by David Perry
“I guess she doesn’t like music,” Lee said.
“Yeah, so much for Ms. Nicey-Nice.”
As they started to make their way back to their apartment, Lee glanced over his shoulder. Head down, and backpack heavy with his wares, the huckster wandered down the street. It was pretty clear this guy was not Italian, likely illegal, probably from somewhere in North Africa. The papers were full of the exploding refugee crisis. Syria. Morocco. Libya. Every day seemed to bring another story of some ship, hideously crammed, crashing ashore on the southern coast of Italy. Or, worse yet, sinking with hundreds of petrified people aboard.
Lee could hear Brian’s voice now: “Everyone’s a refugee from somewhere and someone. Remember, our number one job here on earth is to make more love in the world.”
Even on his deathbed, Brian had been a priest. Sermonizing to the end. Suddenly Lee missed his best friend very much.
As the peddler wandered out of sight, Lee couldn’t help but wonder about the youthful deacon who had jumped to his death last year on the Feast of St. Andrew. November 30—both Lee’s and Andrea’s birthday. Thirty years ago. That day, two mothers labored to bring a child into the world, one in Italy, one in Virginia. Only one of those children remained. At some point, both had wanted to become priests. A strange coldness came over Lee, one that had nothing to do with the Italian winter.
Everyone’s a refugee from somewhere and someone. Remember, our number one job here on earth is to make more love in the world.
“Earth to Lee, come in Lee.” Adriano was waving his hands.
“Oh, sorry. My mind was somewhere else. What did you say?”
“I said, we’d better be getting home, or you’ll be bartering for black market CDs.” Adriano motioned with a nod of his head down the Corso.
The would-be music man was headed their way again, having terrified the Chinese couple into practically running into a nearby gelato stand. Lee didn’t want to be rude, but neither did he want to be pinned down for a sale.
“CDs. Music for the soul.”
Poor guy, Lee thought, looking at the immigrant as they quickened their pace and headed to their apartment. Must be rough having everyone treat you like a walking radioactive isotope. He certainly didn’t look like someone surrounded by a lot of love.
Love. According to Peg, the young deacon Andrea had been surrounded by the love of all of Orvieto, and still that hadn’t been enough to keep him from stepping off a cliff. Andrea must have felt terribly alone, terribly rejected, terribly afraid. Lee knew all about that.
“CDs. Music for the soul…”
Hand in hand, they walked homeward, leaving the peddler behind.
CHAPTER X
Fallen Angel
Sunday, December 1, 2013, near midnigh, the outskirts of Rome
The dance floor was packed. A thousand sweaty bodies writhed in a Roman hypnosis of drugs, music, and alcohol. The floors were wet with sex.
His inside chest pocket vibrated with the text. Grigori pulled out his phone.
No Jew. No Co. Uni. Usual. 2
A regular. He recognized the number instantly, and the code: No jewelry. Don’t wear cologne. Bring the uniform. Our usual. Two a.m. Well, that would pay the rent this month, actually, a bit more. After his trip to Orvieto for Andrea’s anniversary, he needed some distraction. After running into Herr Doktor, not to mention that asswipe bishop, he needed a break. He needed money. He needed to fuck. He needed to forget. The drugs would take care of that.
Si, he texted back and slipped the cell phone into his leather jacket, squeezing past a trio of groping dancers to make his way to the exit.
At least this one didn’t even want to touch him. Who was he to judge? And, it paid well. Very well, actually. Grigori glanced at his watch, a gift from that very same client. The train from Orvieto had been late last night, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep. Tonight was supposed to have been a welcome escape, a few drunken, ecstasy-fueled hours at the club to wipe away the memories of last night—of the last year.
Fucking bishop. Fucking doctor. Andrea.
“Ciao, Grigori.” A slinky blonde in a short and diaphanous sheath wrapped a leg around him. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How ’bout it?”
“Can’t. Gotta go. Duty calls.”
The young woman pouted.
“Sometimes, Grigori, I don’t think you like girls.”
The muscular youth bit her ear gently and licked the back of her neck. “Cara,” he said with an indecent grab under her skirt. “You know better than that. I like everything.”
