The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2)

by Linda Lambert

  Justine grabbed Della Dora’s extended hand and turned toward the deep trench encircling the tumulus. She headed for the open ditch as Della Dora unsuccessfully reached out to stop her. Heart pounding in her chest, Justine slid twenty feet down the rough ladder to the bottom of the trench, landing with such force that the air was nearly forced out of her. She shook her head and breathed deeply.

  Riccardo Chia moved his open hands rapidly across the wall of rock and soil searching for softness, a possible point of entry into the area that now imprisoned Morgan. About a third of the chambers had collapsed into the newly dug-out area. The smell of damp earth was palpable. Riccardo worked like a madman, realizing that no oxygen could reach his supervisor, although there could be a small pocket of air around him. But how long could that last? There was only a slight chance that Morgan was still alive.

  Suddenly, Justine was at his shoulder. Riccardo looked up at her, hoping she couldn’t read his mind or his face. He did not slow his furious search for a way in. “We have a bit of a problem, Justine,” he said in an anxious, restrained voice. “Wait upside. Prego. I fully expect the rest of the ceiling to collapse at any moment.”

  “Sorry,” she said simply, shaking her head from side to side. “How are we going to get them out?”

  When she said “we,” a flash of disappointment moved across his sweating face. “This whole place could go at any moment!” Riccardo yelled at her. “Pronto! Get out of here!”

  Staring at the wall of soil as though she expected an opening to magically appear, she stood her ground.

  He stared helplessly at Justine for a split second. Realizing that getting her to safety was a lost cause, Riccardo changed his strategy. “Go! Tell the men upside to get as many two-by-fours as they can find. And get me a drill. And a pipe. Fast.”

  Riccardo’s commands animated Justine. She ran halfway up the ladder on the far side of the trough and barked orders. “Two-by-fours. A drill and pipe. And tell the paramedics to get an oxygen tank down here. Make it quick.” Everyone sprang into action. The boards began sliding down into the trough, followed by Fabiano, who passed them to Riccardo. Donatello ran, desperate eyes darting this way and that; he returned quickly with a drill from his pickup. Medics raced forward with an oxygen tank in tow.

  The roar from the floor of the tumulus above collapsing a second time jolted Justine’s mind back to the moment of the earthquake in St. Sergius. Now, this moment, gray dust burst forth from the opening in the tomb like steam from a boiling kettle. She shuddered and screamed as she ran toward Riccardo who was being buried alive. “It’s collapsing!” The opening was now completely closed. Fabiano held half a board; the other half was caught in the debris.

  “Shovels,” yelled Donatello, panic surging through his voice. “Shovels!” As they arrived he threw them into the trough. Justine and the two men started to dig furiously in the area of the blocked entryway.

  “Too many shovels,” Della Dora insisted, realizing that the diggers were getting in each other’s way. Justine and Fabiano pulled back, looking around desperately for an alternate route. Della Dora began furiously waving both hands over his head.

  Deep inside the collapsed cavity, ten feet below, in a space thirty feet across, two remaining survivors were separated by soil and granite. Each struggled to stay alive. Morgan stooped in a three-foot-high space formed by two broken columns that had fallen from above. He shined his small flashlight around the moist earth, desperately searching for even a hint of an opening, until he realized, helplessly, that there was none. The narrow beam of light landed briefly on a granite edge situated on a flat plane near the bottom of the debris just beyond his reach. Morgan tried repeatedly to reach the granite tip, but further movement was impossible. His light flashed on a booted foot extending from under the collapsed beam.

  He tried frantically to reach the body, who he thought might be Adamo because of the unique steel toe on his boot, but he couldn’t move his right leg, and his short supply of air had to be conserved, would soon be gone. He felt around for a piece of lumber with which to dig, but found none. He drew short, shallow breaths, using as little of the precious oxygen as possible, his calmness that of a man who had been in tight spots before. Four feet away, on the other side of a wall of stone and soil, Riccardo sat up under a teepee of two-by-fours. The mud in his eyes blinded him, and his skin felt hot and clammy. He couldn’t move, but didn’t know if anything was broken. Like Morgan, he knew air was at a premium. He drew shallow breaths even as his heart began to beat rapidly. He knew he must regulate his blood pressure and breathing.

