I did not need to ask Trevisan if he was certain. The anguish and fear in his eyes told me of his conviction. I pried his hands from me and waved off Brewster, who’d charged in as soon as Trevisan had come at me.
The two of us succeeded in getting him to sit on a padded bench against the wall, Bartholomew materializing with brandy. Both Donata and Grenville emerged into the gallery above and stared down at us, Donata’s gown rippling like water.
“Who has taken her?” I asked Trevisan as I sat down next to him.
Trevisan gulped the brandy Bartholomew shoved at him and drew a shaking breath. “They sent me this.”
I took the paper from his trembling fingers. It was written in Latin, in capitals, rather like an inscription on an ancient tomb.
Bring the evidence of the crimes to the ancient palace of the people. No vigiles.
The palace of the people. Insurrectionist speech, but that, coupled with the mock inscription made me suspect that we were to take the lists we’d uncovered at de Luca’s. Vigiles was the ancient Roman word for their watchmen, further cementing in my mind who had written the note.
I tucked the paper into my pocket. “Who would know your mother’s routine and how to get to her?”
Trevisan swallowed another gulp of brandy, draining the glass. He seemed grateful for my questions.
“She had gone to evening mass. She goes always on Sunday night—she has not lost faith as I have.”
“Because of what happened to your daughter,” I stated.
His startled glance, full of pain, told me I was correct. “Yes,” Trevisan said bitterly. “Where was God then?”
I too hadn’t had much use for God when my wife had left me, taking Gabriella with her. I had begun to be more grateful once I’d found Gabriella again.
“Sant’Agnese en Agone?” I asked, naming the church in which he’d first met Gisela. “Did she go there tonight?”
Trevisan’s nod wrenched my heart. His eyes were full, his fears tearing down the walls of his reserve.
“Who would have known this?” I asked again.
He shrugged. “So many. Her maid, all the servants, Gisela, Signor Baldini …”
“Lacey,” Grenville exclaimed over the railing, but I remained composed.
“Signor Baldini was angry with you today,” I stated. “When we first met him, he could not sing your praises enough, but today he said your name with bitterness. What had changed?”
“Gisela,” Trevisan whispered. “He was so very outraged.”
I knew, things having straightened in my head as I’d worked on the lists tonight, that Gisela was merely the catalyst that had begun Baldini’s anger. His paragon, Trevisan, hadn’t been a paragon after all, he’d discovered. Baldini’s manner about him when we’d discussed what would happen to de Luca’s hidden cache of artworks had been one of disgust. And he’d been so very interested in the lists.
“How long has your mother been gone?” I asked.
“Several hours. She did not return from mass for supper, as she always does. She had taken a sedan chair—her maid walked and lost her in the crowd. I have been searching the streets … ”
“The contessa entered a sedan chair, but it did not carry her home,” I said. “Your mother does not strike me as one to blithely go along with such things, so I will assume she was given something to keep her quiet.”
Trevisan covered his face with a trembling hand. “This is my fault. I ought to have stayed in Milan, minded my business …”
“You could not have. What you are doing is important.”
He glanced at me in surprise. “How do you know?”
I rose. “I’m not the bumbling English soldier you take me for. I know where the things in de Luca’s house came from and that you are trying to put things right. Baldini is furious about that, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” The answer was breathy.
“He’s taken her, the nearest and dearest person to you, as your wife is in Venice, out of reach. I know what he will want for her safe return.”
Trevisan stared at me. “You do? This note means nothing to me.”
“We found inventories, of a sort, to de Luca’s collection. I believe he would very much like to get his hands on them before you do.”
Trevisan shot to his feet. “We cannot give them to him.”
I held up a hand. “I did not say we would give up everything, only that he will wish it. We will bring the contessa back safely without compromising your mission. I do not think Baldini is the sort who would hurt a woman.”
Trevisan shook his head. “I do not know anymore. He was so enraged at me.”
I turned from Trevisan and his anguish, pacing the hall, my walking stick tapping, though I scarcely felt my stiff knee as I thought rapidly.
