26 Sign of Beauty, Sign of Glory Well was it called the Place of the Skull. Graywhite limestone, rugged and creased, barren of life, you would suppose; but for the stunted pines at the base, the wild grasses with no name, a deep blue iris here and there poking out bravely from the vertical face, and the coo of doves nesting in the clefts of the rock. An old woman hobbled up the stony way to the bald top of the hill, leaning upon a stick. She was dressed in grave simplicity, but the cortege of soldiers gave witness that she was a lady of importance. “Augusta,” said an old man, darting a glance from side to side, expecting to catch sight of someone in the shadows, “this is the place.” “You are not lying to us?” “I am in fear of my life, Augusta.” “You will not betray the Lord, Judas?” “Domina, I did not name myself. This is the place.” The old woman looked about. Nearby stood a temple that Hadrian, emperor of Rome two hundred years past, had built, as if in scorn of the love that here was made manifest, here and nowhere else. It was a temple to the goddess of love, Aphrodite.
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