Grigori stepped outside into the rain and hailed one of the many taxis waiting outside.
“Il Vaticano. Presto.”
CHAPTER XI
The Rupe
Monday, December 2, 2013, Orvieto
Jet lag finally caught up with them. The Tower of the Moor had chimed eleven times before Adriano and Lee managed to pull themselves from bed, make breakfast, ply themselves with strong Italian coffee, and begin their first official tour of Orvieto by foot. Courtesy of the online guide from Lady Peg, they had outlined a complete circuit of town, from top to bottom, literally.
“We’ll start at St. Patrick’s Well and then down to the Rupe through the Porta Soliana,” Lee said. “From there we head left and pass right by the base of the well and then walk over the tunnel that takes the funicular down to the train station. Doing the whole route back to Porta Soliana should take us about two hours, just in time for a peek at the cathedral, then home for crosswords, a cocktail, and dinner.”
“You want to see where that young deacon jumped from the cliffs.”
“That’s a morbid thing to say,” Lee said, annoyed at having been so accurately pinned.
“I know you, Poirot,” Adriano said, kissing Lee on the neck as they exited the tall wooden doors of their rented palazzo. “You can’t ignore a mystery.”
Agatha Christie’s fussy Belgian detective was one of Adriano’s favorite pet names for Lee and also one of Lee’s favorite fictional characters.
Lee shrugged, returned the kiss, and wrapped his scarf dramatically around his neck against the cold. “Well fine, then. Let’s go, Captain Hastings,” he said, the moniker that of Poirot’s faithful sidekick. “Lead on.”
The path in front of their apartment coiled under the arch of Orvieto’s mayor’s office and onto the town’s main square, Piazza della Repubblica. To their right, the Corso—Orvieto’s main commercial street—spread out in the distance, with an ever so slight downward tilt.
“This leads straight to St. Patrick’s Well,” Lee said, reading from his iPhone. “From there, there’s a walking path down to the Rupe.”
For the first fifteen minutes, the Corso was all business: a mixture of small family-owned shops, tobacco stands, delicatessens, trattorias, bars, and wine shops, along with the more than occasional European fashion brand. Orvieto may be medieval, but it catered to the vacation trade. Lee was surprised, but grateful, not to see a Starbucks. Everything was Italian here.
“They certainly know how to preserve their culture,” Lee said.
“They’ve been doing it for three thousand years,” Adriano replied. “They’ve become good at it.”
About twenty minutes into their stroll, the Corso abandoned its touristy veneer and became more subdued. Instead of stalls selling bottles of Orvieto Classico bunched in packs of three for easy shipping overseas, the side streets gave way to small chapels, neighborhood butcher shops, barbers, florists, small hardware stores, and bars clearly meant for locals. Half an hour after they set out, they were at the end of the Corso and the eastern edge of Orvieto’s daunting cliff face. Directly in front of them, punctuating the terminus of the Corso, was a twenty-foot-high iron sculpture of a chalice, crowned with a huge oval host radiating a halo of golden rays, the official monument to the Eucharistic Miracle of Bolsena in 1263.
“No question about this being a Catholic town,” Adriano said, shaking his head. “You can’t miss that.”
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To the left of the artistic religious statement was Orvieto’s connection to the outside world, a funicular built in the late 1800s. Originally powered by water and gravity, it had been converted to electricity and now whisked people up and down the side of the mountain in less than five minutes, right to the front of the train station. It had been their ceremonial entry vehicle into Orvieto a few days ago. To the right of the funicular, overlooking their entrance to the Rupe and Porta Soliana, was the first stop of their tour, St. Patrick’s Well.
“It has nothing to do with St. Patrick,” Lee explained as they walked toward what, if the guidebooks were accurate, was one of medieval Europe’s architectural wonders and one of Orvieto’s chief tourist attractions. As if to prove the point, a small van of seniors and a dozen or so middle school students were standing in line for a ticket. “It was named this because it reminded people of St. Patrick’s cave in Ireland, supposedly the entrance to purgatory. It really should be called Pope Clement’s Well. He’s the one who built it, actually basically replumbed all of Orvieto in the late 1520s after he escaped from the Vatican following the Sack of Rome. He was petrified of being cut off from food and fresh water again like he had been when he escaped Charles the Fifth.”
