What the devil are you standing here for?” Brewster bellowed as he came flying down the steps toward me. “Get yourself indoors, before he comes back and tries again.”
“Who does?” I’d seen no one, and Brewster returned empty handed.
“Don’t know. Never found him.” Brewster scowled, angry at me for nearly getting killed and at himself for not preventing the attack.
“A local tough letting his anger at foreigners get the better of him,” I suggested. I started off in the direction of Grenville’s, but in spite of my words, I hurried my steps, my leisurely stroll spoiled.
Brewster strode beside me, though there wasn’t much room in this lane, and his bulk hemmed me in. “Not likely. You’ve started interfering in things again, haven’t you?”
I could not argue with him. Conte Trevisan had apologized last evening …so that an attempt on my life today wouldn’t be blamed on him? Or perhaps whoever was writing threatening letters to Mr. Broadhurst objected to my assistance. Then again, maybe I was correct that it was a disgruntled Neapolitan, tired of foreigners swarming into his city.
In any case, going indoors was the best thing I could do.
We reached the house and passed through the solid gate into the courtyard. Brewster pushed the gate closed behind us, earning him the wrath of the doorman, who I imagine wanted it open to allow air to circulate.
Brewster shot home the bolt, bringing the doorman’s shout of protest. I left the two of them to argue and made my way into the house.
Upstairs, a private sitting room rested between our two large bedrooms, reachable via a double-door into the gallery. I entered the chamber to find Grenville seated at the round table by the open windows overlooking the courtyard, sipping coffee. The remains of his breakfast lay on a plate before him.
“Everyone all right?” I asked as I hobbled swiftly into the room.
Grenville set aside his cup and rose, his eyes alight with excitement. “We are indeed. We stumbled around a bit, and the crockery rattled, but no one was hurt. How was it on the street?”
“I didn’t note any damage,” I told him. “Lots of people gabbing about it, but nothing more.” I produced the knife, and thunked it to the table. “Someone took the opportunity of the quake to chuck this at me.”
“Good Lord.” Grenville stared in horror from the weapon to me. He had once been stabbed and lain near to death, and the shadow of that had never left him. From the tightness around his mouth, he recalled the incident even now.
“They missed,” I reassured him. “Thanks to the unsteady earth and Brewster. Brewster gave chase but found no one.”
“Do you think Trevisan sent him?” Grenville’s brows rose. “In spite of his smooth words to us last evening?”
“I thought of that, but I don’t believe so. As you pointed out, he has learned that I have connections to powerful people who could make life difficult for him.” I sat down at the table, giving Matthias a nod of thanks when he set a cup of coffee before me. “If Donata decided to sink her teeth into him, she wouldn’t stop until he was whimpering for mercy.”
Grenville’s tension eased, though only slightly. “She is formidable, is your wife. A lovely and splendid lady.”
“I think so.” I agreed with both sentiments. Matthias reappeared with a plate piled with slabs of ham, toast, and pastries. The cooks in the houses we’d stayed in so far were used to English guests, and we were usually served a mixture of local and English cuisine.
I fell upon the food, hungry after my walk and unnerving adventure.
“I had a note from Trevisan this morning, in fact.” Grenville returned to his place at the table. “He has arranged for us to meet a gentleman who excavates the ancient cities. We will find him waiting at a tavern near Herculaneum—he even sent a map so we’d not mistake it. Why should he do that and then try to kill you?”
“Why, indeed?”
“Well, no matter what, we will be on our guard,” Grenville said decidedly.
I finished my coffee and did not object when Matthias instantly refilled my cup. “I haven’t had a chance to look into Broadhurst’s problem yet,” I said. “None of your acquaintance in Rome seemed to know much about him.”
“I noted that, but many in London did. Broadhurst was quite good at talking gentlemen, who should have had better sense, into handing him pots of cash. Do you remember the swindler who convinced many to invest in nonexistent canals?”
