Hounds of Rome

by Tom Clancy

  “You’re right,” she said, noticing the look on his face. “I came for two reasons—an annulment, and I did hope to see some of the sites of Rome. The committee in Boston turned me down even though there were no children and the marriage was very brief and conducted between two teenagers who didn’t know what they were getting themselves into.”

  “But you went back for a second attempt.”

  “Yes, under pressure. And that second attempt lasted all of two days.”

  “I see you’re still wearing your wedding ring.”

  “That’s only to keep the wolves away.”

  Steve was doubtful about the possibility of an annulment. “I know the Vatican has become concerned about the proliferation of annulments in America. That’s probably why you were turned down—just another case in the midst of hundreds or possibly thousands of others, even though your case seems to be more worthy than many others I’ve read about. What will you do if you don’t get the annulment? You know you’ll never be able to marry in the church.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ll get it,” she said with a trace of a smile. “In fact, my new Italian lawyer here in Rome says it’s in the bag. He has contacts at the Vatican and says they owe him some favors.”

  Janet ran her fingers lightly through her hair. She took a sip of wine. Since Steve hadn’t been served, she put the wine glass to his lips. He sipped without taking his eyes off her.

  She sat back and smiled. Then she leaned forward, reached across the table and gently held his hand. He remembered the first time she had done that on their first dinner date in Washington. He remembered how it had electrified him. It still electrified him. From the look on her face, Steve couldn’t really tell what was on her mind. Did she still love him or was she just happy to be in Italy and on the way to getting her freedom?

  She suddenly stood up and pulled her chair around the table so that now she was sitting right beside him. She leaned close to him; her lips an inch away from his ear as if to whisper a confidence. “Sure and ‘tis happy I am to be seeing you again Father Murphy,” she whispered playfully, with the touch of a brogue that made him laugh. He remembered the months they had spent at the university when they laughed through lunches with happy banter and imitation brogues.

  “But now that I am in Rome at last, there are things I want to see while I’m waiting for the annulment, and I thought you’d be an excellent tour guide. I also want to meet your friend Father Angelo at the catacombs.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Three days.”

  “Three days and you just called me today?”

  “I had to spend a lot of time with the attorney. He needed to hear the whole story from the beginning and go through a pile of paperwork from my previous annulment claims. Then yesterday, I sat on the Spanish Steps in the glorious Roman sunshine reading a book of poems by John Keats.”

  “I suppose you know that he died in the house beside the Spanish Steps. The apartment he lived in is now a museum.”

  “Why here? Did he love Rome?”

  “Not sure. He came here for his health. In the 1800s, some of the British moved to Italy for their health. Keats was one of them. He had TB. I understand the doctors didn’t help because they bled him which hastened his death.”

  “Maybe it was a blessing in disguise.”

  “Possibly. At the end, Keats’ friend Percy Bysshe Shelley visited him just as the landlady was piling all of Keats’ furniture in the street to be burned. But as the story goes, Shelley locked the door to Keats’ study where his manuscripts were stored. He told the landlady the room was empty. That’s how Keats’ original manuscripts were saved. When I take you on tour we’ll visit the house and you’ll be able to read the originals of some of his poems. What else do you want to see?”

  “The Colosseum.”

  “That’s easy. It’s just down the block.”

  “Also Trevi Fountain. I want to throw a coin over my shoulder so I’ll return to Rome.”

  “You’ve come at a good time because they’ve taken down the plexiglas walls that surrounded it and filled the fountain with water again.”

  “So, I won’t have to stand with my back to the plexiglas and throw a coin high in the air over my shoulder and listen to it clunk in the empty fountain?”

  “Make sure it’s a euro. They don’t use lira any more. And what else do you want to see?”

  “Oh, Saint Peters, the Vatican Museum, the Sistine Chapel, the Forum, the Baths of Caracalla, the catacombs, the Appian Way…”

  “At this rate,” Steve said with a laugh, “we’ll be here a month.”

  Steve had hardly responded when two young men in black suits who appeared to be seminarians came up to the table and stood glaring down at him. He stood up, towering over them. “I remember you guys from Israel,” he said. “Have you recovered from that kick in the gut?” he asked the one who seemed to be older.

  “This is not the woman who did it,” the older one said.” Then, glaring at Steve, he muttered, “Your friend, Angelo, of San Callisto, told us you were gone—back to America.”

  “Angelo told the truth, but you see I’ve come back and if you think of pulling out that unholy crucifix dagger, I’m going to ram it down your throat.”

  Oh hearing this, Janet jumped up in horror and stepped away from the table.

