Blood of the Lamb (31 page)

“That’s considerate of you.”

“You needn’t sound so shocked. I’m not a total beast, Livia. In any case, what seems to have happened is that you were correct about the Vatican Library clerk. He was there, and he tried to follow us into the saint’s foot chapel.” That sounded more like the Spencer Livia knew.

“He must have come for the book,” she said. “Who
is
he?”

“His name is Jorge Ocampo. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No. The police told you that?”

“No, they told each other that. Within my hearing. Careless of them.” Except, of course, the Unchanged police officers had no way of knowing how far Spencer’s Noantri auditory reach extended. “Ocampo is an Argentinian national.” Which, since the clerk was Noantri, did not mean much. “The old monk sought to prevent him from following us. To give us, presumably, our meditative peace. There was an altercation, and the monk fell or was thrown to the ground. He hit his head and gained admission to heaven.” Yes, definitely Spencer. “But listen closely, because this is the part that will prove important to you and your priest. Because a churchman died in a church, the Gendarmes sent a representative. A handsome young Neapolitan, who just happens to be the
vice assistente
who arrested this same clerk at the Colosseum Metro station this morning for theft of Vatican property. Though all they found on him of the stolen property was a tracking chip.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t hmm yet, there’s more. The Neapolitan Gendarme has a theory which he’s shared with the Carabinieri. It involves a large and well-organized ring of thieves specializing in antiquities, possibly international in scope and clearly effective enough to successfully steal from the Vatican. And to attempt, in the same day with the same personnel, a theft at Santa Maria della Scala.”

“The same personnel?”

“The clerk, who was obviously the inside man on the earlier occasion, as he was employed at the Vatican Library. And an art historian, one Livia Pietro. And also—quite appallingly—a priest. An American named Thomas Kelly.”

“Spencer. Are they serious?”

“The Gendarme is entirely serious and he seems to have sold this theory to the Carabinieri. They’ve become intent on catching the miscreants. It took all my powers of persuasion to convince them I barely know you, I was a touch surprised when you appeared at my door, I’d never met your priest before, and though I had no inkling of your intentions in visiting Santa Maria della Scala, I could assure them that your reputation and character were entirely spotless. You’d have been pleased, I think, to hear the fervor with which I defended your honor.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I told them their theory was flatly absurd, and that I was sure you would be able to clear up any misunderstanding as soon as you had the opportunity to speak with them. In order to help you restore your good name, I promised them that, though I had no earthly idea where you’d gone while I was praying over the withered extremity of the sainted Teresa, they could be sure that if I heard from you or of you, they’d be the first to know.”

“Did they believe you?”

“I doubt it, but what does it matter? It’s clear they also suspect me, which is why they were willing to share their innermost thoughts: so I’d know how much they know, shiver in my boots, and come clean. However, they had no grounds on which to take me into custody, though keeping me inside a church for over an hour was in my view punitive detention enough. I have no doubt they’ve set a watch on my home, so you’re not to come here. However, if I can be of any assistance to your task by leading them around Robin Hood’s barn, do let me know. And talking of your task, how are you progressing?”

“We found another poem, at Santa Maria in Trastevere. In an aumbry.”

“In a what?”

“It’s— Look it up. We’re working on the poem now.”

“I’m reaching for my dictionary. I’ll leave you to it, but if the poem—or any other you find—doesn’t yield to your combined powers, I’d be happy to help. And in any case, do be careful. Your names and faces are all the rage in law enforcement circles.”

“Thanks, Spencer. You caught us just in time.”

“I endeavor,” Spencer drawled, “to give satisfaction.”

54

Once again Thomas was having trouble concentrating.

This distraction, so new to him, had first fractured his scholarly focus in the ancient apothecary. There he’d found himself trying to unravel the air, to sort pine bark from rose petal, detach mint from mushroom. Now, leaning with Livia Pietro over Damiani’s poem, his mind again popped with unmanageable thoughts and sensations. Partly, he knew, it was the unpleasant news conveyed by Spencer George: that he and Livia were wanted by the Carabinieri and that the old monk was dead. Thomas had said a brief prayer for the soul of Father Battista, though he suspected the friar didn’t need the help of a priest as heavily compromised as Thomas Kelly to get into heaven. Guilt was an element of his distraction, too: though Livia had tried to assure him the monk’s death wasn’t their fault, of course it was. And of course, she knew it was.
What would it be like,
he suddenly wondered,
to live forever, to go through eternity accumulating loss and guilt, with no way to expiate, to make amends, to be forgiven? With no end in sight?
He glanced at Livia, her black hair falling about her face as she leaned forward, her arms wrapped around her in her own posture of concentration that, he realized, was already familiar to him.

Without looking up, she spoke. “The poem, Thomas. I know a lot has happened and it’s not easy to deal with. But the poem is what’s important now.”

He was glad her gaze didn’t stray from the torn notebook leaf, because he felt his face grow hot. He straightened his shoulders and stared down at the poem, too.

Dojje de morte? Er piaggnisteo de l’esse nati?

Frammezzo a le crature alate, l’api, l’uscelli,

le sonajjere d’angioli, eccosce volati

a spiarje l’estasi ne l’occhi bbelli,

da dove, simme và, posso scappà coll’ale ’mmacolate.

Death throes? The pure puling of being born?

