Regina took her hands and pressed them between her own. Julia’s fingers were thin, the bones as fragile as a baby bird’s. “Mother,” she said. “Don’t be afraid. I have prepared. Follow my lead. If you support me, nobody need be harmed. Do you understand?”

Through her obvious fear Julia forced a small grin. “You always were the strong one, Regina.”

“I’ll show you the way. There won’t be room for everybody. Family first, of course. Hurry, Mother!”

As Julia bustled away through the confused crowd in search of Helena and the other elders, Regina pulled Brica away from her groom and her attendants. Castor drifted after them, uncertain. They ran first to the small shrine, where Regina swept up the three matres, and then to the peristylium.

Regina had had a small trapdoor installed here. She peeled back a flap of turf and took a key she wore beneath her dress. The complicated lock was stiff, perhaps rusted, but by using two hands she managed to work its heavy mechanism. Then, with Brica’s help, she lifted the trap to expose a blacked-out shaft, with iron rungs set into the wall.

Brica peered down uncertainly. “What is it?”

“A place of safety.” Castor had a torch, she saw; she grabbed this from his hands. “Castor. Stay here. Guard this place. Don’t let anybody down here. Not yet.”

“But—”

“Your wife will be safe here. Will you do as I say?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Brica, follow me.”

With the torch held high, Regina made her way down the iron rungs. It was a difficult journey to make with one free hand, and she felt stiff, heavy, clumsy; she was getting too old for such adventures. But Brica was following.

At the bottom of the shaft Regina found herself standing in an arched tunnel, lined with concrete and brick. The walls were pocked with chambers, shelves, and alcoves, as if she had entered a vast cupboard. The roof was only a little higher than her own head, and if she had reached out she could have touched both walls. This tunnel was only part of a great warren of passageways and chambers that had been dug into this soft rock. Everything was blackened by the smoke of torches and candles, and there was a smell of damp and rot.

Brica was fingering her dress, which was streaked with black mud. “I am filthy,” she murmured.

Regina could hear a hint of humor in her daughter’s voice. She hugged her briefly. “I doubt if your wedding procession is likely to take place today. Not unless you want a few black-painted barbarians to join it . . .”

Brica walked slowly down the narrow passageway. The walls were painted with symbols, lamb, fish, shepherd, Christian symbols, and the alcoves contained objects like lamps and glass vessels—and many, many wrapped-up shrouds. These were bodies, some already centuries old, wrapped in lime-coated cloth. “What is this place?”