Page 30 of Livia in Rome
He raises the other, daring me to keep going.
I fold my arms, adding a slight frown to double down on my point.Nope. Not happening.
A smile tugs at his lips and he pushes away from the wall. ‘Come on, Scotland. There’s one more thing I want to show you.’
We leave the orange garden and walk for a while, arms swinging at our sides,almosttouching, until Giulio stops beside a huge green door set into a high wall.
He points to the small brass keyhole. ‘Have a look through there.’
‘What, so someone can poke me in the eye...or squirt water at me?’
He laughs, that rich, belly-warming sound again. ‘Trust me, Scotland.’
With a jolt, I realize I do trust him. And that, evenif it is a prank, it won’t be a cruel one.
I barely have to crouch to press my eye against the keyhole. At first, all I see is a blurry darkness. Then, as my sight adjusts, an image comes into focus. It’s so vivid, I think someone’s slotted a postcard into the keyhole, like a photo in a locket. But birds are swooping in the clear blue sky, which means the dome of St Peter’s Basilica, perfectly framed by a path of arching greenery, is actually real. For a moment, the world narrows to just this – no bar, no debts, no secrets. Just this tiny, hidden view of one of Rome’s most famous landmarks.
‘This is . . . amazing,’ I say, glancing back at Giulio.
He shrugs. ‘Nina would’ve shown you if she wasn’t in hospital. I’m just standing in for her.’
Of course. I blush, reminding myself that this is about Nina, not us. I mean...thereisno us.
Our next stop is the Basilica di San Clemente, or to quote Giulio – ‘a slice of the best historical lasagna in Rome’.
He’s not joking.
We descend from a twelfth-century church to a fourth-century basilica below, then down again into an ancient Roman house and temple.Actuallayers of history sitting one on top of the other.
Back on the Vespa, we whizz past crowded buses and trams and, though it feels like someone’s blowing a hairdryer in my face, it’s hands-down the best way to get around the city and is worth more than its vintage charm and the price tag Bertolli has put on it. It is pure freedom.
But there’s no getting away from the blistering sun and the press of people when we park the Vespa and step into a piazza dominated by the massive dome of the Pantheon. A dozen different languages buzz in my ear, and I realize July has slipped into August – the absolute worst month to go near any of the big sights.Sensing my panic at the wall of tourists ahead, Giulio reaches for my hand, pausing to check he isn’t touching my fading burn. ‘Stay close, OK?’
Swit swoo!Inner Isla catcalls in my ear as the low rumble of his voice makes me jump inside. The thrum of my heart pulses in my fingertips and I wonder if Giulio can feel it too. Relief floods through me as he steers us away from the crowds funnelling into the Pantheon, and down a narrow side street into an unexpected pocket of calm.
‘It’s not the Pantheon.’ He pulls me inside a much smaller, tucked-away church. ‘But it has a pretty impressive dome of its own.’
Intrigued, I tilt my head back, taking in the striking fresco curving high overhead, a masterpiece of angels and saints rising into a dramatic sky. My attention’s only half on it though...that hand, still lightly holding mine, is distracting. When he lets go to turn in a full circle, his eyes never leaving the ceiling, my relief is almost immediate, as if his touch had been sapping my focus. Although, honestly, there’s a smidge of disappointment there too.
‘See it yet?’ he asks.
I squint up at the fresco, trying to figure out what ‘it’ is.
Giulio steps closer, and points to a spot above us.‘Look at the edges, see how the lines don’t quite meet? That’s how you can tell it’s flat.’
I see it. The borders of the fresco blur, not quite connecting like they should. ‘Oh,’ I breathe, as the illusion falls away. He’s right. The ceiling is flat, but the painting tricks the eye, making it seem like it’s arching above us.
I sneak a look at Giulio and, not for the first time today, I feel like I’m seeing him in an unexpected way too. I give myself a mental kick. Giulio’s just a stand-in.
‘Thanks for showing me another of Nina’s finds,’ I say, more as a reminder to myself.
‘Actually, this is one of my mum’s favourite spots.’ He pauses, kneading the heel of one hand into his shoulder as if he’s loosening some tension. ‘My dad never came, though.’
‘Too busy driving lorries?’
‘Yeah...it gets him away from Rome. He only moved here for my mum. Says everything’s better in Milan – cleaner streets, trams are on time, blah, blah, blah.’
I snort. ‘It’s like my parents...theychooseto live in Edinburgh but still complain non-stop about the weather...and the food.Ommioddio.Always the food.’
