The Seventh Commandment

by Tom Fox

Father Alberto, however, met Angelina’s words with unshakeable calm.

  ‘I am not sure what lies you’re referring to, Dr Calla.’

  ‘Or “prophecies”, if you’d prefer to call them that,’ she answered. She sat rigid, leaning forward in her chair. ‘I most certainly do not. If you knew the river was going to change colour, if you knew the power was going to go out, and if you knew that the sewers were going to spew “fog” into the streets, I don’t call that divine vision. I call it deception.’

  ‘We have deceived no one,’ the priest answered calmly.

  ‘Your video.’ Angelina wasn’t willing to be dismissed so simply. She turned towards Thomás, standing behind the priest with his eyes wide, at least as shocked as Ben by her tone. ‘The things you said on camera. You clearly knew what was coming.’

  ‘We shared the truth with the world,’ Father Alberto answered. ‘Hasn’t everything we said been proven true?’

  ‘That it’s “come true” is precisely the point! The only way you could know such things were going to happen is if you were behind them, or at least involved in them. What I want to know is, why? What’s the game you’re playing? Because I don’t know if this is all just some religious spectacle you’re trying to put on, but it’s resulted in something a little different than awe and inspiration as far as I’m concerned. I had a bullet shot into my leg!’

  Thomás gasped in a sudden intake of shocked breath. What surprised him, however, wasn’t news of Angelina’s injury.

  ‘You . . . don’t believe the prophecies are . . . real?’

  Angelina spun her gaze at him, but couldn’t find the words to reply.

  Ben leaned forward, seeking a way to mediate the unpleasant air of the conversation. ‘Reality, Thomás, can mean different things to different people.’

  Father Alberto gazed at him silently, understanding on his face. Angelina, however, was incredulous.

  ‘Different things? Different people?’ Her face reddened. ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You were shot at, too, Ben!’

  ‘All I’m saying is that visions aren’t always—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear another damned word about visions!’ she shouted. ‘Visions aren’t what’s firing guns, and visions aren’t what lets people know when crimes are about to take place. This is deception, plain and simple!’

  Finally, Father Alberto raised a hand. His palm was open, his face peaceful.

  ‘Please, my friends, let’s not proceed like this. It will get us nowhere.’ He smiled gently to both of them in turn. Then, to Angelina, ‘Yes, there is deception in the air today. And yesterday. And in the days before.’

  Angelina froze. Her whole body pulsed with anger, but the last thing she’d expected had been an outright confession.

  ‘And, no doubt, tomorrow,’ Father Alberto continued.

  ‘You admit it, then?’ Angelina demanded, her tone half the volume it had been a moment before.

  ‘I admit only the reality of man’s foibles and propensities.’ The priest’s voice continued at the same calm pace. ‘But we preach truth, here. Nothing more. And the tablet that’s been discovered, the prophecies it contains, which Thomás read to the world on camera yesterday – they contain the truth. Of that I am certain.’

  ‘But it’s fraudulent,’ Angelina persisted, ‘it has to be. I don’t know how, or by whom, or what for, but it’s the only explanation.’

  The voice in her head insisted firmly: Authentic ancient texts don’t predict modern phenomena.

  Then, a question Angelina hadn’t yet thought to ask.

  ‘How did you get it?’

  The priest looked into her eyes, waiting for more.

  ‘The text of the tablet. The Vatican told us the imagery was only released yesterday, but your group read out a translation of the whole thing. How did you get your hands on it?’ Then, before he could start his answer, ‘And don’t tell me it was “prophetically revealed” to you.’

  Father Alberto smiled. His eyes brimmed with compassion.

  ‘No, my child. Nothing so supernal as that. The text was given to me.’

  Angelina hesitated. ‘Given?’

  The priest’s smile broadened, sensing her misgivings.

  ‘By a friend. A very human friend.’ Then the priest himself leaned forward. ‘I can call him in here if you’d like.’

