Death Among the Ruins (13 page)

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Authors: Pamela Christie

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical

BOOK: Death Among the Ruins
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Belinda was astonished. “How ever did you manage that?”
“Through my connection with the university.”
“Yes, I see,” she said, half to herself, “but even so . . .”
Arabella was sniffing the air. “Do you know? It is the queerest thing, but I believe I can smell meat roasting!”
“That is nothing,” said the professor. “Now, if the
signorina
Belinda has quite recovered, I shall take you into a buried villa through a tunnel that is quite safe. We have just time to explore it before lunch. Please follow me closely.”
Of course it was dark in the tunnel. All tunnels are dark. But the mists that slipped, serpentlike, through the passageways were somewhat unexpected, and the cold water and slime that dripped from the ceilings and walls gave the place an uncanny atmosphere. One might imagine death to feel like this, if one could manage, somehow, to be both dead and frightened at the same time.
Then the tunnel curved, and Arabella caught her breath. “There’s a light!” she whispered, and knew not why she was whispering. “Up ahead!”
“Is there?” asked Bergamini. “That is odd!”
They had reached the door of the villa, and light was, indeed, issuing from beneath it. Arabella later wrote John Soane a long letter all about it:
. . .
The door was opened from within by a handsome servant dressed as a Roman slave, who escorted us straight through to the triclinium. Here, tall bronze oil lamps had been placed about the chamber, illuminating the wall paintings. Three were of delightful if prosaic subjects: fruit bowls, fish, and dishes of eggs. But the fourth wall featured a disturbing depiction of a sphinx, devouring a hapless traveler.
In the center of the room stood a table of bronze and marble, surrounded by three wooden couches. These were inlaid with silver, ivory and mother of pearl, and heaped with cushions of all shapes and sizes, sensuously soft and saturated in rich colors. Professor Bergamini had had them brought in, of course. I presumed the originals had long since disintegrated.
The table was set for three persons, with plates of ancient silver. We were much amazed to see, laid out in the center, and also upon a kind of sideboard, a great variety of foodstuffs, which, fortunately, were of more recent vintage than the paintings, furnishings and tableware!
 
The diners were allotted a couch apiece, and the “slave” who had greeted them at the door was now joined by three attractive companions, bearing ewers of water to wash the travelers’ hands.
The table, as Arabella had said, was laid with an abundance of food, such as salads, cheeses, olives, and
lucanica
sausages, flavored with orange peel and fennel, accompanied by loaves of bread that had not changed in appearance for more than seventeen centuries. And the “slaves” kept bringing out more dishes. There were peahens’ eggs, cooked in ashes; honey-roasted dormice, stuffed with minced pork, sage, and pine nuts (Belinda wouldn’t eat these, but Arabella, more adventurous, pronounced them delicious); smoked duck; wildflower bulbs in vinegar; a dish of moray eel with razor clams; honey in the comb; and cheesecakes.
Finally, Arabella was presented with a platter of tiny birds, which the professor said were roasted nightingales, served with peppered mayonnaise.
“That is what the Romans called this dish,” he explained. “But of course, they’re not really nightingales.”
“Aren’t they?” she asked.
“Heavens, no! Nightingales were kept as pets, and were very expensive. These are just local songbirds.”
“I see,” she said, picking up one of the fowls in her fingers. The tiny bird had been done to a turn, and was all steaming and fragrant with herbs, the crisp skin lacquered to a rich mahogany. “What are they, really? Some type of warbler?” And she thought, with fierce satisfaction, of the infernal larks that had disturbed her slumbers that morning.
“In English,” said Bergamini, “it is called a Figpecker, I believe. ”
Arabella stopped in the very act of taking a bite, and set the morsel down on the plate before the flesh had touched her lips.
She kept Figpeckers at home, in her aviatory. When Mrs. Moly had once suggested roasting them, even as these birds had been, Arabella had nearly thrown a fit. Why, though? She had been ready enough to eat the Romans’ beloved nightingales. But that was a species with which she was unfamiliar. Upon learning that these were, in fact, Figpeckers, she would no more entertain the notion of eating it than if someone had suggested she devour a puppy. It was strange that familiar association could make such a difference.
. . .
Into goblets of ancient Roman glass, the servants poured out a mixture of boiled wine and honey. An array of little sauce pots and pitchers stood in the center of our table, whilst the other dishes were whisked on and off it. The ancient Romans were devoted to sauces. Most were made from various vinegars, honey, herbs, and spices, but the undisputed favorite, according to your learned friend, was garum.
 
