Blood of the Lamb

by Sam Cabot

  He turned his head to look at Livia Pietro. She was still watching out the window.

  “Well,” Thomas said softly. “Gendarmes. You’d think someone had committed a crime. Theft, perhaps. I wonder if they’re worried, the criminals.”

  At that she sat back also, and shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “I can.”

  She raised an eyebrow to him. She hadn’t removed her sunglasses, dark against her pale skin. Thomas found himself, irrelevantly and annoyingly, wanting to see those ocean-in-moonlight eyes again. Those eyes that had found their way so easily through the black passages in the Vatican, where he’d been blind as a bat. He pushed away the thought of Pietro’s eyes as she asked, “You can what?”

  “Back them off,” he answered. “But you’ll have to give me the notebook.” If she did, he’d call Lorenzo. The Cardinal would tell the Gendarmerie it was just a misunderstanding. The police wouldn’t argue with the Librarian. They’d smell a fix but they’d drop it. Then Livia Pietro would owe Thomas, and he’d insist she tell him what the Concordat was and how she knew about it. And why she wanted it. And who—

  “No.” Livia Pietro looked straight at him, planting her handbag more solidly on her lap as though issuing a dare.

  Thomas, after a moment, settled again in his seat and stared at nothing. He should probably call Lorenzo anyway. He was cheered by the thought that Lorenzo would by now have gotten a report and that the events in the reading room would make Thomas look like a hero: madwoman steals book, clerk fails to stop her, Thomas runs after her. The body-block he’d thrown on the clerk might put things in a different light but even if Lorenzo heard about that—even from the clerk himself—the Cardinal would believe the Thomas-the-Hero version until he was forced to think otherwise. Which would be never, if Thomas called right now.

  But he didn’t. He meditated on the relationship between curiosity and pride, a relationship he hadn’t noted before, as the tour bus honked its way down the Lungotevere, headed for the bridge.

  The bus was pulling up at Piazza del Colosseo when Pietro, once again peering out the window, stiffened. “Gendarmes,” she said quietly. Thomas looked past her, saw the same two uniformed men he’d seen at the Vatican now emerge from a tiny black-and-white Alfa Romeo. The man in the dark suit was already in the piazza, scanning the crowd from beside an unmarked Peugeot. The comfortable vehicle, a privilege of rank. “I didn’t think they saw us get on this bus,” she said.

  Light dawned for Thomas. “I’m sure they didn’t,” he replied, with a smug smile he couldn’t help.

  “Then how?”

  “That book.” He thumbed at her bag. “Cardinal Fariña, before he retired. He spent years renovating the Library and Archives. Most of it was about security. The chip that set off the alarms, I’ll bet it’s also got a GPS. They tracked us. Professoressa Pietro? You’re busted.”

  To his surprise she grinned as their bus squealed to a stop. “Think so? Watch.” She pulled the notebook from her bag and turned it over, to the marbleized paper that had once been the last leaf inside the missing back cover. The security chip, wafer-thin and about an inch square, was attached to the blank page before that. Which, after Pietro gave it a quick rip, was no longer attached to the book.

  “What? No! You can’t!” Thomas, appalled, grabbed for the notebook but as always, she was faster. She stuck the book deep in her shoulder bag and the chip in the pocket of her flowing skirt. A part of Thomas, nonplussed, thought, A lot of good that’ll do: it’s still on you. Why not toss it? The rest of him was appalled to see himself abetting this thievery, even if only in his head. Pietro jumped to her feet as the rear door opened. Thomas couldn’t believe he’d just sat and watched her vandalize a book from the Vatican Library. He was nearly ready to stay behind. Let her hop off the bus and get scooped up by the Gendarmes. On the other hand, that might not happen. If it didn’t this would be a ridiculous time to stand on principle and lose the notebook. In for a penny, in for the crown jewels. He stood.

