The Bergamese Sect (56 page)

He tried to peer beneath the carefully angled lights to get a proper glimpse of Icarus’ face. But the young man drew back into the shadow.

‘
No,’ Walsh said. ‘I’m not willing to run the risk.’

‘
The Church would expel the criminals. It wouldn’t be permanently damaged.’

‘
No,’ Walsh repeated. ‘Honesty’s not wanted here. That list of names is very damaging. High-ranking Church officials on every page. Besides, it will reveal our interest at the very least.’

The faces were blank around the table.

All except Prospero, who looked worried. The military man leant forward. ‘The members of this Sect. What is to be their fate?’

Walsh nodded and glanced at a notepad on the desk before him. ‘There’s a mountain in South Dakota,’ he said, ‘so remote it doesn’t have a name. And beneath it lies a facility that appears on no map. A system of underground labyrinths, thousands of cells. Originally, it was designed to hold prisoners of war, ones we’d want to survive a nuclear strike. But now its sole purpose is to house men for whose crimes no statute book exists.’

Prospero seemed to like the idea. A grin crossed his lips. ‘Are they to be tried?’ he asked.

‘
No.’

‘
Paroled?’

‘
Never.’

‘
And the innocent people involved?’

Walsh took a lungful of air and let it escape slowly. ‘The Englishman has been debriefed and returned to London. He’s found many new friends, some of which are very watchful over him. He will not be talking about his experiences. His accomplice in the subversive group I’ve taken under my wing. He was misguided but his knowledge of the subversives, as well as his technical skills, have proved useful. He’s filled Petersen’s shoes very ably.’

‘
Is that wise?’ Prospero asked in a snort.

‘
Where better to watch him? Besides, he’s a reformed man.’

Prospero shook his head and folded his arms, but didn’t say another word.

Then Icarus spoke again. ‘And the abductee?’

‘
He’s returning to law, setting up in Rhode Island I believe. I’m sure he won’t be talking. He’s just happy to get his life back.’ Walsh leant forward and put his hands flat on the table. ‘I’m afraid the remains of the German reporter haven’t been found. Sewell isn’t talking.’

Icarus brushed his hand gently over the short black spikes on his scalp. ‘Are we sure these people will never breathe a word of this.’

Walsh smiled again. ‘Each of them is being watched closely. They’re under no illusions as to the consequences of any indiscretion. I decided the only fair thing to do was allow them their freedom. Particularly Castro.’

There was a shuffle of tweed from a corner of the table. The Bostonian, Lupus, was shifting around nervously. ‘I see a problem here,’ he said.

‘
Yes?’

‘
If we wish to bury this deception, we can’t remove those responsible from their positions of power without arousing suspicion.’

‘
That’s right,’ said Walsh. ‘Tonight we began removing the Sect’s ability to perform its fraud. Once the infrastructure is removed, we will gradually eliminate its members.’

‘
You mean kill them?’

‘
No. They will
all
be incarcerated. Just as they’ve enslaved humanity.’

‘
A slow process?’

‘
Yes. A bishop here, an evangelist there. Some forced to resign, others indicted for bogus crimes, yet more simply going missing. It may take many years, but eventually the world will be cleansed of their brutality. And more importantly, the world, the Church itself, will never know of their deception.’

‘
That’s an ambitious plan.’

‘
I’m a patient man.’

Walsh paused, awaiting any further questions. But there were none. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘until our next meeting.’

Rising, Walsh left the room before the others. He descended the stairs quickly, dismissed his escort, and burst out into the chilly night. He stood for several minutes, breathing the pine-flavoured air deep into his lungs.

Across the valley, a noticeable silence reigned. Beyond the orange wash of the porch lights, it was unbelievably dark. Walsh walked down the access road into the blackness. Glancing up at the sky, he saw a spattering of bright stars spreading above the sharp outlines of the mountains.

But the sight held no majesty for him. His mind was too exhausted to find emotion. The only feeling, faintly glowing in his chest, was satisfaction. He’d had a job to do and he’d done it well. He’d protected and served. The masses had their ignorance, and they were welcome to it. He only hoped they used it wisely.

