Blood of the Lamb

by Sam Cabot

  Then movement: the clerk’s eyes, fixing on the notebook in Livia Pietro’s hand. He lunged. Thomas, halfway to his feet, body-blocked him with a South Boston street corner move. As the clerk crashed to the floor and a chair toppled onto him, something brushed by Thomas: the complicated jacket of Livia Pietro, who, shoulder bag and hat in one hand and notebook in the other, was racing across the marble floor.

  Appalled, Thomas yelled, “Wait!” He was aghast at the sudden thought he’d gotten it wrong: Livia Pietro was stealing the notebook and the clerk had been trying to stop her. Thomas glanced down, saw the man trying to untangle himself from a heavy chair. No time to help: Pietro had turned a corner. In a hail of “Silenzio!” from the other researchers, Thomas sprinted after her.

  12

  Livia cracked the hidden door just enough to see Thomas Kelly race around the corner and skid to a bewildered stop a few yards past her in the bright, empty hall. A crash from the reading room announced the clerk was free of the chair; pounding footsteps said he was coming after them. If the Gendarmes weren’t also, they would be any moment. Livia cursed herself for a fool. Why hadn’t she been on her guard from the moment she became aware of the clerk? Of course a number of Noantri were in service at the Vatican—it only seemed prudent—but this was someone she didn’t know. That should have rung an alarm, but it hadn’t.

  Or perhaps it had, but she’d been so intent on her mission and on Thomas Kelly’s discovery that she’d ignored it. The priest’s find, this notebook, could be crucial. She thought she’d seen a pattern to the places not written about, something Thomas Kelly wouldn’t have noticed because he didn’t know Trastevere. She might be wrong, or the pattern might be there but mean nothing. Until she was sure, however, she wasn’t giving the notebook up. Not to the priest, and especially not to a sticky-fingered fellow Noantri.

  Briefly she considered leaving the priest behind. He’d only slow her, and what did he really have to offer? Well, she reflected, he did read Romanesco, possibly better than she. If she was right about the pattern of what was missing in the notebook, and if the poems that remained turned out to be important, another viewpoint on Damiani’s elliptical verse might come in handy. So, given the nature of the buildings, might an expert in Church history. Most importantly, the Conclave had told her to make use of, and keep an eye on, this priest. Obeying the Conclave in letter as well as spirit struck her as wise, right now.

  Livia pushed the door open and showed herself.

  “Father Kelly. Quickly! In here.” The priest spun in surprise. She held out the notebook. Kelly dashed toward her; she seized his arm and yanked him through the door, then slammed it shut.

  “I— What—”

  “Shh,” she commanded. “Come.” She grasped the priest’s arm and started towing him down the corridor. She knew he couldn’t see a thing. Her own eyes, much sharper than his, could barely tell floor from walls in the faint light seeping through the high openings. In the rooms on either side, those slits would be invisible, shadows in moldings near the ceiling. The door she’d just slammed, too, was imperceptible once shut. The Vatican was riddled with hidden passages and the Library was no exception. Most were built to allow servants to travel invisibly. Some had been created to facilitate other exchanges or escapes. Over many years, in the course of many legitimate research projects in various libraries, museums, and study centers around the world—her scholar’s credentials were impeccable—Livia had occasionally passed time wandering where she wasn’t supposed to be. Those explorations had yielded a number of doors and passages and occasionally led her to some interesting scholarship. Some secret doors, like the one to this passage, were never meant to be locked and gave easily once you’d found the hidden latch. Others required more finesse. To aid in her private research projects, Livia had acquired locksmith’s tools and the skills to use them, but she was glad not to be slowed down by the need for them now.

  Of course, the clerk wouldn’t be slowed down, either. Even if he didn’t know about this passageway he’d find it. His heightened Noantri senses would lead him to her, by scent if all else failed. But she and the priest had a good head start. Livia’s hope was that by the time the clerk discovered the hidden latch, they’d be out the passage’s other end.

