"Francescvs Titv Sancta Caecilia Car De Aqvaviva"
 
Rosa stood, head tilted back, holding her sunglasses away from her eyes, reading the words, carved into the blonde stone above the doorway of the church, proclaiming the sanctity of San Caecilia. As she read them, heat seemed to creep over her like a guilty blush. "Let's go in," she said. 

As they stepped into the church, Rosa's breath seemed to be pushed out of her by the coolness of air inside. She felt unsteady, almost ready to faint. The startling, infinite difference between the hot, duskiness of the piazza and the sanctuary of the church was making her lose her balance. She put one hand on Alan's shoulder for support. 
 
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he asked.
 
"I don't know. Nothing, I think, I just came over all fuzzy, you know?" She stood on her own for a moment, tentatively feeling her way back to steadiness.
 
"Okay?" he asked again. She nodded, and he said, "So, do you want to tell me again why we're here?"
 
He deserved an explanation, patient, loyal Alan. As soon as they got to their hotel, before they had unpacked, she had dragged him straight from the room to this decrepit, beautiful church in one of the less travelled areas of Rome. He had asked her why, but Rosa found it difficult to explain, even to herself. Now, inside the church she did not know any more, except that she was right to come.
 
"I don't know," she replied. "Like I said before, I just knew I had to come here. Cecilia's my confirmation name. You know that already, even though you are an ignorant pagan. They don't do confirmation names that much any more, but they did for me for some reason. I've no idea why. So I'm Rosanna Maria Cecilia Biaggi."
 
He asked her why they chose Cecilia. She told him she had no idea. "They didn't tell me much and I've never found out more. She's the patron saint of music or something, and she died, I think, a martyr of some sort."
 
"All saints died, sweetheart," he interrupted, smiling. "It's part of the job description."
 
"Yeah, they all seem to don't they? Any way, that's about all I can tell you, really. When we landed, I just knew we had to come here before anything else. It was just a feeling." 
 
Alan's eyes crinkled half shut, sceptical. "Come on then, let's get it out of the way. Then we can get some ice-cream."
 
They went through into the main chapel of the church, and Rosa staggered back against the white, rough plastered walls. She saw the light from the high glass window cleaving throught the motes of the air, a single shaft illuminating an altar on the left wall of the church. It shone on a small, white alabaster statue of a woman.
 
"That's her," whispered Rosa, pushing herself away from the wall. Alan put his arm around her waist and felt her trembling. He was about to pull her closer, to protect her from whatever was disturbing her when she walked away from him. He saw her walk down the aisle and turn left, something drawing her on, into a gloomy part of the church.
 
Rosa knelt before the statue, Caecilia, lying on her side in death, hands clasped. Above her, gilded cherubim flew, holding aloft a golden crown, inlaid with a myriad of jewels. Inside a small marble framed alcove, the simplicity of the statue was a complete contrast. Rosa was transfixed by it, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She looked into the face of the saint, the eyeless gaze holding her. This was why she came, she did not understand why. She reached out to touch the saint's slender neck.
 
Alan walked to her slowly, still concerned but allowing her time. At the altar where Rosa knelt before the white statue, he smelled a vase of white lilies on her right, perfuming the air.  Underneath it there was a sweet stench of decay. It did not overwhelm the lillies, but it was there, and Alan gagged slighlty. He put one hand over his mouth as he watched Rosa put one hand on the statue.
 
She felt the cold of the alabaster, fresh and smooth to touch. Her fingers began to feel heavy, and she pressed the statue, holding, gripping the flesh of the saint, trying to keep it together. The air grew heavy around her, and she heard the sound of a man, breathing heavily behind her. She looked around but there was nobody there, only the dim light of an undecorated room. She put her other hand to her own chest and felt it tight, felt an ache there, as she could feel the flesh of the statue parting under her fingers. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand shook her.
 
Becoming more uneasy about how Rosa was acting Alan reached down and put his hand on her shoulder. She turned but did not see him. He shook her firmly; she seemed to jolt back to life, suddenly becoming aware of Alan and where she was. She put her arms around his neck in a warm, grasping embrace.
 
