Rome
Crossing the Ponte Sant’ Angelo Bridge, Charlotte strolled down Via Zanardelli to its terminus and made a couple quick turns before entering the expansive Piazza Navona, laid out like an elongated oval racetrack. Striding toward the immense Italian baroque fountain that was its centerpiece— Fontanna dei Quattro Fiumi—she spotted the six-thirty tour group already assembling around a lanky Italian man with a laminated badge, presumably the tour guide. Reaching them, Charlotte waited patiently on the fringe, admiring the fountain’s huge obelisk and four Bernini marble sculptures representing the great rivers—the Ganges, the Danube, the Nile, and the Rio de la Plata —as muscular male giants.
Moments later, the tall guide came over to her, looking down at a list of confirmed attendees. Glancing up, he smiled brightly, doing a double take when he saw Charlotte’s amazing eyes. “You must be Dr. Charlotte Hennesey,” he said cheerily in near-perfect English, placing a check next to a handwritten note at the bottom of his roster.
“That’s right,” she replied. With a perfect smile and soft eyes, his face was young and pleasant, topped with a thick quaff of long, yet wellgroomed black hair.
“My name is Marco,” he told her. “Father Donovan called ahead for you. It’s a pleasure to have you join us this evening.”
“Thank you for taking me on such short notice.”
A strong voice, with a heavy trace of Italian, suddenly came at Marco
from over her left shoulder.
“Perhaps you have room for one more?”
Both Charlotte and the tour guide turned at the same time. Her
smile disintegrated when she saw Salvatore Conte standing behind her, grinning.
Marco looked insulted by the interruption. “Your name?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Conte retorted. “How much for the ticket?”
Sizing him up, the guide pointed to his list and said abruptly, “Sorry. We’re already booked. If you’d like to leave me your name, I can see if we can get you onto Saturday’s tour.”
Agitated, Conte spread his hands and dramatically peered around the piazza, then back at the guide’s name badge. “Come on . . . Marco, it’s not exactly like you can’t accommodate one more body. Plenty of room here, right Charlotte?” Raising an eyebrow, he stared at her expectantly.
Amazed at his crassness, Charlotte looked away and said nothing.
Conte made a move for his wallet. “How much?”
Shaking his head, Marco crossed his hands behind his back, still holding the clipboard. He could see that the man was making the Vatican guest uncomfortable. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with the guy. “I don’t make the rules, Signore,” he calmly told Conte in Italian. “Please be kind enough to contact our main office to voice your concerns. This is not the place.”
Pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek and making a smug face, Conte jabbed a finger at the guide’s chest and said in Italian, “You should have a bit more respect for your fellow countrymen, tour guide. It’s no wonder you make a living walking the streets and telling stories to tourists. Well, I’ve got a story for you.” He pressed his face close. “Watch out, because at night, the streets in Rome can sometimes be dangerous. You never know who you might encounter in a dark alley.” He savored the man’s discomfort. “It’s a ticket, not a fucking bar of gold.”
Charlotte didn’t understand what Conte was saying, but the guide’s face revealed a growing concern.
Conte’s eyes drifted over to her. “Just thought you’d like some company,” he said, playing the martyr. “Have a good night, Dr. Hennesey.”
With that, the mercenary paced back two steps, spun and strode across the piazza.
“Sorry about that,” she said to the guide.
It took Marco a few nervous swallows to regain his voice. “Friend of yours?”
“Far from it,” she replied quickly. “And thanks for not giving in. That would’ve ruined my night.”
“Well then,” Marco finger-combed his mane of hair as he composed himself, “I guess we’ll be on our way.”
As Marco formally introduced himself to the group and briefly ran down the tour’s itinerary, Charlotte scanned the piazza for Conte, sighing in relief when she didn’t spot him. Who exactly was this character? How could such a creepy guy be connected with the Vatican?
It took almost an hour for Charlotte to forget about the crazy encounter at Piazza Navona. But slowly, she had lost herself in Rome’s extraordinary history, retold effortlessly by Marco. He had led the group on an amazing journey through the city’s famous circular temple, the Pantheon, completed in 125 AD by Emperor Hadrian. There, Charlotte had marveled at its expansive inner dome that seemed to defy the rules of physics, as the sun melted through the wide oculus that hovered at its center.
Then it was off to the junction of three roads—tre vie—to admire Nicola Salvi’s enormous baroque Trevi Fountain with its seahorse-riding tritons guiding Neptune’s shell chariot. Nearby, they passed the Piazza di Spagna just below 138 steps that climbed up the steep slope to the twin bell towers that flanked the Trinita dei Monti church.
A few blocks further came the white Brescian marble Il Viattoriano, an eye-catching (most Romans wouldn’t be as polite) monument that most compared to a colossal wedding cake plunked down in the center of Old Rome, inaugurated in 1925 to honor Victor Emmanuel II—the first king of a unified Italy.
By the time the tour had made its way up Capitoline Hill—the only prominent remainder of ancient Rome’s famed Seven Hills—and through the crumbled arches and columns of the Imperial Forums, the sun was starting to fade over the horizon and a new moon became visible in the clear night sky. Charlotte Hennesey had finally completely lost herself in the shadows of an ancient Empire.
By the time the tour group had traversed Old Rome to the Colosseum, the entire city had taken on a new persona, basking in glowing lights. Walking the outside of the forty-eight meter high, circular amphitheater with its three tiers of travertine porticos, Charlotte swore she could hear the clash of gladiators and roar of lions.