  The doors opened and Pietro jumped out onto a bright sidewalk boiling with tourists. The crumbling hulk of the Colosseum towered a half-block in front of them, but Pietro dashed the other way, across the street. She wove between taxis, sedans, and Smart cars. Thomas, close in her slipstream and fully expecting to get flattened, muttered an automatic Hail Mary. Though he wondered whether prayer was effective when you were stealing from the Vatican. At least he was wearing his clerical collar. Maybe people would try harder not to hit a priest. In the end both he and Pietro made it across unsquashed, and Thomas caught up with her at the entrance to the Colosseo Metro station—caught up only because she’d screeched to a halt.

  Standing between them and the turnstiles was the clerk.

  Clerk before, Gendarmes behind, end of the road, Professoressa; but before Thomas quite finished that thought Pietro said, “Do you have a ticket?”

  It took him a moment to understand she was speaking to him, not the clerk, and what the question meant. “A monthly,” he stammered.

  “Use it now. Wait for me.”

  He could see the Gendarmes, one of the uniformed men with a handheld device, the other frantically and uselessly trying to stop the traffic. They dodged and wove as Thomas and Livia had done, working their way across the frenzied lanes. A screech of brakes, a scream of metal on metal, a tinkle of breaking glass, and then a symphony of curses and car horns. Thomas stared into the street and saw the Gendarmes still coming, crumpled fenders, stopped cars, and furious motorists in their wake. One way or another, Thomas decided, the far side of the turnstile might be the place to be during whatever mayhem was about to erupt. He swiped his card; the clerk paid no attention to him, but stepped up to Pietro, to block her way.

  Thomas expected her to sidestep. She didn’t. Instead, she charged right at him. The clerk was as surprised as Thomas, probably even more when Pietro tackled him. They tussled, twisted, and rolled, scattering shrieking tourists and Romans. The Gendarmes reached the curb outside and pushed past the souvenir carts. In a swirl of flowered skirt and complicated jacket Livia Pietro leapt to her feet. She snatched her hat and sunglasses up from the tile floor and shouted, “Go!”

  Thomas was rooted in place until he saw Pietro neatly vault the turnstile and race down the escalator steps. Turnstile jumping, well, why not? Thomas took off after her, though he wondered exactly why: the Gendarmes would do the same, would be along any moment, would either grab her in the station or have Carabinieri waiting at the next stop if she managed to get on a train. Whatever happened now, Thomas would be well out of it. He decided to watch the denouement from a distance, then go report to Lorenzo.

  The first thing he saw when he reached the platform was the countdown clock, claiming a train would be along in under three minutes. The second was Pietro, sunglasses and hat replaced, calmly waiting for it. He turned back to the escalator to follow the progress of the Gendarmes. Only they weren’t there. All he saw was the escalator’s steady stream of well-dressed locals and backpacked tourists, undisturbed by a ripple of charging policemen.

  Pietro, as though she felt Thomas watching her, turned to him and smiled. After an uncertain moment he walked down the platform to her. “The Gendarmes are coming, you know.”

  She didn’t answer, just kept smiling. The Gendarmes didn’t come. The train did. Pietro got on. Thomas, wondering what had become of the Thomas Kelly he’d been for thirty-four years, followed her through the closing doors.

  14

  No law enforcement officers—not Gendarmes, not Carabinieri—burst onto the Metro train at the next stop. None were waiting on the platform ready to pounce when they left the subway car at Piramide, nor were any lurking by the station when they emerged to switch to the bus.

  Livia would have been surprised if they had been.

  On the Metro ride, when the rumbling of wheels could have covered the sounds of their conve
rsation, there was no conversation: the priest had been stonily silent. During the short bus ride to Trastevere he’d hissed a question or two but the bus was packed and Livia refused to speak. When they alit in front of the giant palazzo of the Ministero della Pubblica Istruzione, she and Kelly were finally alone. Livia, as always on these streets, felt a calm, a comfort. She’d been born in Trastevere, and though she’d lived for years at a time in other places—a necessity of Noantri life—her home was here.

