HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

46 H . P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R
many years to learn these techniques. They cannot be taught in a
day, or even a week—and an inexperienced hand often does
more harm than good.” He shook his head. “A trained archaeologist
should accompany the digging crews as they work on these
tunnels—I have asked many times. But no one would listen.”
“Not listen—to you? Why would they not, Padrone? You
are renowned—they say you are the greatest Roman archaeologist
in two hundred years.”
Macchi waved away this away a rueful smile. “I could be
the Second Coming of Our Lord, Trochino—it would not
matter to the city’s planning council. They make many excuses—the
inability to guarantee safety, et cetera. In reality, I’m
afraid I simply made too many enemies when the new subway
was proposed. My colleagues and I opposed the digging for
many months.” He gave a mild half-shrug of regret. “But you
are right, Trochino. It is a great shame. I would very much like
to have seen those paintings—especially the images of
Eurydice.”
“She was the girl who returned from the dead?” The surveyor
scratched his beard nervously.
“Yes. The bride of Orpheus.” The two men had reached a
nexus of tunnels; several passages twisted away in all directions.
Father Macchi set down his can again, resting for a moment.
“This is my turning, Trochino.”
“Si, Padrone. I know the catacombs. I grew up in the
underground; the men of my family have always been diggers,
for many generations.”
Macchi paused and took his handkerchief out of his pocket
again, wiping the grit from his neck. “Really? That is interesting.”
Trochino lifted his chin with a proud smile. “My greatgrandfather
worked for Rosetti, when they first re-opened the
old tombs. He even said that we Trochino were among the first
furores, when Nero was emperor. I think perhaps he was exaggerating?”
Macchi gave him a kindly wink. “Perhaps not much,
Trochino. Some families in this city can easily trace their lineage
back to the old Roman days.”
Trochino’s bright black eyes shone with pleasure. “I would
like to come with you the rest of the way, Padrone,” he said. “It
has been many years since I have walked in the sacred places.
My mother used to bring me here on holy days, when I was a
boy, to see the martyrs.” The shorter man bent and scooped up
the heavy can that Macchi had been carrying by its handle.
“Perhaps I can carry this for you, as well.” His smile flashed
bright in his black beard. “You have already carried it so many
miles today . . .”
The old priest nodded. “As you wish, Trochino. It is still
quite a distance to the dig site, but I appreciate the company.”
He stretched his neck and bent his head to the left, easing the
weary muscles of his right shoulder. “And I confess, my old
joints appreciate the rest.”
The two men turned and took the left-hand path. Like the
workman’s tunnels, the catacombs were lit by electrical bulbs;
here the lights were dimmer, more intermittent. The stone floor
beneath their feet was now cool and dry, not churned to mud
by the passage of heavy boots and hydraulic machinery.
D
Long horizontal niches had been cut into the walls of pale,
chalky tufa. Empty now, they had once served as resting places
for the first Christians buried in Rome. Here and there, a larger
gallery opened; in these areas one might find the stately sarcophagus
of a wealthy family, or a miniature basilica where a
small congregation of secret worshippers once met, centuries
before, to celebrate their salvation.
Periodically, the roof was pierced with long vertical shafts
which ran all the way to the surface, allowing for a flow of fresh
air. For the most part, the way was too narrow to allow the two
men to walk side by side, but Trochino clumped along behind
the priest, still beaming happily as they walked through the
winding tunnel. “Is it much farther, Padrone? Perhaps you
could tell me about this girl in the paintings—to pass the time.”
The priest shrugged, glancing back over his shoulder. “Not
much to tell, I’m afraid. The story is an old one. A very talented
young man married his sweetheart. She died of snakebite,
and was buried—in those days they believed that all of the dead
went to the same Hell, regardless of virtue. But Orpheus so
loved his wife Eurydice that he could not bear to leave her in
that gloomy place. He went before the King of Hell—Hades,
of course, not Satan—and begged for her release.”
Trochino nodded. “Si. I saw this in the pictures. He played
the harp for this King of Hell?”
The priest smiled. “Yes. A song of love and grief so powerful
that even the God of Death was moved. He allowed
Orpheus to lead his bride back up out of Hell. There was a long
stair which led back up to the open air; the only proviso was
that Orpheus could not look upon her face until she was back
among the living.”
“But he looked, did he not?” Trochino asked. “He lifted
her veil.”
The priest smiled. “So the story goes. He could not wait.
As she stood on the threshold, he turned to behold her face—
thus breaking the pact he had made with Hades. Eurydice was
forced to return to the Land of the Dead. Orpheus had lost her
forever.”