5
I
n her new incarnation as Rico, Silvia strode through the Forum along the ancient street, Via Sacra. It was a beautiful, crisp February day and she was half-amused to find herself bouncing as she walked. She felt an unusual energy within herself and put it down to the optimism of youth.
Her new host might be a pickpocket, but he was also a bright boy, full of curiosity. He had a youth's natural fondness for treasure hunting, and his interest was piqued by the prospect of digging up the Forum. Sharing his excitement came naturally, for she was bonded with him for the foreseeable future.
Observing the work on all sides of her, she was gratified by the frenzy of activity. Sections of earth were being measured and cordoned off in the vicinity of the complex that included Vesta's temple and the Atrium House that she'd once called home. The very spot she'd shown to Lord Satyr only last night.
“Looks like Michaela's leisurely lover can move quickly when it is warranted, eh, Sal?” The dog's ears perked at his name and she gave his head a friendly pat.
Unfortunately, the temple and house were currently buried. In fact, the entire Forum was only a scattering of weathered marble blocks, soaring columns, partially excavated arches, and broken walls. But she remembered it from ancient times as a lively place where on any given day, thousands of pedestrians had surged through a maze of stalls exchanging gossip and coin. This had once been the political, religious, and cultural center of Romeâthe place to witness a sacrifice, procure a prostitute, or hear a political speech. After the fall of the empire, flooding from the Tiber River and a slow accumulation of sediment had built up year after year, obscuring everything.
“Only eighteen or so feet of earth to excavate by my estimation,” she told Sal. “No doubt Lord Satyr will drag his feet over every inch. I'll have to light a fire under him.” Silvia grinned at her own joke, a favorite of the flame-tending Vestals fifteen hundred years ago.
She bit into the apple she'd just stolen from a vendor's display in the nearby market. Rico's thieving skills were impressive. Using Sal as a distraction, she'd managed to lift a veritable feast of bread, cheese, and fruit, which they'd finished off between them. For the first time in days, she wasn't hungry in the least. And she was clean. She'd managed to bathe both herself and Sal in Bernini's “ugly boat” fountain at the base of the Spanish Steps before being shooed away by the
polizia
.
Ahead, between the old basilica and Caesar's temple, she spied the gargantuan white tent that served as Bastian's headquarters. There were flaps set in all four of its sides, which would be open in good weather. Today, all were shut against the cold breeze, but she saw shadows move within. It appeared that Lord Satyr already had company.
“What do you think, Sal? Shall we pay a call on Michaela's beau?” Sal barked, and she nodded to him. “
Sì,
I think so as well.” She tossed the apple core a distance away and he chased it, gobbling it before it hit the ground. Then he returned to her and they continued on.
A small building of some sort was being erected not far from Bastian's tent, and the sound of paving materials and hammers echoed over the grounds. Taking care to avoid being noticed by the construction workers, she meandered circuitously around to the back of the tent. She knelt outside it, then held Sal's mouth closed for a few seconds, indicating that he was to remain quiet. He didn't protest. Rico had taught him the trick of remaining silent when
polizia
occasionally came to the aqueduct to roust out squatters. Drawing forth Rico's prized, rusty knife, she pried open a corner of one of the sealed flaps, creating a slit at eye level in the canvas. Then she put one eye to the hole and settled in to spy.
Inside, Bastian sat at an enormous desk, looking twice as large as she remembered. Of course she was now only two-thirds of her normal size. But that didn't account for the fact that he also looked twice as handsome as she recalled.
“There are those in the Ministry of Culture who grow restless with the cost,” the man seated across from him was saying. “They wonder if results cannot somehow be achieved more quickly.” Sizing him up, she disliked this stranger on sight. Though he was dark haired and handsome, there was a cruel twist to his lips.
Bastian tapped his fingertips on his desk blotter, slowly and precisely, as if his patience was being strained. “Systematic excavations began here just over one decade ago. Since I took charge of them seven years ago, I have located tenfold of what was found prior, with far less damage and better recordkeeping. My methods are sound. If it's haste and blundering you want, Minister Tuchi, then find someone else to lead these digs.”
“No!” His companion leaned forward, his manner ingratiating now. “I didn't mean to give offense. It's just that nothing has been discovered since November.”
“You call the amphorae of Bacchus nothing?” Sounding irritated, Bastian carefully unrolled a map on his desk and began studying it, giving the other man only half of his attention, apparently having grown bored with him.
“No
major
discoveries, I mean.”
Silvia kept her eyes on the minister. He was slender, dressed well, and his mannerisms were effeminate. And when Bastian rose to get a book from his shelf, the man studied the contours of his well-shaped backside with ill-concealed hunger, then quickly removed his top hat and placed it to cover his lap. He was obviously attracted to Michaela's beloved as a man usually was to a woman.
“What, then, of the urns of Jupiter?” Lord Satyr murmured, sounding distracted. He shifted his attention back to the map on his desk, appearing to compare it to an illustration in the book.
“Urns? Bah! Take a dozen steps in any direction in Rome and you'll stumble upon two dozen of them. No, the Parliament wants something spectacular. They want to be titillated or made rich. Both if you can manage it. Jewels! Gold! Statues. A gilded Venus. Something the likes of which will be the envy of every museum in the world!”
Without looking up from his desk, Bastian enquired, “Will Vestals do?”
An excited gasp split the air. Then eager questions came. “Do you mean the Virgins? You've found the Virgins?”
Bastian inclined his head in a regal sort of affirmation. “A complex containing the temple and house, as well as the Regia. Or so I believe.” He gestured in Silvia's direction, and she ducked, before his next words made it clear he hadn't noticed her. “In the area you no doubt saw across the way, now being cordoned off into sections.”