I did. A young gentleman swearing there would be canals through the Berkshire countryside where none had been planned had been very persuasive. He’d also been responsible for Grenville’s stabbing injury, which was likely why he’d sprung quickly to Grenville’s mind.
“Was Broadhurst doing the same sort of thing?” I asked.
“Broadhurst and Cockburn,” Grenville corrected me. “Two very respectable men of business who’d given many of my friends excellent returns on the Exchange. Or so my friends thought. It turned out Broadhurst and Cockburn had simply moved the money around, paying dividends to some with others’ money, while pocketing the lion’s share. When they were found out—and of course couldn’t pay the money back—quite a few who couldn’t afford to lose the funds were ruined. Alvanley invested a bit, but he is wealthy enough to shrug when he sees thousands gone. Others are not so fortunate.”
“And then Broadhurst was killed.”
“Indeed. Waylaid by street ruffians as he walked home from his office, as the story went. But now we know better.” Grenville frowned over his coffee.
“Was no one angry at Mr. Cockburn? Did no one try to take revenge on him as well?”
“Cockburn was able to convince everyone that he was as innocent a dupe as the investors,” Grenville said. “True or not, he claimed he did only what Broadhurst told him to, and never had a good look at the books. He believed in the investments. When the swindle was revealed, he tried to pay the money back, but of course, there wasn’t any. Broadhurst had either salted it away or lost it.”
So Broadhurst had told me. “What type of investments?” I asked in curiosity.
“Very enticing stuff. Steam-powered ships, goods from India and the Far East—trade that has opened up now that Bonaparte is finished. There is much wealth to be had in new inventions and new horizons.”
“He appealed to their sense of the novel and exciting,” I concluded. “Pretending they’d be investing in the exhilarating future of England. So, not only did your acquaintances lose their money, they were made to look like fools.”
“Precisely.” Grenville nodded.
“Are any of these embarrassed gentlemen likely to strike down a man in the street outside his lodgings? Or follow him to the Continent and write him threatening letters?”
“Not many would. They prefer to grumble in their clubs. A few of my old school chums could be of the violent sort but might draw the line at waylaying a man in the back streets of London.”
“Then it might truly have been an attempt at robbery,” I mused. “I’d dismiss it if not for the letters and the fact that Broadhurst is truly frightened.”
“Well, I will continue to ask about when we return to Rome.” Grenville thumped his fingers to the table and rose. “Once you finish your breakfast, Lacey, we should make our way south and to our adventure. The past awaits.”
I agreed that I had more entertaining things to do than ponder the threats received by a man whom people were rightly angry with or wonder who might have tossed a knife at me in a lonely street in Napoli.
I tried to put both problems out of mind while I finished my excellent meal and went to my room to ready myself for our journey.
For this leg we went on horseback, Grenville never suffering his motion sickness when riding. Brewster had made it clear long ago that he did not like to ride, but he was forced to this time in order to keep up with us. He guided his horse behind us, muttering to himself but keeping a sharp watch.
I remembered how, in Egypt, Grenville had never set out to see ancient ruins without bringing several servants and plenty of baggage. He’d erected a pavilion on the sands where we could cool ourselves and slake our thirst, with Matthias and Bartholomew tending to our every need.
Grenville journeyed alone today with only a few things in a saddlebag. Granted, this was a far different climate, cool to cold in this winter month, and there were plenty of villages and taverns along the way, even if many did not look salubrious. We had no need to carry our own provisions.
From our rented house to the site of Herculaneum was only about six miles, which we accomplished in an hour or so of leisurely riding. We found the man Conte Trevisan had promised to be our guide at the indicated tavern not far from the ruins. He was a gentleman of Grenville’s height with dark hair and a slim, agile body.
“So pleased to make your acquaintance.” He shook Grenville’s hand and then mine with a ready smile after we’d introduced ourselves and Brewster. “I am Ettore Baldini. I hear you wish to see the ancient cities. I will try to show you the best of them.” His English was only slightly accented, and he quivered with eagerness.