  Riccardo was usually fearless. He had free-soloed Mont Blanc and risked a fatal fall on the cobblestones of Siena while riding in the Palio. But this was different. If his asthma kicked in, he knew his chances of survival would diminish quickly. The man with the waving arms, Delmo Della Dora, spoke urgently. “Through the top tumulus! Go in through the top!” Della Dora was now racing up the stairs, surprisingly agile for a man in his early eighties. Earlier they had dismissed going through the existing tumulus for fear of causing the floor to collapse further. But now that the top tombs had fallen through, this option became worth testing.

  Justine and the men holding shovels stared at one another. Without speaking, they rushed for the ladder and moved toward the front of the tumulus, crossing on the single board that served as a bridge across the trough into the original structure. Della Dora was already inside. “It’s still fragile,” he said, standing on the stone rim just short of the collapsed area. “See here. There’s a gap between the debris and the remaining floor. I’m afraid it is too dangerous to walk on.”

  Justine looked up at Della Dora for a second time. Rational in crisis, she thought. “Then we won’t walk on it,” she promised. “Span a few boards over the opening and hand me the drill. I can inch out there. Where do you think they are?” The question was directed at whoever had an opinion.

  “Dr. Jenner is near the front.” Fabiano pointed a few feet ahead of where they stood. “And Dr. Chia must be a few feet behind. We don’t know about Adamo. There, maybe,” he motioned.

  Donatello nearly fainted, put both hands on his forehead, but recovered in time to plug the drill into a generator in his truck. “Adamo! Adamo!” he cried, and carelessly handed the drill through to Justine, who was already six feet out on the planks, suspended three feet above the debris. Distance was not the issue. If she were to fall, she could cause the debris below to pack tighter around the men, robbing them of whatever oxygen remained. She lay on her stomach, digging as much debris as possible away with her right hand. Shifting from her stomach onto her left shoulder and hip, she took the drill, propped it at a right angle, and began to drill. Too much vibration! she yelled silently. My God—even if they’re still alive, I’m going to kill them! “How long do they have?” she yelled out to the men behind her.

  “Dipende. Dipende,” said Fabiano. “Maybe no time. Maybe hour.” He nervously rolled a cigarette but didn’t light it.

  “Let us assume an hour, piu o meno,” said Della Dora, feigning confidence.

  “Yes. Thank you,” said Justine, her courtesy offered without thought.

  For Justine, and everyone else in the vicinity, eight minutes of drilling seemed like an eternity. “Hand me a longer bit,” she said, “and the pipe.” She raised her left forearm to wipe the hair out of her eyes.

  Donatello handed her a fifteen-inch augur bit, while Fabiano created a sling on the end of a long board so that the pipe could be righted if Justine was able to force it into the hole. Twice the pipe fell with a sharp thud onto the soil below. “Careful!” yelled Donatello, heavy perspiration dripping from his brow.

  “I’m through!” shouted Justine finally. “I’ve broken through.” She handed the drill back to Fabiano and tried to steer the end of the two-inch pipe into the hole, lowering it slowly. She succeeded on the third try.

  “Dad!” she yelled into the pipe. “Are you there? Dad! Is Adamo with you?” Only si
lence met her entreaties. She desperately called out again. Below, Morgan grabbed the pipe and began digging soil out of it with his forefinger. “Justine? Is it you? I’m afraid Adamo is gone.”

  She paused and quickly turned to glance at Donatello, who had heard that his brother was probably dead. He collapsed, head between his knees.

  Justine paused, moisture welling up in her eyes. “Are you all right down there?” she asked, her lips brushing the pipe as she spoke. “Are you getting enough air?”

  “The air’s coming through,” her father said in a stronger voice. “But I can’t move my right leg.”

  “Can you hold on, Dad? Riccardo’s down there too. Nearby, we think.”

  “Sure. I can hold on for quite a while.” Far less confident than he let on, he forced his voice into normalcy.

  Justine turned toward the men and said in a steely voice: “Give me the drill. I’m moving forward a few feet.”