"Oh, god," she started to sob. "That poor girl, what have they done to her?"
 
Alan tried to lean back from her to see her face, but she pulled him closer, pushing her head into the crook between his neck and shoulder, shaking. He could feel her warm tears soaking through his shirt. He held her close.
 
Gathering her composure, and to Alan's relief, Rosa suggested they leave the church. She found it hard though, thinking she had to stay; that she was supposed to stay for some reason.
 
The sun in the piazza burned fiercely into their sight and they had to put sunglasses on. Alan had seen a gelateria as they crossed the bridge over the Tiber, and he guided Rosa in that direction. The buildings of the Trastevere were crumbling, teeming with the city, and he thought it was good that Rosa wanted to come to this area. They would not otherwise have seen the real city, authentic Roma. More than that though he was worried for her. The incident in the church was unlike Rosa in every way. She was usually composed and in control.
 
"Alan, please stop it, I'm alright. It was just a funny turn that's all," she said when he asked for the fourth time. "There's that ice cream shop you saw, lets just get some and forget about it."
 
They had both tried to forget the matter, spending the day as proper tourists. The beauty and splendour of Rome; the fountains and statues; hidden palaces; the sheer blast of noise on the street. When they got back to their hotel, a small pensione on the Piazza Navona, they were both foot weary and clammy with the heat.
 
Alan sat on the bed. Rosa looked at their bags, remembering the reason why they had not unpacked. A breeze came in through the open window and she felt cold. She said she was going to have a shower, but Alan caught her hand as she went past towards the bathroom, pulling her gently towards him.
 
"No Alan. I'm all sticky," she said, pulling her arm away. "Later, hey?" She walked away, leaving him to slump onto his back, both arms outstretched, making a small disgruntled sound. She set the shower running and began to undress.
 
"Was she a virgin then, this Cecilia?" Alan shouted into the bathroom after her. "You know, seeing as you've gone all frigid, and you've got the same name and all." Rosa came back into the bedroom, naked, and threw a half-full plastic shampoo bottle at him.
 
"Don't laugh at me, it was not funny," she sounded strained, fighting back tears. "I really felt like there was a girl in trouble, that a man was trying to hurt her."
 
Alan got up straight away to confort her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to make fun of you, just a bit frustrated if you know what I mean."
 
She cupped his cheek with her hand and kissed him on the lips, holding for long enough to make her feelings known. She whispered in his ear, "Down boy. Later."
 
From the bathroom, over the sound of the shower, she could hear him practising the words she had heard him say, secretly he thought, over and over for a few weeks. "Rosanna Biaggi, vorrei trascorrere tutta la mia vita con te. Tu sei il mio angelo. Mi vuoi sposare?" She was excited that he was going to propose, and thought it unbelievably sweet that he was going to say it in Italian. ‘Probably on the Spanish Steps', she thought, smiling at her frosted reflection in the mirror. 
 
There had been problems when they first got together, from her family. "Biaggi Ices" was a well-known name in Canterbury, and her father Benito was one of the younger Biaggi brothers. He had long professed his desire that she marry into an Italian family, at the very least a Catholic one. Alan was as pure-bred English as you could get. Eventually though, her lovely father came round, and the whole family had grown to like Alan. She loved him even more for telling Benito he would be baptised in their faith if that was what was required. 
 
Music started coming in through the window. Even though she knew Alan was still talking to himself, she was finding it hard to make out the words. The water was warm on her face, washing away the grubbiness she felt from the day's tramping around the hot city. She thought about what had happened in the church, trying to rationalise the way she felt when she touched the statue. It was just the heat getting to her 
 
The volume of the music was increasing, so much so that she could no longer hear Alan. The music was too loud, distracting her from her thoughts,  It was discordant, atonal. Not really music, more sounds and noise slammed together. It was getting louder and louder. She put both hands over her ears, to shut it out, but it seeped through her fingers, bleeding into her head, taking over. The clashing sounds grew more insistent, hammering. Rapid drumbeats became syncopated with the chords of untuned guitars, but somehow without rhythm. She bent in half, crying out for it to stop, but it carried on, getting louder, blending with the persistent splattering of the water.
 