We thanked him, answering his questions that our ride had been without difficulty. Baldini insisted we rest and refresh ourselves inside the tavern, and we politely accepted. The wine he ordered for us was quite good, and we sat at a table and chatted.
Baldini seemed to be as anxious as ourselves to visit the site, and we departed the tavern after only a scant hour. We’d leave the horses and our belongings there, he said, and continue to the nearby site on foot.
We walked through a quiet village, the bay to our right, fishing boats gliding serenely through the harbor. Brewster, happy to be rid of the horses, strode along, arms swinging.
“Herculaneum was a city of great wealth,” Baldini said as we went. His tall walking stick struck the pavement with rapidity. “Romans loved the place for its view of the sea.”
Streets crammed with houses wove toward the bay, brick and plaster crumbling as it had on the homes I’d seen in Napoli and Rome. Many in this area dwelled in near poverty or worse, exhausted by the armies that had moved through their land and the constant changes in rulers.
Baldini said nothing of dirt and penury, leading us toward our destination with every enthusiasm. A true scholar, focused on nothing but his chosen study.
“Here it is.” Baldini halted and spread his arms. “The ancient city of Herculaneum.”
I gazed where he directed, but did not see much. A depression below us undulated with grass and weeds, the shape of the hill mostly square with one curve as it bent toward the bay.
“The city was directly on the sea in its time,” Baldini said. “The shore is farther away than it used to be.”
“But where is it?” I asked in some bewilderment.
“Below us.” Baldini enjoyed our confusion. “Follow me, gentlemen. I will show you what most are not allowed to see.”
Brewster had no intention of waiting for us to return from our exploration. He walked behind me, the tramp of his boots heavy in the damp air.
Baldini took us along the edge of the hill and then plunged abruptly downward via a stair that had been cut into the earth. Grenville went ahead of me, and I navigated carefully with my walking stick, Brewster directly behind me.
“I don’t like this, guv.”
Brewster was not fond of enclosed spaces, but I knew that wasn’t what he meant. Baldini, a man we knew nothing about, could be leading us into a trap.
Regardless, I was avid to see what lay below. An entire city, frozen in time, awaited us.
The bottom of the staircase gave way to a tunnel hewn through solid rock. Not rock, I realized, but the ash and mud that had buried the city in a mad rush. Sixty-five feet of the stuff had converged on the town, engulfing it in moments.
“Farmers discovered the walls about a hundred years ago.” Baldini struck flint to steel and lit candles that lay in preparation on a bench below, enclosing them into lanterns. He handed a flickering lantern to each of us. “That is the official story. Truth to tell, I’ve found evidence of digging that must have happened long before that. Perhaps by villagers taking bits and pieces to shore up their own houses or to sell for extra coin. Why not?” Baldini shrugged, spangles of light moving on the walls as his lantern swung. “All these things down here that no one wanted?”
“It is fascinating.” Grenville lifted his light and peered into the tunnel. “And gruesome at the same time. I remember having nightmares as a boy reading about the poor souls caught in the ash and heat.”
“Indeed, I still feel the tragedy of it.” Baldini put himself in front of us and headed down the dark tunnel. “Almost two thousand years between that day and this, and I am still heavy-hearted for those people. It must have been terrifying. My family descends from an Ancient Roman one, and I suppose I feel some affinity for them.”
Grenville glanced at me, his face neutral. The likelihood a man could trace his family in an unbroken line to the deep past was improbable, but perhaps this was how Baldini explained his ardent interest in ancient times.
The more regular shapes of walls began to poke through the rounded tunnel, and my own interest was thoroughly caught. People had lived here, worked here, loved here, fought here, gone through the day-to-day minutiae of life. Not understanding the ways of volcanos—they’d not even had a word for it until after the eruption—they hadn’t discerned the warning signs and hadn’t known to flee.
