In light of this information, Trevisan might have gone to the church to assess artworks or meet with someone about them. He’d seen Gisela Proietti, and …
“Sometimes older men grow foolish,” I said gently. “They forget their devotion in a mad moment.”
“Not Conte Trevisan.” Baldini gnawed his lower lip in consternation. “The afternoon grows late. Perhaps we ought to return to the inn?”
“Certainly,” I said. “I apologize for upsetting you.”
“I know you are mistaken, Captain,” Baldini said decidedly. “I shall ask him to explain. It will be a misunderstanding or scurrilous gossip.”
I did not argue. I knew from experience how difficult it was to discover that a man one had admired was not the paragon one had believed. Colonel Brandon had disillusioned me long before I’d found out about his affaire de coeur with another woman, betraying his wife and my dearest friend, Louisa. I’d felt an ass for believing in him.
Grenville likewise did not carry on the dispute. He agreed that we should retire and take a meal, returning in the morning to continue our exploration.
On the way back to the inn, Grenville, who was excellent at smoothing the waters, began a conversation with Baldini about the wall paintings and mosaics we’d seen today. This mollified our guide somewhat, and he chatted readily with Grenville about the motifs and styles of that period.
We dined at the inn, the landlord bringing us platter after platter of food, which included plenty of fish and shellfish, the sea being so readily to hand. We washed it down with good wine and excellent coffee.
I decided not to take my usual evening stroll, to Brewster’s relief, though I longed to catch our knife-wielding friend and discover some answers.
If the fellow was deaf, I was not clear how I’d communicate with him, but Grenville presumably had experience with this sort of thing. Our attacker might be able to write his answers to my questions, even if Brewster had to threaten him with a dire fate if he did not.
As I took to my small chamber to pen letters to Gabriella and Peter of what I’d seen today, I pondered Baldini’s certainty that Conte Trevisan would never abandon his wife for a young lady of Rome. Baldini simply must not know Trevisan as well as he thought, but I wondered. What would make a man change from his rigid ways?
Perhaps someone had threatened Trevisan’s wife to coerce him to do something, and Trevisan had decided to pretend she meant nothing to him, thus taking the teeth from the threat.
No, I could not see Conte Trevisan being easily intimidated. He was a cool man, playing some game of his own. He’d realized his mistake in sending the law after me and had lent us Baldini to, as Donata might say, turn me up sweet.
I pondered more on the question of Trevisan’s motives but drew no conclusions.
The night passed refreshingly without incident and we rode back to Pompeii after breakfast the next day.
Baldini had been restored to cheerfulness as he took us around more of the ruins. The site was so extensive I knew we’d need several days to see it all, and those was only the areas that had been revealed.
Today we viewed more of the forum and a basilica, with its heavy columns holding up a portico with an empty floor above that. Majestic, I thought, and yet somehow sad. It had been a mighty place, powerful, and now, it was a ruin, wind brushing it mournfully.
Baldini showed us a few temples that had been uncovered, their walls exposed, the space inside open to the sky. Each of these buildings would have held at least one large statue, Baldini explained, to the deity worshiped there. The priests took care of the statue, which they believed was visited by the essence of the god. Everything had to be pristine and the statue was often clothed in silks.
All gone now. Whatever had remained after the eruption had been carried off long ago.
We visited the theatre, a semicircle of stone benches that led down a hill to a natural bowl. Actors would have strutted on the stage, chanting their lines, while patricians and plebeians alike watched, imbibing nuts and other treats while they enjoyed the play.
I sat down on one of the seats to stretch my bad leg. The stone was warm, absorbing the sunshine, which felt good against the wintry breeze. Grenville and Baldini wandered away, Baldini pointing out inscriptions on the stones, while Brewster, as usual, stood stoically watchful.
Brewster was the first to see our man. “Oi!” he shouted.
He started off down the steps of the theatre, and then I too spied my attacker darting behind the stones of the ancient stage.
As Brewster raced along, the earth moved in another tremor. Brewster lost his footing and tumbled forward, his momentum carrying him down the hard stones. He rolled a few more times and came to a stop just below the last seats.
Grenville and Baldini were already hurrying to him, they too stumbling as the earth shook. I was on my feet, steadying myself with my walking stick as I picked my way down the steps.
Brewster lay unmoving. The assailant took to his heels, heading for the ruins of the outer walls.
I flung out my arm, pointing. “Grenville! Go after him. I’ll see to Brewster.”
Grenville looked, saw, and darted after the fleeing gentleman. Being athletic, he quickly closed the distance. I lost sight of them and continued to the weeds and stones below the seats.
The tremor had ceased by the time I reached Brewster. He lay on his back, cradling his arm, alternately groaning and cursing.