She half jumped out of the bath, almost slipping on the wet floor, to close the window, and she realised there was none. The sound, the music was inside the bathroom, but that could not be. How could she be hearing this noise, and had Alan not heard it? ‘It's in my head,' she thought. Through the clamour and hurt she heard a sweet melody, soft but sure, and she focused on it. Gradually the discordant noise quietened and the angelic music took over. It remained quiet, gentle singing. ‘Like angels,' thought Rosa. The soft music ebbed away, floating into nothing.
 
Rosa sat on the edge of the bath, exhausted by the silence. Eventually she had composed herself sufficiently to ask Alan why he had not come in to see what was wrong.
 
"Didn't you hear that awful music?" He looked at her as though she was talking a different language.
 
"Er, no. What music?"
 
"That horrible music in the bathroom," she said, but could see he had not. "Oh, forget it." She went back into the bathroom and closed the door.
 
It was a balmy evening. They strolled aimlessly through the old streets near their hotel, ending up on the piazza in front of the Pantheon, where they ate pizza in the moonlight. Rosa tried to shut out the other parts of the day as she sat holding Alan's hand afterwards on the side of the fountain. She put her other hand in the water gushing from a brass dolphin's mouth, wishing her fingers would go numb.
 
Back in the hotel room, they lay on the sheets, listening to the sounds from the square. Alan turned onto his side and put his arm around her and tried to pull her closer. She resisted, saying she was tired. He turned the other way, and she moved closer to put her arm around him.
 
"I'm sorry," she said to his back. He turned over and looked straight at her.
 
"Why?" he asked. "What's wrong? Is it today, what happened? I hope so, because I'm not feeling too pleased with the situation here. We're supposed to be on a romantic weekend, and that really should include some romance, don't you think? Don't shut me out."
 
He knew he sounded too harsh, that whatever happened in the church could have affected her more than he knew. But he could not stop the words coming out. He saw tears welling, and pulled her head down to kiss her brow. "Sorry, love, it's just you know, that's a hard thing for me to take." She could not think of anything to say to him to make it right, so held him tight as they fell asleep in their clothes.
 
She was woken by splashing from the bathroom. They had dozed for an hour or so, she was not sure, then undressed and curled together to drift into a proper sleep. Alan lay still, softly breathing, undisturbed as she got out of the bed. She picked up one of his shirts and put it on to keep out the chill of the night, and went to the bathroom.
 
Pushing the door gently, she heard the splash again. It sounded like a child slapping his palm down onto water. The bathroom was dark, but felt uncomfortably hot, fetid. She switched the light on and saw the bath was full. A girl dressed in brown sackcloth was being held under th water by a man in a leather jerkin, sandals and what looked like a red and gold skirt. His strong, tanned hand was on her head, pushing her under the water. Bubbles were escaping from her nose, but not many and Rosa thought she was nearly gone. She lifted her hand to the man's arm, feebly, but he swatted it away and it fell on the water.  
 
"No," shouted Rosa, rushing into the man. She caught him in his ribs with her shoulder. He simply disappeared. Rosa fell past hitting the sink with her elbow, hot shards of pain shooting up her arm. Gasping, she turned in time to see the girl still lying there, but now with a serene smile on her face. It was now out of the water, still wet. Her lips moved, but Rosa could not hear what she said. Leaning closer, she could make out the words, "Gratias tibi ago." To Rosa this sounded like thank you, like Italian. Then the girl whispered again, "Meus amorus, Valerius, est mortuus. Turcius Almachius eram occisor."
 
The girl slid back into the bath, arms crossed on her chest, down further and further until she too faded away, the water ebbing away with her, leaving Rosa alone and trembling on the bathroom floor, holding her elbow in her other hand. She did not understand all of the words the girl had spoken, but she knew the sadness in her voice, that her love was dead. Was he killed by the man trying to murder her? Rosa wept at the thought of the innocent girl being drowned in her bath, murdered by the man. What had she witnessed? She needed to know the answer, to find out what evil scene had been played out for her. She wiped the back of her hand across her face to clear her tears away.  
 