“It’s in that fat pitcher, there, if you would like to try some,” said the professor. “This is a modified version, for I doubt whether even I could have withstood the original.”
“And what was that made of?” asked Belinda.
“Fermented fish intestines,” he replied. “It was very salty.”
. . .
We are much indebted to you, sir, for our introduction to Professor Bergamini, and for the most remarkable meal we have ever eaten! Bunny and I were quite overwhelmed by the magnificence and the scope of it, but when we tried to say so, he graciously deflected our thanks, and reminded us that Belinda had once expressed a wish to eat in an ancient dining room. Was it not a handsome gesture? He is ever the considerate host. When we had finished, he gave us each a silver toothpick, as a useful souvenir.
 
But Arabella did not add what had transpired after that, for when the plates were cleared away, and she was about to suggest they start for home, the “slaves” suddenly blew out the lamps, plunging the room into darkness.
“What is it?” she cried. “A cave-in? Professor? Bunny? Are you all right?”
“Oh!” shrieked Belinda. “Oh-oh-oh . . . ah-ah . . . oh! . . .
oh!
”
Bergamini said nothing at all, for he was extremely busy just then, eliciting the aforementioned response from Belinda direct. Arabella soon found herself similarly accosted by the handsome fellows who had served them at the table. And, although she had professed herself unable to eat another thing only moments before, she now found her mouth full again. Not that she minded.
 
“Do you never tire of winning, Beaumont?”
“Tire of winning? Is that even possible?”
“Well, some people might find it a trifle predictable,” said Kendrick, smiling as he tucked his own winnings into his wallet. “Though I must admit it is rather heady following you around, backing your choices and collecting money.”
“I tell you, Kendrick, that little statuette has changed my life! I feel as though I could not lose if I wanted to! This last match has been so lucrative, I think I might be persuaded to stand you to lunch.”
Cock fighting is a cruel sport. Its defenders will try to tell you that the birds do it naturally, so where is the harm in betting on the one most likely to win? But when two cocks fight under natural circumstances, the loser generally runs away. In a cockpit there is no escape, and in the absence of an owner’s interference, the birds have no choice but to fight to the death.
“Like gladiators in a coliseum!” crowed Charles.
He was in excellent spirits, and wherefore should he not be? He was winning every card game, dog race, roll of the dice, or casual wager into which he entered, and his winnings were piling up to the extent that he was obliged to leave a portion of them under the protection of his sisters and Kendrick. For the first time in his life, everything was going his way.
“Canestro!”
somebody shouted, and the rest of the company took up the cry.
“Canestro! Canestro!”
Evidently, the owner of the losing cock, which now lay dead on the sidelines, had been unable to pay the forfeit. Charles and Mr. Kendrick watched in amusement as the man was put into a great basket and suspended from the roof.
“He is not accustomed to losing, you see,” an onlooker explained. “His-a cock, she always win, so Tacito has brought no money with him.”
They stared up at the captive; he glared down upon them in turn, and made the
corno
—a rude hand gesture—directly at Charles.
“Did you see that?” Charles asked indignantly. “What an abysmal sore loser!”
“The sign of the horns!” cried Kendrick. “Confound the fellow! I believe he has cursed you, Beaumont!”
“Not cursed, exactly,” said the helpful onlooker. “He was just taking away your power. That is the sign that we use against witchcraft.”
“Against witchcraft!” Charles exclaimed. “It doesn’t actually work, does it?”
The man shrugged. “Often enough to keep belief alive,” he said. “The same as for any superstition.” And he filed out with the others.
“I say, Kendrick, do you suppose that farmer actually has the power to nullify Fortuna’s luck? . . . Oh, that’s right; you’re a man of the cloth. You don’t believe in magic, do you?”
“Surely you are joking! We men of the cloth believe in nothing else,” said Kendrick with a smile. “But I shouldn’t worry too much about it, if I were you. You
know
your luck cannot last forever. Just enjoy it whilst you’ve got it.”
(He had declined the Bath chair in the end, and was getting around rather well with a cane.)
“Scusatemi, signori,”
said a respectable-looking fellow, leading a tiny white greyhound on a leash. “Which of you is Signor Beaumont?”
“Um . . .” said Charles uneasily.
“Who is asking?” said the rector.
“I have a letter for Signor Beaumont from Professor Bergamini,” said the man, and he placed it into Charles’s outstretched hand.
Forgive me for interrupting your day in this fashion, but I wonder whether you would do me the favor of presenting this dog to Miss Belinda, and pretending that the gift comes from yourself? You can tell her that the bitch was part of your takings, perhaps. Or that she won a great race and you were so impressed that you bought her, but regretted your decision by the time you reached the hotel.
 
