Yesterday his guide had taken him to view a religious procession. For reasons incomprehensible to a northern Protestant, a statue of the Blessed Virgin was removed from its church and paraded through the streets. Men carrying fifteen-foot-tall torches had led the way, followed by musicians playing small tambourines, castanets, and enormous Italian bagpipes. Black-clad sweepers wielded brooms to clean the street for the Madonna, a most useful activity, and another confraternity strewed the cobbles with herbs and flowers.
The street and balconies were thronged with watchers, and at first Randolph had enjoyed the parade and the contagious enthusiasm of the crowd. Then came a troop of grim, barefoot penitents, with knotted cords around their necks and crowns of thorns seemingly spiked into their skulls. Behind them marched ominous beings dressed all in white, their heads covered by slant-eyed hoods. Most disturbing of all, six of the cowled figures were shirtless and they scourged themselves as they walked, rivulets of blood trickling down their shredded backs and arms to stain their white garments.
The whole concept of flagellation was repellent to a rational Englishman, and Randolph shuddered, his pleasure in the spectacle destroyed. Even through the general clamor, he heard the sickly thud of iron-tipped whips against raw flesh.
To his guide’s mystification, Randolph turned and began elbowing his way through the crowd. He had been a fool to think he would be less lonely in an alien land. Quite the contrary, he had never felt more of an outsider. He was deeply different from the Neapolitans, and just as he would never understand that orgy of self-abusive piety, he would never be able to match their passion for living.
Seeking comfort among his own kind, that evening Randolph had attended a small gathering at the British ambassador’s residence. The English community was a sizable one, and clearly eager to welcome a lord into their midst. There were numerous invitations for him to come to dinner on Christmas Day and have some proper plum pudding, not heathen food like the locals ate. But it was not authentic plum pudding that Randolph wanted. With the gracious vagueness of which he was a master, he had declined all invitations and returned to his hotel thoroughly depressed.
This morning had dawned overcast but no longer raining, and the sky hinted at possible clearing later in the day. Heartened by the prospect, Randolph dismissed the guide and set off on foot to explore the city himself. He marveled at the juxtaposition of magnificence and cramped poverty, at the fierce pulse of a city whose inhabitants insisted on living their joys and sorrows in public for all the world to see. His obvious foreignness attracted attention, and he had had to fend off small street boys whose innocence was dubious, no matter how young they were, but he had no serious problems.
In late morning his wandering brought him to a quiet residential square on one of the higher hills. Modest but respectable houses surrounded the piazza on three sides, while the fourth was bounded by a brick wall. The hill fell sharply away below the wall to reveal a splendid view of the bay. Pleased, Randolph crossed his arms on top of the wall and studied the city that sprawled so wantonly below.
The air smelled different from England, the breeze redolent with the rich, intriguing scents of unfamiliar vegetation and kitchens. The clouds were beginning to break up, and as he watched, the first shafts of sunlight touched the famous bay, changing the sullen gray waters to teal and turquoise.
On the far side of the bay loomed the indigo bulk of Vesuvius. This was the first day clear enough for Randolph to see the volcano, and he was intrigued by the small, ominous plume of smoke wafting from the top. What would it be like living by a volcano? Perhaps that constant, smoldering reminder of mortality was why Neapolitans lived life with such intensity.
The only other person visible was a bespectacled woman perched on a bench at the opposite end of the square. Oblivious to Randolph, she sketched in a pad balanced on her knees. Fair-skinned and soberly dressed, she must be another tourist. Randolph thought that it was rather adventurous of her to be walking out alone, then dismissed her from his mind.
One of the skinny Italian cats jumped up on the wall by Randolph, examined him with feral yellow eyes, then crept along the bricks, stalking a bird that flew away at the last minute. Several chickens wandered across the piazza, pecking hopefully at the ground, and somewhere nearby a dove cooed. It was the most peaceful spot he'd found in Naples. He closed his eyes, content to absorb the welcome warmth and brightness of the increasing sunshine.
