The Priest
Father William Atget took hold of his red cashmere scarf and wrapped it resolutely around his neck…affording such luxury, the scarf would protect him from a severe winter chill that lanced Rome’s ancient spirit. The priest fastened up his tailored black raglan overcoat. William bowed forward and opened up his Florentine leather briefcase that he had placed on the floor, he pulled out his black leather gloves. He put them on. Father William Atget took a moment of solitude, he gave his attention to a third Century Roman bust. It was a copy of a Greek sculpture attributed as being a portrait of the great Stoic philosopher Zeno. William Atget picked up his brief case, held it against his chest with one hand and closed the fastener with the other.
‘il padre, il padre Signor Atget.’
An acquiescent voice echoed through the marble veneered corridor. The secretary for the Department of Advanced Scientific Research walked purposefully towards the priest. The woman was clutching the Father’s tightly wound black umbrella.
‘Signor Atget you left your umbrella in the laboratory.’
William Atget acknowledged the secretary with a lowly smile and a bow of his head before he spoke.
‘I shall definitely be needing this.’
Wafting the closed umbrella in an arc in front of him, William Atget aligned it toward the direction of the squall outside. The secretary deftly moved forward of seignior Atget to open the door.
‘We are creating good things here father’.
The priest removed the sheath from his umbrella.
‘We are mere agents of the creator Michelle, what we do here we do to serve god.’
Father Atget stood on the porch and opened the umbrella.
‘See you in the morning Father.’
‘Buona sera Michelle.’
Michelle Tonti stood at the top of the portico stairs and watched Father Atget walk across the rain soaked piazza towards the waiting car that would return him home to the Vatican.
‘So how is it going?’
Raymond climbed off Michelle Tonti; rolled on to his back and while undertaking this manoeuvre recovered the white linen bed sheet at the foot of the bed with his feet and pulled it up over their bodies to envelop their modesty.
‘It’s intricate.’
Michelle Tonti stretched out her body and exhaled tension with a plaintive sigh; she relaxed her limbs and kicked the linen sheet away from her own body. Michelle turned on to her side to face Raymond and placed a reassuring hand upon his chest, his eyes were at rest. Lost in thought…in stillness and serenity.
Raymond de Chardin considered himself to be an avid wordsmith and he enjoyed eking out ‘petite tales’ as he called them; nevertheless established opportunities for his pros had remained elusive until The Eternal City had beckoned. Raymond de Chardin had relocated to Rome preceding a fortuitous interview with the Reuters news agency. It had been a game of bluff and Raymond had won, Raymond had triumphed.
Raymond marched down through the Arch of Septimus Severus and on through the Forum Romanum. His head elevated in confidence Raymond du Chardin passed through the underbelly of the Arch of Titus and down the cobbled street towards the great square of the Flavian amphitheatre. This was Raymond du Chardin’s first morning in Rome.
'At six in the morning Rossella Rancati kisses her two young daughter's goodbye. She is a single mother. The spirited Rossella knocks with certainty upon her neighbour's long-standing paint encrusted door. Rossella does not wait for the door to be opened. Rossella descends the stairs and out into Labicano. To witness this hurried informality toward her children masks the care and the love that Rossella clearly holds for her siblings, Maria and little Pia.
It is the height of summer and Rossella will be away from her children for the best part of the day and she will not be returning home till nightfall. Her children will spend the day with the patriarchal lady who lives across the landing. Home for the family is in a five-story apartment building constructed during one of Mussolini’s building regeneration programmes in the mid 1930’s, above a crumbling concrete façade are the remnants of a fascistic frieze. The woman Olivia is dressed head to foot in sombre dusky garments, she will read to the children ancient Roman fables and anecdotal stories, she will cook with them and when the day is through she will return the two children to their home and settle them back into their shared bed. Rossella after a long day will enter the one bedroom apartment under torchlight. She will kiss each daughter in turn trying not to awaken them by the dim light of the torch. Rossella will prepare for bed in the dark. Wrapped in freshly laundered sheets Rossella will sleep in the corner of the room. She rests upon an old mattress along with the forensic remnants of unknown stock.