  The corridor

  Laurence was still fuming, his sweeper in hand though he hadn’t so much as moved an inch over the floor in minutes, as he pondered how he might get access to the two threats just beyond the door at the corridor’s end. Beside him, his work trolley contained his usual array of tools.

  Then, his only question was answered.

  The door to the library opened and Thomás stepped out. Laurence realised he needed to look like he had a reason for being there, so he immediately set the sweeper into motion and lowered his eyes to the floor.

  ‘Laurence,’ Thomás’s voice reverberated clearly through the narrow hallway, and he sounded pleased that he hadn’t had to go searching for the janitor elsewhere in the building, ‘do you have a moment?’

  Laurence ensured his face was calm, expressionless, as he raised it towards the younger man.

  ‘Of course, Thomás. What can I do for you? Something still to clean in the sanctuary?’

  Thomás looked as if he wanted to smile, but the edges of his mouth wouldn’t quite rise to the occasion.

  ‘It’s nothing like that. Father Alberto is here with Benedict and . . . a guest.’ He paused. ‘He’d like to see you.’

  Inwardly, Laurence rejoiced. He was being beckoned to the very place he needed to be. It was almost enough to make him believe in divine providence after all.

  Outwardly, he simply set aside his sweeper with a gentle nod.

  ‘Of course, of course. What I’m doing can wait.’

  He leaned the tall wooden handle against his cart, and his hands passed swiftly over his tools before he turned towards the far end of the corridor.

  Laurence was not a man of any experience or skill with weapons. God knew he’d never held a gun. But in this setting, in these quarters, he wouldn’t need one.

  He lowered his hands into his sides as he walked towards Thomás, a screwdriver dropping silently into his denim pocket as he moved.

  59

  The library

  Church of St Paul of the Cross

  The summoning of the man who had ‘given’ the text of the tablet to Father Alberto was an unexpected event that had both Angelina and Ben perched on the edges of their seats. Ben, wholly convinced of the divine element in all that had befallen them, was curious how such a human delivery might form a part of it; while Angelina, dismissive of anything paranormal in events she considered had to be entirely human, wanted to know who the next player was in the link of actors connecting everything going on around her.

  Neither of them expected the figure of the man who entered the room a few seconds later.

  ‘Benedict, I believe you know Laurence de Luca, who’s been with us for the past seven months,’ Father Alberto said calmly. Out of chairs, Thomás brought the elder custodian close to their trio of seats where the older man stood as upright as he was capable.

  ‘Dr Calla,’ the priest continued, ‘I’d like to introduce you to a member of our parish community.’

  Laurence nodded hesitantly, giving every appearance of having no idea why he’d been called into the room. He wore worker’s denim coveralls over a white shirt, all of which hung loosely over a frame that had long ago lost the clearly defined solidity of youth. The man was skinny but not scrawny, his hair closer to white than grey, and though he kept himself shaved there was a thin fuzz across his face and neck that matched the colour atop his head. The whites of his eyes were dimly yellowed, but the blue orbs at their centres remained vivid.

  And yet, Angelina noticed, there was something more to those eyes. Not simply age, nor surprise, nor pious devotion. There was . . . anger.

  She was
immediately suspicious. Anger, even amidst venerable age and gentleness, reveals much.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Laurence said hesitantly, giving a courteous, quick nod to Angelina and then a more familiar nod to Ben, where his gaze lingered a moment longer.

  ‘I was just getting to know Dr Calla,’ Father Alberto continued, ‘who rather insistently wishes to know how I received the full text of the tablet that was published online yesterday. The one you gave me last week.’

  ‘Last week?’ The exclamation burst out of Angelina’s lips. ‘You didn’t tell me you had it so long ago!’ The priest’s story was becoming more incredible all the time.

  Laurence’s eyebrows, still surprisingly black given the grey-white tone of his hair and stubble, lifted high on his face.

  ‘Father, are you sure? We don’t normally speak about—’

  ‘I’m sure, brother,’ the priest gently cut him off. ‘They wish to know. Please, don’t be afraid. Tell them.’