“Spain’s Charles the Fifth?” Adriano perked up. “What did he have to do with Orvieto?”
“He was the Holy Roman Emperor who looted the Vatican and forced Pope Clement to escape here to Orvieto in 1527. Orvieto was the papacy in exile for almost a year. Actually, a bunch of popes lived here over the centuries.”
“You learn something new every day,” Adriano said, drawing close the lip of the well, then drawing back. “Yikes, that’s not for me.”
Lee stepped forward and peered down. The well spiraled down for over 170 feet, surrounded by a unique staircase, constructed in a double helix—DNA in stone. It had been considered a miracle of design in the Middle Ages. Now, it just seemed vast, dark, and claustrophobic.
“Is there a door at the bottom?” Adriano asked, half pleading.
Lee shook his head, knowing his husband’s fear of subterranean spaces. “No, it’s a long, dark walk down, then a long walk back up. It’s not recommended for seniors or people with heart conditions.”
“Or people who don’t like rats or basements,” said Adriano, adding, “It will be a cold day in hell before I go down there.”
“We can skip it,” Lee said, to Adriano’s obvious relief.
Leaving behind the senior and student tourists, Adriano and Lee walked along the fortified wall that formed the border of the well and one of Orvieto’s medieval gates, now semi-abandoned. The worn and chipped masonry looked down now only on the occasional hiker, stray dog, or curious San Franciscan.
“The Rupe,” Adriano announced with a flourish. “The Ring of the Rock.”
“Perfect for me,” said Lee, giving Adriano’s butt a playful squeeze. “Even I can’t get lost.”
“You are terrible at directions,” Adriano said, shielding his glasses from the sun. “How did you make it around the world by ship?”
“I wasn’t driving.” Lee wiped a gnat away from his eyes. “I was editing the newspaper for the passengers.”
“Good thing. Let’s go.” They began their descent down the steep, uneven, and stone-pocked path and through the Porta Soliana. For the first time, the pair got a real sense of Orvieto’s scale and strategic importance. Looking up from the walking path, the volcanic walls of Orvieto presented an unforgiving edifice several hundred feet straight up. “Yep, that would do it,” Adriano said, as if answering Lee’s thoughts. “A jump from there would not be something you’d live to repeat.”
“No,” Lee answered quietly. “No.”
They walked on for over an hour without encountering anyone. To their right was a dense tangle of bushes, trees, and the occasional rugged fence denoting a private olive grove, garden, or vineyard spreading down the rest of the mount’s more gentle slope. To their left was the relentless verticality of Orvieto’s impregnable natural defense, the Rock.
For about half an hour the route was paved, albeit roughly. Soon thereafter, however, the path sloped downward before heading up into a thicket of brambles, bamboo, and ancient ivy-dripping foliage. A huge tree, recently fallen, to gauge by the wetness of its roots and ripped-up moss, blocked the path.
“Now what?” Lee frowned.
“This way.” Adriano pointed to a stone plinth painted with two stripes, white on top, then red. “This is the sign for footpath.”
“Well, aren’t you the Eagle Scout?”
“You’re not the only one who can google.” Adriano smiled, stepping over the obstacle and offering Lee his hand. “Onward!”
“It’s like being on a big ’splore with Winnie the Pooh!”
“Let’s go, Christopher Robin.”
About fifteen minutes later, the path veered sharply upward to cross the road, revealing the first cars they had seen in over an hour. Now against the rock face, they found themselves below a complex of buildings considerably newer than medieval.
“Those are the abandoned WWII barracks,” said Lee. “I was reading about them last night. Mussolini built them. They’re next to the old Augustinian church near Porta Vivaria, the gate that Pope Clement restored after he fled here following the Sack of Rome.”
After a leafy bend in the path, the view opened up to a stunning vista of huge moss-covered stone structures, about three hundred yards to the right, and slightly downhill from the Rupe. It looked like pictures of Mayan temples from the National Geographics of Lee’s youth.