Baldini had taken the contessa a few hours ago—that is, if we were right that it was Baldini behind the deed, though I knew in my bones that this was the case. He’d been disillusioned, and such men acted irrationally. He must have been quite frustrated when we’d rushed away to see Proietti and he hadn’t been able to discover where Brewster had hidden the box of papers.
He’d not have gotten far in a few hours. Baldini was happiest in the world of the past, as he’d showed when he’d ecstatically taken us through the long-buried worlds of Pompeii and Herculaneum.
I considered the idea that he’d take the contessa all the way to Herculaneum, to hide her in the long, dark tunnels he knew so well. But it was a more than a hundred miles there and even in a fast coach, it was a few days’ journey. He’d want to meet with us sooner than that.
I went through the words on the note again, and chose the site it had to be.
“Where is Gisela?” I asked sharply.
“She went home this evening,” Trevisan said, his voice tired. “Her mother has returned—she wanted to see her.”
“You are certain she is there?”
Trevisan’s trepidation returned, but he nodded, grasping his own arm as though trying to reassure himself. “I took her there myself, saw her enter the house.”
“Good.” Proietti would keep her safe. I imagined Baldini had decided to take the contessa, because Gisela had gone to her family where she’d be well protected.
“Grenville will return you home,” I said. “And stay with you. Brewster and I will find your mother.”
Grenville gave me a nod as though he approved of my choice. If Baldini contacted Trevisan at his house, Grenville had the skills to deal with him or any ransom demand.
“I too will accompany the conte,” Donata announced. Her fierce gaze down at me dared me to argue.
I did not. She could keep Trevisan calm and also help his mother when she was returned.
Brewster said nothing at all, which meant he approved of my plans. He’d not have hidden his opinions if he’d objected.
Donata withdrew to fetch warm wraps against the continuing rain, then she descended to the ground floor with Grenville. She squeezed my hand on her way past me, Trevisan’s carriage glistening outside the now-open door.
Trevisan did not look at me, only followed Grenville, who took on his calming tones as he guided Trevisan and Donata into the coach. Grenville raised a hand to me and leapt in after them, and then the carriage clattered away.
Brewster, who’d disappeared while I saw the others off, returned with lanterns which he set on one of the stone benches. Next, he stuffed rope, extra candles, flint boxes, a small axe, and various knives into two leather bags. He quietly handed me one bag, which I slung over my shoulder before I lifted a lantern.
I considered recruiting reinforcements—Bartholomew and Matthias specifically—but decided against it. Brewster and I knew about skulking in the dark, and we were both trained fighters. While the brothers were robust and had proved their might more than once, I did not want to risk Baldini stabbing or shooting them in the dark.
Brewster and I stepped into the night. This street was murky, though there were lights in the wider squares. As I led Brewster south, the lights faded, and soon we walked through needles of rain from the inky black sky. Our covered lanterns helped us not trip on the cobbles but did not provide much more illumination.
“Where we going, guv?” Brewster asked as we marched along.
“To the ruins.”
“Very amusing. This whole city is tumbling with them.”
“The place built by emperors to win the loyalty of the plebeians. The ruins in this city that are most difficult to miss.”
As I spoke, we skirted columns half-buried in muck where it was said Julius Caesar himself had been assassinated. After that, we plunged into narrow lanes, houses rising around us. Several churches emerged from the dark, silent now, their large doors closed.
I knew this route—at least, I hoped so—as it had been one I had explored when I’d first reached Rome. Brewster, who’d accompanied me on these walks, soon understood where I meant to go.
We emerged from the streets on the edge of a hill, damp air wafting upward. A path led down to the excavations, the track difficult to find in the dark, but at last, I located it.
Brewster went first, testing the ground, and I came behind him, tapping with my walking stick before I put each foot down. Pale columns thrust themselves skyward in the moonlight, though most of the ancient pillars lay on their sides or broken into pieces. I’d reveled walking where Augustus and Marc Antony had roamed, yet been saddened that the great Forum Romano had been reduced to a pile of rubble.