Rossella was born in the Spaccanapoli area of Naples. In her early twenties she transferred North to Rome to find work. Rossella carries with her at all times a small family crucifix and also wears around her neck an amulet of St Gennaro. ‘Until Vesuvius erupts’ Rossella tells me… meaning that St Gennaro will keep all fires at bay and Gennaro will protect Rossella like her beloved Naples. At seven thirty Rossella arrives at the end of the Via Labicana. She crosses the road to the deserted Colosseum. This is her place of work. Rossella asks me to wait by the ticket office while she leaves to find somewhere to change. I last see Rossella heading in the direction of the Arch of Constantine and the tree lined Via di San Gregorio, there I lose sight of her. I am left in the company of at least a dozen cats relaxing and eating and repeatedly washing themselves within my vicinity. Within a few hours however the tourist hordes will arrive by the coach load and drive these felines to ground.
Several minutes pass and the first souvenir store owner arrives with his handcart. The stallholder rapidly un-folds his compact box on wheels, this creates a stall of twice its previous size. It seems to have the mass of a small family saloon car. Italian’s seem to travel in undersized cars yet the Italian family is large; Italians have a genius for compacting the maximum into the minimum. The store holders pitch is a good one, close to the box office. I sit upon a large piece of limestone that once formed part of the external arcade of the Colosseum. Catching me unawares Rossella approaches. Brandishing a most enchanting smile…she is now dressed for the days work. Rossella is Rome’s only work-a-day female Gladiator. Rossella is well muscle toned; her skin has that healthy Mediterranean colour...gentle radiance...Rossella glows. She tells me that she applies an olive oil to her skin before she changes into her costume…well out of the sight of men mind. Rossella is guarded when I ask her where she keeps her gladiatorial outfit; she taps the end of her nose with her finger…she remains silent on this matter.
Rossella’s pitch in the arena is not a decent one; She has done well to survive three long seasons in Gladiatorial combat. Her male Gladiators all command the finest pitches. There is a hierarchy Rossella informs me. ‘Women are not welcome; it confuses the tourists they say. I’m not Roman they say, I am a whore from Naples and tourists don’t want their photos taking with a fraud Roman.’ Rossella takes me to the only pitch left to her and I spend the day watching the life of a female Gladiator in combat.
Rossella Rancati’s arena is on the very fringe of the Colosseum basin, on the corner of Via dei Fori Imperiali and the Piazza del Colosseo. The drink stalls that also sell the tourist tat surround her. She has however befriended one stall owner Lupo. 'Lupo is kind’ Rossella tells me, ‘He lets me work with him on his patch. Lupo gives me water and food, he looks after me while I’m here.’ Rossella fights hard to be noticed, there is no prominent position for her to stand. The natural elevated stones near the entrance of the Colosseum provide the male gladiators and the centurions with a plinth to pose upon. As with the Roman statues in the Musei Capitolini these men also command attention. Although they are in competition with each other, they will position themselves together and groom each other, they look resplendent in their uniforms, they are proud men, and they are very Roman.
It is a glaringly blistering day and around this ancient wonder of Rome there are visitors in abundance. The majority of the tourists' groups who come to visit this marvel are in the main from the pre-arranged package holiday excursion trips. These visitors arrive by luxury air-conditioned coaches and their time at the Colosseum is limited. It is by the roadside of the Via dei Fori Imperiali that the coaches deposit their clientele. This staging post is a hurried affair for all. The Guides from the coaches and double deck busses will hasten the holidaymakers along… to join with the queues that will take them through to the colosseum. ‘As soon as we get off the coach you will be hassled by street sellers. Hold onto your money until we are safe inside the colosseum where you will be able to purchase official Souvenir’s. Please follow me to the ticket office and like our visit to the Vatican I shall be holding up my car aerial so that you do not get lost. Today the ribbon hung from it shall be yellow.’ The courier prepares the tourists by buoying them into repeating the last part of the command before they step off the bus; they do so with good humour.
The assault begins with a pincer movement from the two coach exits. Once all have disembarked the coach they are regrouped. They are awe struck by the amphitheatre, the heat of the morning sun scorches them, moisture evaporates and the group could so easily become disorientated by the crowds. They naturally do what they are told to do by their bus commander rep…forward and onwards towards the Colosseum they march…a line… a column… a phalanx of tourists. Each coach group can be seen to be following a different car aerial or an umbrella or a walking stick towards their destination. Rossella asserts a pose then asks, ‘Your photo souvenir with a gladiator, sir…madam?’ Rossella speaks a few lines in American English, Spanish and mellifluous French. Rossella’s words on this occasion are to no avail, the tourists have been well trained, and comparable to frightened bunnies or to a disciplined army either way fight or flight the tourists hurry on by.
