The Eternal City

by Paula Morris

  If we get home, Laura thought, but she said nothing. Jack was supposed to put ice on it when he got back to the hostel, he told them, and to try to stay off it for a while.

  They set off again, Jack leaning on Kasper and everyone else, gingerly picking their way along the narrow street. When Maia decided to climb over a toppled trash can rather than walk through its flowing skirt of spilled trash, Kasper held out his bad hand to help her down. Dan, walking near Laura, clucked with impatience.

  “What is your problem?” Laura said to him in a low voice. “You’re being really childish. Why have you got it in for Kasper?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dan was trying to sound breezy, but he didn’t fool Laura.

  “You’re constantly criticizing him. And you get all annoyed when he tries to help someone else.”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “How do we even know he’s Danish? Have you heard him speak any?”

  “Well, there’s no one else Danish around …”

  “Exactly. Very convenient. And his English is way too good.”

  “Lots of Europeans speak really good English!” Laura protested. This was the most ridiculous conversation. She hadn’t even thought about whether Kasper could be trusted or not. Besides, she had much bigger things to obsess over now, like the fact that ancient gods were talking to her. “Why would he be pretending to be Danish?”

  “You tell me,” Dan said in a low voice. “What’s he got to hide?”

  “I don’t think he has anything to hide. You’re acting really crazy.”

  “And what kind of name is ‘Kasper,’ anyway?”

  “A Danish name. Obviously.”

  “Do we have any proof of that? He could have made it up. And why isn’t he sick, like everyone else from his so-called school?”

  “You’re not sick, either,” Laura pointed out, and then she remembered something odd that Maia had said about Dan—was it yesterday? We might need him. At the time it had just seemed like another strange Maia-ish thing to say. But now Laura wasn’t so sure. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure nobody could hear them.

  “He’s always trying to help,” Dan whispered, bending so his face was close to hers. “But have you ever asked yourself why? What’s he trying to prove?”

  “Maybe that he’s more useful than you,” Laura hissed. “If it weren’t for Kasper, Sofie might not have made it out of that torture church this morning.”

  “If it weren’t for Kasper,” Dan said, his arm brushing Laura’s, “she might not have been attacked in the first place.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Dan didn’t answer, maybe because Maia had caught up and was walking alongside them. He flashed Laura an all-knowing look, and she shook her head at him. He could be so exasperating. Strange to think that a couple of days ago they’d barely exchanged two words, and now they were arguing in the street.

  “What does what mean?” Maia was as nosy as ever, frowning in Laura’s direction.

  “I was just asking Dan about Minerva,” said Laura, thinking quickly. “As in, the goddess. What do you know about her?”

  “Well,” said Maia, as though this was the most normal question in the world, “she was part of the Capitoline Triad.”

  “Yeah, I know that.” Laura hoped she didn’t sound too snippy, but Dan had annoyed her, so it was hard to moderate her tone. “But what else? Goddess of war and of wisdom, right?”

  “And arts and crafts,” said Maia, who didn’t seem at all offended by Laura’s tone. Maybe Maia didn’t notice tone of voice. It would explain why she often came across badly to other people.

  “I don’t suppose her signature creatures were bees,” Laura said, still hoping that there was a connection with the fountain that Kasper—and her grandfather—had seen.

  “Owls,” said Maia. She skirted an upturned paving stone.

  “And spiders,” Dan added. “Or—no, hang on. I think she turned some nymph into a spider because the nymph had totally crossed her.”

  “Yes, Arachne!” Laura remembered it now. In class they’d translated a small passage written by Ovid from Latin to English.

  “She wasn’t a nymph,” Maia told Dan. “She was just a maiden. She challenged Minerva to a weaving contest and lost. Hence spiders are arachnids, weaving their webs …”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dan said quickly. “And there was something about a flute. Maybe they had a flute-playing contest?”

  “No, they didn’t,” said Maia, her usual blunt self. “But there is a Minerva connection. She invented the flute.”

  “Ugh,” said Dan. “My sister plays the flute, and it’s so annoying when she practices.”

