Chapter 92: Night at the Colosseum: I
Franz had deliberately chosen their route so they wouldn’t pass any other ancient ruins on the way to the Colosseum. He wanted the massive arena to hit them with its full impact, without any distractions softening the blow. They took the Via Sistina, cutting through the streets near the Santa Maria Maggiore church, then wound through Via Urbana until the Colosseum loomed before them, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.
But Franz had another reason for this particular route. It left him free to sink into his thoughts, replaying the strange story the hotel owner, Signor Pastrini, had told them earlier. That story had mentioned his mysterious host from Monte Cristo, a man who seemed to pop up everywhere and nowhere at once.
Slumped in the corner of the carriage with his arms crossed, Franz couldn’t stop turning it over in his mind. The more he thought about it, the weirder it got. Questions piled up with no good answers.
One thing kept nagging at him: the connection between the bandits and the sailors. Pastrini had mentioned how the brigand leader Vampa had found refuge on smuggling vessels. It reminded Franz of something he’d witnessed himself, two Corsican bandits having dinner aboard a small yacht, completely at ease with the crew. The yacht had even changed course just to drop them off at Porto-Vecchio.
And that name his host had used, "Sinbad the Sailor", which the hotel staff kept repeating? It proved the island mystery man was playing the generous benefactor all along the Italian coast. Franz remembered him casually mentioning Tunis and Palermo in conversation, like he knew those cities as well as his own backyard. This guy’s network was massive.
But all those thoughts evaporated the moment the Colosseum came into view.
The ancient ruins rose before them, dark and imposing, with pale moonlight streaming through countless openings in the broken walls. The light flickered and danced like ghostly eyes watching from the shadows. The carriage stopped near an old fountain called the Meta Sudans. The door swung open, and as soon as they stepped out, a tour guide appeared out of nowhere, literally, it seemed like he’d sprouted from the ground itself.
Their hotel guide had followed them too, so now they had two guides to deal with. In Rome, avoiding guides was impossible. There was always the general hotel guide who latched onto you the second you checked in and refused to leave your side. But on top of that, each monument had its own specialized guides, sometimes different guides for different parts of the same building. The Colosseum, being one of the wonders of the ancient world, naturally had guides swarming everywhere.
An old poet named Martial had once written about it, "Let Memphis stop bragging about their pyramids, and let Babylon’s hanging gardens be forgotten. Everything pales before the Caesars’ magnificent achievement, this incomparable monument that will echo through history forever."
Albert and Franz didn’t even try to escape their guides. It would’ve been pointless anyway, since only the guides were allowed to carry torches inside. So the young men surrendered themselves to their conductors’ care, following wherever they led.
Franz had already visited the Colosseum seven or eight times before, but this was Albert’s first time walking these legendary grounds. And to his credit, even with the guides’ constant chattering, Albert was genuinely moved. He looked around with wide-eyed wonder and deep respect.
There was something about seeing these ruins in person, especially by moonlight, that no description could capture. The mysterious silver beams made the massive structure seem twice as large, the way southern moonlight had of illuminating everything with an otherworldly glow.
Franz had barely walked a hundred steps inside when he abandoned Albert to the guides. They were dragging his friend through their standard tour route, the Lions’ Den, the Hall of Gladiators, Caesar’s Podium, with precision and rehearsed speeches that Franz had heard too many times. Wanting to escape the monotonous routine, Franz climbed a half-collapsed staircase and settled at the base of a large column, directly across from an opening that gave him an unobstructed view of the arena’s magnificent scale.
Franz sat hidden in the column’s shadow for nearly fifteen minutes, watching Albert and his torch-bearing guides appear and disappear through various passages. They looked like restless ghosts following flickering will-o’-wisps through the darkness.
Suddenly, Franz heard something, the sound of a stone rolling down the staircase opposite him.
Nothing unusual about a piece of granite breaking loose and tumbling down. But something felt off. It sounded like the stone had given way under someone’s weight, like footsteps trying hard to stay quiet.
His suspicion proved correct. A man’s figure gradually emerged from the opposite staircase, perfectly visible in the moonlight pouring down from above.
This newcomer was probably just another person who, like Franz, preferred solitude and his own thoughts to the guides’ annoying chatter. Nothing strange about his appearance at first. But the way he moved, stopping, listening carefully with every step, convinced Franz he was waiting for someone.
Some instinct made Franz press himself closer behind his pillar.
About ten feet away, the roof had collapsed completely, leaving a large circular opening to the night sky. Through it, Franz could see stars scattered across the dark blue expanse. Creeping vines had grown around the opening, their delicate green branches standing out against the sky, while thick fibrous shoots forced their way through the gap and hung down like living ropes swaying in the breeze.
The mysterious arrival stood in half-shadow, making his features impossible to see clearly, though Franz could make out his clothes well enough. He wore a large brown cloak draped over his left shoulder, which also covered the lower part of his face. A wide-brimmed hat hid the upper part. Only his lower half was clearly visible in the moonlight streaming through the broken ceiling, elegant polished leather boots and fashionable black trousers.