By most accounts visitors do not associate gladiators with female combatants. Rossella battles hard to convince. She knows her Roman history and principally a richly embellished history of the Gladiator. But few want history lessons here. A few independent travellers do have their photos taken with ‘Rossella the Samnite’; these tourists tend to spend much longer at the Colosseum. Some of these client tourists will show little respect for Rossella as she poses with them in their photographs. Rossella often encounters sexual harassment, a rub of a thigh, a pinch of her bottom or a grasp of her bosoms. For their cheep and cheeky titillation Rossella can do no more than barrette them with a short Neapolitan insult. ‘I bet you have pay your wife to let you do that to her when at home!’
I purchase an iced bottle of water from her street vendor friend Lupo I ask Rossella about the molesters. Rossella is flustered from the latest attack, ‘Why do they do that to Rossella? Why do they not pay! why?’ Rossella takes a sip of water in-between sentences. ‘Did you see some of the men over there?’ Rossella points and scowls at a few of the well-bronzed Centurions, ‘they laugh and ridicule me when tourists do such things to me. Some of the men spit at me…always out of view of the tourists and tell me how much money they have earned…I have to be on guard all the time…They have stolen my short sword in the past…I used to dress as a Retiarus with a net, a dagger and a trident, that was when I first started my gladiatorial career. I used to make some good money, the men liked me to begin with, they would invite me to pose with them in the tourist photographs.’ The Retiarus Gladiator I might add was more scantily clad! There is what you would call a male alliance here and a culture of ‘Symmachia.’ ‘By the August of my first season here things rapidly deteriorated. I had my trident and a net confiscated by the Caribiniari, they say I threatened the men…They tell me, Rossella you dress like a loose woman, like a non Christian, you show too much flesh in front of our visitors, you offend both the tourists' and us Romans Rossella…The tour guides' are in collusion with the male gladiators, the couriers' sight the tourists' towards the Gladiators and the Centurions.’
I witness Rossella’s head drop for the first time this day…a loss of heart? Instantaneously rallying to the cause she endures. ‘All of us, the Praetorian Guards, Those Centurions and those dressed as Gladiators shall solitary gather up the crumbs while those inside the museums get first pick and the tourist dollar.’ ‘I need to get back to work, Bread and circuses.’ Rossella composes herself, picks up her double-edged well-tempered Spanish blade. The proud gladiator places the helmet over her head, Rossella brandishes me one of her finest smiles. She raises her authentic oblong shield and proceeds to rejoin the affray. Rossella re-enters the battle.’
‘Have you ever seen old Saint Gennaro’s blood?’
Raymond opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling and he imagined. His eyes roved over every contour of the painted nude water nymphs above them. His discrimination affixed upon a pair of ripe, rose coloured buttocks. His eyes quickly began to ache and tire. Raymond blinked and closed them. Michelle Tonti looked across at Raymond’s profile and watched his open mouth begin form words... Have you ever seen old Saint Gennaro’s Blood he said… If only you knew Raymond how old Saint Januarius is at this moment in time…is he sixteen hundred years old or is he fifty years old? Do I tell you that I shared coffee with him only yesterday? That I converse with other Saints over pasta lunches and suppers, that we laugh and drink wine and reason in Latin. If only I could tell you Raymond il caro amare. She caressed repeatedly Raymond’s chest…at a tempo that reflected her own chaotic thought pattern. His eyes remained closed.
What ever happened to her? Did she return to Naples with little Maria and little Pia? Why had I not taken a photograph of her? Would she ever have seen the published article? Would the tourists have identified her in my fastidious text? Assuredly they would congregate on every side of Rossella and they would solicit her. To be photographed with Rome’s only female gladiator…the decisive moment, I saw it pass in front of the eyepiece yet I always pressed the shutter too late… A single shot to the temple… I saw it frame by frame, a life being taken and I carried on pressing the trigger, snap, the first thousandth of a second caught, a head forced sideways by the velocity of a bullet. Snap, contorted mussels. Snap, the recoil of the pistol and the hand in a black leather glove.
In order to be free of the disturbing graphics rendered in his own mind, Raymond momentarily blinks open his eyes before closing them once more. On the one occasion Raymond de Chardin was caught in the right place and at the right time had been during the assassination of Cardinal Peter Rizal. Decapitated on the lush grass of the Palazzo Lateranese. The assassin apprehended on the spot efficiently and bloodedly despatched, executed by the Vatican Swiss Guard.