The Romans had used the road we picked our way down to begin their triumphal processions, making their way from the Capitoline and through various roads to the Via Sacra. Giant arches dotted the way, where Caesars through the ages had erected monuments to adorn the route.
When I’d explored a few weeks ago, with a trusty book to tell me what the various piles of stones were, I’d found the foundations of the temple to Julius Caesar, where passersby had left flowers; the Rostra, from which the speeches I’d learned in my youth had been given; and various temples to Saturn, Castor and Pollux, and Vespasian and Titus.
At the end of the ancient forums, rising in weighty might, was the Colosseum.
The Flavian Amphitheatre was now known as the Colosseum, the name taken from the immense statue of himself Nero had had erected near the great lake of his pleasure garden. The Flavian emperors, Vespasian and Titus, had drained the lake and used the treasure they’d looted from Judea to fund the vast amphitheatre, a temple to entertainment for the people of Rome.
Earthquakes had toppled a large portion of an outer wall, but the towering immensity was still impressive. That much survived intact was amazing, but various popes had named this a sacred space, believing Christians possibly had been martyred there, and in the last century had begun restoring it. Indeed, brick bracing had been put up not many years ago to keep the walls from falling completely. The original stones were pockmarked with holes from where people of the past had dug out the iron pins that held the edifice together.
The place had been captivating to me when I’d wandered about with Brewster in our first days in Rome. Tonight, I saw only darkness and danger.
As Brewster and I ducked under an archway and cool, dank air floated around us, I wondered if I’d guessed correctly. Baldini loved the Colosseum, yes, and had even offered to take Grenville and me over it. But did he perhaps have a favorite place other than this he went to try to connect with his ancestors? Rubble of Augustine’s house on the Palatine hill? Ruins of the Theatre of Marcellas? A deep niche inside the Circus Maximus? Those could also, at a stretch, be called palaces of the people.
However, as a hiding place, the Colosseum was a good one. Corridors ringed the building, stairs leading upward to more hidden places, and perils wherever one turned. We might search for hours and find nothing.
I swallowed my qualms and followed Brewster through a vaulted opening to a long corridor that led around the lower floor.
The candle in Brewster’s lantern was a pinprick that floated right and left as he moved ahead of me. I listened for voices as we walked, but heard only the tramp of our boots, the occasional rustle of a night creature, and the wind and rain outside.
If the contessa was here, she’d be cold in this dampness. I did not know her age, but she could so easily take sick, especially in Rome, which was notorious for its fever-laced airs.
Brewster halted and motioned to an opening to our left. It led to a stair that went down toward the cells where the gladiators and wild animals had been kept for the games. The lower levels were more stable than the upper, a guide who’d lingered here had told me on my first exploration, and would provide perfect places to stash a person.
The trouble with the Colosseum, this late at night, was that it was more than simply a good place to hide. It was riddled with vermin, some of the human kind.
As I trundled down toward the Colosseum floor, a man stepped out from behind me. He must have silently followed us in or come at us from a cross-passage, because Brewster would not have missed him.
I turned to see a long knife gleaming in his hand. The man spoke in Italian, but I understood his gist as his grin flashed.
I dropped the lantern, and my sword rang from my walking stick. The ruffian took an uncertain step back, surprised to find me armed, but he wasn’t deterred for long.
His boot slid on gravel as he struck, but he regained his balance quickly. I sidestepped onto my good leg and smacked him with the blunt of my blade, trying to drive him back rather than commit murder.
He snarled in rage and rushed me. My assailant was practiced, but I could see—and smell—that he was also inebriated. Good thing, because he was fit and lithe, his knife darting about with skill.
A sound like a stampede came at us. In an instant Brewster was bowling me out of the way and landing on my attacker. The fight became brutal and swift, and I heard the attacker yelp in pain. Then more footsteps echoed as others raced toward us.