  The custodian looked increasingly uncomfortable with each passing second, though Angelina noticed that the mounting signs of anger within him appeared less feigned than the shows of embarrassment and hesitation.

  It was these, however, that the man emphasised as he heeded his priest’s instruction.

  ‘I got the message from the only place such messages come.’ His eyes focused on a spot on the floor midway between the chairs on which Angelina, Ben and Father Alberto sat. ‘From God.’

  Angelina wanted to snap. More of this crap. Her interior scepticism had long since reached its threshold for the day. But there was something about the way the man held himself. The way the words were forced through his teeth. Something wasn’t right, beyond the obvious fact that, so far as Angelina knew, even amongst the most pious God wasn’t known to make a habit of translating Akkadian tablets for elderly janitors.

  ‘Angelina, please don’t get upset,’ Ben whispered, trying to use soft tones to calm what he knew was a line of discussion that would frustrate her. ‘This is what we’re all about, here. The reception of the working, and the words, of the Spirit.’

  ‘How, precisely?’ Angelina asked, keeping her eyes on Laurence. The question silenced Ben. It wasn’t a challenge to the nature of revelation, or a denigration of religious ‘superstition’, as Angelina had so often called it. ‘Tell me how God revealed this to you.’

  Laurence didn’t lift his eyes from the floor, but entered into what immediately felt to Angelina like a well-rehearsed speech on the nature of charismatic vision. Song and praise had lifted his soul out of the weighty shackles of worldly thoughts, prayer had opened his heart to the presence of God. In an ecstasy of devotion he had felt the Spirit pouring down on him like tongues of fire, speaking unknown words into the depths of his soul.

  He recounted his experiences with surprisingly little emotion. It was meant to indicate a familiarity with this kind of phenomenon, Angelina surmised – a lack of surprise that God would and did act in such ways. But she felt something different in Laurence’s emotionless delivery. She felt he was holding back a far heavier emotion that was barely caged inside him.

  ‘This is how these things often come,’ Father Alberto said peacefully. ‘When our hearts are drawn up. When we don’t expect them.’

  ‘Though what came to Laurence was only the whole,’ Ben added. ‘Parts of the revelation had been emerging from different members of our group for weeks. A piece here, a piece there. Then Laurence delivered the whole.’

  ‘And a week later, yesterday,’ Laurence added, ‘we saw news of a tablet having been discovered, and the imagery released on the web. An ancient relic, confirming everything we’ve been shown.’

  Angelina could sense the breathing coming from Ben’s direction had slowed. Reverence. The priest across from her looked serene, as if the will of God brought an extra peace to his soul and this whole situation confirmed the vibrancy of his faith.

  But for Angelina . . .

  ‘You’re lying,’ she suddenly declared. The words were shot directly at the janitor, whose eyes at last sprang up, wide. The skin at the sides of his neck began to turn a vivid red.

  ‘You’re lying, and you’re a fraud,’ Angelina repeated, more firmly.

  ‘Angelina!’ Ben cried again.

  Laurence turned to Father Alberto, his whole face now reddened and indignant. ‘Please, put a stop to this woman’s accusations. Why did you call me in for this? She’s not a believer. She knows nothing!’

  ‘I know you’re lying,’ Angelina spat back.

  ‘Stop this!’ Ben cried out again.

  ‘No!’ The word thundered not out of Angelina’s mouth, but Laurence’s. The custodian had straightened himself as tall as his frame would allow, his breath heaving and his face a contorted mass of fury. His breaking point had been reached.

  ‘I will be the one to stop this!’ he rasped, spittle flying from his lips.

  In his hand, he gripped a large screwdriver, his knuckles flexed white in pure rage.

  60

  Along the Piazza di Porta San Giovanni

  Central Rome

  Emil strode alongside Bartolomeo as they walked past the site of the next plague that would flare up in the Eternal City. Yiannis, the second person in Bartolomeo’s team, walked a step behind.

  It brought Emil a certain satisfaction to be so bold about it. He could be right here, in the public eye, surrounded by the tense tourists and frightened locals, seen by everyone – it made no difference. The art of prophecy was its origin; the whole reason it had been chosen.