  As soon as she started forward she could feel Thomas Kelly about to start grilling her. The streets were still too crowded, though, so she walked just a little too fast for him, staying ahead until they reached the cobblestones of Piazza di San Cosimato. Two Carabinieri moving purposefully through the piazza made the priest draw a sharp breath. Livia smiled at them and they smiled back, one touching his cap in greeting. “Buonasera, Professoressa.” They strode on past.

  “They’re going for coffee,” Livia told Thomas Kelly. “That’s why they look so determined. Nothing to do with us.” She continued to quick-walk through the cobbled streets, the priest truculent but sticking with her. Once past the fountain outside Santa Maria in Trastevere, the crowds thinned and Livia slowed her pace.

  “Why have we come here? What’s going on?” When she didn’t answer, Thomas Kelly grumped, “They’ll find us, you know,” amending it after a moment to, “They’ll find you. Or maybe that clerk will, first. He seems to be persistent.”

  “The Gendarmes never saw us,” she reminded him. They turned the corner by the ancient hospital. “And they have their chip.”

  He stopped. “They do?”

  She grinned. “If you’d asked while we were on the train, instead of shooting daggers out of your eyes, I’d have told you.” She tucked her arm in his to get him moving again. “I shoved it into the clerk’s pocket when we had that little scuffle. So I don’t think he’ll be an immediate problem, either.”

  “I— Is that why you tackled him?”

  “Well, it wasn’t because I enjoy your American football.” Her shoulder still hurt where she’d banged up against a turnstile. So did her shin where the clerk had kicked her. Neither injury was as painful now as when they’d happened, but what drew people to contact sports—especially the Unchanged, who healed much more slowly than Noantri—she would never know.

  They’d just come into the small piazza in front of Santa Maria della Scala when the priest broke another dark silence to ask, “Where are we going?” His tone implied he was nearing the end of his patience. She couldn’t blame him; luckily, they’d arrived.

  “To see a friend.” Across the square from the church stood an old house, less impressive from without, she knew, than from within. Livia stepped to the door and clanked the ring in the brass lion’s mouth.

  A few moments’ wait, and the door was opened to them by Spencer George himself. He wore a chocolate cashmere sweater and tan trousers, his feet encased in butter-colored leather slippers. Livia always enjoyed the sight of Spencer, who seemed to delight in his own excellent taste. Though in little else: his thinning brown hair topped a long face perpetually on the verge of a glower. They were old friends, but she hadn’t expected a warm welcome today, and she wasn’t mistaken.

  “Livia. What a pleasure.” Spencer spoke in dry, guarded tones, and in English, his native tongue.

  From courtesy—he was Elder—she replied in English, too. “You know, then?”

  “Oh, I think everyone knows.”

  She wasn’t surprised. Meetings of the full Conclave were infrequent enough to be noteworthy in themselves. No one appeared before the Conclave except by Summons. If Livia Pietro had been spotted going into Santa Maria dell’Orazione e Morte—for a second time—the Noantri grapevine would have sizzled with the news.

  “I must admit I was halfway expecting you,” Spencer said.

  “And hoping I wouldn’t come.”

  “On the contrary. I don’t know what your instructions are but I’ll be glad to help if I’m able. Though I rather think I won’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because whatever it’s about, if the Conclave had any hope of me, they’d have called me in, too. Who’s your friend?”

  The tone in which Spencer said “friend” implied it wasn’t the first word that had come to mind. Livia smiled and said, “Father Thomas Kelly.”

  Spencer waited, but she didn’t go on. Thomas Kelly turned to her, about to speak, but she shook her head. After a long stare of clear distaste at the priest, Spencer shrugged and stepped aside. “All right, then. Come in.”

  He led them through the entrance hall and upstairs to his study. At various periods, both since Livia had known him and before, Spencer had kept a full staff. At others he’d had a butler or valet; moving with the times, he now had a cleaning woman who came twice a week, and a cook. Some of the Noantri were indifferent to food and drink. Others, though they appreciated the pleasures of the palate, didn’t go to the trouble of keeping stocked pantries or fully equipped kitchens. Livia herself was in that camp. She enjoyed a leisurely meal in the presence of friends, both Noantri and Unchanged; but at home, except for the gelato al pompelmo rosso that she bought by the liter, her larder was generally bare. Spencer, though, had been a gourmand before he became Noantri. The rest of the staff came and went with current fashion, the better for Spencer to blend in. A cook was nonnegotiable.