Amongst the business of turning the bloody chaos into a story Raymond de Chardin clicked away on his professional thirty five-millimetre camera. Raymond weaved around the developing tragedy. The world outside the view of his camera’s lens…absent. His heartbeat quickened enriching his senses. With Cardiac adrenaline, Raymond could feel the pulse of life flowing through him. His mind worked overtime… Seventeen shots? Nineteen? Switch off… take the long view… no get in close… twenty… twenty-one or twenty-five? Raymond did not respond to the outside world, he did not hear a security guard shouting at him, how could he, Raymond could not speak Italian. It was only when one of the security guards took hold of Raymond’s arms was he then jolted back into this world. Raymond began shaking, nervous energy prematurely spent, a marathon runner stopped at the height of his triumph…Raymond was now above and below…surrounded on all sides by the impeccably dressed security personal, Raymond’s inadequate Italian fuelled his panic and frustrated his captors. Don’t shoot me…don’t shoot me… Don’t shoot me. Raymond’s mind repeated. He faltered with his words, don’t shoot me...
From the cavalcade of black Alfa Romeo limousines that awaited the Cardinal and his cohorts, Michelle Tonti ran to the scene of the assassination. Michelle Tonti saw tears and absolute fear in a man’s eyes as he struggled to make himself understood to the elite security personnel that surrounded him.
‘Comment vous appelez-vous?’
Raymond looked at the security guard who had spoken to him. The figure seemed to scrutinise Raymond’s face from behind stylish Italian shades. The frame of this figure before him was furnished in a tailored black suit and wearing a white shirt. Raymond also noticed the figure supporting a small gold and black chequered badge on the jacket breast pocket. The figure repeated the question. It was a feminine voice, authoritative and calm. ‘Raymond du Chardin’ with much relief he found that he had been able to reply.
Michelle Tonti proceeded to ask Raymond a succession of questions. During the interrogation Raymond could hear the security forces gathered around him interchange from speaking Italian into German. A security guard stood behind Raymond continued to restrain his arms in a vice like grip whilst a second guard took hold of his camera. Fresh dispatched blood clearly from the dead man coagulated on the right cuff of the man’s jacket. Raymond felt the strap that hung around his neck nip his skin. The guard held aloft the camera in his hand then relinquished his grip of the camera…it fell heavily back against his chest. The woman stepped forward towards Raymond du Chardin and asked him to lower his head. Raymond bent slightly at his waist and stooped forward. The guard lessened his grip of Raymond’s arms as Raymond complied with the request. Michelle Tonti took hold of the dangling camera in her right hand. With her other hand she preceded to lift the camera strap from Raymond’s neck. She relieved him of his camera. Raymond erected himself before her. The woman located the rewind button on the camera and pushed it in. The mechanism delicately whizzed into action…that sound… Raymond realised that he had neglected to load a new film into the camera.
Why had the Cardinal been slaughtered in such a way? It was a clean ritualised kill...artful? A single bullet to the head, the assassin sat back on his heels with his head lowered. The man was calmly waiting to die. Raymond’s mind recalled the events of that day. Raymond’s mind had banished the carnage for over seven years, a head blown clean off… Is that how long we have been together now? There were moments of change, there had been his ejection from Reuters… for total incompetence no less…and the relish of Michelle Tonti, living together, exploring each other, probing Rome’s arteries…and Michelle’s new job…a good job…for the Italian Ministry of Science...and what were the Avenues of work for the writer? In-flight novellas for Air France, A paper written and delivered on, ‘The creative literary development of Tourist information’ on the behalf of and for the French tourist industry. One of several well paid jobs over the years; we have lived Michelle unlike the poor decapitated Peter Rizal.
Raymond de Chardin opened his eyes and momentarily turned his head to face Michelle Tonti, her eyes still closed, her hand, at ease upon his chest. He looked back at the ripe rosy buttocks of the nymphs above them.
Feigning sleep…It is complicated, where would I begin to untangle the truth from fiction…I substitute fact for a counterpart fictitious fact… I tell you the truth but hide and mask the nature of the flesh and blood we create… How would I tell you Raymond that we have only just begun to get the measure of our achievements…yet we had already lost control? It all started before I joined the Ministry of Science…My work at The Vatican is interwoven with my current work now Raymond, I still work for the Vatican, I never left them. Her own story races through her own mind, developing a momentum…running a race…faster…faster...we resurrect the dead…we enhance and tailor DNA…we clone human genes, and we have mastered the beneficial genes that establish our human condition…We have our family of good and learned Christian men, brought into being to nurture and to tutor, but we also created wretched men…
Michelle Tonti shouts out. ‘Raymond! …We have the child but we do not know if we have the Christ.’
