The end of the ravine opened up into a wider area, though it was still below the surface of the upper plateau, and I began to see the gaping square-cut holes that opened into ancient tombs. The ground here was not so overgrown, so I ventured to urge my horse into a faster walk until I was beside Grandfather.
“Those are tombs, are they not?” I asked, in my careful Italian.
He turned his head. From under his frowning gray eyebrows his eyes contemplated me blankly, as if I had interrupted some train of thought.
“Yes,” he said. “Tombs. But these are poor—the tombs of peasants. It is not here, the place we seek.”
As we went on I was amazed at the extent of the ancient cemetery. There were tombs of all types; small primitive rooms cut into the rock, and larger ones of the tumulus type, in which mounds had been raised over the burial chamber. Bushes and small trees grew thickly over the swelling green slopes. In some places I could see the scars of digging, but vegetation had covered all but the most recent holes. It was not a place I should have liked to visit alone. The concealed shafts were like traps into which one might easily tumble. The atmosphere of the place was rather uncanny too. It was so still. No bird sang, no small animals rustled through the coarse grass. I remembered something Stefano had said the previous night at dinner, when he and Miss Perkins were talking about the cemetery. The peasants thought this was a haunted place, sacred to the dead. The poor superstitious creatures believed in ghosts, and curses, and all manner of pagan horrors. We, of course, were above such fears….
A little to the right of the rough path rose the towering slope of the biggest mound I had yet seen. It must have been thirty feet high. Around its curved base was a circle of masonry, big, roughly hewn blocks of pale tufa, like a stone girdle.
“Is that it?” I asked. “The tomb of the jewels?”
“SÌ, sÌ. La tomba della principessa.” Grandfather dismounted and came around to help me down. For a moment he stood looking about with a puzzled air, as if he could not remember the way. Then, taking my hand, he struck off at an angle, straight through the weeds, toward the base of the mound.
It was hard for me to keep up with him. Once I tripped over a stone and would have fallen if he had not been holding my hand. We had gone halfway around the circumference of the mound before he stopped.
The bushes were thicker here, obscuring the masonry at the base of the mound. Grandfather pushed into them, tramping down weeds with his heavy boots, thrusting branches aside. While he searched, I tried to catch my breath. It was hot in the sun, and I felt all tumbled about. I took off my bonnet and pushed the heavy hair back from my face.
Grandfather turned. “Here,” he said.
He had torn away some of the underbrush. There, in the slope of the bank, the horizontal blocks of the surrounding stonework had been cut out to form an entrance in the shape of a Gothic arch. A single monolith filled the opening like a great stone plug. So precisely had it been cut to fit the rounded sides that one could scarcely see the crack between door and frame.
I wanted to ask if this was the original door, or one he had placed there to keep vandals away. There were other questions I might have asked, for I was genuinely excited at being so close to my first ancient tomb. But my meager knowledge of the language failed; I determined to ask Miss Perkins, when I returned. How thrilled she would be by such an adventure! I felt a little guilty at having run off without her. Well, but I would tell her all about it, and we would come again another day.
I watched, fascinated, as Grandfather tugged at the stone. There was no denying his antiquarian zeal; his suit was becoming dirty and snagged by the rough stone. I wondered if a man his age ought to be engaging in such heavy work. The stone must be weighted or balanced in some clever fashion, or he could never hope to move it. It must weigh hundreds of pounds—tons, perhaps, if it was very thick.
I didn’t see the trick of the door, since his body was in the way, but apparently he found a catch of some kind, for the heavy block began to move. Without speaking or looking at me, he stepped through the opening.
It was as if he had vanished, so black was the interior. But when I peered inside, I saw him standing at the top of a flight of stone steps. On a shelf inside the entrance was a box of candles. He lighted one of these and held it up.
“Come.” he said.
I hesitated. The candlelight was feeble; I could see nothing beyond the stairs. From the pitch-blackness came a breath of thick moist air, clammily cold and reeking of damp.
“Avanti,” Grandfather repeated, beginning to descend. His voice came back, echoing hollowly. With a shiver I picked up my skirts and followed.
The stairs were few in number but slippery with damp. I touched the wall once for support, but pulled my hand back at once; the stone was slimy and cold.
At the foot of the stairs was a chamber some thirty feet long, but so narrow it was hardly more than a broad passageway. The walls were of stone. At shoulder height they curved sharply inward, so that the ceiling gave the impression of a long, high vault. The room was empty except for scraps of stone and rusted metal on the floor.
The candle burned blue in the dank air. I had already had quite enough of tombs, and would have retreated then and there—after all, there was nothing much to see—but Grandfather stalked on, holding his inadequate light high like an ancient priest. At the far end of the corridor-room were three openings, one straight ahead and one on each side. The side openings were quite low; peering through one, I saw a tiny stone-cut chamber, as empty as the first. The doorway straight ahead had been filled with blocks of masonry, which now lay broken and tumbled. Grandfather stepped over these blocks and passed into the inner chamber. I followed; but I wished he had given me his hand. Climbing over the rubble was not easy with my voluminous skirts.
