sharply angled staircases: no dusty cobwebs or skeletons hanging in irons, simply a hidden access designed to ensure privacy. It was at the bottom that my real qualms began. Several windowless corridors branched off into the ground floor of the house, but Rossobelli dove to the left, into a mouth of stone that reeked of stagnation and mold.
“What is this place?” I asked, stooping to follow his crabbed form.
“An old aqueduct. The Romans built it as a conduit for water to drive grain mills on the Janiculum. It runs above ground outside the city, then dips underground at the Aurelian wall.”
I froze. We were traversing a centuries-old tunnel? With how many tons of dirt over our heads? A cold clamminess raced down my spine. Involuntarily, my feet shuffled backward.
The lantern swung around. Rossobelli’s long fingers encircled my wrist. His nails dug into my flesh. “Don’t be a fool. It’s perfectly safe. I’ve been through here more times than I can count. Look—” He swept the lamp in an arc, illuminating neatly reticulated blocks. “The Romans knew how to build. The only bits that are impassable are where they intentionally collapsed the walls so the Goths couldn’t sneak through in the Siege of 537.”
Nodding, I remembered that I’d been impressed by a triumph of Roman engineering just that day. Both the Pantheon and this aqueduct would probably survive until my nephew’s grandchildren had grandchildren of their own. I moved forward gingerly and was soon scuttling beneath the garden like a creature of the dirt. I almost crashed into Rossobelli when he stopped at a staircase of roughhewn rock that intersected the tunnel. The aqueduct continued downward, in the direction of the Tiber, I surmised. I wasn’t sorry that we climbed the stairs.
A vertical slit of light descended to meet the glow from our lamp. Rossobelli seized my shoulder. “I trust you aren’t squeamish.”
“Not particularly,” I answered, attempting to suppress a hiccup.
“Good. The last thing His Eminence needs is a fancy boy with a weak stomach.”
Rossobelli widened the crack of light by opening a door that formed part of the thick garden wall. We entered the pavilion that I had seen from my balcony. It was an artfully rusticated retreat, rather like a tiny hunting lodge built of pale stucco and floored with a mosaic of black and white pebbles. The night air circulated through the garden entrance and the lattices covering the unglazed windows. Empty pots awaiting spring planting were stacked in a terra cotta pyramid beside a trio of low ironwork benches.
The effect was charming—except that the nearest bench held one very dead girl. She was curled on her side with her face to the wall and one pale arm flung back at an odd angle. Loose dark hair obscured her features, but her mode of death was obvious. She’d been strangled from behind. A long white scarf bit into the soft flesh of her neck; its free ends trailed limply on the pebbled floor.
Cardinal Fabiani towered above the corpse, standing as still as a marble statue. Praying? Without wig or cap, his bowed head was bald as an egg. His chin was buried in the fur-lined collar of his dressing gown and his hands wrapped in a cloak of rough, brown wool that he clutched to his chest. At Rossobelli’s quiet cough, he roused and sent me a look that bore right through the remnants of my wine-induced haze.
Part Two
“A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.”
—Edgar Allan Poe
Chapter Eight
“Gemma Farussi,” Fabiani said offhandedly, as if introducing a tiresome courtier, “my mother’s maid.”
“Yes, I recognize her gown.” The calmness of my tone astonished me. Inside, my heart was hammering on my ribs.
Fabiani’s pointed nose twitched in surprise.
“We met before the concert last night. The marchesa had wandered into the music room…” I paused to drum up a bit of courage. “What happened here?”
“We don’t know. Rossobelli found
“What is this place?” I asked, stooping to follow his crabbed form.
“An old aqueduct. The Romans built it as a conduit for water to drive grain mills on the Janiculum. It runs above ground outside the city, then dips underground at the Aurelian wall.”
I froze. We were traversing a centuries-old tunnel? With how many tons of dirt over our heads? A cold clamminess raced down my spine. Involuntarily, my feet shuffled backward.
The lantern swung around. Rossobelli’s long fingers encircled my wrist. His nails dug into my flesh. “Don’t be a fool. It’s perfectly safe. I’ve been through here more times than I can count. Look—” He swept the lamp in an arc, illuminating neatly reticulated blocks. “The Romans knew how to build. The only bits that are impassable are where they intentionally collapsed the walls so the Goths couldn’t sneak through in the Siege of 537.”
Nodding, I remembered that I’d been impressed by a triumph of Roman engineering just that day. Both the Pantheon and this aqueduct would probably survive until my nephew’s grandchildren had grandchildren of their own. I moved forward gingerly and was soon scuttling beneath the garden like a creature of the dirt. I almost crashed into Rossobelli when he stopped at a staircase of roughhewn rock that intersected the tunnel. The aqueduct continued downward, in the direction of the Tiber, I surmised. I wasn’t sorry that we climbed the stairs.
A vertical slit of light descended to meet the glow from our lamp. Rossobelli seized my shoulder. “I trust you aren’t squeamish.”
“Not particularly,” I answered, attempting to suppress a hiccup.
“Good. The last thing His Eminence needs is a fancy boy with a weak stomach.”
Rossobelli widened the crack of light by opening a door that formed part of the thick garden wall. We entered the pavilion that I had seen from my balcony. It was an artfully rusticated retreat, rather like a tiny hunting lodge built of pale stucco and floored with a mosaic of black and white pebbles. The night air circulated through the garden entrance and the lattices covering the unglazed windows. Empty pots awaiting spring planting were stacked in a terra cotta pyramid beside a trio of low ironwork benches.
The effect was charming—except that the nearest bench held one very dead girl. She was curled on her side with her face to the wall and one pale arm flung back at an odd angle. Loose dark hair obscured her features, but her mode of death was obvious. She’d been strangled from behind. A long white scarf bit into the soft flesh of her neck; its free ends trailed limply on the pebbled floor.
Cardinal Fabiani towered above the corpse, standing as still as a marble statue. Praying? Without wig or cap, his bowed head was bald as an egg. His chin was buried in the fur-lined collar of his dressing gown and his hands wrapped in a cloak of rough, brown wool that he clutched to his chest. At Rossobelli’s quiet cough, he roused and sent me a look that bore right through the remnants of my wine-induced haze.
Part Two
“A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.”
—Edgar Allan Poe
Chapter Eight
“Gemma Farussi,” Fabiani said offhandedly, as if introducing a tiresome courtier, “my mother’s maid.”
“Yes, I recognize her gown.” The calmness of my tone astonished me. Inside, my heart was hammering on my ribs.
Fabiani’s pointed nose twitched in surprise.
“We met before the concert last night. The marchesa had wandered into the music room…” I paused to drum up a bit of courage. “What happened here?”
“We don’t know. Rossobelli found
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