The Eternal City

by Paula Morris

Laura stopped listening, squinting at the statuesque female figures in their carved draperies, stationed on either side of Oceanus. She checked her guidebook. The woman on the left was Abundance, struggling with her cornucopia. The one on the right was Health, which Laura decided was a very dull name for a woman brandishing a spear and keeping a wary eye on a writhing snake.

  The sun was so bright that Laura’s head started aching. She fumbled in her bag for her sunglasses. The heat and the light were playing tricks on her, she decided: For a moment, the snake seemed to be moving, slithering up the shapely arm of Health. Laura shook her head, the way a dog shakes after running out of the sea. Sculptures couldn’t move.

  Woody had managed to squeeze into a place on the fountain’s edge, eyes shut, a coin glinting in her hand.

  “Oh, may as well,” said Morgan with a resigned sigh. She pushed through the thick crowd until she was sitting on the edge as well, back to the water, preparing to throw her coin. Most of the students were doing the same thing, Laura noticed—apart from Maia, who never seemed to join in. Maia was frowning, hands shading her eyes, at the Triton brandishing a conch shell.

  “Laura, come make your wish!” Morgan called, and Laura waved at her, smiling. It was true that she’d love to return to to Rome one day. Ideally without three teachers and eleven other kids.

  An insect brushed against her wrist, and Laura instinctively flicked her hand to wave it away. Without meaning to, she smacked the person standing next to her.

  “I’m so sor …” she began, forgetting to say scusi or permesso or whatever it was they’d been told to say in Italy. Then she realized, with a start, that it wasn’t an insect skittering across her skin; it was another person’s hand. The person standing right next to her, whose fingers were closing around Laura’s bracelet, tugging at it so hard that the chain dug into her skin.

  Someone was trying to steal the most precious thing Laura owned.

  “No,” she said, her trembling voice low: She was too astonished to shout. With her other hand she grabbed at her own wrist to try to wrench it away from the mugger, clamping her fingers over the bracelet.

  Everything was blurred and hurried: Laura was pulling hard, and elbowing whoever it was in the side. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t; her heart was beating too fast, and all her energy was focused on pulling her arm free.

  All of a sudden Maia was there, still frowning, and she shoved the mugger in the chest. With one final almighty effort Laura pulled her arm free, the bracelet’s chain broken but still sticking to her clammy arm. And just like that, the mugger melted into the crowd so quickly that all Laura got was the briefest glimpse. It was a woman, she registered. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. A mean expression, as though Laura was the one stealing something.

  “Thanks,” Laura managed to wheeze, looking up from the broken bracelet dangling off her wrist. But Maia had already walked away, down the steps toward the fountain, as though fighting off a mugger was the kind of thing she did every day.

  Laura realized she was shaking. They’d been warned about pickpockets; POTUS had told them to carry their bags strapped across chests, not letting them dangle from shoulders. But Laura had never imagined someone would try to steal the bracelet off her wrist.

  Now, for the first time since they’d arrived in Rome, the sky seemed to be darkening. Gray clouds blocked the intense blue, and Laura was relieved: It was too hot, too sunny. She slipped the broken bracelet off and carefully stowed it in the zipped front pocket of her bag. The chain was silver, and could be mended, she guessed. Luckily, the stone looked undamaged.

  That was the most important part, the part that had sentimental value. Her grandfather, who died when Laura was seven, had left it to her. Laura remembered him showing it to her once, when she was a very small girl, and she had told him she thought it was beautiful.

  It was beautiful: a grayish-blue stone the size and shape of an almond. A star sapphire, her grandfather said. Though it looked more like a polished pebble, Laura thought, shot through with its own tiny constellation. Her grandfather had picked it up somewhere overseas during the war.

  Her mom had it made into a bracelet when Laura turned fifteen, a year ago, and since then she’d worn it every day. It reminded her of everything she’d loved so much about her grandfather—his kindness, his strength, his stories, his smile. But with every passing year, Laura felt as though she could remember less and less about him, and about the time they spent together. She wasn’t even sure what she really remembered and what she’d heard from other people. It made her sad to think someone that special to her could just disappear from her memory. That was why the bracelet was so meaningful. No way was some random thief going to steal it.

