Sybert rose to his feet and dropped his hand roughly on the man’s shoulder. ‘The best thing you can do for your country is to put that stiletto into the fire.’ He turned aside with an expression of disgust and tossed some silver coins on the table in payment for the wine. Then pausing a moment, he glanced about the circle of swarthy faces. Gradually his expression softened. ‘I’ve tried to warn you. The police are on the watch, and I should advise you to stick pretty closely to your homes and not mix up in any riots. I will do what I can to get food and money for the poor people—I know of no other way to help. Heaven knows I would do it if I could!’
He nodded to them, and motioning Tarquinio to follow, passed into the front room. Closing the door behind them, he turned to the innkeeper.
‘Tarquinio, I think you had better go up into the hills and attend to your vineyard for a few weeks.’
The young Italian’s face was the picture of dismay. ‘But the osteria, Signor Siberti; who will manage that?’
‘Your wife can look after it. Let it be given out that you are tending vines in the Sabine hills. That is the safest profession these days. The police will be paying you a visit before long if I am not greatly mistaken—and whatever you do, keep out fellows like that Neapolitan.’
Tarquinio’s face darkened with a quick look of suspicion. ‘I am but a poor innkeeper, Signor Siberti. I must welcome those who come.’
Sybert shrugged. ‘I was merely speaking for your own safety. Such guests are dangerous. Addio.’ He turned toward the door, and then turned back a moment. ‘Take my advice, Tarquinio, and visit your vineyard.’
Tarquinio followed him to the threshold, and bidding him a voluble good-bye in the face of the world, begged the signor Americano to honour his humble osteria again; so that any chance passer-by might regard the gentleman as but a casual visitor. Sybert smiled at the simple strategy. An Italian loves a plot better than his dinner, and is never happier than when engaged in an imaginary intrigue. But in this case it occurred to him that his host’s caution might not be out of place; and he fervently assured Tarquinio that the wine had been excellent, and that in the future he would send his friends to the Osteria del Popolo Italiano.
CHAPTER IX
Sybert turned away from the wine-shop with a half-laugh at Tarquinio’s little play, with a half-frown at the fierce words of the Neapolitan, which were still ringing in his head. He walked along with his eyes upon the ground, scarcely aware of his surroundings, until an excited medley of voices close at hand suddenly startled him from his thoughts. He glanced up for a moment with unseeing eyes, and then with an astonished flash of recognition as he beheld Marcia Copley backed against one of the dark stone arches in the substructure of the theatre of Marcellus. Her head was thrown back and there were two angry red spots in her cheeks, while a struggling crowd of boys pressed around her with shouts and gesticulations.