“You have your rifle,” called the voice of his Corporal from over this shoulder, as Abelli dropped into the dip and took a moment to survey the enemy line ahead. “Use your rifle!” he commanded, as an order.
“But I have no ammo!” Pablo called back. Then he realised what the Corporal meant and felt like weeping. He knew he couldn’t knock a man’s brains out with the butt of his rifle. That would be just too barbaric. And he was only slight. Everyone else seemed so much bigger than him. Everyone except those lying dead on the stones, shrunken somehow by death. “I can’t do it!” Pablo wept, sinking to his knees. “I can’t beat a man to death.”
“Of course you can,” muttered Abelli, placing a hand on Pablo’s shoulder. “You just need to remember to never fear death. Once you come to accept that it is the only certainty in life and that no one can evade it, everything is easier after that.”
FIFTY ONE
THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” repeated Isabella, standing at Tacit’s shoulder in the residential quarters of the Sodalitium Pianum, Sandrine and Henry three paces from them, watching the pair of them closely.
“Change of plan,” said Tacit. “Strettavario said that Benigni was investigating Inquisitor Cincenzo’s death on behalf of the Inquisition and the Holy See. If Benigni’s been killed, perhaps he had discovered something, something someone didn’t want him to know. It must be worth investigating. We’ll go and visit Sister Malpighi later.”
The door lock clicked open, and Tacit stowed the picks he had brought with him from the stores, pushing the door open.
“No one home?” asked Sandrine.
“Seems empty,” the Inquisitor replied, stepping cautiously into Benigni’s Vatican apartment, the others following. Isabella closed the door behind her. Even the silent click of the lock as it closed sounded to her like a gunshot in the quiet desolation of the place. “We shouldn’t be here.”
Tacit ignored her, stepping through the dark of the residence with more caution than Isabella realised he possessed. There was only moonlight by which to see, coming in through the shuttered windows like lines of silver. In the still air, dust could be seen floating through the slivers of light.
“I feel like a thief,” Isabella continued, catching up with Tacit and reaching out to his arm. “It doesn’t help to know that the Holy See might have found Benigni’s body and be coming here next.” Behind them, Sandrine and Henry were stalking through the other side of the apartment, looking blindly for anything which might be of use. “How do you do it, Tacit?” Isabella asked softly. “Two hours after you reappear in my life after nine months of being away, you’ve got me sneaking into the Vatican, chancing upon a dead body and then breaking into the victim’s apartment.” A ripple of excitement shivered through her at the words and she felt a lightness in her chest. After the long months of Chaste servitude, she quietly realised how much she was enjoying herself. She felt an urge to embrace Tacit’s arm, to pull herself to him. She battled it into submission and uncurled her fingers. “I suppose I forgot how much fun it is with you around,” she grinned.
Tacit remained silent, pacing slowly into the depths of the apartment. There was a desk in the room beyond and his eyes immediately caught sight of the file upon it, illuminated by the moonlight. He picked it up and thumbed his way through it, crossing to the shuttered window so that he could read the contents with greater ease. He flipped back to the front cover and inspected it closely, passing his fingertips lightly over the crest of the Sodalitium Pianum, the seal around which the binding could be tied and Benigni’s precise hand spelling out the edition and volume numbers of the file next to it. Tacit was pleased to see the volume number was high. The Sodalitium Pianum could never be accused of being lazy when it came to matters of investigating members of the flock who had fallen from grace.
Tacit turned back to the contents contained within, picking his way through the pages more carefully for a second time, his face studious and unyielding. He recognised most of the names listed within it, storing the infidelities of the accused in his mind for possible use later. Theft, greed, the hint of lost faith, a suspicion of homosexuality. The findings within might prove useful one day, he supposed. He froze suddenly and remembered he was no longer an Inquisitor. It was no longer his role to investigate and pursue. The realisation stung him and he cursed, forcing his eyes back onto the file. Regardless, the pulse of intrigue beat hard and fast within him. He couldn’t change the behaviour of a lifetime. He had to find out why Benigni and Inquisitor Cincenzo had been killed. Regardless of his place in the order of things, some questions needed answers. And he was certain the two events were linked.