  Dylan clambered up the broad steps toward her, looking sweaty in his Star Wars T-shirt. Laura didn’t know how he could bear wearing black clothes in this heat.

  “Someone just tried to mug me,” she told him.

  “I think someone’s mugged my head,” he said, and Laura noticed how strained and pale his face appeared. He lowered himself to the ground and stuck his head between his knees. “I feel like throwing up.”

  “Are you okay?” Laura was concerned by his pallor. “Should I get Woody?”

  “I should just go back to the hostel,” Dylan muttered. “Where’s Jack?”

  “I can’t believe all you guys are getting sick on the last day,” Laura said, thinking of Banana Pants back at the hostel.

  “Girls, too,” Dylan mumbled, and Laura looked down at the fountain’s edge. Woody was standing up, frantically fanning Nicole’s face. Courtney sat slumped on the ground, her eyes closed. Morgan was kneeling down, patting Courtney’s head as though she were a puppy.

  “It can’t be food poisoning, can it?” Laura asked. “We all ate exactly the same thing for every meal yesterday. Maybe you have sunstroke.”

  “Not very sunny now.” Dylan raised his head, grimacing up at the gray sky. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and everyone around the fountain seemed to exclaim in unison, excited at the prospect of rain after so much heat. Squawking seagulls zoomed overhead, circling the small piazza.

  There was something eerie about their cries, Laura thought, suppressing a shudder. She hoped that she wasn’t getting sick with this strange illness as well: It would make the long flight home even worse. Woody was shepherding kids up the broad steps, and some of them looked barely able to stand up. Raindrops pattered down and thunder growled again, sounding closer this time. A storm was coming.

  One seagull dipped so low that its wing brushed Laura’s hair: It shrieked, loud and menacing, right in her ear. She flinched, ducking to get away, but it circled back, ready to dive-bomb her again. Laura scrambled up the steps: She needed to get out of here before she got drenched or robbed or smacked in the head by these manic birds. Morgan was beckoning to her, and Laura shouldered her bag, ready to follow.

  She took one last look at the cool blue water of the fountain and stopped. Her eyes were playing tricks on her again. Laura could have sworn that she could see one of the horses moving—the rearing horse, the one on the left. It threw its giant head back even farther and churned the air with its front hooves. The carved Triton gripping its mane was half pulled out of the water.

  Laura closed her eyes and opened them again: Could no one else see this? Was she hallucinating?

  “It’s raining,” said a voice behind her: Mysterious Maia. “We should go.”

  “Do you see anything … anything moving?” Laura asked her. The rain was growing heavier and the crowd had begun to scatter. “In the fountain?”

  “I saw that seagull launch itself at your head,” replied Maia, giving Laura one of her quizzical looks. “The Roman augurs would say that was a bad omen.”

  “Whatever,” said Laura. She wasn’t in the mood for bad omens. She needed to get to Morgan, get back to the hostel, and lie down for a while—until she stopped seeing stone snakes and horses moving.

  “When in Rome!
” Maia called after her, and it sounded more like a warning than a joke.

  * * *

  Everything in the hostel was orange. The sinks in the bathroom were orange. The sheets on the bunk beds were orange. The desk in the lobby was orange Formica, and the officious guy who worked there had such a fluorescent fake tan that they’d dubbed him Agent Orange.

  Back in their shared room on the third floor, Morgan closed the garish orange curtains to block out the sun. The rain had stopped as suddenly as it began. Courtney and Nicole were both lying on their beds, already half asleep. Actually, Courtney was lying on Morgan’s bed, because she was too weak to make it up the ladder to her own upper berth. Laura couldn’t believe how pale Nicole looked right now.

  “I feel all shivery,” she’d whispered to Laura before she closed her eyes. “I ache everywhere.”

  Woody appeared in the doorway, brandishing bottles of water from the vending machine in the lobby. Laura took two and placed them within reach of her two sick roommates.

  “That’s six of you who aren’t feeling well,” Woody reported, “including poor Mrs. Johnson. And a teacher from one of the European groups said most of her students are sick as well. In fact, she was feeling ill herself. It’s like some kind of flu, except at the wrong time of year. Very odd. But maybe everyone will feel better by tomorrow. I hope so. Otherwise the trip home will be very unpleasant.”

