LatinosUSA

«Trevi Fountain» by Julian Seiden

Ross sat on the railing with his back to the pool, really milking that gelato for all it was worth (which had been a lot), looking up at the stone buildings around him. The streetlights colored everything gold except the water. That was ice blue and lit from within so that ripples were cast up onto the fountain.

Aside from a couple walking hand-in-hand on the other side of the square and a few tourists scattered here and there, it was surprisingly and thankfully quiet, save for the continually rushing water behind him. Coming after midnight had been a good idea. He would have to thank the concierge for the recommendation.

The sound of shoes on bricks made him turn forward to see another man and woman together, running at him. Before Ross could react he realized they weren’t running at him but at the fountain itself. They stopped, panting and looking up at the carved scene before them. They didn’t seem to notice Ross at all.

The man wore a ruffled suit, his tie loose and askew. The woman was in a dark pantsuit and looked similarly disheveled. She had her hand up to her shoulder and Ross could see blood spread around her fingers. It appeared she had been either shot or stabbed but didn’t seem to be in much pain. Her attention was elsewhere.

Ross glanced around to see if anyone else noticed the newcomers. No one had.

“Trevi Fountain!” the woman exclaimed, out of breath.

“Largest Baroque fountain in Rome,” the man agreed without turning to her, still looking up at the statues. “Completed 1762.”

The woman looked down and furrowed her brow, as if thinking hard. “The bathing virgin lost from the stars, followed the steps of the sun,” she recited, monotone. She looked up at the man who turned to her, and she repeated the line with different inflections. “The bathing virgin lost from the stars, followed the steps of the sun.”

Ross had a spoonful of gelato.

“Why did you bring us here?” she asked.

He had his hands on his hips. “This fountain is the terminal point of the aqueduct that used to flow to the Baths of Agrippa.”

“The Acqua Vergine,” she agreed, then her expression turned to surprise. “Vergine… virgin! Baths! The bathing virgin!”

One of his hands left his hip and pointed at her, but more like a teacher explaining something to a student. “It wasn’t always,” he said. “Before the Pope had the acquaduct renovated in the 1400s it was originally known as the Aqua Virgo. From when the original fountain stood in this location.” He looked up at the statue in reverence. “From before Christ.”

Ross wondered why they hadn’t discussed this on the way here.

She looked around, murmuring to herself but loud enough for both men to hear. “Virgo… the stars! Yes! It fits!” Her triumphant look turned to one of confusion. “But if the Aqua Virgo led to the Baths, the bathing virgin must be a reference to it! Why aren’t we there?”

Ross moved his eyes from her to the man.

His tone took on one of an even more scholarly lecture. “Remember, the tablet said ‘lost from the stars’.” He turned back to the stone figures on the fountain, a man on a clam shell flanked by two men and two horses. One of the men appeared to be punching one of the horses, though Ross thought it could be holding a bridle. He wasn’t sure what the other figure was doing.

The man continued, “Nicola Salvi designed this fountain in 1730, but he wasn’t the original designer. Pope Clement XII had a contest to find a designer and the winner was one Alessandro Galilei.” He said the name slowly for emphasis.

“Galilei… like Galileo Galilei?” she asked incredulously.

“Same family. Not the man himself, but of the name. The one who had the design taken away. Lost from the stars.” He began mumbling the second half of the quote to himself as he moved his head to look at each part of the scene in turn. “Follow the steps from the sun… the sun… zodiac? Degrees off axis from Virgo? Hmm…”

She cocked her head, then asked, “Why did they give it to Salvi then?”

Sill facing away, “There was an outcry. Galileo isn’t from Rome. He’s Florentine.” And with that, the man hopped the railing and waded into the fountain.

He made his way through the water toward the statues as the woman circled the outside, passing Ross as she did so without so much as a glance. He twisted his body to the left to watch them.

She put both hands on the railing around the pool and leaned forward, her wound completely forgotten. “What are you doing?” she called up to him.

He was on the uppermost level of the fountain now. Ross looked around. The tourists had left and the man and woman across the square only had eyes for each other.

“Not from the sun but from the son,” the man said as he pawed around the statues, water splashing around him. He stood up. “The gentleman in the middle is Oceanus. The one over here blowing the conch-

Ohhhh, thought Ross.

-is Triton. His son.” He bent back down, examining the area around the statue’s feet, and before long he exclaimed with triumph, “Aha! There are footprints carved into the stone up here!”