  Laura glimpsed something strange and beautiful in the rubble-strewn clearing they were approaching—another small piazza, another fountain.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Although Kasper had told them that the bee fountain was near the Palazzo Barberini and nowhere remotely close by, Laura was still hoping that they’d come across it on the way to the hostel. Maybe Kasper was wrong about where he’d seen it; maybe he was disoriented after everything that had happened today.

  Something Dan and Maia were just saying was still rolling around in her head, forming itself into an idea. Maia had said that Minerva had invented the flute, and Dan had complained that his sister played the flute. Laura’s father sometimes played a particular classical piece, blasting the CD through the house—usually on a Saturday morning when he wanted them all to get out of bed and do something boring like rake leaves. Though she didn’t know the name of the composer or performer, Laura did remember what the piece was called: “Flight of the Bumblebee.” It was played on the flute.

  Maybe that was the link between Minerva and the bees, she told herself, hurrying toward the fountain up ahead. Minerva, bees, her grandfather, the star sapphires—it all had to add up somehow.

  Laura had to dart around a few slow-moving groups of dusty, dazed people. On the fountain, she glimpsed dolphins, shells, plus some kind of small creatures. Not bees, though, she realized, the excitement of anticipation curdling into disappointment. The bronze creatures on the edge of the fountain’s upper ring were tortoises.

  Laura stopped, waiting for the others to reach her. The sky was darker now, gloomy clouds billowing high above the buildings, spitting rain. The fountain didn’t seem at all affected by the earthquake. It was still firmly in place, waters still trickling into a pale stone basin. Laura pulled her map out of the pocket of her bag and found her location, Piazza Mattei, in the old Jewish Ghetto, and the name of the fountain, Fontana delle Tartarughe. Tortoises, not bees. No connection to Minerva at all.

  A hooded crow squawked overhead, and Laura looked up, startled by its proximity. The bird skimmed the fountain, dipping so low its wings brushed the bronze backs of one of the tortoises. Was it trying to tell her something? Was it Mercury? Was this a sign, or a warning?

  An unseen hand tugged at the bag hanging off Laura’s shoulder, and she felt it slide down her arm, the weight of it slipping away.

  “No!” she cried, but it was too late. The bag was gone. The crow had been there to warn her, she realized. Someone had stolen the star sapphires.

  My bag!” Laura cried. The wind, gusting at just that moment, seemed to carry her voice away. She spun around in a dizzying circle, looking for the mugger.

  Laura’s backpack was pale blue with red piping, easy to spot even though there were lots of people drifting along the street or across the small piazza. But the man carrying it was darting through the crowd, swift and sure. She ran after him, bumping into people, her chest tight, her face burning. There was no chance of catching him, but she had to try.

  The crow swooped from the sky, launching itself at the man’s head. Laura thudded across the cobbles of the piazza. The man cowered under the crow’s onslaught, smacking at its outstretched wings. She could see a red smear in
the man’s dark hair, where the crow’s beak had drawn blood. But still, the man was moving, slowed but not stopped by the crow’s attack. She had to reach him, to grab her bag back, before he disappeared into the chaos of the street.

  Laura’s head was pounding, so all she could really hear was the drum of her own heartbeat. Other sounds sloshed in the periphery—the screech of the crow, the man crying out—and she could see rather than hear the shock of other people, hurrying out of the way.

  “Stop!” she shouted, though it didn’t sound like much of a shout. She’d always had a quiet voice; she’d never been someone anyone would describe as rowdy or raucous. Maybe I’m too meek, Laura thought, hurtling toward the mugger. She’d never had reason to shout at someone before. No one had ever tried to steal anything she cared about.

  Someone was running next to her, and then speeding past her. It was Dan, she realized, and he was hurtling toward the mugger and tackling him to the ground. The crow flapped its wings and lifted into the air, still squawking. Laura still couldn’t see the face of the man tussling with Dan. They were a blur of limbs, and she got kicked hard by a flailing leg when she approached. Laura ignored the pain. One of the handles of her bag was dangling free, and she groped for it, without any luck.