“Anything?” Isabella asked, joining him at the window after looking briefly through Benigni’s desk drawers.
He paused, his face taut with surprise and realisation at what he had unexpectedly found. He closed the file and ran his fingers down the length of the spine, feeling the thickness of it before opening it again, slowly picking his way back through the pages. He held it open and dragged his finger down the rough edge of the inside spine, then held the file flat against the silver of the moon’s face. A light caught within Tacit’s eye, his anticipation pricked at the discovery. Papers had been torn from the file. Now he knew why Monsignor Benigni had been killed. The leader of the Sodalitium Pianum had discovered something someone wanted kept secret.
The find was as tantalising as it was exasperating. Just what had been in the file to merit the Monsignor’s death?
Isabella saw the look on Tacit’s face. “What is it?”
“The reason Benigni was killed. Something he found. A file he had compiled.”
“Is it there?”
“No. That’s the point. It’s been removed. Torn out.”
“Let me see,” said Isabella, and Tacit handed the file to her absently, his fingers stroking the bristle of his broad chin, his eyes on the moonlit Roman streets below. He wondered if Benigni would have compiled the file alone, or if he had done it with others. If so, then they would know the file’s contents too but, equally, they would be in danger. Finding their names would be easy. Getting to them would be harder. And he knew he lacked the resources and the contacts to reach them.
Thwarted. He could feel frustration gather inside him.
“There’s writing here,” Isabella announced excitedly, turning the first page immediately after the missing file into the light of the moon and running her fingers gently across its surface.
“What sort of writing?”
Isabella moved a lock of scarlet hair out of her eye and looked back to the desk, hurrying over and gathering a pencil from the top of it. At once she started to scribble with its lead gently over the surface of the indented paper, making a mirror of words on the reverse.
“Where’d you learn this?” asked Tacit, impressed.
“No secret is secret in the Chaste,” replied Isabella lightly, her tongue clenched firmly between her teeth. “There,” she said, setting down the pencil and stepping back to the window. The reproduced numbers shone silver-grey in the moonlight.
48.881196.
13.561646
“What are they?” asked Isabella, looking up into Tacit’s tired heavy face.
“File numbers?” he wondered aloud, snatching the paper from her and bringing it closer to his face to see. “Perhaps within a library? Whatever Benigni found, I suspect the answer lies with them.”
Something in the shadows at the far end of the residence moved from where it had been hiding and swung a fist hard into Sandrine’s unsuspecting temple. A black-clad Inquisitor. She went down with a grunt and didn’t move. Instantly Henry moved towards the man.
“Bastard!” he roared, moments before another Inquisitor came at him from the side. A blow to his stomach took the wind from his chest and a second the light from his eyes.
More darkly dressed figures bundled into the room and Tacit leapt forward towards them without a moment’s hesi
tation.
FIFTY TWO
THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.
Tacit made the first move, kicking over the desk, his fists raised. The closest Inquisitor to him ducked, but was too slow and took a full blow to the side of his head, cartwheeling away and clattering into furniture. A second Inquisitor threw a punch and Tacit stepped aside, retaliating with his left and closing the Inquisitor’s right eye permanently.
The remaining intruders backed away and Tacit’s next swing flew wide, leaving the left side of his ribs exposed. One of the attackers used the opportunity to crack three of them with a sharp hard jab, making Tacit curse and stumble backwards, his hand slipping to his side. The man’s face was obscured, but Tacit was sure he saw relief and a smile in his eyes.
Tacit lurched forward again, feigning a body clasp and then leading with his knee, a cheap shot, but effective, battering the man back against the wall. Tacit gave him no chance to recover, following with a quick one and two to the face, which rocked him on his heels and dropped him to his haunches. Arms reached around his neck from behind, attempting to throttle him. He threw the man over his shoulder, twisting his neck with a sickening crack as he hit the ground.