  The fire department had arrived during the pipe-rescue of Morgan. They took over the more difficult rescue of Riccardo, and the unearthing of Adamo’s body. Much of the collapsed tomb had to be excavated before the three men could be extracted. By the time Riccardo was freed, he was in the throes of a severe asthma attack. Morgan was unconscious. Adamo was confirmed dead.

  CHAPTER 13

  Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour

  Rains from the sky a meteoric shower

  Of facts . . . they lie unquestioned, uncombined,

  Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill

  Is daily spun, but there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.

  —Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1939

  A PALE LIGHT SHONE THROUGH from the nurses’ station halfway down the hall; otherwise, the only lights and sounds in Cerveteri hospital were electronic flashing eyes, racing green lines on heart monitors, the purr of oxygen tanks. Justine dozed uncomfortably in a straight-backed armchair. When her father was dug from the rubble that afternoon, his condition had been worse than expected. Even though a small stream of oxygen had entered through the pipe into the space where he lay captive, his body oxygen level had been at 82, a result of his shallow breathing. The unbearable pain of multiple leg fractures ushered him in and out of consciousness. Justine and his doctors awaited signs of brain damage.

  Down the hall, Riccardo Chia struggled in the aftermath of a severe asthma attack. “We found him just in time,” the medic had reported. “His face was blue.”

  Justine shifted in her chair. It was nearly 5:00 a.m. When she had arrived the day before, Nurse Elena had taken one look at her muddy khakis and powdered, matted hair, and led her by the hand to the shower in the nurses’ quarters. Anna, the proprietor of the inn where she was staying, had brought a change of clothes from Justine’s room there.

  She had called Riccardo’s family members, many of whom were to arrive that day. Once reassured that the surgery on her father’s leg had been successful, Justine had called her mother. Della Dora had driven to his daughter’s home in Rome. Adamo’s body had been taken to the family home in a western suburb; Donatello and Fabiano had followed.

  The world felt ominous to Justine despite the morning’s insistent light. What had she said at dinner two nights before? Anything for which she wished to make amends with her father? She didn’t think so. She rose and walked to her father’s bedside. Morgan’s face looked younger under the oxygen mask. Its lines had relaxed in the absence of consciousness.

  His eyes moved beneath the lids, then slowly opened, closing and opening several times, registering in quick succession recognition and pain. The corner of his mouth drew itself into a forced smile. “When did you learn to use a drill?” he asked simply, reaching for her hand.

  Justine gave way to tears that had been on call all night. Her body shook with sobs of relief as she leaned over and kissed her father on the forehead. “Yesterday,” she said haltingly. “Yesterday.”

  Morgan tried unsuccessfully to turn toward her, surprised that his right leg was suspended above the bed. “What’s going on down there?” he asked, motioning to his leg with the arm unencumbered by an IV.

  “Two fractures,” Justine said flatly. “You were in surgery until late last night.” Her body shuddered in the aftermath of crying. She blew her nose and rubbed her eyes.

  “Prognosis?” he asked without affect, although his eyes expressed both gratitude and anxiety.

  “The surgery went well. In a few months, you’ll be as good as new. You’ll be on crutches for at least six weeks, then a cane for a while . . .”

  “An archeologist who can’t walk. Damn. How is Riccardo? Adamo?” Then he was quiet, a flash of misery contorting his facial muscles.

  “Yes, Adamo is dead. Riccardo’s down the hall. The second collapse buried him too, and he was having an asthma attack when we found him, but he’s going to be all right. There’s a slight concern about the stress on his heart.” Justine relayed Riccardo’s actions, including his insistence on staying in the tomb even after it became clear to him that another collapse was imminent. “Everyone was a hero yesterday, Dad. Della Dora is with his daughter in Rome.”

  Morgan pondered his unwillingness to take Riccardo seriously—and his condescension toward the other team members. Remorse and embarrassment swelled like a wave, obliterating lighter thoughts. Tears hovered on the rim of the oxygen mask and slowly rolled down either side of his face.

  Justine immediately regretted that she had told him so much. The screen attached to the heart monitor registered steep peaks and troughs.