Simon Withers 2006
Father William Atget took hold of his red cashmere scarf and wrapped it resolutely around his neck…affording such luxury, the scarf would protect him from a severe winter chill that lanced Rome’s ancient spirit. The priest fastened up his tailored black raglan overcoat. William bowed forward and opened up his Florentine leather briefcase that he had placed on the floor, he pulled out his black leather gloves. He put them on. Father William Atget took a moment of solitude, he gave his attention to a third Century Roman bust. It was a copy of a Greek sculpture attributed as being a portrait of the great Stoic philosopher Zeno. William Atget picked up his brief case, held it against his chest with one hand and closed the fastener with the other.
‘il padre, il padre Signor Atget.’
An acquiescent voice echoed through the marble veneered corridor. The secretary for the Department of Advanced Scientific Research walked purposefully towards the priest. The woman was clutching the Father’s tightly wound black umbrella.
‘Signor Atget you left your umbrella in the laboratory.’
William Atget acknowledged the secretary with a lowly smile and a bow of his head before he spoke.
‘I shall definitely be needing this.’
Wafting the closed umbrella in an arc in front of him, William Atget aligned it toward the direction of the squall outside. The secretary deftly moved forward of seignior Atget to open the door.
‘We are creating good things here father’.
The priest removed the sheath from his umbrella.
‘We are mere agents of the creator Michelle, what we do here we do to serve god.’
Father Atget stood on the porch and opened the umbrella.
‘See you in the morning Father.’
‘Buona sera Michelle.’
Michelle Tonti stood at the top of the portico stairs and watched Father Atget walk across the rain soaked piazza towards the waiting car that would return him home to the Vatican.
‘So how is it going?’
Raymond climbed off Michelle Tonti; rolled on to his back and while undertaking this manoeuvre recovered the white linen bed sheet at the foot of the bed with his feet and pulled it up over their bodies to envelop their modesty.
‘It’s intricate.’
Michelle Tonti stretched out her body and exhaled tension with a plaintive sigh; she relaxed her limbs and kicked the linen sheet away from her own body. Michelle turned on to her side to face Raymond and placed a reassuring hand upon his chest, his eyes were at rest. Lost in thought…in stillness and serenity.
Raymond de Chardin considered himself to be an avid wordsmith and he enjoyed eking out ‘petite tales’ as he called them; nevertheless established opportunities for his pros had remained elusive until The Eternal City had beckoned. Raymond de Chardin had relocated to Rome preceding a fortuitous interview with the Reuters news agency. It had been a game of bluff and Raymond had won, Raymond had triumphed.
Raymond marched down through the Arch of Septimus Severus and on through the Forum Romanum. His head elevated in confidence Raymond du Chardin passed through the underbelly of the Arch of Titus and down the cobbled street towards the great square of the Flavian amphitheatre. This was Raymond du Chardin’s first morning in Rome.
'At six in the morning Rossella Rancati kisses her two young daughter's goodbye. She is a single mother. The spirited Rossella knocks with certainty upon her neighbour's long-standing paint encrusted door. Rossella does not wait for the door to be opened. Rossella descends the stairs and out into Labicano. To witness this hurried informality toward her children masks the care and the love that Rossella clearly holds for her siblings, Maria and little Pia.
It is the height of summer and Rossella will be away from her children for the best part of the day and she will not be returning home till nightfall. Her children will spend the day with the patriarchal lady who lives across the landing. Home for the family is in a five-story apartment building constructed during one of Mussolini’s building regeneration programmes in the mid 1930’s, above a crumbling concrete façade are the remnants of a fascistic frieze. The woman Olivia is dressed head to foot in sombre dusky garments, she will read to the children ancient Roman fables and anecdotal stories, she will cook with them and when the day is through she will return the two children to their home and settle them back into their shared bed. Rossella after a long day will enter the one bedroom apartment under torchlight. She will kiss each daughter in turn trying not to awaken them by the dim light of the torch. Rossella will prepare for bed in the dark. Wrapped in freshly laundered sheets Rossella will sleep in the corner of the room. She rests upon an old mattress along with the forensic remnants of unknown stock.
