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 theirludus, 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.
Chapter24
Iwoke, groaning, in a cell. This one was lit by several ancient-style oil lamps, and it was occupied.
Trevisan’s mother sat on a stone bench that had once been a gladiator’s bed. Her wrists and ankles were bound, and there were bruises on her face, but her eyes were open and sparkling with fury.
I fumbled my way toward the shut door, my knee protesting. Baldini had taken my bag of helpful items and my walking stick, though I was not very surprised about that.
“Locked,” Contessa Trevisan informed me in her imperious manner.
I pressed on the door, which had no handle, and confirmed her statement. It was a fairly new wooden door—all the ancient ones had long since rotted away or been taken for their parts. The lamps, which I guessed were in fact from the ancient world, flickered over the rough walls, bathing us with the faint odor of olive oil.
“Is he mad?” I asked in general.
“He told me he believes he descends from Scipio Africanus,” the contessa said in clipped tones.
“The general who defeated the Carthaginians,” I finished. I gestured to the thick ceiling above me. Baldini had liked to go on about his family’s ties to the ancients, but I’d first thought him merely fanciful and perhaps teasing foreign tourists. “And this is the palace of the people.”
“Bread and circuses.” The contessa settled her mantle as though she were in her drawing room at home. “Those in charge should give the masses food and entertainment.”
“And art?” I asked, thinking of Baldini’s anger that princes and kings would have their artwork returned, instead of scholars being able to study it.
“Certainly, that too. Conte de Luca amassed quite a lot of it.”