  Laura had never been in a fight before. Buffy made it look easy, but it was much messier—and harder—in real life. Now she was kicking wildly at what she hoped was the mugger’s leg, and, when his bleeding head rolled into view, she slammed a fist into his cheek. It hurt the side of her hand so much that Laura cried out with pain. This was why girls stuck to pulling hair, she told herself. Punching hurt.

  Laura managed to grasp a small tuft of the man’s hair and tugged so hard she thought she’d uproot it. His grip on the bag loosened, and Laura seized her chance. With an almighty wrench, she pulled her bag free. She had so much momentum she staggered backward several steps, only stopping when she bumped into Maia.

  The man was on his feet now. Dan lay groaning on the ground, covering his face with bloodied hands. There was something familiar about the long-faced, dark-haired mugger. Maybe the intense, angry darkness of his eyes. Laura thought of the woman trying to snap the bracelet off her wrist at the Trevi Fountain. The expression was the same—ferocious and greedy, almost feral.

  He was walking toward her, slowly, those angry eyes locked on hers. Laura backed away, Maia moving with her, until they bumped into the fountain’s low railing. Without speaking, Maia helped Laura climb over it. Together they clambered into the fountain, its water splashing against their legs.

  They waded backward through the water as the man advanced, and Laura tried to swallow her fear. She slipped her bag onto her back, arms through both of the straps, to make it harder for the mugger. This was no ordinary thief, clearly, flitting onto a different target when one proved too difficult. Maybe he was someone sent by the rival gods, the ones who were unhappy with Minerva’s “gift” to her. This man wanted her bag and wasn’t going to give up. Where were Laura’s protectors now, the ones that Mercury had promised?

  The hooded crow returned, dipping over the fountain with a rude, ear-piercing caw, and the man—about to step into the water as they’d just done—paused to glare up at it. Someone in the distance screamed, and the crow swooped again, launching itself at the man’s head.

  “Climb,” Maia ordered, and Laura swiveled, looking for something to grab. Her soaked sandals felt like weights on her feet, so she kicked them off. It was easier to get a grip on the fountain’s smooth, wet surfaces in bare feet; it was like navigating the rocks along the river near her house in Indiana.

  The top tier of the fountain was small, a toadstool-like pedestal, flanked by four bronze figures of muscular boys, each of them leaning back with one arm to grab the tail of a bronze dolphin, the other arm raised as though reaching for a tortoise. Laura could just about stretch to get one foot onto the back of a small dolphin. Maybe from there she could grab the fountain’s upper rim.

  Maia was behind her, pushing.

  “His hand, his hand,” she was saying, and Laura didn’t understand what she meant.

  Then she glimpsed what Maia must have seen. One of the bronze figures was no longer gripping a dolphin’s tail. His hand was stretched toward her, palm upturned. Laura felt a shock race through her, then placed one foot in the hand, expecting to feel cold, hard bronze. But it felt like a real hand, skin against her own skin, though much steadier. And stronger as well, Laura realized, as she felt herself hoisted easily into the air.

  In an instant she was facing the fountain’s rounded upper lip, just inches from one of the small tortoises. They’d been sculpted at the very edge of the fountain, so they appeared to be clambering into the basin, just as Laura was trying to do now.

  She flopped into the shallow water, realizing it was too perilous to try to stand up. If she knelt she could keep her bag out of the water, though her shorts would be soaked. From this new perch she could survey the tiny piazza and beyond, trying to find her group in the blurred crowd of people.

  The man trying to reach her batted the crow away; he pushed Maia so hard she fell sideways into the water, her head just missing the fountain’s stone rim. He was coming for her, Laura knew; she’d be easy to reach. There was nowhere else to climb or hide, no crow strong enough to carry her away on its gray wings. With her sandals gone, she didn’t even have anything to throw at the thief.

  A woman standing near the fountain started screaming, pointing up at Laura, crossing herself, and then other people were screaming as well. At last, she thought: Someone would try to help her! But instead of running toward the fountain, people were scrambling away. Even two policemen who’d just marched into the piazza from the other side turned around and bolted out of sight.

