that the Vatican?’
‘That’s the dome of St Peter’s you can see, yes—but, if you want to go there, I’d suggest going very early tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘The queues at this time of day will be horrendous.’
‘Well, you can hardly go to Rome and not visit the Vatican,’ she said, taking a snapshot of the dome framed by the branches of the trees overhanging the wall.
He smiled. ‘OK. I’ll book us a tour for tomorrow.’
She blinked. ‘But you’re a tour guide. You’d actually take a tour with someone else? Or is that like market research for you?’
‘We need a licensed Vatican tour guide and I don’t have a Vatican pass,’ he explained. ‘But right now I have lunch in mind.’
They walked hand in hand along the Tiber. Rico stopped by one of the bridges. ‘I know I’m not officially a tour guide today, but I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t tell you that this is the oldest bridge in Rome, built nearly two thousand years ago.’
‘You mean it’s an original Roman bridge?’ And yet it looked as firm and strong as if it had been built with the newest technology. ‘Wow. It’s amazing to think we’re walking in the footsteps of people who lived all that time ago.’
‘The more things change, the more they stay the same,’ he said softly.
Trastevere, on the other side of the river, was incredibly pretty; the houses were painted in a soft wash of terracotta or saffron, vines grew on balconies and terraces, and large pots of shiny-leaved green shrubs graced the doorways. And Ella thoroughly enjoyed their leisurely lunch in the square outside the church of Santa Maria. Sharing a glass of wine with him, seeing the desire glittering in his eyes—brighter than the golden mosaics outside the church that glittered in the sunlight.
Once Rico discovered that she enjoyed looking round the ancient churches, he smiled. ‘That’s excellent, because I was planning to take you to see something a bit unusual in another church, just across the river.’
‘Unusual’ hardly did it justice, Ella thought as she looked at the huge stone disc on a plinth in the portico of the church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin. It contained the carved face of a wild man; his mouth was open beneath his moustache, and wild hair and a beard surrounded his face. There was a crack in the stone going right to the edge from his left eye, and another crack running down from his mouth. Ancient and very, very imposing.
‘It reminds me a bit of one of the Green Men you’d see in an English church,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘The Bocca della Verità—the Mouth of Truth,’ he translated. ‘In medieval times, if you were accused of lying, you put your hand through the hole in the mouth. If you could take your hand back unscathed, you were telling the truth.’
‘And if you were lying?’
He shrugged. ‘Then the Mouth would eat your hand.’
‘Seriously? You mean someone stood behind the stone and actually cut off their hand?’ Very rough justice. Though she knew a couple of people who would’ve fallen seriously foul of the Mouth. Her father. How many lies had he told? To her mother, to his wife, to however many women who had made the same mistake as Ella’s mother and fallen in love with a charming, handsome and utterly faithless man.
And her ex. How many times had Michael told her he was studying at the university library, when he’d really been doing something else—or, rather, someowe else—entirely? Another charming, handsome and utterly faithless man.
Or maybe the fault had been hers. For not learning from her mother’s mistakes. For trusting Michael in the first place. Whatever; lying was the one thing Ella really couldn’t and wouldn’t tolerate. And she’d never let herself get involved with another charming, handsome and utterly faithless man again.
She pushed the thought away. ‘Wow. That’s really bloodthirsty.’
‘I don’t think anyone actually chopped off anyone’s hand. The fear of what would happen was enough to make people tell the truth,’ Rico said. ‘The stone’s actually a Roman drain cover, and the face is thought to be that of the god Oceanus.’
‘It’s certainly imposing.’ And there was a queue of tourists posing for photographs, holding one hand through the Mouth of Truth.
‘It’s touristy, yes,’ he said, following her gaze, ‘but it’s a little less common than people doing the “Friends, Romans, countrymen” speech.’ He touched her cheek briefly with the backs of his fingers, as if to let her know that he hadn’t been criticising her—merely stating a fact. ‘Shall I take your picture?’
‘Yes, please.’ She joined the queue to have her photograph taken with the Mouth, and paid her donation.
‘Would you like me to take your picture?’ she asked when he’d taken the shot.
‘No need. I live here,’ he said with a smile.
For a moment, she thought he looked a bit shifty. But that was ridiculous. What possible reason would Rico have to lie to her? No. That was sheer paranoia, brought on by thinking about the men who’d let her down so badly in the past.
He took her for a quick peek at the Circus Maximus, the ancient chariot-racing stadium; then they caught the Metro to the Piazza del Popolo and climbed up the steps to the Borghese Park.
‘I can’t believe it’s so quiet here,’ she said as they wandered along the path. ‘All you can hear is birdsong—no noise from the traffic, no sirens blaring from the police cars or the ambulances.’
‘I come here whenever I need some peace,’ he said. ‘We could walk round, or we could take a riscio.’
‘What’s a riscio?’
He gestured to people passing them. ‘A pedal cart for four with a sunshade on top. They do two-seaters, as well.’
‘A side-by-side tandem, you mean?’
‘Something like that.’ He smiled. ‘We can see a bit more of the park, this way. And it’s fun.’
She wasn’t so sure about that five minutes later, when they were heading towards a roundabout and, however she turned the wheel of the riscio, she couldn’t get the pedal cart to change direction. The notice in the middle of the car warned about needing to brake downhill, and the risk of the cart toppling over. Where was the brake? Panic flooded through her.
‘The steering’s only connected on my side, bellezza,’ he told her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. ‘Turning your wheel won’t make any difference.’
Ella was practically hyperventilating. How could he be so calm? ‘There’s a road train over there and we’re going the wrong way round the roundabout!’
‘We drive on the right in Italy, so we go round the roundabout the opposite way to how you drive in England,’ he reminded her. ‘It’s fine. We’ll give way to the road train. There’s nothing to worry about. Just sit back and enjoy it.’
‘Enjoy …?’ she asked wryly, beginning to wish they’d just walked.
‘Ella,