Among the winged creatures, birds and bees

and hierarchies of angels, here we swarm,

look down upon her face in ecstasy,

whence, if I chose, could flee, both wings untorn.

Again, uppercase blunt lead-pencil letters along the bottom:

I F I D E.

Nothing. The words gave him nothing at all. Death or birth? Hierarchies of angels? Looking down in ecstasy, or looking down on a face in ecstasy? Who was looking? Whose face? Whose wings were untorn? Though that, of all the images here, was the only one that struck a bell in Thomas’s mind; but it was a bell so faint that, try as he might, he was unable to call up any meaning.

The letters, though: they were a different matter. With growing excitement he stared at them. The first set had made no sense; neither did these, but if you added them to the first ones, and then read them backwards, they almost did.

“Aedificavit,”
he said tentatively, trying it out. “‘Built.’”

“Built?” Livia looked up. “Built what?”

“I don’t know. But if you read these letters backwards and then the first set backwards, I mean if you read them
together
, they nearly spell
aedificavit
. ‘Built.’”

“Nearly?”

“It’s missing the initial
a,
but it’s a compound letter,
ae,
so maybe he thought he could dispense with it. Or maybe it’s in the next line! The
a.
On the next poem.”

Livia was silent for a moment. “Are you saying this is a cumulative upside-down acrostic? In Latin?”

“From everything we know, that kind of thing would be right up Damiani’s alley.”

She nodded. “Yes, that’s true. You could be right. It would answer the question of whether the penciled letters are his.”

“But the poem itself,” Thomas said. “Where to go now. What that means, I have no idea.”

“That’s all right.” Livia smiled. “I do.”

55

This time, Jorge Ocampo wasn’t going to run. He would do nothing to call attention to himself. He’d covertly, stealthily make his way, an operative whose objective was to remain in deep cover while fulfilling his mission.

What was his mission?

He wasn’t exactly sure.

Anna hadn’t given him new instructions on the retrieval of the notebook or the surveillance of the
professoressa
. She hadn’t told him what to do about the unalterable facts of what had happened in Santa Maria della Scala. She’d drawn in a sharp, angry breath when he’d told her about the accident, but she didn’t yell, didn’t berate him, didn’t let loose that hot stream of vitriol she’d poured on his head on the few other occasions when he’d been unsuccessful at accomplishing a task. She really was unfair to him, Anna. He generally did quite well with the assignments she gave him, and he was—justly, he thought—proud of that. Like anyone, he had his moments of bad luck. Her impatience at those times, her lightning-fast willingness to reproach and blame him, really stung. It wasn’t reasonable, it truly wasn’t.

Although maybe she was changing. Maybe she was beginning to appreciate how hard he tried, and to understand that misfortune can happen to anyone. He’d expected a storm of anger, he’d braced for it, but instead he’d heard a silence, and then, “All right, Jorge. Are you out of sight?” When he’d assured her he’d taken cover, she asked where, and after he told her, she just said, “Stay there. I’m on my way.”

So he’d settled into his velvet seat in the musty theater, waiting for Anna to come and tell him what to do. In the dark he drifted into a reverie, feeling her satin skin and silken hair, hearing the thrilling music of her voice as she whispered to him in his native Spanish. But a horn blared outside and startled him, and the dream vanished and would not come back. As he waited he found himself growing more and more uncomfortable. Il Pasquino was his private place. He didn’t know what he should have said. “I’m not going to tell you where I am” hadn’t occurred to him, and if it had, Anna wouldn’t have put up with it. But he began to feel ill at ease about the idea of seeing Anna. Something in her voice . . . She was angry. She was hiding it, and he thought that sweet of her; clearly she knew the stress he was under and didn’t want to upset him further. But she was angry.

And, he realized, disappointed.

That caused Jorge a new kind of pain, the thought that his Anna was disappointed in him. She’d sent him out to be her knight in shining armor, and he’d let her down. He came to a decision. He wasn’t going to wait for her. Not right now. Not here, in his theater. He was going to leave Il Pasquino and steal along Vicolo del Piede, keeping to the shadows.

He had no instructions, that was true; but he was capable of formulating his own plans. He would find the
professoressa
. He would retrieve the notebook. He would complete his original assignment before he saw Anna again. Then his mistake in the church wouldn’t loom so large. He’d never meant to hurt the old monk. He’d only been trying to move him out of the way. How could he have known he’d lose his balance and fall? After all, Anna was the one who’d drilled into him that he must never use any of his Noantri Blessings in a way that Mortals might notice. So it shouldn’t be any surprise that he didn’t know his own strength! And people fell all the time, even hit their heads, without dying. What had happened to the monk was definitely not Jorge’s fault.

Anna had sounded worried about his safety, making sure he was out of sight, telling him to stay there. She wasn’t acting as though what had happened in Santa Maria della Scala was very important.

But even if he couldn’t be blamed for the monk’s death, he knew it mattered. And he was going to make up for it.

Jorge peeked through the grimy window, waiting for a moment when the street was clear. His mind drifted again, this time not to Anna, but to the accident. It was a strange thing, what had happened to that old monk. The man had died, and Jorge wasn’t so far from his own Change that he’d forgotten the terror of a Mortal anticipating that. But among the emotions passing across the old monk’s face, Jorge, to his astonishment, hadn’t found fear. What he’d seen—what he’d caused—was relief. Then, gratitude. Finally, to Jorge’s astonishment, joy.