  The crow’s caws sounded in her ears; it was flying so close Laura felt the breeze from its flapping wings. And around her, close enough to touch, the tortoises were moving. That was why people were screaming: The four bronze tortoises had come to life.

  No longer suspended half in the air, they patrolled the fountain’s rim, jaws snapping. Not snapping at Laura, she was relieved to see, but at the rapidly thinning crowd.

  She suppressed the urge to reach out to stroke them, their shells shiny and beaded with raindrops. They were her miniature guard dogs, summoned into action, it seemed, by the crow’s incessant rallying cry. When the man below her in the fountain tried to climb up, his hands creeping over the basin’s edge, a tortoise snapped at his fingers. He yelped and stopped trying to climb. Once, twice, three times it happened, Laura shrinking back, knees aching from kneeling in the water, shivering as soft rain drizzled down her face, while the tiny tortoises hissed and snapped, seeing off the intruder.

  The fourth time the man’s hand appeared, one of the tortoises bit so hard that Laura was sure she heard bone crunch. The offending hand slithered away, and Laura edged forward, still on her knees, anxious to see what was happening below.

  “Maia!” she shouted, but all she could see was one of the bronze figurines, kicking a muscular leg at the intruder. Laura leaned farther forward, and could see one of the round dolphins writhing and spinning like a log rolling down a river, making it impossible for the man—now with bloodied fingers—to regain his foothold.

  Sofie was standing in the fountain now as well; Laura could see the top of her blond head. And there was Maia, struggling to her feet in the water, and passing something to Sofie. One of Laura’s sandals!

  Sofie grabbed the sandal and used it to smack the intruder on the back of his head, hitting it so hard that Laura could hear every thwack. Above them the crow cawed and dipped. The tortoises formed a shimmering barricade in front of Laura, bronze jaws clanging, as though they were daring the intruder to approach again.

  Rain, heavier now, splashed around them all. In the midst of all noise and movement, Laura knelt completely still, as though she were part of the original fountain, made out of bronze herself. Girl with Backpack, she thought, the s
trangest fountain in Rome. Her heart was thundering. Really, all of this was way too much. What was she doing here? She was from Bloomington, Indiana! She studied Classics!

  Laura heard splashing and a roar of rage; the crow swooped again, circling the fountain. The intruder wasn’t going to climb up again, she saw, and a feeling of immense relief flooded through her, so intense that she wanted to cry. He was sprinting away across the piazza. Laura watched his back disappearing down one of the narrow streets, her whole body trembling with fear.

  As suddenly as it had begun, it was all over. The tortoises no longer hissed or snapped; once again they were inanimate, poised on the edge of the fountain’s upper tier. She could hear police sirens in the distance, and a motorcycle revving; light rain pattered into the fountain—or perhaps it was the trickle of water from the dolphins’ mouths.

  The piazza had emptied. Jack was bent over Dan, who was still clutching his face. Kasper was helping Sofie and Maia, both drenched, out of the fountain.

  “Need a hand?” Kasper called up to Laura. She threw her bag down to him, hands shaking, and lowered herself down from the fountain’s upper tier. This time there was no bronze hand stretched out to help her, and Laura felt as though she was bumping every bone possible—knees, elbows, shoulders—on her way down.

  She sloshed through the lower basin and stepped over the railing, her legs trembling. Between her wet clothes and the drizzle, she felt chilled and miserable. Kasper stood smiling at her, but Laura could see a wariness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

  “Here’s your bag,” he said, holding out her damp backpack. “I don’t know, but maybe you should …”

  “Yes,” Laura said. She took the bag from Kasper and slipped the straps over her shoulders. She needed to hang on to this, to guard it. To guard the stones.

  Their group was a mess. Maia clutched the side of her head. Sofie was bent double, heaving for breath. Jack was gripping his leg in pain. Dan sat on the ground, his leg scraped and bloody, and blood clotting his upper lip. Her squabbling with him forgotten, Laura wanted to rush over to comfort him, to make sure he was fine—but her old awkwardness was back, too, and she felt almost shy around him. It was so much more complicated, she thought, when boys were involved.