Epilogue

Bergamo, Italy, November 1499

Alfonso de Morillo was watching Moses. The prophet was casting up the brazen Snake of bronze in the wilderness. His muscular arms were straining skyward, admonishing the serpent, his angular face turned accusingly to the sons of Israel who cowered at his feet, some with eyes turned away, others relishing the sight.

The setting sun bathed the stained glass in pure light, making the colours jump and dazzle. The radiance of the image filled the entire hall. Across the terracotta floor tiles, blurred patches of rich illumination mirrored the scene above. In places, the colours ran like rainbows up the bare supporting columns of ochre rock.

Sitting on a high-backed chair, raised two feet from the ground, Alfonso was surrounded by shimmering candles. Tall and thick, the rough beeswax poles stood on huge wrought-iron holders. They encircled him on three sides, their proximity overpowering the colour streaming from the row of high windows. Alfonso looked like a king enthroned.

He stamped his feet quietly on the dais. It was a cold evening and his soft silk shoes were no match for the bite in the air. Turning toward the front of the hall, Alfonso stared blankly at the tapestries and frescos and allowed his mind to wander.

He recalled a day, six long years ago, when the young Gaetano had hammered on the door of Zúñiga’s house. It had been cold that day too, and misty if his memory served him correctly. The world had grown a great deal since he’d left Castile. Yet, somehow, it seemed smaller, more dangerous. Even in Bergamo, there was talk that Cristóbal Colón’s western passage to the Indies was in fact a new continent of savage civilisations. And just weeks ago, rumours brought by Portuguese traders had spoken of Vasco da Gama’s return from Asia after he’d skirted the far tip of the Africas. These new adventurers were outflanking the Ottomans, inviting a new age of discourse with distant Oriental cities. Alfonso felt strangely nervous about that prospect, as if a shrinking world would bring new heresies to the doors of the Holy Roman Empire and its agitators. It could only mean trouble, as far as he could see.

He looked up at the high windows again. The glow of the sun was fast diminishing, but the dimmer it got, the more heightened were the pure colours of the glass.

Suddenly, a voice shot through the hall, echoing loudly. ‘Face the front, not the side, please Father,’ said a man angrily.

Alfonso snapped his head back to the front, looking, as instructed, at the far wall beyond the artist’s left shoulder. He played with the rosary clasped at his stomach.

‘
Please, Father, do not move again,’ the man scowled angrily. ‘It is difficult enough.’

The painter was ten feet in front of Alfonso. A short figure, he was elderly, a similar age to Alfonso, and had a mellow, moulded face with large cheeks. His curly brown hair was both greying and balding. The old artist threw his cape behind his back and bent over a marble slab on a table to his side. He energetically ground a stone muller through a thick red paste in a broad circular motion. Scraping the fresh tempera from the slab, the artist added it to his palette and began dabbing again at the painting. As he worked away on his creation, he mumbled sulkily to himself.

Alfonso hadn’t wanted this inconvenience. He’d argued with Abrazzo over it. A monk about to slip out of the established First Order, attempt the constitution of a new system of devotion, should leave no record of his residence at
Santo Stefano e Domenico
. Particularly because of the radical nature of the new schism. But the Abbott had insisted, muttering something about the Venetian owing him a favour. Something to do with the Abbott’s help in securing a commission in Vicenza for the old master. No amount of protest seemed to divert Abrazzo, who insisted the portrait bore no witness to Alfonso’s chosen mission. So, Alfonso had conceded and sat long hours for the miserable Bellini, who seemed equally frustrated at being forced to journey all the way from Venice merely to settle an old debt.

A fine Flemish tapestry depicting scenes from the life of St. Peter adorned the far wall. Alfonso’s eyes scanned across the impressive work. He’d always admired it, not just for its effective use of light and shade, but because he held a particular reverence for the Prince of the Apostles, the first Bishop of Rome. The very blood of his martyrdom nourished the perpetual progeny of episcopal and papal succession.

That’s what made the whispers of discontent tug so violently at Alfonso’s heart. It made a mockery of the martyrs. These long years in Bergamo had shown Alfonso that the world wasn’t only growing; it was changing too. And again, it meant conflict was coming.