“But are you sure? What clues have you found?”
“A shard with the single word
Amata
written upon it. It's the name Pontifex Maximus gave each of the virginal initiates as he selected them to serve Vesta.”
“May I see it?”
“No.”
“Butâ”
“It went missing last night.”
Silvia had known he would notice the loss of the shard, of course, but the spurt of guilt she felt for her part in its theft surprised her.
The minister began blustering something about lax security, but Bastian cut him off, saying, “To prevent subsequent thefts, I've authorized the construction of the more permanent structure you see being built next to us. Henceforth it will serve as locked storage for especially valuable artifacts until they can be curated.”
“I see.” A pause. “As you progress, will you, um, do the actual digging out of the Virgin's temple yourself?” Silvia rolled her eyes. The man was undressing Bastian with his gaze, no doubt imagining him sweating at hard labor, muscles bulging. It was a scene she wouldn't mind observing herself.
“Some.” Bastian shrugged. “But archaeology is not all digging.”
“When will you know for certain that you've located the Vestal complex?”
A silence. Fingertips tapped the desktop again. Lord Satyr's patience was thinning dangerously. “A month? Possibly less. But all will get done more quickly if you vacate my office now so that I may better concentrate on my work.” He stood and gestured toward the door.
The minister's eyes furtively swept his impressive physique, and his Adam's apple bobbed. “You're rude, Signor.” This fact seemed to excite him, for he had to re-cross his legs and readjust the position of his hat.
“Only busy, Minister.” Bastian wandered out of Silvia's sight, ostensibly to usher his guest out.
She considered moving to better observe, but Sal was growing restless. She wrapped her fingers around his muzzle again and shook a finger at him, then released him, hoping he would remain silent just a few more moments. Then, without warning, the flap on her side of the tent was suddenly whipped open. A large hand came at the back of her neck, snatching her up by the collar, and yanking her into the tent.
Dangling in midair, Silvia looked up into unyielding silver eyes. She'd been discovered! By Lord Bastian Satyr. This close, he was a terrifying, indomitable giant. With the flex of one bicep, he held her high and seemingly without effort. Although Sal was barking and dancing around his legs, and the minister was demanding explanations, the sounds of all hell breaking loose around them seemed distant to her as she felt herself fall into those silver eyes. This close, she could see that they were shot with flecks of moss green and ringed with a thin band of ebony.
“You're choking me!” she protested, hooking a finger at her shirt collar. It wasn't true, and he knew it. She churned her legs, kicking at him, and pushed both hands flat against the sculpted rock that was his chest. Gods, under his fine tailoring, he was built like a gladiator! Men like this weren't often found here on this side of the gate.
“Is this your thief?” the minister demanded, hovering just behind him. “Does he have the shard?”
Bastian eyed her like she was a particularly interesting bug he'd caught on a pin. “That remains to be seen. I believe you were on your way out, Minister?”
“Buon giorno,”
Silvia told the politician sarcastically, wiggling two fingers in farewell.
She noted the slight curve of Bastian's lips and knew him to be amused, even as the minister's expression tightened in irritation. “You might take a more accommodating tone when next we meet, Lord Satyr,” he snipped. “I'll remind you that it is the Italian Ministry of Culture upon which you rely for continued access to the digs. And we vote on your reinstatement as lead here at the next session. With the departure of my predecessor, mine is now the deciding vote.” Smacking his tall, felt hat on his head, he departed in a decided snit.
“Bastard.”
Silvia started at this utterance, realizing only then that there had been a third, silent man in the room all along, who was seated in the corner chair. Another silver-eyed Satyr. This one was younger than Bastian and leaner, his skin pale as if it had rarely seen the sun. Pontifex had schooled her well on their family's history. This was likely Lucien, the one who'd gone missing for years and whose reputedly fearsome talents were shrouded in mystery. He'd known pain in his life, this one. Yet, there was something hauntingly beautiful about that haggard, watchful face.
She glanced back at Bastian, and saw he was still analyzing her with those shrewd eyes of his. She shrank into her shirt up to her nose, fearing he would somehow discover her ruse.
“Let them nag as they will, Luc,” said Bastian. “In spite of Tuchi's complaints, I've achieved more than Parliament hoped for and in a shorter time than planned. There is no one skilled enough to replace me, and they will continue to accede to my way of doing things as they always have.”
“And him? What will you do with your little thief?” Lucien asked, flicking his fingers to indicate Silvia.
“Offer him a reward?” suggested Bastian, his smile broadening. “After all, it was his appearance that rescued us from the minister.”
At the sight of that masculine smile, Silvia stopped struggling for a moment, watching him with bemused fascination. He had a sense of humor? Michaela hadn't mentioned that. “The only reward I want from you is my release,” she informed him. “And a job.”
“I don't employ thieves,” he returned. He seemed to finally register the fact that Sal was dashing about, barking wildly and nipping at his boots. Lowering her to the ground, he murmured, “Luc.”
Behind her, Lucien whistled a single, clear note. Instantly, Sal went quiet, his head whipping toward Bastian's brother. As if in a trance, he trotted over to him, lay at his feet with his muzzle on his front paws, and proceeded to snore.
“Keep your spells to yourself, you blasted Satyr! What the hells did you do to him?” Silvia demanded. She lunged in the dog's direction, reaching out for him, but a large hand caught the back waistband of her trousers and slung her to sit on the edge of the desk.
“You'll have your dog back when you answer my questions, Imp,” said Bastian, looming over her. “Where's the shard?”
“What's a chard?” she asked, feigning ignorance.