  The heart dance slowed. “Wish Amir had been here,” he whispered.

  Justine wiped his cheeks and eyes. “Now, get some rest. It’s barely dawn and you have all the time in the world. I’ll be right here.” She turned toward the waiting chair.

  “Justine.” His voice was insistent, yet somehow tentative.

  She turned and started back toward the bed. “Yes, Dad?”

  “I was scared,” he said almost inaudibly, as though he wanted to shield the world from this truth. “I was scared and kept thinking about your experience in the Cairo earthquake. We’ve never really talked about it.”

  “I was terrified, Dad. I was sure I was going to die. Nobody knew where I was.”

  “Fear is a natural human emotion. If you live your life fully, you can’t avoid it.”

  “I know that now. But the nightmares won’t go away. Very Kafkaesque, no rules, no boundaries. Unpredictable. Sometimes I’m drowning in deep, rushing water. On other nights, someone I love is buried alive.” She smiled meekly and ruffled his hair.

  He winced at her description. “It will help to talk it out, honey. We’ll be there for each other . . .” He squeezed her hand, then released it as he fell back into deep sleep.

  “I still need you—always will,” she whispered into his ear.

  Justine was unable to go back to sleep, so she sat staring out the tall window as the rising sun backlit undistinguished gray stucco buildings. She had thought modern civilization had bypassed the ancient town of Caere, now Cerveteri. The efficient surgical team and well-trained nurses had negated that idea.

  A shadow cast itself across the black-and-white tiles. Justine turned, expecting the night nurse, but found instead a male figure standing in the doorway, leaning against its frame. She stood up and walked toward him.

  “Amir? Amir!” she cried. “Thank god, you’re back.” Justine threw her arms around him. For several moments they held one another tightly, then she gently pulled away.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should have been here,” Amir said.

  “But you’re here now. That’s all that matters. It’s been horrible. Riccardo may not pull through.”

  “How is your dad doing?”

  “Doing well, I think,” she said softly, drawing Amir to the bedside. “His breathing has returned to normal and there doesn’t seem to be any sign of brain damage. The leg will take several weeks to heal. But he was his old self again this morning.” Justine sto
od at the foot of the bed, absentmindedly pulling errant hairs back into a ponytail.

  “It was my fault,” said Morgan when he awoke and saw Amir beside his bed. “I had the local engineer examine the site and he assured me that the ceiling would hold. I should have known better than to trust that sup and her team of merry men.”

  “So you didn’t erect a temporary ceiling in the cavity?” asked Amir. His question bore no judgment. He had long admired his grandfather’s old partner, and he was grateful to be working with Morgan on the Cerveteri dig.

  “No, we didn’t,” said Morgan, embarrassed by the carelessness inadvertently implied by the question. “And Adamo’s death is on my head.” He choked up and looked away. “Damn, it’s good to have you back,” he said, sounding like a lost boy.

  Embarrassed by the emotional response from his mentor, Amir changed the subject. “Justine texted me.” It was clear to Justine that he regretted the question about the temporary ceiling. “She says you’re your old self again.”

  “This leg will slow me down for a while. Damn it.” Morgan stared at Amir with fatherly affection, the boy who had always hung around their excavation sites, asking question after question. Ibrahim had always bragged about his oldest grandson. The young man was nearly thirty years old now—not exceptionally tall, but with the rugged good looks and black eyes that had made his grandfather the Don Juan of the international set decades earlier. It was for all of these reasons—and memories—that he had hired Amir on this dig. Now he was the only vital connection to Ibrahim.

  Justine returned with two cups of coffee. “No, you can’t have one,” she said even before her father asked. “Nurse Antonia is right behind me with the breakfast tray and she’s going to check your vital signs—sans caffeine.”

  Morgan pulled off the oxygen mask. He spoke softly, with a raspiness caused by his dry throat. “Amir. Justine,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “There’s something down there. Before my flashlight batteries gave out, I saw a granite edge situated on a flat plane at the bottom of the debris. If it was part of the tomb above, it would have fallen at an angle.” His eyes betrayed excitement, as did the heart monitor.