Quietly, she dressed in a loose, long brown dress made of wool that itched her skin. She had worn only occasionally, and she did not even recall packing it. She picked it out now without hesitation. The door clicked behind her as she closed it.
 
It was nearly dawn, a pale darkness had settled across the deserted square where she ran past the stilled fountain, a monument to Poseidon. Down a back street, across a wider road and through into the Campo de Fiori, busy even at that early hour with market traders setting up their stalls for the day ahead. She slipped once, nearly falling against one. He called out something, but she did not hear it as she carried on her breathless sprint, through the quiet backstreets, shooting out onto the Ponte Garibaldi across the grand river, the lungs of Rome, an island to her left as she crossed into ramshackle Trastavere. 
 
She knew instinctively where the church was, it had guided her once before. Now she felt as if she was on a mercy dash; that the girl in mortal danger. Rounding a corner she saw the green piazza in front of the church, greyed by the quickening dawn. It seemed to loom up to her, as if offering her no other option than to enter. 
 
Inside she found the church filled with candle-light, shining from every part. Dark shadows flickered and danced, ominous and threatening. She ran to the altar to Caecilia where she saw the girl bent on both knees, foetally curled but with her head held high looking at the man from Rosa's bathroom. He held a sword in both his hands and he was speaking to the girl. She shook her head, no, she looked defiant. Her face was pale, wet, and Rosa saw her hair was tangled in damp knots, as though she had been pulled violently under water. She shouted to her, but neither the girl nor the man heard. Somehow Rosa knew it to be Turcius Almachius, she held the story in her head. She became the girl, Cecilia, innocent and pure, condemned to join her beloved Valerius in death, for bringing the officers of Almachius to her faith.
 
She could sense the fear of the girl, but more than that, even stronger was an overpowering wonder and joy. She felt the girl embrace what was about to befall her, and she welcomed it as Cecilia. Almachius raised the sword high and swang it down to meet the girl's pale neck. The shadows' dance became more frenetic as the blade cleaved into her flesh. Blood gushed instantly from the wound, rising in an arc. He raised the blade again, and again, three strokes, each biting deeper. Blood rained down onto the floor of the church, but Cecilia lived still. She lay prone on the floor, her life blood flowing away from her, pooling around the feet of Almachius. He raised the sword again, but a thought flew across his face and he dropped into, loudly clanging, to the floor.
 
The echo of the sword dropping resonated through the church, coming back manifold, increasing in volume, becoming the discordant music Rosa heard earlier. A different music began immediately though. It poured around the church, Cecilia's music, filling the room with clear, bright light. It was beautiful, and filled Rosa with happiness. There was pain, overwhelming pain, and Rosa knew death was coming slowly, but she felt serene, able to face it. The hurt was part of her body only, and Rosa was aware that this life, this world was unimportan to Cecilia. She embraced the girl, and Cecilia left her.
 
Rosa lay on the cold stone of the church floor. She did not know how long although it felt to her like three days. When she woke, sunlight was trying to break through the dirty, old glass of the windows. She stood and rubbed the back of her neck, where she could feel an icy, sharp pain. She tried to remember what had happened.
 
The doors of the church opened and Alan rushed in. he ran down the aisle to her, but just stood in front of her, a question on his face. He said he had been worried sick when he woke and she was not there, but had come straight to the church.

"Is everything okay?" he asked quietly. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth he brought, and nodded.
 
"Oh, Alan, sweetheart, I'm sorry," she said as he swept her into his arms. "It's over now. And eveything's fine, my Valerius."
 
As they stepped through into the morning sun, they saw a priest, tenderly turning over the soil in the garden. He looked at Rosa, and smiled.
 
"Buon giorno, maggio la tolleranza e la pace del dio sono oggi la vostra. E grazie, Cecilia, molte grazie."

"And may God grant his grace and tolerance to you also, father," said Rosa in reply, shielding her eyes from the brightness to see the priest more clearly. Alan held her other hand more tightly. He wondered what the priest had thanked her for, and why he had called her Cecilia.