  “All we want to do is warn you. Since you are not to be a priest by order of the Vatican, do not pose as one. Do not try to say Mass or perform any of the sacraments.”

  “I will not dishonor the pontiff.”

  “Now we leave you. We know you were responsible for the killing of the two American monks, but they were disobedient and deserved to die.”

  Then as the men were walking away, Steve fired a parting shot. “I know that one of you, or one of your guys, stabbed young Peter. And you got away with it. But make sure you go to confession and I hope you get a whole year’s penance.”

  “What was that all about?” Janet said trembling.

  “I’ll tell you the whole story one of these days,” Steve said disgustedly.

  “But who were they?”

  “They are members of The Knights of Carthage. They supposedly protect the faith—by force, if necessary. They are commonly known as The Hounds of Rome.”

  “They said you killed two American monks.”

  “I didn’t. Ever since I left that monastery in Arizona there were two monks who followed me wherever I went. They were supposedly trying to drag me back but it was a bit more sinister than that. It’s true they were killed but as I said, I didn’t do it. I will admit that I did some things to protect myself and they paid the price, that’s all. I’m sorry if I sound cold-blooded, but as the saying goes, desperate situations call for desperate measures.”

  *****

  Angelo greeted them with open arms and a bear hug for each. “Steve, you didn’t tell me you had a beautiful American friend. If I wasn’t a priest I would be on bended knee proposing. I’m sure she will want to see the catacombs and since you are one of my official tour guides, I will leave it to you.”

  After two cups of espresso and nibbles on a mountain of food, Janet was anxious to take the tour.

  Steve led her down the narrow staircase to the first level. “Stay close behind,” he said as he aimed the flashlight along the passageway describing the crypts they passed.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Janet said. “I’m holding onto the back of your jacket.”

  Steve stopped, turned, and switched off the flashlight as Janet shuddered in the darkness and pressed up against him. He held her in a tight embrace.

  “That was a sneaky way to get me into your arms,” she said.

  “I know. I love you. I want to be close to you forever.”

  “Is that a proposal?”

  “Yes. When you’re free will you marry me?”

  “You picked a strange place to propose.”

  “But, will you?”

  In the pitch-bla
ckness of the catacomb Steve waited for what seemed like an eternity.

  “Bend over and turn your head so I can give you my answer in your ear.”

  Standing on tiptoe, she whispered, “Yes.”

  That one word made up for all the pain and grief he had gone through for the past few years.

  *****

  Later, they were walking arm-in-arm on the cobblestones of the ancient Appian Way in the warm Roman sunshine that filtered down through the overhanging trees.

  “Now to the actual planning,” Janet said with a mock voice that sounded like an executive at a corporate board meeting. “We’ll be married in Concord. OK?”

  “Of course.”

  “I want to get married in that small Catholic Church in Monument Square just across from the Colonial Inn. We can have the reception at the inn.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “It will be a small wedding—families only. No ushers or bridesmaids.”

  “Of course.”

  “The same for the reception—small. Families only.”

  “The only way.”

  “I must say, Steve, you’re beginning to sound like a real husband. Next on the list, do we have to live in your family mansion in Wayland?”

  “Absolutely not. It has too many unpleasant memories for me. Besides, Jonathon lives there with Marge, a housekeeper and a live-in nurse. Too crowded. We’ll find a place in Concord.”

  “That fits in nicely,” she said, “since my new job is at a social service agency in Concord. But what will you do all day? Real estate? Tax work with your brother?”

  “No way! I have prospects. I have a friend at Harvard who has offered me a position as an Assistant Professor.”

  “Good heavens,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to teach Latin by total immersion. If you recall, that didn’t go over so well at Catholic U.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he replied, raising his head, jutting out his chin and trying to manage a supercilious look even though he wasn’t sure it was effective. “I’ll have you know,” he said with mock haughtiness, “My friend wants me to teach World Religions. And I want you to know that I have become much more tolerant of other religions and I know I can do the job splendidly.”

  “I’m sure you can,” she said apologetically. “I was only kidding about your early days in the classroom.”

  “Well, I’ve changed. I’ve become much more sympathetic to students. And, after we get settled, in the summers when school is out, and when you can take a break from helping your patients get their lives back on track; in summer, I know of a place on a lake in New Hampshire that my brother has turned over to me. This lake has loons that call in the night, and there’s this red and white seaplane…”

  They stopped in the middle of the road. She was in his arms. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the lips. Her lips were soft, parting and yielding. “You mean a pond,” she whispered.