Free Out of the Ashes by Lori Dillon Page A

been touched by the archaeologists. With the exception of a few scattered buildings, only the street had been excavated, leaving the vacant facades of the empty homes and shops to watch him as he passed by.
    Just as he was suspecting he’d taken a wrong turn, he encountered a bustling hub of activity. Men, young and old, were at work everywhere. Some pushed wheelbarrows filled with dirt down the narrow street, while others labored in shallow pits under white canvas tents to shield them from the hot summer sun.
    David scanned the workers, then approached the one who looked like he was in charge. The man inspected him from head to toe, then called out to someone down in one of the holes.
    Within moments, a man climbed out of the pit and walked up to David.
    “ Buon giorno , signore . Can I help you?”
    He looked down on the little old man who took off his sweat-stained canvas hat to wipe at the beads of perspiration on his forehead. The man was a good foot shorter than David, and his balding head was pink and peeling from sunburn.
    “ Sì , I am looking for work.”
    The old man nodded and replaced his hat.
    “Come with me, then. My name is Heberto , and I am assistant to the Director of Excavations. I’m certain he will hire you. With the war, we are in short supply of young, strong backs.” The old man grinned and pointed at himself. “As you can see, some of us are not so strong or young anymore.”
    They walked past several villas and shops, the cracked plaster walls and gaping doorways silent testimony to the bustling city that once was. David thought it odd that none of the buildings had any windows, at least none facing the street.
    They entered one of the ruined villas and walked down a short, narrow hallway. Stepping down into what appeared to be a single large room, he noted that the walls were still covered with faded fresco murals, and the mosaic tile floor appeared to be in almost perfect condition. A large square cut out of the center of the roof allowed light to flood the room.
    A man of about sixty sat at a large wooden table near the center of the room examining a small silver cup, while all around him lay piles of cracked pottery, pieces of broken columns, and small, limbless statues.
    “Signore Moretti , I have a young man here who seeks work. I think we can find a place for him, sì ?”
    The man looked up from his work.
    Stepping up to the table, David removed his hat, and the lies he had rehearsed for days tumbled easily from his mouth in flawless Italian.
    “My name is David Corbelli,” he said, pronouncing his first name the Italian way— Dah-veed —and modifying his surname to a similar, local one. “I am from Naples.”
    The professor eyed him suspiciously. “You are a young man. How is it that you are not fighting in the war?”
    “Busted ear drum.”
    Moretti cocked a questioning brow at him.
    “I may not be able to hear the enemy coming, but I’m still strong enough to do a hard day’s work.”
    The man seemed to take him at his word.
    “Have you ever worked on an archeological dig before?”
    “No, but I am a fast learner.”
    “Very well, send him over to insula four. We could use more diggers there.”
    Heberto stepped up beside David, the man’s small frame making David feel like a giant beside him.
    “Perhaps he could be of use at the thermopolium . I’m certain there is plenty of work still to be done there.”
    Moretti glanced down at the cup in his hand.
    “Perhaps you are right. Serafina could use some help.”
    The decision made, Heberto led David out of the villa and down the street. As they walked, Heberto pointed out various buildings, telling David their names and what the archeologists thought they were used for, but David only half listened. He was paying more attention to possible vantage points, trying to determine in which direction the German camp might lie. Soon, they came to a building were only the front room had been excavated, while the rest remained