  If, that was, Father Kelly could be persuaded to keep going. Shocked into silence by her sudden appearance and by her manhandling, apparently he’d now recovered. He tugged and twisted, trying to free himself or at least stop their progress. In the face of her strength he couldn’t do either, which added to his confusion and panic. He dug in his heels and shouted, “No! Wait! What’s going on?”

  She stopped and turned, catching him gently so his momentum wouldn’t plow him into her. “I’ll explain,” she said. “But not here. Stay quiet. We need to get out.” She added, “I have Damiani’s notebook.”

  “I know you do! You stole it! We’ve got to go back.”

  “There’s no time. Come.” She started forward again, hauling him with her.

  “Don’t pull! Let me go!”

  Father Kelly sounded so surprised, so offended at her unexpected might, that Livia almost laughed. Normally, like most Noantri, Livia hid her Blessings—her strength, her agility—from the Unchanged, to avoid provoking exactly this unease. She released his arm. “You don’t have to come. You can stay here. Work your way back along that corridor. Or shout and they’ll find you. But I’m taking the notebook and if you don’t come, you won’t know why.”

  “You can’t! It’s—” He stopped. When he spoke again his voice was calm. “You came here for that notebook. You’re not studying Damiani any more than I am. Who are you?”

  “I’m an art historian, as I told you, and on the contrary, I’m studying Damiani exactly as much as you are. I didn’t know about the notebook, though I’m very glad you found it. But I didn’t come for it. I came for you.”

  A pause. “What?”

  “I need your help. And I can help you. We’re both after the same thing.”

  He said nothing. His eyes were wide in the dark and she held them with her own though he probably couldn’t see it. “I’m searching for the same thing you are,” she said. “We have to find it, and more urgently than I think you know.”

  “We? Are you—”

  “Wait!” She touched a finger to his lips. He startled. She listened, spoke again. “He’s found the door. He could find the catch at any moment. Come, or stay.” The priest didn’t move. “Father Kelly. To find the Concordat, you must come with me.” She heard his sharp intake of breath.

  “What do you know about the Concordat?”

  “More than you. You’ve been told to find it and you’ve been told it’s dangerous, but you don’t know its contents, do you? I do.”

  “All I know is that it’s a secret the Church guards closely.”

  “You doubt me. You have that right. But I’m telling the truth.”

  “Why are you looking for it?”

  “Not now. Come.” Instead of seizing his arm again, she gently took his hand. He startled once more, but while he didn’t fold his fingers onto hers, he didn’t pull away, either. She waited, then gave a soft tug. After a moment he took a step toward her.

  They made their way down the servants’ passage, Livia listening for the clerk’s progress. A tiny click—he’d found the latch. She sped up, as sure-footed as the priest was stumbling. Twice she had to keep him from falling, losing precious seconds each time. Without him she’d have eluded the clerk for sure, but now it was touch and go. The rhythm and minutely rising volume of the clerk’s steps behind them told her he’d shortened the distance, was quite close by the time she and Father Kelly emerged through another hidden door into a tiny anteroom. Kelly blinked in the sudden wash of light. Livia slipped on her sunglasses and fixed her hat. “Be casual,” she instructed, and stepped through a low archway into the Vatican Museum’s Galleria Clementina.
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  Thomas Kelly alternately beside and behind her, Livia wove through crowds of shuffling tourists, keeping up a hurried but informed commentary on the paintings, statuary, and artifacts they passed. She was a private tour guide steering a visiting priest through the treasures of the Galleria Clementina and then into the Museum of Pagan Antiquities, behind in their schedule but still focusing on the art as they rushed. No one seemed to notice them, not even the security guards strolling casually, protecting the art while not alarming the tourists. One of those officers was Noantri, a man Livia recognized. They exchanged the tiniest of nods. Could she count on him to stop the clerk if it came to that? She wasn’t sure; best not to chance it.