A scraping sound caught his attention. Randolph glanced over to see a young girl emerge from a house in the corner of the piazza., a bucket in one hand and a low ladder in the other. Paying no attention to the two tourists, she propped the ladder against the wall and scampered up, bucket in hand, to begin washing the windows.
The girl was very pretty, with olive skin, raven hair tied back with a scarlet ribbon, and a pair of trim ankles visible below her full skirts. Randolph watched her idly, enjoying the sight as he would any of Naples’s other natural wonders.
After vigorously washing the nearest panes, the girl leaned over and began working on next window, the ladder swaying beneath her. Randolph frowned, thinking she would be wiser to move the ladder. But doubtless she had been washing windows that way for years. Even if she fell, the distance was not dangerously great.
Ready to resume his explorations, he started across the square. Before he had taken three steps, he heard a noisy clatter of falling objects, followed by a cry of pain. Cursing himself for not having attempted to caution the girl, Randolph hastened to where she lay in a dazed heap and knelt beside her.
“Signorina?” he said, gently touching her shoulder.
Long black lashes fluttered open to reveal melting dark eyes. The girl murmured something, probably an oath, then pushed herself to a sitting position and gave Randolph a shaky smile. She was very young, perhaps fifteen, and had the breathtaking Madonna face that seemed to be a Neapolitan specialty.
“I’m glad to see that you have survived your fall,” he said, though he was sure that she would not understand. He started to rise so that he could help her up, but suddenly she swooned forward and he found himself with an armful of nubile young womanhood. From the feel of the lush curves pressed against Rudolph’s chest, it was true that the females of the Mediterranean matured earlier than their northern sisters.
The girl tilted her head back dizzily. This close, it was obvious that her mouth was the kind usually described as kissable.
For a moment Randolph’s arms tightened around her. It had been far too long since he had held a woman, and he was only human. But he was also a gentleman, and gentlemen did not take advantage of stunned children, be they ever so nubile.
He decided that the best plan was to lay her down on the street, then summon help from her house. Before he could do so, he heard hoarse masculine shouting behind him, followed by the sound of heavy pounding feet.
He looked up and saw two men racing across the piazza, a strikingly handsome youth and an older man. From their noisy concern, they must be family or neighbors of the injured girl. Hoping one might know some English or French, Randolph opened his mouth to speak as they skidded to a stop next to him.
Before he could say anything, the older man snatched the girl from his arms with an anguished howl, and the youth hurled a vicious punch at Randolph’s jaw.
“What the devil!” The reflexes honed in Jackson’s Salon took over. Randolph ducked his head and twisted away from the blow, his hat falling to the ground. As he scrambled to his feet, another fist connected solidly with his midriff.
As he doubled over, gasping for breath, Randolph realized that these two maniacs must think he had assaulted the girl. The wooden ladder had fallen nearby. He grabbed it by two rungs and used it to hold his furious assailant at bay.
The situation was so ludicrous that Randolph almost laughed. Then he saw the wicked glitter of a knife in the young man’s hand, and his amusement congealed.
This was no longer a joke. It was entirely possible that he might be killed over a stupid misunderstanding. If that happened, doubtless the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies would express profound regret to the British authorities, but that would do Randolph no good.
Yelling, the youth swung the knife wildly. Randolph blocked the blow with the ladder and retreated to the wall of the house so that his back was protected. Amazing how noisy two Neapolitans could be. No, three, the girl had recovered her senses and was shrieking as she clung to the older man’s arm, preventing him from joining the attack.
Then a smartly swung umbrella cracked across the young man’s wrist, knocking the knife to the ground. The female tourist had entered the fray. Moving between Randolph and his assailants, she began speaking in fluent, staccato Italian.
After a startled moment, the Neapolitans began addressing her, all three jabbering simultaneously. Randolph had already noticed that Italians talked with their bodies as much as their voices, and he watched the pantomime with deep appreciation.