“Confound the fellow!” Charles exclaimed. “Why involve me? Why not give her the blasted animal himself?”
You see, I fear it might seem a trifle presumptuous, coming from me.
 
“Very proper of him,” said Kendrick approvingly.
The dog’s name is Carrara, like the marble, both for her color and for the fact that in repose she resembles a statue. She is called “Cara,” for short. And . . . this is very important . . . her collar must remain upon her neck at all times, for she is nervous, and it helps to keep her calm.
I realize that, as a brother, you cannot give a present to one sister without slighting the other. You will greatly oblige me, therefore, by stopping at Cristofalo’s, in the Via Montedoro, and retrieving a cloak and a mask, previously paid for, to give to Signorina Arabella.
 
“Of all the damnable insolence!” fumed Charles. “As though I’d nothing better to do than play personal delivery boy for some decrepit old pedagogue!”
By now, reader, Charles’s impatience should be readily apprehended. As this matter was neither about himself nor his pleasures, it could not possibly be of interest to him. Moreover, he would be required to perform an office for someone else’s benefit. It was only natural that he should grow hostile.
“Well, I for one, think it’s a charming idea,” said the rector. “If you will not do it, I shall say it was my idea. I am an old family friend, after all. Gifts won’t seem inappropriate, coming from me.”
But then Charles pictured Kendrick as the center of his sisters’ adored attention, receiving heartfelt thanks for the handsome presents.
“Oh, very well,” he grumbled, taking the dog’s lead from her handler. “So long as all I need to do is lie.”
When they called at Cristofalo’s, the shop man shewed them a gold, papier-mâché mask with a nose like a bird’s beak, and a sumptuous cloak, or domino, of violet-blue velvet embroidered in gold. The costume was obviously costly, and whilst it was being wrapped, Mr. Kendrick wondered how the professor could afford such luxury on a modest university salary. He reflected with sadness that Bergamini’s afterthought was far beyond his own means, even as a beforethought.
“Come along,” said Charles. “I have just recollected that a rooster called Magnanimous is scheduled to fight this afternoon. It’s a sign, is it not? If we hurry, we shall be in time to place a bet.”
Thus, all the Beaumont siblings were carrying on that afternoon, in cockpits of one sort or another. Back at the hotel, however, illicit activity of quite another type was in progress.
“All is in readiness for you, Father,” said the landlady. And as she knelt to kiss Father Terranova’s ring, she simultaneously presented him with the key to Arabella’s suite.
The instant he stepped onto the balcony, a wild cheer burst out from the crowd, and the prelate swept his arms wide in a gesture of universal benediction. Below him, standing shoulder to shoulder, to the limit of visibility, stood most of the good people of Resina, plus a great many others who had traveled from distant towns to be there. They had been gathering all that morning. Hundreds of them. Who knows? Thousands, perhaps.

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