Rossella was born in the Spaccanapoli area of Naples. In her early twenties she transferred North to Rome to find work. Rossella carries with her at all times a small family crucifix and also wears around her neck an amulet of St Gennaro. ‘Until Vesuvius erupts’ Rossella tells me… meaning that St Gennaro will keep all fires at bay and Gennaro will protect Rossella like her beloved Naples. At seven thirty Rossella arrives at the end of the Via Labicana. She crosses the road to the deserted Colosseum. This is her place of work. Rossella asks me to wait by the ticket office while she leaves to find somewhere to change. I last see Rossella heading in the direction of the Arch of Constantine and the tree lined Via di San Gregorio, there I lose sight of her. I am left in the company of at least a dozen cats relaxing and eating and repeatedly washing themselves within my vicinity. Within a few hours however the tourist hordes will arrive by the coach load and drive these felines to ground.
Several minutes pass and the first souvenir store owner arrives with his handcart. The stallholder rapidly un-folds his compact box on wheels, this creates a stall of twice its previous size. It seems to have the mass of a small family saloon car. Italian’s seem to travel in undersized cars yet the Italian family is large; Italians have a genius for compacting the maximum into the minimum. The store holders pitch is a good one, close to the box office. I sit upon a large piece of limestone that once formed part of the external arcade of the Colosseum. Catching me unawares Rossella approaches. Brandishing a most enchanting smile…she is now dressed for the days work. Rossella is Rome’s only work-a-day female Gladiator. Rossella is well muscle toned; her skin has that healthy Mediterranean colour...gentle radiance...Rossella glows. She tells me that she applies an olive oil to her skin before she changes into her costume…well out of the sight of men mind. Rossella is guarded when I ask her where she keeps her gladiatorial outfit; she taps the end of her nose with her finger…she remains silent on this matter.
Rossella’s pitch in the arena is not a decent one; She has done well to survive three long seasons in Gladiatorial combat. Her male Gladiators all command the finest pitches. There is a hierarchy Rossella informs me. ‘Women are not welcome; it confuses the tourists they say. I’m not Roman they say, I am a whore from Naples and tourists don’t want their photos taking with a fraud Roman.’ Rossella takes me to the only pitch left to her and I spend the day watching the life of a female Gladiator in combat.
Rossella Rancati’s arena is on the very fringe of the Colosseum basin, on the corner of Via dei Fori Imperiali and the Piazza del Colosseo. The drink stalls that also sell the tourist tat surround her. She has however befriended one stall owner Lupo. 'Lupo is kind’ Rossella tells me, ‘He lets me work with him on his patch. Lupo gives me water and food, he looks after me while I’m here.’ Rossella fights hard to be noticed, there is no prominent position for her to stand. The natural elevated stones near the entrance of the Colosseum provide the male gladiators and the centurions with a plinth to pose upon. As with the Roman statues in the Musei Capitolini these men also command attention. Although they are in competition with each other, they will position themselves together and groom each other, they look resplendent in their uniforms, they are proud men, and they are very Roman.
It is a glaringly blistering day and around this ancient wonder of Rome there are visitors in abundance. The majority of the tourists' groups who come to visit this marvel are in the main from the pre-arranged package holiday excursion trips. These visitors arrive by luxury air-conditioned coaches and their time at the Colosseum is limited. It is by the roadside of the Via dei Fori Imperiali that the coaches deposit their clientele. This staging post is a hurried affair for all. The Guides from the coaches and double deck busses will hasten the holidaymakers along… to join with the queues that will take them through to the colosseum. ‘As soon as we get off the coach you will be hassled by street sellers. Hold onto your money until we are safe inside the colosseum where you will be able to purchase official Souvenir’s. Please follow me to the ticket office and like our visit to the Vatican I shall be holding up my car aerial so that you do not get lost. Today the ribbon hung from it shall be yellow.’ The courier prepares the tourists by buoying them into repeating the last part of the command before they step off the bus; they do so with good humour.
The assault begins with a pincer movement from the two coach exits. Once all have disembarked the coach they are regrouped. They are awe struck by the amphitheatre, the heat of the morning sun scorches them, moisture evaporates and the group could so easily become disorientated by the crowds. They naturally do what they are told to do by their bus commander rep…forward and onwards towards the Colosseum they march…a line… a column… a phalanx of tourists. Each coach group can be seen to be following a different car aerial or an umbrella or a walking stick towards their destination. Rossella asserts a pose then asks, ‘Your photo souvenir with a gladiator, sir…madam?’ Rossella speaks a few lines in American English, Spanish and mellifluous French. Rossella’s words on this occasion are to no avail, the tourists have been well trained, and comparable to frightened bunnies or to a disciplined army either way fight or flight the tourists hurry on by.