Another swung a baton and Tacit crouched beneath it with all the time in the world, coming up and battering the man once, twice, in the face. Tacit thought the man was down and out, but instantly he rolled aside and came up fighting, his hands moving like lightning. They hit with a ferocity and speed which shocked Tacit. Whoever this Inquisitor was, he could take the punches and deal them out.
Tacit took six hits before gauging the angle of attack, snatching the seventh blow in mid-air and twisting the arm at the elbow, making his attacker cry out in pain. Tacit turned the man and brought his own elbow down hard on his neck.
Good night, he thought as he delivered the blow.
Two more leaped onto his back, a third lashing out with his leg, catching Tacit firm in the groin and making him crumple to his knees. Instantly the low blow was followed by a second, a kick which landed beneath Tacit’s chin and battered him backwards.
He rolled over onto the balls of his feet and crouched low, watching the men adopt similar poses. They were good, but it needed three of them to even up the odds with Tacit. He was exhausted now, nine months’ imprisonment taking its toll on him. He considered ending it here and now, pulling out his Colt service revolver and blasting them away. But he knew that to do so would alert every other Inquisitor in the Vatican.
“Who sent you?” Tacit growled, stalking in a wide circle around them, looking for a way in through their defences, waiting for their next move. “Tell me! Who commands you?”
The lead figure shook his head, hunkered low, his firm unblinking eyes on Tacit throughout.
Tacit smiled cheerlessly and shot forward at a speed which surprised the leader. He feigned a roundhouse and uppercut the man, rocking him on his heels and then planting a blow firm in the middle of his face. Tacit heard and felt the teeth break and saw blood darken his chin. He could have left it there, knowing the fight had probably gone out of the intruder now, but Tacit reminded himself that he never liked to leave a job unfinished. He led with his left, catching the ailing opponent in the guts and turning him over on himself, using his right to break two of his ribs, then his left again, hitting him hard on the right of his face and crunching his head back the other way with his right.
Tacit was breathing hard now. Tight muscles and tighter breath. And he had given the other two remaining Inquisitors a chance to attack.
Just a hesitation, a fraction of a second was all it took.
One of them threw an uppercut which caught Tacit between his Adam’s apple and his chin bone with the weight of a freight train, a blow he never would have missed nine months ago, never would have missed if he’d not been distracted. He staggered back, the room spinning. He clung on to the man until his senses began to return, fending off more blows. Now he was happier, fighting dirty, fighting close. He knew how to move, just where to hit. But so did both Inquisitors, just the right amount of force, not too much to end the contest but enough to make Tacit know he was in a proper fight.
Tacit caught the man he was grappling a beauty in the solar plexus, but the man was big enough to take it, returning the blow with interest to Tacit’s kidney. He went down on one knee, crying out as his right side seized up from the hit. He rode the next blow, buying himself enough time to twist free and catch his breath. His breath! Tacit couldn’t believe how much he was puffing and how little the men he faced were. Tacit came at the second of them and the man rolled away, Tacit catching the glint of an Inquisitor’s brooch in the moonlight. He tried a haymaker, wild, desperate but devastating if it connected. The Inquisitor ducked and brought a heavy fist up onto Tacit’s jawbone, as the Inquisitor behind him battered him back with a blow to the back of the neck. Darkness and cold came in from the edges.
This is it, thought Tacit, but from somewhere consciousness returned and the figure in front of him merged from two back to one. He thrust with his index and middle fingers, hard as nails, and drove them deep into the Inquisitor’s eyes. The man cried out, his hands to his face, sinking blindly to his knees.