The woman shifted over to be closer without getting in the water herself. “Where do they lead?”

He followed them to the edge of the platform and looked around, increasingly frustrated. “Nowhere! They end at this wall here.” He slapped the water. “Nothing here but coins.”

Ross and the woman forrowed their brows at the same time but neither knew it. She turned around and leaned against the railing, lost in thought. Then her eyes flew open and she spun and pointed at the man.

“Legend has it that if someone throws a coin into this fountain, they will return to Rome.”

It was his turn to cock his head. “But we’re in Rome.” He didn’t say it condescendingly; Ross assumed setting each other up was their usual rhythm. Still, he was glad she knew something he didn’t.

“Right,” she said, smiling. “You come back to Rome. The way you came.” She stared at him until his eyebrows raised and he got on board.

“Back the way you came!” He shouted.

“Follow the steps in the other direction!” she called, but it was unnecessary; he was already doing it.

“They come from this stone tree back here. The bark is intricately carved… it’s Cyrillic!”

Ross remembered his gelato and looked down to see it almost completely melted. He sighed.

“What does it say?” she called, straining to see any sign of her partner but he was completely obscured by a craggy stone wall.

His voice came from behind it, just a little louder than the water still flowing over the edge. It was halted and broken, as though he was reciting it as he was translating it. “Out… of the eater… something to eat… out of the strong… something sweet.”

“Samson’s riddle!” she exclaimed. “From the Bible. Judges 14:14. The answer being a lion and honey.”

“There’s more, though. ‘From the woman’s house…’” He stood up, looking at her. “‘…comes this treat’.”

She shook her head. “That’s not part of the Bible.”

“That’s all there is,” he said with a shrug. He climbed down and over the railing to stand next to her, dripping.

They both concentrated, her with her arms folded, him with a hand to his chin. Ross squinted his eyes in thought.

The woman said, “From the woman’s house, comes… honey? Is that the treat?”

“Well, the innermost part of a flower is called the gynoecium,” he replied. The lecturing tone was back. “From the Greek ‘gynaikos oikia’, meaning ‘woman’s house’. Honey does come from pollen.”

“Why Cyrillic though?” she asked, turning to him.

It was the setup he needed. He snapped his finger. “Peterhof Palace in Saint Petersburg!”

Her mouth fell open. “The Samson fountain! Of course!” She rolled her eyes. “Another fountain. But wait… Peterhof Palace and its gardens were founded in 1710. Before this was built.”

His eyes were bright. “The Palace and gardens were, yes. The fountain of Samson and the lion was added in the early 1730s. Same time Trevi Fountain started construction.”

They were interrupted from their revelation by the sound of an approaching car. All three of them looked that way, Ross in interest and the other two in alarm. He looked back to them as the man grabbed the woman’s hand. “They found us. Come on!” They ran down the brick street and around a corner. The car came into the square and followed.

Ross was left by himself at the fountain. Even the couple across the way had moved on. He paused for a minute, looking at nothing in particular, then got up to deliver his ruined gelato to a trash bin. On his way back to the fountain a truck pulled up and a maintenance crew holding mesh baskets and boxes got out. One of the men with rubber waders climbed over the railing and stepped into the fountain. He began scooping up the coins and handing them to his partner.

The main in the fountain looked up at Ross and said something in Italian that Ross didn’t catch and he shook his head politely. The man smiled and tried again, this time in heavily accented English. “I suppose you are wondering what we are doing.”

“You know,” said Ross, “nothing would surprise me at this point.”

“We come here every night to collect the coins. Usually no one is here this late to see us!” He chucked good-naturedly. “This money is all donated to local charity. A supermarket for needy families.”

“You know,” said Ross, “this has been very educational.” He patted his pockets, found the change from his gelato, and put it in the man’s collection basket. “They’re right. I think I will come back to Rome one day.”

Author’s Note: As far as I know, there are no footprints or clues carved into Trevi Fountain. Everything else is true.

*featured image from Unsplash https://unsplash.com/@mphphoto

Author’s Bio

Julian Seiden was born in NY, grew up in PA, and lives in WV. He has a degree in Creative Writing from Slippery Rock University, where he also wrote for the college newspaper, received the Louis Razzano scholarship for English, and was Treasurer of Sigma Tau Delta, the English honorary.

Since graduation he hasn’t used his degree professionally at all. However he still continues to write poetry and short stories. He also spends his free time sitting on picnic tables in the middle of nowhere (@meonapicnictable on Instagram and Tumblr).