The Fallen (26 page)

“They tortured me, but it seemed to me as if they were torturing to see.”

“To see what, Tacit?”

“See what would happen. See if
they
came.”

“What came?”

“The lights.”

Isabella looked at him, crestfallen and confused. “I don't understand.”

But Tacit shook his head and looked away. “Neither do I. But they've always been there, the lights. I don't know what they are, what they mean. I've never told anyone about them. But always they appear to me at times of weakness, or power, when I am troubled.”

“What do they do?”

“They speak to me.”

“And what do they say, Tacit?”

“Terrible things.” He looked at her, and he could see the love and concern in her eyes. “I think they were trying to test me, whoever in the Vatican is studying me, hoping to awaken the lights through their torture. I think someone was seeing what it was I possessed.”

“For what purpose?” asked Isabella.

But Tacit only shook his head.

A noise drew them back to the stores and to Gaulterio.

The old man wheeled a vast wooden case on coasters in front of him. He drew to a halt in front of the counter and pondered for a moment how he was going to lift it up. Tacit didn't give him too long to wonder, reaching forward and effortlessly dragging it onto the counter before him, the wood bowing beneath the weight. At once the lid was thrown open and Tacit was
delving deep within it, pulling out all manner of items; weapons, tomes, holy symbols, felt stitched bags, glass implements and test tubes, herbs and fine powders encased in metal pots, placing them into the deep pockets of his coat. From the bottom he dragged his chain mail armour and held it up, examining it briefly in the pale light before handing it to Isabella.

“Here,” he muttered, before raking the final depths of the chest for anything of use.

The craftsmanship and weight of the metal suit astounded Isabella, so light but as hard as steel.

“You didn't see me, Gaulterio, right?” he muttered over his shoulder, menace in both his eyes and voice.

The old man nodded and threw the lid of the box shut.

“And Gaulterio,” the Inquisitor added, plunging his hands into his pockets and still finding room for them among everything else. “Thank you.”

FORTY FIVE

T
HE
V
ATICAN
. V
ATICAN
C
ITY
.

In the passageway just down from Inquisitor Cincenzo's residence, Monsignor Benigni stopped dead in his tracks and spun around to face the person following him, his back hard to the wall of the corridor.

“Who are you?” he shrieked, his hand thrust to his mouth. “What do you want?”

Georgi emerged out of the shadows and loomed over the trembling man.

“Georgi Akeldama?” Benigni exclaimed, his piggy eyes growing wide behind his spectacles. He recognised the man at once. He'd made it his business to recognise faces and put names to them, even names of people long dead.

“Monsignor Benigni,” answered Georgi, shaking his head. “Always sticking your nose into matters where it's not appreciated. Did they never warn you of the dangers?”

“I am only doing what they asked of me,” he muttered pitifully.

“Me too, Monsignor,” replied Georgi. “Me too.”

He raised his hands towards the cowering Priest.

“Don't take my eyes!” he cried. “Don't take my eyes!”

Georgi laughed. “Monsignor Benigni, you're not nearly important or gifted enough to have that honour bestowed upon you,” he smiled, before taking another step towards him. “You're merely a nuisance.”

FORTY SIX

T
HE
I
TALIAN
F
RONT
. T
HE
S
OČA
R
IVER
. N
ORTHWEST
S
LOVENIA
.

It was cold and it had started to rain, the first rain any of the soldiers had felt in weeks. Pablo thought he would have celebrated feeling the droplets on his hair, on his back, but he was frozen by the biting chill of night. Scorching day was always followed by freezing night on the Carso.

Ahead of them a battle was raging, while behind them, the taken lands were covered with the churn and action of the Third Army making good their gains.

A hamlet burnt away to his right. He remembered it when they arrived beside it at dusk, four houses perched precariously on the edge of the mountainside, the occupants old, too old and frail to leave their homes or the hamlet. Now the four houses were aflame. Pablo didn't know what had happened to the old people, and didn't dare to ask.

Everyone and everything looked distorted and wicked in the reflected glow from the burning buildings. The call was made to move out, to move further up the mountainside, mugs clinking as they were stowed away into backpacks and fires sending up swirling burning ashes as they were kicked out.

As they fell into the line the rain seemed to lessen a little.

Small mercies, thought Pablo, as they began to march higher up the mountain through the dark into the heart of the battle.

Four hours later Pablo had slept, a black sleep without dreams. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to sleep in the middle of all that horror and murder, of the shouts and crying of the dying, of the torment of the shells
still raining, though now with less frequency, along the trench the Italian army had won from the Austro-Hungarian defenders at such a terrible cost. But Pablo had slept, although in slumber he resembled just another corpse in the morgue the trench had become, a long shallow grave for the thousands massacred on this first of many assaults up the mountainside which would have to be made before they had reached their goal. The summit. The Karst Plateau.