Now there was just one left, the Inquisitor behind him, but he was on Tacit before he had even had a chance to raise his fists. The Inquisitor was quick, quicker than Tacit, now he was so spent from the fight, and almost as big. Tacit felt a fourth rib crack and then break from two quick jabs to his chest, his right eye closed from a left hook. Everything was slowing down. Tacit was tired and rusty. And stupid. He should have used the Colt revolver. He should have ended it. Instead, he was going to die here. He’d been imprisoned for too long. It had been a mistake coming here. He should have fled, made a new life for himself. But then he would never have found out just who had killed the Inquisitor and if the Antichrist really had returned. And Isabella. There was Isabella. Isabella …
A figure came out of the dark and brought a broken chair leg down hard on his attacker’s head. He stumbled and shuffled right, his left hook flying wild. Tacit took his chance. He got one in just under the ribs followed by a beauty in the splenius capitis, which slackened the man’s entire left-hand side. He stumbled forward, his hands grasping out blindly. Tacit let him fall before turning to face his accomplice. Isabella. He bundled her into his arm, leaning on her for support.
“Thank you,” he groaned.
“Are you all right, Tacit?” she asked, knowing he was not.
He nodded, surveying the room for any remaining Inquisitors. At the far end of the apartment he spotted Sandrine and Henry. He stumbled towards them and crouched down, Sandrine stirring as he checked her pulse.
“What’s going on?” she asked, groggily.
“No time to explain,” replied Isabella, as Tacit dragged Henry from the floor and threw him over his shoulder. “Are you okay to walk?”
Sandrine struggled to her feet, testing her senses, and nodded.
“Good,” growled Tacit. “Let’s get out of here. The Inquisition will send more once they know what’s happened.”
“Gaulterio?” asked Isabella. “Did he betray us?”
But Tacit shook his head. “We must have been spotted, triggered an alarm.”
“I knew it was a mistake coming here,” she said, following him into the passageway outside the room.
“No,” replied Tacit. “Thank God we did. We’ve discovered something.”
“And what’s that?”
“Something someone clearly didn’t want us to find.”
FIFTY THREE
ROMALDKIRK. NORTH YORKSHIRE. ENGLAND.
The three children had run all the way from school to reach the farm, as quickly as their little legs could carry them. The instant the bell had rung in the school hall, signalling the end of the day, they had torn from the building, their satchels thrown over shoulders or swinging from tightly clasped fingers. They loved visiting the shepherdess and her flock, and had been promised a special t
reat this day. For the lambs were to be brought down from the hills in readiness for the farmers’ market at the weekend and she had told the children they could take one lamb away with them, to keep as a gift, if their father allowed it. He had begrudgingly assented after catching his wife’s insistent eye.
“I could almost explode with excitement!” squealed Maisie, her ginger plaits bouncing as she ran. “Where shall we keep it?”
“Father said in the garden would be fine,” said her brother Ross. “As long as we don’t let it get under his feet.”
“Or eat his carrots!” laughed Annabel, the youngest of the three siblings.
“We’ll be ever so good at caring for it,” insisted Ross. “And every summer we can make our own wool!”
“I’d like a black lamb,” said Maisie.
“Come on! First one into the yard can choose!”
They ran out of the shadows of Phillis Wood, the girls behind Ross, racing along the rutted stony path that cut between the two fields at the bottom of the Simpsons’ farm. Now that the grey stone farmhouse had come into view, the children’s excitement became greater with every stride.
“I can’t hear anything,” said Ross as they grew nearer, his pace slowing a little to allow his sisters to catch up. “I’d have expected to hear baaing if shepherdess Simpson had brought them down into the yard.”
“Perhaps she hasn’t managed to bring them down to the farm yet?” asked Maisie, immediately disappointed.
“Perhaps she never intended to?” said Annabel. “Perhaps she was only lying when she said she was going to bring the sheep down from the field? She did seem awfully strange that day she first suggested it, as if she was out to play tricks on us. Do you remember how she looked? As if she was teasing us?” The little girl recalled how unkind the shepherdess had appeared at moments during their visit and how she had scared her at times, an unnerving light in her old grey eyes.
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