Baldini halted in a doorway not far along, showing us the interior space of what had been a house. Our candlelight fell on walls that were as red as the day they were painted. A small bright blue, yellow, and red mosaic high on the wall depicted a woman, nude, her hips swathed in cloth, gazing imperiously at us. Though this image was made up of hundreds of tiny tiles, the shading of her skin was as well done as in any oil painting by a great master.
“Exquisite,” I breathed.
“Venus, we think.” Baldini swept his light over the walls on the far side of the room, where great chunks of plaster had been gouged out. “Who knows what she gazed at there? So much was taken over the past century, transported to palaces, hidden away from us all.”
“Kings always nick the best bits for themselves,” Brewster grunted as he scanned the room.
“They do indeed, Mr. Brewster,” Baldini said in fervent agreement.
We walked on. Baldini took us through more doorways into rectangular rooms, a few with mosaics that had either been too difficult to chisel out, or else the treasure hunters hadn’t thought them worth bothering about.
I found them beautiful. A craftsman all those years ago had hunched over his picture to get it just right before it was plastered into the wall for us to admire now.
No one else was in the tunnels. We were alone in our quest today, our footsteps the only ones in the muffled hush.
“Excavation ceased some years ago,” Baldini explained when I asked him about the absence of others. “A few gentlemen—including Herr Winckelmann, who wrote so much about ancient art—protested about how Herculaneum was being looted instead of studied, and the treasure hunters went elsewhere. Easier pickings in Pompeii, in any case.”
“Still, there must be much to find here.” Grenville gestured with his walking stick at a wall painted to resemble pillars.
“Oh, yes. Much, much more. Alas, excavations are expensive, and those who fund them want to keep the best things for themselves. As Mr. Brewster observed, kings take treasures to gaze upon, and then Bonaparte robbed those kings to pile things in the Louvre.” His tone held disgust.
“Much of what Bonaparte took has been restored,” Grenville pointed out. “The horses of St. Mark’s to Venice, for instance.” We’d had a similar discussion with Grenville’s friends, the topic a heated one in this part of the world.
“But so much has not.” Baldini kept his words quiet, but I heard his outrage. “Many things are still sequestered away, and it will take years to find them all. What was robbed of us was not just wealth, but knowledge.”
“I agree,” Grenville said. “And I imagine the not-so-famous paintings and sculptures will be more difficult to reclaim.”
“You would be correct, sir.” Baldini took us around a corner into an even darker tunnel, ending the conversation. “Now, there is a mosaic in this room that is quite lovely.”
In spite of Brewster’s misgivings, Baldini did not lure us into a blind tunnel where men lay in wait to beat us, nor did he seal us into one of the many chambers he showed off so enthusiastically.
Some hours later, we emerged from the darkness, blinking at the bright sunshine. I gazed over the site as we left it, the hardened earth waiting to give up its treasures.
Part of the reason for my brief journey here with Grenville was to discover whether it would be safe to bring my family to see the ruins. I thought Peter would handle himself admirably, and Gabriella too was of a robust nature. My wife perhaps would not enjoy climbing over rocks and through tunnels, but she’d appreciate the artwork we’d seen.
We returned to the tavern in the village and retrieved our horses for the ride to Pompeii.
It was late afternoon when we reached the inn Grenville’s man of business had arranged. We’d eat and sleep here tonight, starting out fresh in the morning.
The inn was full, with travelers from all over the world. More than a few were British, although Germans made up a good part of the crowd. Frenchmen had come as well, scholarly gentlemen who spoke quietly together in a corner.
The Englishmen hailed us, happy to greet fellow countrymen. Grenville standing them a round of local wine also helped to smooth the waters.
I ate and drank, but I was too restless to sit and gossip with the lot. Grenville, who enjoyed speaking with those who traveled to see art and antiquities, was deep into conversation with several gentlemen. I quietly excused myself for a stroll in the open air.
Much had happened today, the earthquake, the thrown knife, the descent into the chill darkness of the past. I would have much to write to my wife, Gabriella, and Peter.
As I tapped my way behind the tavern to enjoy the sight of stars shining on the sea, a man banged into me and sent me straight into the wall.