"May had descended upon Rome with all the fury of its fading spring. But it was a strange May. A sad one. In a city suspended in a soundproofed anguish, as if under a shower of polystyrene. In a city trapped beneath one of those glass cases where old people keep an image of the Virgin Mary. Or of a Christ with a bleeding heart and the face of Aldo Moro. Scialoja dreamt of Aldo Moro. Millions of Italians dreamt of Aldo Moro. His colleagues dreamt of Aldo Moro. They dreamt of meeting the same fate as the five martyrs of Via Fani."