“That must be the Etruscan necropolis,” Lee said flipping through his iPhone for the Wikipedia page he had found last night. “In ancient times, Orvieto—then known as Velzna—was the capital of the Etruscan nation. Once a year, all the other Etruscan cities would send representatives here for a huge congress. The city was considered the most important city on the Italian peninsula.”
“Before Rome.”
“Yes, and even after,” Lee scrolled through his device. “Wow—listen to this. The Etruscan citadel of Velzna, or Volsini—”
“Volsini,” Adriano interrupted. “That’s the café owner’s name, right?”
“Hmmm.” Lee pursed his lips. “You’re right. Maybe she is Etruscan. God knows she’s old enough.”
“Keep reading.”
“Velzna/Volsini, now known as Orvieto, was one of the most powerful cities of Etruria with great wealth, luxury, and art. According to old accounts, their great wealth and power made the citizens of Volsini so indolent that they at length suffered the management of their commonwealth to be usurped by slaves. Fearful of losing everything, the aristocratic families of Volsini sent a clandestine embassy to Rome in 265 BC asking for military assistance against their former slaves.”
“I am Spartacus!” Adriano said with mock dramatics.
“You’re a ham, but I love you,” Lee said. “Can I finish?”
Adriano nodded.
“Shortly thereafter, a Roman army arrived to lay siege to Orvieto. The subsequent conflict was intense. The Roman consul and commanding general, Quintus Fabius Gurges, was a casualty. A year later his successor, Marcus Fulvius Flaccus, receiving the surrender of Orvieto through its starvation, razed it and executed the leaders of the plebeian party. The first display of gladiators at Rome in 264 BC is believed to have featured now captive freedmen from Orvieto/Volsinii. The Romans rescued and restored the remaining Etruscans of Volsinii, but decided it was necessary to remove them from that location to a less easily defended town on the shores of the nearby Lake Bolsena, from which the new town, gets its name. Bolsena, an adulteration over the years of ‘Volsinii,’ had none of the natural defenses of the mountain Volsinii and was in no way sovereign. Whereas Volsinii/Orvieto was proudly free from the yoke of Rome, Bolsena was entirely a subjugated colony.”
“There’s a point coming, yes?” Adriano pushed his glasses up. The sun was intense and making him sweat.
“Almost done,” Lee said. “The portable wealth from the Etruscan citadel of Velzna/Orvieto was carried off for the pleasure of Rome and the Romans.”
“Now that’s cool,” Adriano said, once again all geek. “Kind of Laura Croft: Tomb Raider meets Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
“Wait, there’s more. This is interesting.”
“Oh boy. Here we go.”
Lee ignored him. “The great Roman historian, Pliny the Elder, tells a story, taken from the Greek writer Metrodorus of Scepsis, that the objective of the Romans in capturing the Etruscan capital city was to make themselves masters of two thousand rare and spectacular statues that it contained. The two thousand statues—which some consider to be a myth—disappeared with the Roman legions, never to be seen again. Although, over the years, many tales of this hidden cache have surfaced. What is known, is that the ancient city of Orvieto produced the most spectacular examples of high Etruscan sculpture, including the world-famous Mars of Todi, which some believe to have been one of these two thousand statues. To this day, archaeologists and black marketers dig in the soft tufo of Orvieto for priceless Etruscan artifacts, both on the summit of Orvieto, where many residents are rumored to have basements full of uncatalogued Etruscan masterpieces, and within the valley housing the Etruscan necropolis—a City of the Dead.”
“Ooooooh, spooky,” Adriano said, mimicking a Halloween ghoul, then stopped. “If you don’t think there will be rats.”
Lee smiled. “No, unless we come at night and coat ourselves with peanut butter, I think we’ll be fine.”
Next to the entrance of the necropolis, a small food kiosk had been set up; “Igloo German Beer Garden” an incongruous placard pronounced. Although there were no walls or gates to prevent entry, a ticket booth guarded access to the historic site, three euros each to enter. Adriano ponied up from his pocket with surprising alacrity and paid the politely bored teenaged girl ticket taker.
“I thought you’d kvetch about paying,” said a clearly surprised Lee.