  He rang for the current one as Livia and Thomas Kelly seated themselves in heavy leather chairs. “You’ll have coffee?” Spencer said to Father Kelly. Livia smiled to herself. Spencer had little use for priests, but less for discourtesy. The priest was in his house; civility would prevail.

  Despite Father Kelly’s confusion and his angry impatience, Livia caught him peering around the room at the maps and prints on Spencer’s walls, the odd arcana on the shelves and polished tables. We historians, she thought, we’re all alike. Spencer’s house had always been too overstuffed for her liking, but it suited its owner well enough. Livia took pleasure in surrounding herself with objects of beauty. Spencer, however, collected first for interest and meaning; beauty, if any, was a secondary concern. He was also a historian, but his study was their people.

  The cook appeared; coffee was requested. When she’d gone, Spencer settled himself, tugging at his trouser legs. “So you’ve come for my help. What can I do?” He looked at Livia and then, pointedly, at Thomas Kelly.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Livia said. “I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t tell you this from the start: the Gendarmerie are after us.”

  “The Gendarmerie?” Spencer’s eyebrows rose. “Not the Carabinieri? My, what have you done?”

  “We stole a book from the Vatican Library. I stole it,” she amended, in response to a strangled sound from Thomas Kelly.

  “Well, good for you. Presumably because it will help you do whatever you’ve been instructed to do? Can I expect those strapping young gentlemen to arrive at any moment, then? I can ring for more coffee.”

  “No, we’ve taken care of them for a while, I think.”

  “How grand. But really, Livia, before we continue, you’ll have to explain the priest to me.”

  “I speak English, you know,” snapped Thomas Kelly.

  “No, I didn’t know,” Spencer drawled. “Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to explain yourself?”

  “If I had any idea at all I’d be glad to. As it is, I’m at a loss. I don’t know why I’m here, and I should probably leave.” He turned to Livia. “With the notebook.”

  “Notebook?” Spencer inquired mildly.

  “The one I stole.” Livia felt a surge of sympathy for the priest. “I asked Father Kelly to come with me. He doesn’t know why yet.”

  Thomas Kelly started to splutter at “asked” but before he could speak the cook re-entered with a tray.

  “Excellent,” said Spencer, and i
t was unclear whether he was referring to the situation or the refreshments. He thanked the cook, dismissed her, and poured out from a silver service into fine china cups. With silver tongs he placed two small biscotti on each saucer. Father Kelly accepted the offered cup a little desperately, Livia thought. Spencer said, “You can explain to us both, then, Livia, why you’ve brought me a priest.”

  Livia took a sip of Spencer’s always superb coffee, then put the cup on the inlaid side table. “I was called before the Conclave yesterday.”

  “I think I mentioned: everyone knows that.”

  “Does everyone know why?”

  “Of course not.”

  “The Vatican’s copy of the Concordat, it seems, disappeared a century or so ago,” Livia said. “Now it appears to have been found. Not by the Vatican.”

  Before Spencer could speak Thomas Kelly blurted, “It’s been found? Found where?”

  With a wave of his cup toward Father Kelly, Spencer asked, “How much does he know?”

  “His name is Thomas Kelly!” The priest sat forward, red-faced. “He’s from Boston, he was brought here two days ago by Lorenzo Cardinal Cossa to find this mysterious Concordat, and he’s about to call the Cardinal and tell him you people know where it is and he can come get it himself.”

  Spencer gazed at him, unruffled. “If you think invoking a cardinal in this house is going to occasion fear and trembling, you’re misinformed. Father. What I’m asking is, are you aware of the contents of ‘this mysterious Concordat’?”