By most accounts visitors do not associate gladiators with female combatants. Rossella battles hard to convince. She knows her Roman history and principally a richly embellished history of the Gladiator. But few want history lessons here. A few independent travellers do have their photos taken with ‘Rossella the Samnite’; these tourists tend to spend much longer at the Colosseum. Some of these client tourists will show little respect for Rossella as she poses with them in their photographs. Rossella often encounters sexual harassment, a rub of a thigh, a pinch of her bottom or a grasp of her bosoms. For their cheep and cheeky titillation Rossella can do no more than barrette them with a short Neapolitan insult. ‘I bet you have pay your wife to let you do that to her when at home!’
I purchase an iced bottle of water from her street vendor friend Lupo I ask Rossella about the molesters. Rossella is flustered from the latest attack, ‘Why do they do that to Rossella? Why do they not pay! why?’ Rossella takes a sip of water in-between sentences. ‘Did you see some of the men over there?’ Rossella points and scowls at a few of the well-bronzed Centurions, ‘they laugh and ridicule me when tourists do such things to me. Some of the men spit at me…always out of view of the tourists and tell me how much money they have earned…I have to be on guard all the time…They have stolen my short sword in the past…I used to dress as a Retiarus with a net, a dagger and a trident, that was when I first started my gladiatorial career. I used to make some good money, the men liked me to begin with, they would invite me to pose with them in the tourist photographs.’ The Retiarus Gladiator I might add was more scantily clad! There is what you would call a male alliance here and a culture of ‘Symmachia.’ ‘By the August of my first season here things rapidly deteriorated. I had my trident and a net confiscated by the Caribiniari, they say I threatened the men…They tell me, Rossella you dress like a loose woman, like a non Christian, you show too much flesh in front of our visitors, you offend both the tourists' and us Romans Rossella…The tour guides' are in collusion with the male gladiators, the couriers' sight the tourists' towards the Gladiators and the Centurions.’
I witness Rossella’s head drop for the first time this day…a loss of heart? Instantaneously rallying to the cause she endures. ‘All of us, the Praetorian Guards, Those Centurions and those dressed as Gladiators shall solitary gather up the crumbs while those inside the museums get first pick and the tourist dollar.’ ‘I need to get back to work, Bread and circuses.’ Rossella composes herself, picks up her double-edged well-tempered Spanish blade. The proud gladiator places the helmet over her head, Rossella brandishes me one of her finest smiles. She raises her authentic oblong shield and proceeds to rejoin the affray. Rossella re-enters the battle.’
‘Have you ever seen old Saint Gennaro’s blood?’
Raymond opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling and he imagined. His eyes roved over every contour of the painted nude water nymphs above them. His discrimination affixed upon a pair of ripe, rose coloured buttocks. His eyes quickly began to ache and tire. Raymond blinked and closed them. Michelle Tonti looked across at Raymond’s profile and watched his open mouth begin form words... Have you ever seen old Saint Gennaro’s Blood he said… If only you knew Raymond how old Saint Januarius is at this moment in time…is he sixteen hundred years old or is he fifty years old? Do I tell you that I shared coffee with him only yesterday? That I converse with other Saints over pasta lunches and suppers, that we laugh and drink wine and reason in Latin. If only I could tell you Raymond il caro amare. She caressed repeatedly Raymond’s chest…at a tempo that reflected her own chaotic thought pattern. His eyes remained closed.
What ever happened to her? Did she return to Naples with little Maria and little Pia? Why had I not taken a photograph of her? Would she ever have seen the published article? Would the tourists have identified her in my fastidious text? Assuredly they would congregate on every side of Rossella and they would solicit her. To be photographed with Rome’s only female gladiator…the decisive moment, I saw it pass in front of the eyepiece yet I always pressed the shutter too late… A single shot to the temple… I saw it frame by frame, a life being taken and I carried on pressing the trigger, snap, the first thousandth of a second caught, a head forced sideways by the velocity of a bullet. Snap, contorted mussels. Snap, the recoil of the pistol and the hand in a black leather glove.
In order to be free of the disturbing graphics rendered in his own mind, Raymond momentarily blinks open his eyes before closing them once more. On the one occasion Raymond de Chardin was caught in the right place and at the right time had been during the assassination of Cardinal Peter Rizal. Decapitated on the lush grass of the Palazzo Lateranese. The assassin apprehended on the spot efficiently and bloodedly despatched, executed by the Vatican Swiss Guard.
