Page 62 of In Italy for Love

Alex appeared in the kitchen door, licking his finger. ‘Yes, let me turn this off and I’ll put my coat on.’

She drifted to the kitchen, drawn as usual by the thick warmth of the stove and the scent of garlic and herbs. Attila sat on the windowsill, his tail flicking as he disparagingly observed his human’s activities. When Arco followed Jules in, Attila shot to his feet, back arching, and fluffed up into an angry white ball. Alex gave the cat a withering look and stroked his hand down Attila’s back.

‘That smells amazing,’ Jules commented. ‘Do we really have to wander around town looking for spirits when we could just eat that straight away? And I could have a shower,’ she said, looking down at herself thoughtfully and wrinkling her nose.

He gave her a tolerant smile as he moved the saucepan off the stove and padded into the hallway to slip into his shoes and coat. ‘Berengario will never forgive you if you don’t come.’

Picking up Arco’s lead, she frowned at Alex as he hefted his accordion case and locked up. Passing under the old archway, they hurried along the narrow lane to the main piazza where a small crowd had gathered. Alex left his accordion by a group of old men who were enjoying tiny glasses of schnapps. The jumbled buildings on the square were lit by the wavering flames of lanterns, and next to the fountain with the lion heads stood Berengario in his felt hat and a dark wool cape, holding a flaming torch.

‘It’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?’ she whispered to Alex. The sky had darkened to slate and with the lights of the square switched off and all the lanterns, the effect was decidedly creepy.

‘Do you need to hold my hand?’

She was glad to hear him joking. Apparently she was the only one thinking about his wife on the night of the dead. ‘Are you sure? Everyone’s watching.’

Leaning down to speak into her ear, he said, ‘They already think we’re sleeping together.’ He took her hand, slipping his fingers through hers, and between the shivers from his breath on her skin and the firmness of his grip, it took Jules a moment to be able to respond.

‘With that logic, there are a few other things we could be doing,’ she mumbled, but she didn’t let go of his hand.

Berengario called out to get the crowd’s attention and then spoke a brief introduction in Italian, repeating himself in English. ‘Here in Friûl, we remember our Celtic roots from pre-Roman times, lingering in the striis and sbilfs and particularly our abundant aganis – our witches and elves and the spirits of the waters. Around this time, too, in our tradition, we remember the souls of the people who have died, by sharing bread with our friends and neighbours.’

Jules didn’t think she’d imagined Berengario’s gaze flicking to Alex. He didn’t react, but she was glad her hand already held tightly to his.

‘Tonight you will see the magic of Cividât, our ancient city of Celts and Romans and Lombards. Follow me!’

In the darkness, the contemporary touches faded and Jules could almost imagine the centuries of past inhabitants joining them on the leisurely walk under the archways of the city. They passed the mediaeval red-brick house Jules remembered from her first night – with Alex – and he squeezed her hand as they passed the spot where they’d first kissed.

Berengario produced a key and the group shuffled through the back gate of the historic convent tucked along the river. Ducking through a small wooden door in a humble brick wall, they soon discovered the treasure inside, as they spilled into thechapel that was the pride of Cividale, a rare example of pre-mediaeval architecture with stuccoed floral patterns and reliefs of saints in ornate detail.

The light of Berengario’s torch flickered on the walls and the high-relief images appeared to move, looking down on the gawking visitors from their positions several metres higher – and fourteen centuries in the past.

‘Who were these “Longobardi” he keeps talking about? It sounds like long beards. Or would that bebarbo.’

‘Barba,’ he corrected. ‘But it does come from a Germanic word for long beards. They invaded this region in the sixth century after the retreat of Roman influence. They were a little like the Vikings, as I understand it – a northern tribe.’

‘Ah, okay. So what about the short beards? Would they be the “Cortobardi”?’ she asked, stroking his chin.

He snatched her hand away with a chuckle.

Berengario led them to a lookout over the river, where a persimmon tree stood guard. Like the one in Alex’s courtyard, it was heavy with plump orange fruit, but almost entirely bare of leaves in its exposed position. Then the walk continued to another strange little door in an inconspicuous wall in one of the many narrow lanes of the town.

The sign above the door read ‘Camera funeraria dell’ ipogeo celtico,’ which made Jules frown doubtfully. She wasn’t sure about ‘ipogeo’, but the first part sounded like a funeral room.

‘Here is the real Celtic history of Cividât,’ Berengario said. ‘These underground tunnels have had many uses over the centuries, although their original purpose is unknown. Stay close. It will be very dark inside. And watch your step.’

‘Watch your head, more like it,’ Jules said with a grimace as she ducked low under the door. Alex had to bend nearly in half. Inside, the tunnels were claustrophobic, carved into the rock by the hands of people and not machines, with crooked walls anduneven ceilings. As Berengario gathered his charges around the rough-hewn image of a face in the rock, he ushered Alex and Jules back into a corner to make room.

‘I know you two have the height of the northern Lombards and not the ancient Celts, but if you stand back, there will be room for everyone. Further back. Pull Arco with you.’

When she found herself stuffed into a tiny stone niche with Alex at her back, Jules eyed Berengario and suspected he was stifling a smile at their predicament. When Alex’s hand crept around her waist and his chin settled on her shoulder, she didn’t begrudge the old man his scheming.

After Berengario’s dramatic tour of the Celtic tunnels, the group wandered back to the main piazza, where music was playing and a contemporary dance troupe swirled and leaped in black capes while an ensemble of drummers kept time. The scent of roasting chestnuts reached Jules’s nose and she noticed a woman in a scarf standing behind a roasting drum, a little tower of paper cones next to her.

‘I have to—’ Alex gestured over his shoulder to where Berengario was beckoning to him. ‘The choir is singing.’

‘Oh,’ Jules said, finally putting together Alex’s ‘rehearsals’ and the atmospheric harmonies from Sunday night. ‘Okay. I’ll get some chestnuts and come and listen.’

He scrunched up his nose. ‘I hope you like old army songs.’

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