From what Franz could tell, this was definitely someone from high society.
A few minutes passed. The cloaked man began showing signs of impatience, shifting his weight and glancing around. Then Franz heard a slight noise from above. A dark shadow blocked the moonlight coming through the roof opening, and another man’s silhouette appeared, peering down into the vast space below. Once he spotted the man in the cloak, he grabbed the hanging vines and slid down skillfully, dropping the last few feet and landing lightly on his feet.
This second man wore the traditional costume of the Trastevere district, a working-class neighborhood across the river.
"Sorry for keeping your excellency waiting," the man said in the Roman dialect. "But I don’t think I’m too late. The Saint John Lateran clock just struck ten."
"Don’t worry about it," the stranger replied in perfect Tuscan Italian. "I’m the one who’s early. Even if you’d made me wait a while, I would’ve known it wasn’t your fault."
"You’re absolutely right, your excellency," the Roman said. "I came straight from the Castle of Saint Angelo prison. It took me forever to get a chance to talk to Beppo."
"Who’s Beppo?"
"He works inside the prison. I pay him every year to keep me informed about what’s happening in the Pope’s dungeon."
"Smart. Very prepared."
"Well, you never know what might happen. Maybe someday I’ll get trapped like poor Peppino, and I’ll need a little mouse to gnaw through my chains and help me escape."
"Get to the point. What did you learn?"
"Two executions are scheduled for the day after tomorrow at two o’clock, that’s the usual time for big festivals in Rome. One criminal will be killed with a mace, he’s a monster who murdered the priest who raised him. No one feels sorry for him. The other one will be beheaded by guillotine. And that one, your excellency, is poor Peppino."
"The truth is, you’ve made not just the Pope’s government terrified, but all the neighboring states too. They’re eager to make an example of anyone connected to you."
"But Peppino wasn’t even in my band! He was just a poor shepherd whose only crime was selling us food supplies."
"Which makes him your accomplice legally. But notice how they’re treating him differently. Instead of beating him to death like they’d do to you if they caught you, he gets a quick guillotine execution. That way they also get to diversify the day’s entertainment, something for every type of spectator."
"They won’t be the only ones providing a surprise show."
"My friend," the cloaked man said, "forgive me for saying this, but you sound like you’re about to do something reckless or crazy."
"Maybe I am. But I’ve decided one thing, I’ll stop at nothing to free this poor guy who only got into trouble because he helped me. I’d hate myself forever if I abandoned him now like a coward."
"And what exactly do you plan to do?"
"I’ll surround the execution platform with twenty of my best men. At my signal, they’ll rush forward when Peppino’s brought out, drive back the guards with their knives, and rescue him."
"That sounds risky and uncertain. My plan is much better."
"What’s your excellency’s plan?"
"Simple. I’ll spend 2,000 piastres to buy Peppino a one-year reprieve. Then during that year, another well-placed 1,000 piastres will help him escape from prison."
"And you’re sure this will work?"
"Pardieu!" the cloaked man suddenly exclaimed in French.
"What did you say, your excellency?"
"I said, my good man, that I can accomplish more single-handedly with gold than you and your entire gang could manage with knives, pistols, and rifles combined. Let me handle this. Don’t worry about the outcome."
"At least there’s no harm in me and my men being ready as backup, in case your plan fails."
"None at all. Take whatever precautions make you feel better. But trust me, I’ll get the reprieve."
"Remember, the execution is the day after tomorrow. You only have one day."
"So what? A day has twenty-four hours. Each hour has sixty minutes. Each minute has sixty seconds. That’s 86,400 seconds. A lot can happen in 86,400 seconds."
"How will I know if you’ve succeeded?"
"Easy. I’ve rented the three lower windows at the Café Rospoli. If I get Peppino’s pardon, the two outer windows will be hung with yellow fabric, and the center window will have white fabric with a large red cross on it."
"Who’ll deliver the reprieve to the execution officer?"
"Send one of your men disguised as a monk. I’ll give it to him. His costume will let him get right up to the platform, and he can hand the official order to the officer, who’ll pass it to the executioner. Meanwhile, it’d be good to tell Peppino what we’re planning, at least so he doesn’t die of fear or lose his mind. Either outcome would make this whole expensive effort pointless."
"Your excellency," the man said, "you know I’m completely devoted to you, right?"
"I certainly hope there’s no doubt about that," the cloaked figure replied.
"Then if you keep your promise and rescue Peppino, from that moment forward, you’ll have not just my devotion, but absolute obedience, from me and everyone under my command. Whatever one human can do for another."
"Be careful about making such promises, my friend. I might remind you of these words someday, perhaps sooner than you think, when I need your help and influence."
"Whenever that day comes, your excellency will find me as helpful as you’ve been in my time of trouble. Even if you write to me from the other end of the world asking me to do something, consider it done. You have my word-"
"Shh!" the stranger interrupted. "I hear something."