  The clerk, of course, had found his way through the passage and was on their trail. He was two rooms behind them; Livia easily picked his footsteps out. Unlikely that he’d risk a confrontation in this crowd. He’d follow them, waiting for his chance. She heard him speed up as she and Thomas Kelly maneuvered through the crush of people and started circling down the bronze spiral staircase. As they reached the bottom, he took the first steps down. The same thick crowd that slowed them would hinder him, but still he’d be no more than a few seconds behind when they burst out into the bright, crowded piazza.

  Burst they did, and as Livia feared, alarms began to shrill and clang when the notebook in her bag crossed the Vatican’s threshold. Cardinal Fariña’s parting gift, the new security system; she’d known it was a risk. Quick-walking beside her, Thomas Kelly blanched.

  “Fifty people came out when we did.” She spoke low, keeping a merry smile, not looking at him or changing pace. “Forty-five of them look more suspicious than a middle-aged lady tour guide and a priest. Just stay with me.” Ignoring the alarms and the security guards now running through the crowd, she clasped Father Kelly’s arm again and took off striding past the gelato and torta carts.

  Camera-draped tourists flowed through the piazza, swarming after colorful umbrellas and pennants on poles. They circled water- and trinket-sellers like feeding fish. At the curb, buses disgorged them and, more importantly, waited in patient lines to scoop them up again.

  “What are you—”

  “Shhh.” Livia scanned the crowd. The visored Taiwanese would do them no good, and the Americans were just arriving, but beyond, a group of mixed Europeans—Italians, Poles, and a gaggle speaking Greek—were loading onto a bright blue bus. “Come.” When they were close to the bus she slowed, waiting until the guide turned away to answer the inevitable question from the inevitable guidebook-thumbing tourist. “Now!” she said, and hopped onto the stairs and into the bus. The engine was already running. She moved through to the back, smiling at her fellow passengers as though they’d been together for days on this whirlwind tour of Italy. She’d found a seat and was looking through the window when Thomas Kelly dropped beside her.

  “Are you crazy?” he demanded in a whisper.

  She turned to him with a smile. He was red-faced and sweating. “You’re a tourist,” she said quietly. “Act like one.”

  He dropped his voice. “Give me the notebook.”

  “I will. I will, and you can replace it in the Library. But we need it first.”

  “Need it for what? You cannot just do that.” He was spluttering sotto voce. “Who are you?”

  “A historian, as you are. We can’t talk now. Wait until we get where we’re going.”

  “No. Give me the notebook or I’ll call the police.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I will!”

  The harried guide climbed the stairs. The driver left the door open for the last of the straggling tourists.

  “You could have called for help at any time in the museum,” Livia said, “but here you are. You’re curious.” On his face, guilt fleetingly eclipsed confusion and anger. “Father Kelly, trust me, please. We’re after the same thing: the lost copy of the Concordat. Damiani’s notebook may be vital, and as soon as we get somewhere safe I’ll tell you why.”

  “Safe? We were perfectly safe until you stole it!”

  “No. The clerk was trying to steal it. I stopped him.”

  “The clerk? Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Kelly frowned. “It’s ridiculous anyway. Why would he bring it to me and then try to steal it? He could’ve stolen it anytime, if that’s what he wanted.”

  “I think it was my interest in it that called his attention. My interest coupled with yours, I mean. I think he was in the Library to watch you.”

  “Me? To watch me? And you say you came for me? I see. Thomas Kelly from Boston is the clueless center of a vast Vatican conspiracy. That’s what you mean?”

  “When you put it that way—”

  “Well, maybe it’s okay.” The priest threw up his hands. “Maybe that clerk is after the same thing we are, too. Just another member of our happy clan.”

  The desperate edge of Father Kelly’s sarcasm was impossible to miss but she answered him seriously. “No. If the people who sent me already had an agent in the Vatican Library, they’d have told me. I’m afraid he might be working for the other side.”

  “What other side?”

  She touched his arm and nodded to the aisle, where the guide was working his way along, greeting the group, answering questions. “Don’t say anything. You don’t speak Italian.”