Men of intellect were beginning to see a model of righteousness in the ancient world. There was an uprising coming, not of the peasantry, nor the Mohammedan tyranny, but of the inquisitive mind. That was a dangerous thing. Already there were disturbing mutterings from some corners of secular life. This new idiom was fermenting a heretical disease, one Alfonso had already heard questioning the papal authority, criticising the monastic life. It was an unholy doctrine whose believers played an evil game of attrition. Could they not see that the Church was there to protect, to provide the clear path to salvation? If they swept aside tradition, the shelter of the Holy Office, they would be sweeping aside their only chance of deliverance.

‘
Misericordia!’ Bellini yelled, making Alfonso jump. The artist grabbed a rag from the table, began dabbing behind his easel.

As he mumbled, a slow knock came from the large door at the far end of the chamber. With a creak, the door opened and a monk dressed in a grey habit and black mantle entered.

It was Gaetano. The Italian had aged, thought Alfonso, since that day beneath the edifice of
Santa Maria la Antigua
. Much more than six years would normally age a man. The monk’s tonsure was more severe now, but the hair was no longer raven black. It still shone, but that was due to the loose strands of white dispersing through it.

Gaetano walked calmly over the brown tiles and bowed before Alfonso. ‘My Lord Metusor,’ he said.

Alfonso disliked the appellation Abrazzo had given him. The other monks were starting to use it freely, as if there were pride to be found in its implication. Alfonso was a teacher, that much was true, but the allusion to fear somehow disturbed him. Even more than had the office of Inquisitor.

‘
The others are waiting,’ Gaetano continued, ‘by the top gate. We should leave soon if we are to avoid the keeper’s scorn.’

Alfonso nodded and looked over at the tortured painter. ‘Very well, Father,’ he said. ‘You go to them. I will be there shortly.’

Gaetano bowed again and headed back to the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

Bellini was still fighting with the rag. He peered round his easel, threw down the cloth and stepped out before Alfonso. He seemed to be inspecting the air with his nose. Then he gave a long, dissatisfied sigh.

‘
I cannot work in this light,’ he groaned. ‘These damnable candles make everything orange. And whose idea was it to put us beneath the confusion of coloured windows?’ He motioned toward the enormous image of Moses above their heads. ‘I need the blueness of the day,’ he said curtly as he stormed back to the easel.

‘
If the light is failing, then you won’t mind my leaving,’ Alfonso said as he left the chair and stepped down off the dais.

The artist’s head appeared again from behind the painting. There was a rosy annoyance in his cheeks. ‘No,’ he said and began throwing his brushes into a large wooden box. He lifted the painting carefully and placed it face down in a protective wooden frame.

‘
I am going away tonight,’ continued Alfonso, ‘and I shan’t be returning.’

Bellini didn’t stop his hurried collection. He was folding the easel. ‘I have enough detail to finish without you,’ he said in a dismissive tone.

‘
Very well,’ Alfonso said.

Bellini turned to him. ‘Do you want to see your portrait?’ he asked.

Alfonso’s face screwed up. Through those long autumn days, he hadn’t once thought about peeking at the artist’s work. As far as he was concerned, the portrait was the artist’s business, an exercise in his skill. He was uneasy with the idea of confronting a captured image. Looking at the painting would force Alfonso to accept another’s view of himself. And lately, Alfonso had been so insular and unsure of his inner feelings, he didn’t want to face someone else’s judgement of his soul.

‘
No,’ Alfonso said meekly. ‘Let Abrazzo judge its worth.’

The artist turned up his lip, threw the wooden frame and easel under his arm and grabbed his box of brushes. He nodded at Alfonso and left quickly, slamming the huge door noisily behind him.

Alfonso, alone at last, stretched his tired shoulders and looked around the room. The monastery had been a comfortable retreat for those six years. It cowered on the steep sides of the ancient hill. Within its high walls, the Dominicans were well tended, able to devote their lives to Christ without readdress. And Abrazzo was a good Abbott, an inspirational guide. That’s why this departure was such a sad affair. Alfonso wondered when he’d next discuss doctrine with men of learning, when he’d next see the grace of Flemish tapestries, Venetian frescos and stained glass. For him, a much more basic form of exaltation was waiting.