  “Should we stay here this afternoon? You know, to … take care of them?” Morgan sounded as reluctant as she looked. She’d already changed into a white muslin sundress and was itching, Laura knew, to go out again. Laura was still in her slightly damp T-shirt and shorts, but figured she could change later.

  “No,” Woody said, her mouth drooping. “Mr. Harding and I have agreed that we’ll take turns at keeping an eye on things here. You two go off and have a good time.”

  “Well, at least we’re rid of everyone for a few hours,” Morgan murmured to Laura as they set off down the hallway. “Should we check out the graves?”

  Laura had really wanted to explore the ruins of Nero’s Golden House, but it wasn’t open to the public at the moment. So she didn’t mind indulging Morgan, who was desperate to see the graves of the poets Keats and Shelley in the old Protestant cemetery. It wasn’t part of their official Classics Trip itinerary and today, as Morgan had reminded Laura maybe ten times, was their only chance.

  “Mmm,” said Laura, wondering if she should have left her broken bracelet in the room rather than carry it around in her backpack. Maybe with Nicole and Courtney staying in the room, the bracelet would have been safe. But she’d rather have it with her, in case she could get the chain mended somewhere.

  “Let’s make sure Jack and Maia don’t see us and try to tag along.” Morgan clattered down the narrow staircase. “They probably wouldn’t be interested, anyway. Or else Maia would know everything about it, and bore us to death.”

  “I guess,” said Laura, though she felt bad, scampering off like this. Sometimes it was nice just to be around other people, especially in a strange city, even if they weren’t exactly your BFFs.

  As it turned out, there was no chance of escaping unnoticed. In the lobby, Jack was slumped like a rag doll in one of the orange plastic chairs, pulling on the cords of his Purdue hoodie. Maia sat huddled on the floor, writing in her diary. She was frowning with concentration.

  “She’s probably writing: Day Three, still no friends,” Morgan whispered, nudging Laura. Laura nudged her back even harder.

  “You guys, we’re going to get the Metro out to the Protestant Cemetery,” Laura announced. She ignored Morgan’s fingers pinching into her arm. “You can come if you’d like …”

  “Sure,” Jack said. “May as well. Nothing else to do.”

  “Campo Cestio?” asked Maia, slamming her diary shut. That girl really was like a cat, Laura decided: self-contained, hard to read, almost insolent. She scrambled to her feet, dusting off her shorts. “That’s its correct name, you know. And with four of us, I think it’ll be cheaper to catch a cab.”

  Morgan sighed theatrically.

  “Just as I predicted,” she hissed at Laura, and pushed open the foggy glass door. “Thanks for not listening to me.”

  “I never listen to you,” Laura teased, hoping Morgan would cheer up.

  Outside, the afternoon air was humid, still heavy with rain. She refused to let anyone spoil her last day in Rome—not sulky Morgan or listless Jack or weird Maia, not even marauding seagulls or brazen muggers or looming storms. This was the most amazing city she’d ever seen in her life, awash in history and stories and secrets. Who knew what they’d uncover this afternoon?

  * * *

  The cemetery entrance was an archway with ornate iron gates and a sign announcing Campo Cestio’s opening hours.

  “ ‘The Old Cemetery for Non Catholic Foreigners,’ ” Jack read aloud. “That’s us!”

  “Speak for yourself,” Morgan said. She strode through the gates and up the gravel path as though she knew exactly where she was going.

  “And you—I guess you’re, what? Russian Orthodox?” Jack asked Maia. She stared at him as though he were speaking a foreign language.

  “How is that relevant?” Maia sounded more puzzled than affronted.

  “Just trying to, you know, make conversation,” said Jack, pouting.

  “Maybe we should all split up and wander around by ourselves, okay?” Laura suggested. “Meet back here in forty minutes?”