Amongst the business of turning the bloody chaos into a story Raymond de Chardin clicked away on his professional thirty five-millimetre camera. Raymond weaved around the developing tragedy. The world outside the view of his camera’s lens…absent. His heartbeat quickened enriching his senses. With Cardiac adrenaline, Raymond could feel the pulse of life flowing through him. His mind worked overtime… Seventeen shots? Nineteen? Switch off… take the long view… no get in close… twenty… twenty-one or twenty-five? Raymond did not respond to the outside world, he did not hear a security guard shouting at him, how could he, Raymond could not speak Italian. It was only when one of the security guards took hold of Raymond’s arms was he then jolted back into this world. Raymond began shaking, nervous energy prematurely spent, a marathon runner stopped at the height of his triumph…Raymond was now above and below…surrounded on all sides by the impeccably dressed security personal, Raymond’s inadequate Italian fuelled his panic and frustrated his captors. Don’t shoot me…don’t shoot me… Don’t shoot me. Raymond’s mind repeated. He faltered with his words, don’t shoot me...
From the cavalcade of black Alfa Romeo limousines that awaited the Cardinal and his cohorts, Michelle Tonti ran to the scene of the assassination. Michelle Tonti saw tears and absolute fear in a man’s eyes as he struggled to make himself understood to the elite security personnel that surrounded him.
‘Comment vous appelez-vous?’
Raymond looked at the security guard who had spoken to him. The figure seemed to scrutinise Raymond’s face from behind stylish Italian shades. The frame of this figure before him was furnished in a tailored black suit and wearing a white shirt. Raymond also noticed the figure supporting a small gold and black chequered badge on the jacket breast pocket. The figure repeated the question. It was a feminine voice, authoritative and calm. ‘Raymond du Chardin’ with much relief he found that he had been able to reply.
Michelle Tonti proceeded to ask Raymond a succession of questions. During the interrogation Raymond could hear the security forces gathered around him interchange from speaking Italian into German. A security guard stood behind Raymond continued to restrain his arms in a vice like grip whilst a second guard took hold of his camera. Fresh dispatched blood clearly from the dead man coagulated on the right cuff of the man’s jacket. Raymond felt the strap that hung around his neck nip his skin. The guard held aloft the camera in his hand then relinquished his grip of the camera…it fell heavily back against his chest. The woman stepped forward towards Raymond du Chardin and asked him to lower his head. Raymond bent slightly at his waist and stooped forward. The guard lessened his grip of Raymond’s arms as Raymond complied with the request. Michelle Tonti took hold of the dangling camera in her right hand. With her other hand she preceded to lift the camera strap from Raymond’s neck. She relieved him of his camera. Raymond erected himself before her. The woman located the rewind button on the camera and pushed it in. The mechanism delicately whizzed into action…that sound… Raymond realised that he had neglected to load a new film into the camera.
Why had the Cardinal been slaughtered in such a way? It was a clean ritualised kill...artful? A single bullet to the head, the assassin sat back on his heels with his head lowered. The man was calmly waiting to die. Raymond’s mind recalled the events of that day. Raymond’s mind had banished the carnage for over seven years, a head blown clean off… Is that how long we have been together now? There were moments of change, there had been his ejection from Reuters… for total incompetence no less…and the relish of Michelle Tonti, living together, exploring each other, probing Rome’s arteries…and Michelle’s new job…a good job…for the Italian Ministry of Science...and what were the Avenues of work for the writer? In-flight novellas for Air France, A paper written and delivered on, ‘The creative literary development of Tourist information’ on the behalf of and for the French tourist industry. One of several well paid jobs over the years; we have lived Michelle unlike the poor decapitated Peter Rizal.
Raymond de Chardin opened his eyes and momentarily turned his head to face Michelle Tonti, her eyes still closed, her hand, at ease upon his chest. He looked back at the ripe rosy buttocks of the nymphs above them.
Feigning sleep…It is complicated, where would I begin to untangle the truth from fiction…I substitute fact for a counterpart fictitious fact… I tell you the truth but hide and mask the nature of the flesh and blood we create… How would I tell you Raymond that we have only just begun to get the measure of our achievements…yet we had already lost control? It all started before I joined the Ministry of Science…My work at The Vatican is interwoven with my current work now Raymond, I still work for the Vatican, I never left them. Her own story races through her own mind, developing a momentum…running a race…faster…faster...we resurrect the dead…we enhance and tailor DNA…we clone human genes, and we have mastered the beneficial genes that establish our human condition…We have our family of good and learned Christian men, brought into being to nurture and to tutor, but we also created wretched men…
Michelle Tonti shouts out. ‘Raymond! …We have the child but we do not know if we have the Christ.’
Simon Withers 2006