‘Apollo, it is thought,’ Mr Mailer said, ‘and perhaps Athena. Etruscan, of course. But the archaic smiles are Greek. The Greeks, you know, despised the Etruscans for their cruelty in battle and there are people who read cruelty into these smiles, transposed to Etruscan mouths.’ He turned to Grant: ‘You, I believe—’ he began and stopped. Grant was staring at the Van der Veghels with an intensity that communicated itself to the rest of the party.

They stood side by side admiring the sculptures. Their likeness, already noticed by Grant, to the Etruscan terra-cottas of the Villa Giulia startlingly declared itself here. It was as if their faces were glasses in which Apollo and Athena smiled at their own images. Sharp arrowhead smiles, full eyes and that almost uncanny liveliness—the lot, thought Alleyn.

It was obvious that all the company had been struck by this resemblance, except, perhaps, Lady Braceley who was uninterested in the Van der Veghels. But nobody ventured to remark on it apart from Sebastian Mailer who, with an extraordinary smirk, murmured as if to himself: ‘How very remarkable. Both.’

The Van der Veghels, busy with flashlights, appeared not to hear him and Alleyn very much doubted if any of the others did. Barnaby Grant was already leading them down a further flight of steps into a church that for fifteen hundred years had lain buried.

In excavating it a number of walls, arches and pillars had been introduced to support the new basilica above it. The ancient church apart from the original apse, was now a place of rather low, narrow passages, of deep shadows and of echoes. Clearly heard, whenever they all kept still, was the voice of the subterranean stream. At intervals these regions were most skilfully lit so that strange faces with large eyes floated out of the dark: wall-paintings that had been preserved in their long sleep by close-packed earth.

The air,’ Barnaby Grant said, ‘has done them no good. They are slowly fading.’

‘They enjoyed being stifled,’ Sebastian Mailer said from somewhere in the rear. He gave out a little whinnying sound.

‘More than I do,’ Lady Braceley said. ‘It’s horribly stuffy down here, isn’t it?’

‘There are plenty of vents,’ Major Sweet said. ‘The air is noticeably fresh, Lady Braceley.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she complained. ‘I don’t think I’m enjoying this part, Major. I don’t think I want—‘ She screamed.

They had turned a corner and come face to face with a nude, white man wearing a crown of leaves in his curls. He had full, staring eyes and again the archaic smile. His right arm stretched towards them.

‘Auntie darling, what are you on about!’ Kenneth said. ‘He’s fabulous. Who is he, Seb?’

‘Apollo again. Apollo shines bright in the Mithraic mystery. He was raised up from below by recent excavators to garnish the Galalian corridors.’