  Before the others had a chance to reply, Laura bounded away, feeling only a little bad about leaving Jack with Maia, or Maia with Jack—she wasn’t sure who was worse off. But this was too peaceful a place for squabbles. Laura hadn’t spent much time in cemeteries, apart from the military cemetery back home where her grandfather was buried. That was a vast expanse and super-orderly, all the gravestones white and identical, with signs telling people not to leave fresh flowers or wreaths because they encouraged the roaming deer.

  This cemetery was quite different. With its trim green hedges, soaring trees, and drooping wisteria, it looked more like a well-tended small park. Narrow paths rose up toward the high back wall. The elaborate tombs and creamy gravestones were topped with carved urns or angels.

  Laura crunched her way up the most central path in Morgan’s wake, inhaling the sweet after-rain smell of the greenery. Raindrops still glistened on leaves and on the vibrant pink petals of the hydrangea bushes. Laura walked past a grave that was just a pedestal balancing a draped headless torso, and the name carved into the base simply read BELINDA.

  An elegant stone angel bent over another tomb, her face covered. Her heavy wings and draped robes—even the sandals on her feet—looked so real that Laura couldn’t resist reaching out to stroke the stone folds.

  “Over here!” shouted Morgan, waving, and Laura pulled back her hand.

  “Okay,” Laura called back. She made her way down the steep gravel path, unnerved by the incessant cawing of a crow flying overhead. They were called hooded crows here, Laura had learned, because they looked as though they were wearing a little gray cape over their black feathers.

  The sky was dark now, and she hoped the rain would hold off. The crow above Laura’s head cawed again and dipped lower, as though he was following her. A seagull had swooped in as well, circling the crow, its echoing cry loud in her ears. The birds of Rome all seemed so frantic today, Laura thought, and aggressive. Maybe they were freaked out by the intense weather.

  She hurried down the path and turned past a tombstone she hadn’t noticed before, topped with a jet-black marble figure of a boy with wings curling around his shoulders. The look on his face was bored, and he held a large dart in his right hand, pointed at nothing in particular. Cupid, Laura thought: the god of love. He looked more like a sulky teenager playing some lame game in his parents’ basement.

  Both birds dove and wheeled, getting closer and closer to the ground—and to Laura. The crow held something in its beak, but she couldn’t make out what, exact
ly, even when the crow dropped it. As the tiny piece of debris fell, the seagull flew toward it, shrieking, and the crow gave chase, pecking at the gull’s tail. Were these birds actually fighting?

  The black marble figure of Cupid raised his hand in one swift, elegant movement and threw the dart into the sky. Laura couldn’t believe her eyes. Her heart thumped with something between shock and exhilaration, watching the dart soar higher and higher into the air. It wasn’t possible for something carved to move; it wasn’t possible for this stone dart to be launched. But there it was, speeding into the sky.

  The dart, black as the gathering clouds, hit the seagull in its snowy breast. Laura gasped, clutching at a straggly bush to steady herself. The seagull was falling, dropping at great speed. The crow cawed—almost in triumph, Laura thought, if that were possible.

  The crow flew toward the cemetery’s walls just as the dead gull thudded onto the damp turf at Laura’s feet. The dart was still buried in the soft feathers of its breast.

  Laura grabbed a limp branch and crushed it in her shaking hand. This couldn’t be happening. Grave ornaments didn’t launch missiles into the air—not in any normal place, anyway. Where was Morgan? Where was anyone else, to look up at that dark, seething sky right now and tell her that she wasn’t going crazy?

  The dart slid from the dead bird’s prone form and flew, like a boomerang, back into Cupid’s hand. And then, before Laura could move, the bird’s corpse vanished, dissolving like a vapor, a mist. In an instant there was nothing left of it apart from a spot of red blood on the green grass. The sky turned black and Laura thought she could smell fire.

  Something soft as a feather brushed Laura’s face—one brush, then another. She looked up, afraid that the stone Cupid was busy shooting more birds. But all she could see above her now was a billowing charcoal cloud, with ash falling like gray snow from the sky.

  Il volcano!”

  “Eruzione! Eruzione!”

  Laura ran toward the shouting voices near the cemetery’s main building, where every visitor or cemetery worker—invisible until now amid the lush foliage and steep paths—seemed to be congregating, babbling and exclaiming. Jack’s face emerged out of the gloomy haze, his eyes wild with excitement.