The far chamber was also the last; there was no other exit. It was a little smaller than the first, and had the same steeply vaulted ceiling, smeared with lichen and mold. At the very end was a low stone platform.
I think the musty air had dulled my wits; it took me several seconds to understand the function of this rude bier, and when I did, I felt a chill—a foolish qualm, since, after all, the purpose of the structure had been funereal.
“It is very interesting,” I said, with a brightness I certainly did not feel. I didn’t like the way my voice echoed in that chamber of the dead; when I spoke again, it was in a whisper. “Can we go now, Grandfather?”
“Here is where she lay,” Grandfather said, his eyes fixed on the low platform. His hand was trembling. The candlelight flickered wildly across the stained ceiling. “Here….” And then he said something else I didn’t understand, something about remembering. He began to back away, as if he were retreating from the presence of a monarch—or from something he was afraid to turn his back on. I took one step after him, and then what I had feared happened: his shaking hand lost its grip on the candle, which fell to the floor and went out.
I cried out. The echoes of the scream went on for an inordinately long time. When they died, I heard Grandfather stumbling over the loose stones around the inner doorway. I was afraid to move, for fear of falling and hurting myself, or touching the foul slime that covered walls and floors. Naturally I assumed Grandfather was going to get another light. I could see the tomb entrance, or at least part of it—a square of brightness against the black of the interior. Grandfather’s body blotted out much of the light as he climbed the stairs. And then—then…. The light disappeared. I stared into blackness, unable to believe what had happened, although the dull, grating thud of the closing door confirmed the evidence of my eyes.
I don’t know how long I stood there, waiting…. For the door to open, the beautiful glow of daylight, the sound of Grandfather’s voice apologizing, exclaiming, explaining how the accident had happened.…I don’t know how long it was before the truth dawned on me.
I didn’t really believe it. If I had done, I would have gone into hysterics. Instead, I began making my slow, careful way back toward that closed slab of stone. I couldn’t bring myself to touch the wall, so I had to move an inch at a time, sliding first one foot and then the other along the slippery floor, stepping carefully over obstacles as my toe touched them, balancing for long moments on one foot while the other probed. Strain my eyes as I might, I could not see even a crack of light. Those ancient artisans who sealed the bodies of the dead away for eternity had known their business. Yet there was light in that dreadful place—patches of lichen that glowed with a faint greenish pallor, like the ectoplasm produced by mediums.
The tomb seemed very noisy. It wasn’t until later that I realized that the hollow reverberation, like the beating of a far-off drum, was the pounding of my heart. My brain was too numbed to feel fear, but my body was wiser.
When I reached the steps, my knees gave way completely, somewhat to my surprise. But it was better to crawl up the stairs; they were deep and slippery. One patch of lichen on the right-hand wall looked exactly like the print of a giant, crippled hand. I thought, in the stupor arising from terror, that the twisted fingers pointed the way out. I followed their lead and crouched on the topmost step with my palms flat against the unyielding surface of the stone. I thought for a moment that it moved slightly. It was my arms that gave way; I was close to losing consciousness, and too benumbed to realize it. But the illusion gave me a moment of renewed hope. I rose cautiously to my feet, careful not to trip over my skirts, and threw all my weight against the slab. At least I meant to push. My body refused to obey me. A curious lethargy had seized my limbs.
Leaning against the stone, cheek and hands pressed against the roughness, I suddenly remembered what Grandfather had said just before he dropped the candle.
“Here is where she lay….” But the Italian word for “she” is lei; and that is also the word for the formal version of the pronoun “you.” One would use the formal version when addressing royalty—a princess…. And with that realization other unnoticed clues fell suddenly into place. The last, and most formidable of them, was the very fact of my entombment. It had not been an accident. If he had dislodged the slab by some ill-judged movement, he would by now have opened it again.
I realized that I was being overcome by some miasmic atmosphere in that long-sealed place. I seemed to feel the door move again, and knew this time that my senses must be deceiving me.
The door swung open.
Sunlight blinded me. A rush of warm, sweet air—how heavenly sweet, after the horror of the tomb—filled my straining lungs. For a moment I stood swaying on the threshold. I thought I must have fainted, and that this was a dream; for before me, his white shirt dirt-smeared and torn, his eyes wide with horror, his fair hair curling damply—was Andrea. With a long sigh of relief I fell forward into his outstretched arms.
Chapter 5
“You were never in serious danger, you know.” How he knew I was awake I could not imagine. I lay still, my eyes closed, sensuously enjoying the touch of the sun on my upturned face. There was something soft under my head, but I did not mind the hard ground, or even the pebbles that pressed into my back. I would have endured greater discomfort and felt myself fortunate.
I did not need to open my eyes to know that my first impression had been incorrect. It was not Andrea, but Stefano, who had released me. I had made that error once before—stupidly, for the brothers were not that much alike. Certainly no one could confuse their voices. Stefano’s cool ironic tones were unmistakable.
I opened my eyes. He was sitting on a rock a few feet away. The soft bundle of cloth under my head must be his coat. He was in his shirt sleeves. Perspiration streaked his face and his bared throat.
