caesar and near it, the mausoleum with a ninety-foot tower. All was quiet.
A freshly painted sign outside the main entrance gate caught my eye and I drove over to it. The site was closed for a week while important work was being done to strengthen the safety precautions, it said.
Veronique thumped one small fist on her knee in frustration.
“It can’t be closed!” she said angrily.
“That key …,” I said. “He must expect you to go in.”
Her anger at her husband for playing these games with her showed on her face but she calmed down quickly and gave me a brief, apologetic smile.
“You’re right.” We looked in all directions.
“Down there,” I pointed. A smaller gate suitable for individuals to pass through led to a building that was probably offices. A large board displayed a map and identified the various ruins and their functions. The forum was clearly identified.
I parked, Veronique produced the key and gave me a triumphant smile as it turned in the lock. I glanced around nervously. Not a soul was in sight nor was there any sign of humanity.
“This is very strange,” I told her. “This is not a normal place to meet.”
“We are here,” she said, and with simple French logic added, “so now we go in.”
We were moving into the shadow of the hill and the sun was behind it, dipping as it ended its day’s work. The light was dimmer now and the shapes of the buildings raised by Roman hands centuries ago were stark and grim.
Veronique shivered. “Where do we go?” she asked.
“According to that map, we go this way. Be careful, the ground is very uneven and it’s getting darker by the minute.”
It couldn’t have been my words—but lights came on. Some were mounted on poles, others were on the ground. They made the sky instantly darker.
“The lights are on a timer,” I said with a ring of confidence. “Security.”
Veronique threw me a nervous glance. Security could also mean guards or large and vicious dogs—I could read that thought in her eyes.
We walked past gaping doorways and shattered stone walls. The soil was densely packed from the thousands of feet belonging to curious folk of the twentieth century who wanted to see how their forebears had lived. They saw a surprisingly sophisticated city with swimming pools and thermal baths, temples and ball courts, three-story homes with fountains and courtyards, shops belonging to bakers, butchers, carpenters, and wine merchants, a theater, and a town hall with fluted columns and shaded patio. The site was getting rapidly more eerie, with fantastic shadows interlacing into strange patterns.
The forum consisted of two low, crumbling walls and a third and fourth largely restored. Mosaic tiles covered the floor and some vestiges of the original colors miraculously still remained in them. I had thought a forum was always an open square, but apparently it could also be a hall where indoor meetings could take place.
There were two wide steps leading in, splintered and broken, with weeds forcing their way through the cracks. We went forward cautiously, a light on a pylon outside casting beams ahead of us.
Veronique uttered a faint cry. … A figure was huddled in the far corner. Our footsteps clattered loudly on the tiles and then we knelt beside him—for it was a man, and one glance at Veronique’s face told me that it was unnecessary to ask …
“Is he …” she was asking, and it was another unnecessary question. Part of his head was crushed in and blood ran down his face. By his feet was a chunk of marble the size of a brick with blood on it too.
Veronique rose to her feet, shivering, her face pale. She swayed and looked about to fall. I put my arms about her and she clung to me tightly.
A voice said, “You will both step away from the body. I have several questions that you must answer.”
I recognized that voice as its owner stepped into view over one of the low crumbling walls. It was the “gendarme” from the Huitième Bureau, Aristide Pertois.