  “Of course I—”

  She stopped him with a look.

  When the guide reached them he gave them a quizzical raise of the eyebrows. Before he could speak, Livia grinned and said in Italian, “Hi! Are you the new guide? Where’s Aldo?”

  “Aldo? Who is he?”

  “Our guide from this morning. And yesterday, too. He’s so funny! He made us laugh so hard when we were at the Trevi Fountain, didn’t he, Thomas? Even though Thomas doesn’t really speak Italian, but he understood Aldo! Everyone did, even those sour Scots! Does Aldo have the afternoon off or something?”

  “Signora,” the guide said carefully, “I have been with this group since Saturday. There is no one named Aldo.”

  “Oh, but—” Livia suddenly stopped. She looked blankly at the guide and glanced around. “Oh!” She clapped her hands together, then buried her face in them. “Thomas!” she said in English, muffled and laughing. “We’re on the wrong bus!”

  “Signora—”

  She dropped her hands, switched to Italian again. “Our bus was blue, too! And we were so late that I was afraid everyone would be mad—oh, this is mortifying!” She craned her neck to look out the window, then giggled like a schoolgirl caught in a prank. “It’s gone! We’re so late they already left!” She rooted around in her bag and dug out her cell phone. “Don’t worry.” She peered at the guide’s name tag. “Sergio? Don’t worry, Sergio. I’ll text Aldo. It’s lucky he gave us his phone number! I thought, why would we ever need that, but you see? He was right! Where are you going next?” Her thumbs hovered above her phone’s buttons. “This group—where are you going?”

  Sergio blinked. “To the Colosseum, Signora.”

  “So were we! Oh, good! Oh, marvelous! I’ll text Aldo and tell him not to worry about us and we’ll just get off and meet the group there and thank you so much, Sergio! I’m sorry to cause you trouble! Oh, how ridiculous!” She laughed again and bent over her phone, thumbing rapidly. “Thomas, what a pair of idiots we are! Why didn’t you say something? You know I have no sense of direction! This is so funny!” She was still giggling and thumbing when Sergio nodded, said something about having been put to no trouble at all, and walked quickly back up the aisle.

  13

  The doors finally closed and the tour bus inched along the curb in front of the Vatican, the driver eagle-eyed for a gap in the traffic.

  “Look.” Pietro nodded back toward the piazza. Thomas leaned across her. The clerk, in the center of the tourist scrum, snapped his head left, right, left
again, clearly at a loss and clearly livid. In the patternless milling another disruption caught Thomas’s eye: two men in blue uniforms and a third in a dark suit charging the wrong way through the entry and shouldering through the crowd. Gendarmerie: the Vatican Police. Thomas saw the clerk catch sight of them, too, and fade back into the shadows. Why? Thomas wondered. The Gendarmes would have been alerted by the alarm, but they wouldn’t know what they were chasing. The clerk not only knew what, but whom. Why not race over to the police and tell them? Help them?

  Unless what Pietro had said was true: the clerk had been trying to steal the book for himself.

  Thomas flopped back against his seat as the bus found an opening and dove into the stream of cars. What was he doing? This is pride, Thomas. The sin of pride. You should have stood your ground in the passageway and shouted for help. You should have summoned a guard on the piazza as soon as the alarm bells rang. You should have wrestled Damiani’s notebook right out of this mad historian’s hands. Though he wasn’t quite sure how he’d have done that, given her baffling physical strength. Admittedly he had little experience of the female body, but he’d seen her outwrestle the clerk and he’d felt her iron grip—he touched his arm; it was tender and, under his sleeve, no doubt turning colors—and he didn’t think he was wrong in suspecting Livia Pietro was, comparatively, a powerhouse. Still, that he’d likely lose a cage match against her didn’t mean he shouldn’t have tried. But she was right. He was, as ever, curious. Pride: his right to have his questions answered trumping ethical imperatives, like Thou Shalt Not Steal.