The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [53]
The bus was crowded; this was a popular, cheap tourist excursion as well as a regular bus route. Pummeled and shoved, Jean collapsed onto the nearest seat. When she had caught her breath and brushed her hair back from her face she was edified to note that Jacqueline had neatly snagged Professor Scoville. He was sitting beside her, his head turned, and a smile on his face as she chatted. Experience counts, Jean thought. She had seen Dana clinging to Scoville’s arm as the taxi drove up. Three seats back, across the aisle, Dana was scowling like a thundercloud. Wearing a thin knit sleeveless shirt which displayed her adherence to one of the basic principles of Women’s Liberation, and a skirt so short it looked like an apron, she was the center of a circle of admiring eyes.
The others were scattered. Michael and Ann had found seats together; Jean noticed that unlikely combination with interest. The two of them got along amiably enough, but Michael’s rampant masculinity clearly made Ann nervous. “She acts like a Christian virgin cornered by Attila the Hun,” Michael had complained once. He had been careful not to push her, and now she seemed to be enjoying their conversation. There was a faint flush on her cheeks as she talked.
Andy and José were also sitting together; they were apparently absorbed in one of their interminable arguments. Jean saw José roll his eyes in mock despair as Andy, laughing, made some inaudible point.
Ted was sitting directly across the aisle.
Seeing his familiar face, with its thick glasses and broad smile, Jean was seized by a sensation of unreality. It was impossible, the idea Michael had suggested…. Then, juxtaposed to Ted’s face, her imagination shaped that other—the face of the falcon girl, as Jacqueline had called her. Michael was right; that face, once seen, could not easily be forgotten.
“Hey.” Ted nudged her. “What are you thinking about? Your face has gone blank, like a statue’s.”
“Oh, nothing much…”
“You’re not worrying about your report, are you? Forget it for a time. That’s over; the die is cast, one way or another.”
“That doesn’t make me stop worrying,” Jean said wryly.
“But it should. Once the deadline is past, or the decision has been made, the worry is useless. To wait for the deadline…to make the decision—that’s the agonizing part.”
“Now you’re blanking out,” Jean said, forcing her voice to sound casual. She had never seen Ted look quite like that. His face was older, harder.
“Are you American?” The girl sitting next to Jean spoke, and Jean turned to talk to her. No matter how much you might love Rome, it was a pleasure to hear your native language spoken, and a common tongue was introduction enough. She talked to the other girl—a student from an Eastern college, on a summer tour—until Ted nudged her again. It was time to leave the bus.
They were almost the only ones to get off the bus at that stop; most of the travelers were going on, to the better-known catacombs or to a spot farther out in the country from which they could hike back to town, visiting “sights” as they went. The nine of them clustered together, and Andy indicated the building across the narrow road.
“There it is. The basilica of San Sebastiano. One of the seven pilgrimage churches,” he added, with a quick glance at Jacqueline. “But we aren’t here to visit the church, which, for you ignorant laymen, has little of interest. We have an appointment with Padre Montini, one of the archaeologists in charge of the excavations.”
“I am disoriented,” José said, looking around. “Ah, no, I see one landmark. That is the tomb of Cecilia Metella, is it not?”
He indicated a gray structure farther down the road.
“Right.” Andy nodded. “This is, of course, the Via Appia Antica, the ancient road famed in song and story. It was lined with tombs and cemeteries in ancient times. Almost all of