  With everyone’s attention called towards God, no one was looking at him.

  They moved past the spot, letting its ominous edifice recede behind them. The details were in place. Emil was confident it would come off as planned, tonight, just after sundown.

  It would be so much more dramatic in darkness.

  But his mind was already further afield.

  ‘After this plague comes and goes, the fervour of fear and interest will be at its peak,’ he said softly to Bartolomeo. A public transit bus drove past them, roaring diesel engines momentarily overpowering their conversation. ‘Which means everyone will be glued on the one to come next. The fifth plague.’

  Bartolomeo laughed. ‘It’d be kind of hard for anyone not to have taken notice by then. The city’s already an anxious mess.’

  ‘And they’ll have the hour, and the place.’

  Another bus, and Emil let its blaring engine call their words to a halt. They kept walking, but he said nothing further.

  The fifth plague had been ‘prophesied’ to take place tomorrow at daybreak. With such a specific time, and such a specific place, the eyes of the city would be glued there.

  God, it was all so easy. By the morning he’d have everyone in Rome either believing, or at least questioning and curious enough about what the hell was going on, to be out, in the appointed place, watching. The spot foreordained by ancient words, confirmed by the voice of modern visionaries and seers, would be thronged with pilgrims, believers, sceptics and critics. With clergy. With reporters.

  And, most importantly of all, with security. And Emil’s men would already be moving.

  ‘Your two threats,’ Bartolomeo’s voice suddenly cut through Emil’s anticipatory reverie, ‘they’re not going to be a problem?’

  Emil shook his head. ‘Between now and then? No chance. Even if they were able, there wouldn’t be time for debunking to stop curiosity from taking its natural hold.’

  ‘But they’re . . . not?’ Bartolomeo persisted. ‘Not “able”?’

  Emil halted and turned to face Bartolomeo. He smiled at his diligent worker, discerning precisely what the other man meant.

  ‘No, my friend. They’re not. I suspect that at this very moment, Rome is being relieved of two scholars whose presence was . . . no longer required.’

  The smile lingered, was returned, and the men walked onward through the haze in silence.

  61

  The library
/>   Church of St Paul of the Cross

  Laurence snapped all at once. He was transformed from the figure of a meek and mild janitor he’d cultivated so well, into a figure of more power and strength than his age would suggest he could possibly hold. His breath rasped as it came in a frenetic, shallow pulse, and his eyes narrowed into slits. The muscles in his reddened neck contorted and the large screwdriver in his right hand was brought up to chest level as he stomped forward in fury.

  ‘I’ve had enough of what this bitch has to say.’ The words were poison as he shoved past Father Alberto’s seat and lunged at Angelina.

  The attack came quickly, but Angelina’s suspicious focus on the man since he’d entered the room already had her on alert – perhaps not for this, but for something. When he pushed through the chairs and thrust the flat-head end of the screwdriver at her, she had just enough time to lunge to her right and avoid a blow that would have caused it to pierce through her lower neck. Instead, the flat blade rammed into the wooden backing of her chair and knocked it over as Angelina sprang to her feet.

  Laurence’s body followed the motion of his outstretched arm and he nearly toppled over the chair, but he caught himself and spun back at Angelina’s new position. He was beyond words now, his anger vocalised only in bestial grunts that roared out of him, white spittle clinging to the corners of his lips.

  He shot forward at Angelina in a second attempt, this time swiping the screwdriver in front of him in a face-level arc. It whipped the air with an audible whoosh each time he sliced it back and forth.

  Angelina thrust herself backwards, a manoeuvre that slammed her spine against one of the metal bookcases, which in turn rattled vigorously as books leapt off its shelves and flew to the floor. The position was as far back as she could get, and she wasn’t sure it would be enough. The blade of the screwdriver flashed by her face mere centimetres from her eyes, so close that the whoosh of air forced her to blink, and all at once she couldn’t see what was in front of her.

  For an instant, Angelina went blind.