I pushed myself from the wall Brewster had shoved me into, stepped forward to go to his aid … and the floor opened under my feet. I must have found a hole between the stones, or a weak point in the bricks, because the next moment I, along with mortar and rubble, slithered down, down, down a long chute until I fetched up on hard floor somewhere below the earth.
My bad leg bent beneath me, and I groaned, but a quick assessment showed I’d only pulled it, not broken any bones.
“Brewster!” I shouted upward.
My voice fell flat against closed-in walls. Brewster either could not hear me or was too busy fighting, because no answering shout followed.
A watery sensation of panic flitted through me. I had been walled into a tomb in Egypt, an experience I hardly cared to repeat. My heart pounded, and I suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
This was not a tomb, I reminded myself, but a building that had been full of passageways, stairs, ramps, and even lifts for hauling men or beasts up into the arena.
I’d dropped my lantern, but not my sword and sheath, nor my bag, which had been slung over my shoulder. I fished in this last for a candle, thanking Brewster’s foresight. He too had not forgotten being buried in the dark.
My hands were shaking as I brought out the flint box and tried to strike a spark. I had to make several attempts, but at last one caught on the candle’s wick, and I blew gently to coax a flame. The wax hissed as it melted, then the candle flared. The still air around me helped the flame become steady.
I was in a tunnel under a barrel-vaulted ceiling, its stones much rougher than those of the passageways above. There would be stairs somewhere, as the fighters would have had to enter and—those who survived—exit the arena. I’d also read of tunnels that had led from the gladiators’ cells underground back to their ludus, or school, so that they would not have to dash across the street, and possibly run for freedom, to reach the amphitheatre.
I simply had to wander this place until I found my way up again or until Brewster, who would be certain to fight off any assailant, came to help.
“Baldini!” I shouted. My voice bounced from the narrow walls. “I have what you want.”
No answer. I shouldered my bag, restored the sword to my walking stick, and trudged through the tunnel, holding my candle carefully. Stinging hot wax dripped to my hand but I refused to let that small pain make me drop my only light.
I called out at intervals as I went, but heard no reply. I might be wrong and Baldini and the contessa could be high up in the stone seats, but he’d certainly been at home in the underground places in Herculaneum. I’d be foolish not to explore all levels of this place, but as it was, I had to make a start here.
The passage led through the cool darkness which was much more comfortable than the rainy streets outside. It curved to the left slightly, following the contours of the building.
Not long later, I came across the cells. Openings in the walls, the wooden doors long rotted away, showed the tiny spaces where the gladiators had awaited their fate. I lifted my candle and peered into one, finding only a stone bench built into the back wall. The gladiator would have had that to rest on and nothing else.
I lumbered onward. More cells, some with bits of iron clinging to the door frames and no beds inside them. These might have been for the animals—leopards, lions, and the like—captured in Africa and brought here to be killed for entertainment. I had a soft spot for animals and hoped they’d shed plenty of their hunters’ blood before they’d died.
I was convinced I’d made a full circle of the Colosseum without finding any sort of stairway, intact or in pieces, when I heard a faint cry.
Anything could have made it, a stray cat, a child far away outside, or the contessa in pain. I quickened my steps, but the sound was not repeated.
I heard nothing at all, in fact. No sign of Brewster climbing down to rescue me, no Baldini gloating that he’d lured me here, no toughs coming after me to rob me and leave me for dead. No sound but my own footsteps and labored breath.
My candle, spent, sputtered and went out. The darkness pressed on me, and I drew a sharp breath. I had more candles in the bag, which reassured me, but the sudden darkness was unnerving.
I unslung the bag from my shoulder. It slid out of my cramped hand, hitting the stones with a loud clank. The cry, startled now, came again.
I quickly fumbled with a new candle and the flint and steel. The voice, a woman’s, floated to me once more as I struggled to make a light.
At last, a flame danced high, just in time to illuminate Signor Baldini’s mad eyes as he slammed a heavy stone into my face.