The first thing he felt as he forced himself awake was someone trying to take his rifle. Instinct kicked in, months of training, and he gripped hard on to it and snatched it back. He knew he'd be shot if he lost his rifle. He knew that he could not be killed that way, shot for dereliction of duty. That would not be the way to go. Not after he had come so far.

The soldier cursed and drew back.

“Stop fucking lying down and playing dead like a coward!” the man barked, before moving on.

Pablo rose to his knees and found himself kneeling in the praying position. He lowered his head and spoke words from his favourite prayer, a moment of tranquillity and peace among all the hot anger and death.

He was suddenly aware of a Priest next to him, speaking directly in his ear.

“Do you know why are you here, Private?” the Priest asked, crouching down by his side.

“I am here to do my duty.”

“Yes, but for whom?”

“For my King and Queen and my country.”

But the Priest laughed.

“Why are the soldiers looking after me so carefully?” Pablo asked cautiously. “Why have they not let me go forward into battle yet?”

“We wish only to keep you safe. You and your six-fingered hands.” The Priest reached forward with his own hand to help the young soldier up, but instantly Pablo drew himself away, crying out. For the Priest's long pallid hand had turned rotten and black, like that of a corpse long dead. “Whatever is the matter?” the Priest asked, as Pablo scrambled for his rifle and his footing. “Come on,” he shouted, his face wild with emotion, “let's see your hands! Let us check they are still undamaged!”

Once again Pablo woke to the sound of gunfire and shells buffeting the ridge above where he lay, now realising it had been a nightmare, his eyes opening on the Corporal sitting opposite. Other soldiers were kneeling in a trench a little behind him, waiting to go over the top.

“Am I dead?” asked Pablo, the first words which came to his tongue. “Am I in hell?”

“What do you think?” asked the Corporal, taking the pipe from his ruddy lips and setting the short blade of a knife into the bowl.

“I don't know,” replied Pablo, looking about himself at the bodies of dead Italians and Austro-Hungarians piled high either side of him.

Abelli stared hard at him. “We've won the forward trench of Mount San Michele.”

“At what cost?” asked Pablo.

The Corporal laughed and passed the pipe between his hands. Pablo studied them carefully to ensure they did not change to the decaying horrors that had grabbed at him in his dream, before turning his attention to the elevation beyond, up which soldiers had begun to scurry.

“What lies at the top, Corporal Abelli?” asked Pablo.

“Why do you ask?”

“Why is it so important we take it? Surely there are more valuable targets which are worth all this sacrifice?”

“You're a shrewd young man,” replied the Corporal, waggling a finger. He set the knuckle of it to his lips. “Most soldiers don't question. They just do.”

“That doesn't make me shrewd. Just cautious. Maybe a coward? I just don't want to die.”

“And you won't,” Abelli assured him. “Not in battle.”

FORTY SEVEN

T
HE
V
ATICAN
. V
ATICAN
C
ITY
.

Tacit and the others took the stairs at a jog and ducked into the corridor at the very top, once they knew it was clear. There was a ground-floor window halfway along it through which they had come half an hour earlier and they made for it, Tacit checking every passageway and doorway before they slipped past. Down here there were no lights save the moon's pale glow through the windows. Suddenly Tacit stopped dead in his tracks and
dropped to his haunches, Isabella following his lead, Sandrine and Henry pausing three paces behind her.

“What is it?” she asked, placing a hand on his broad back.

“Shhh!” he answered, his head turned to the side, as if trying to make out a sound from beyond. He rose and scurried down a bisecting corridor, his body low, his fingers spread wide. He dropped again to his haunches twenty feet on and listened, his head craned to one side, senses honed. Five seconds later he moved on once more, further into the depths of the new passageway.

“What is the matter with the man?” exclaimed Henry, breathlessly. “That's not the way we're supposed to go!”

Isabella swore and scuttled after him, the chain mail still folded across the crook of her arm.

“Tacit!” she called under her breath, feeling concern beat in her chest. This was no time for heroics, no time to get side-tracked. For once she agreed with Henry and Sandrine. They had to get out, get to Sister Malpighi's quarters and see if she was able to shed any light on events, on the Darkest Hand, suggest a way forward. She knew the longer they dawdled, the greater the danger would be. Tacit moved forward again. Isabella cursed once more. She had always felt coming back to the Vatican was a mistake.

Tacit was looking down at something in the corridor in front of him. She joined him and felt the breath sucked out of her.

“Monsignor Benigni!” she hissed, looking at the figure lying prostrate on the floor of the passageway.