massive sections of columns that lay on their sides, some with florets carved into the marble and others with fragments of lettering. He ran his hand along their gritty surface and scanned the broken sections. Marco couldn’t read Latin any better than Italian, but for the first time, it didn’t bother him. He wedged his finger into one of the letters to measure its depth, and the marble came up to his first knuckle.
He withdrew his hand, overcome with awe. He had always known that there was a subterranean Rome, a city underneath the city itself, having learned as much in school and encountered random artifacts all over the city. But being here tonight made it real to him in a way it had never been before. He finally understood its meaning and felt his spirits soar. His ancestors had chiseled these letters, carved these columns, and constructed this magnificence. He couldn’t read as well as his classmates, but now he knew he possessed native intelligence, as he was descended from these ancients.
He was a son of Lazio. Of Roma. And he stood tall, bathing in the moonglow, for a very long time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aldo
July 1937
Across town, Aldo hurried down the frigid hallway of the catacomb and reached a cubiculo, a small room containing a family crypt. There, the anti-Fascists sat on the floor around a few lighted candles, bottles of Chianti, and loaves of rustic bread. The men were of all ages, shapes, and sizes, but each face wore a similarly tense expression. Each man knew he was running a lethal risk in being here, so much so that for security reasons, they didn’t reveal their true identities even to each other, but used nomi di battaglia, battle nicknames. The names were based on their appearance or demeanor, such as Bug Eyes, Chubby Cheeks, Broken Tooth, Apple Eater, and Pipe Smoker, or less obvious ones like Speaks French and the Tsar.
Aldo was called Signor Silenzio, and their leader went by Uno, self-appointed and self-named. Aldo didn’t know anything about him, but surmised from Uno’s demeanor and vocabulary that he was an intellectual of privileged background. Uno was tall and lean, with thoughtful brown eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses, and his fine nose was set in a smooth face, with high cheekbones and small lips. His Italian was without dialect, though its inflection sometimes sounded Milanese to Aldo, who had heard a similar inflection from Milanese customers at the bar. It made Aldo feel geographically inferior to Uno, for snobs often said that Rome was only a Mediterranean city, but Milan was a European city.
“Ciao, Signor Silenzio.” Uno rose quickly, shaking his hand. The rest of the men joined in, greeting Aldo.
“Here, Signor Silenzio.” Uno’s wife, whom they called Silvia, smiled and passed him a bottle of wine. She was the only female in the anti-Fascist cell, and Aldo felt shy around her, as with most women, especially because she was pretty. She had on a purple frock of a fine cut, and her bright blue eyes and straight blond hair evinced a northern Italian heritage. Aldo assumed she was Milanese, too, but she said little and Uno did all the talking.
“Grazie.” Aldo sat down on the cold, hard floor of the crypt.
Uno remained standing, his face barely illuminated by the candlelight below and his shadow elongated on the crypt wall. “Now that we’re all here, I will begin by saying that this is our most important meeting yet. As you know, so far we have engaged only in acts of sabotage against the regime, printing and distributing leaflets to convince others of the merits of our cause, or damaging cars, supplies, and other equipment. However, I have come to regard these as vandalism and mischief, not amounting to anything. I have been making new plans. Tonight, I wish to announce them.”
“Yes, it was mischief at best!” Loud Mouth shouted, and Bug Eyes and the Tsar exchanged significant glances, then nodded. Aldo wasn’t sure he agreed with Uno, since he had distributed leaflets, and even that had unnerved him. He had risked arrest if caught, and his father would have killed him.
Uno paused. “Men, we are about to strengthen our resistance. We are ready to intensify our efforts. It is time to take the next step, one that executes our goal to free Italy from the tyranny of Fascism. I have decided to call it Operation First Strike.”
The men looked grave and shifted forward, and Aldo detected a dangerous undercurrent