Blood of the Lamb

by Sam Cabot

  “Well,” Livia said, “I’m very impressed.” She moved forward, to stand at the altar also, but to his relief she kept a space between them. “But there must be over a hundred reliquaries here.” She stepped up on the small stone ledge where the altarpiece sat. Reaching out, she tentatively pushed and pulled at half a dozen of the gold and silver cases. “They’re fastened down. Some of them seem to be built in. It would take us hours to remove them all and search them, or search behind them or under them. How—” She stopped. “I’m sorry. I was about to ask you what we should do next.”

  Thomas nodded and didn’t take his eyes off the reliquaries. He’d been trying to get inside the head of Mario Damiani; this might be a good time for the famous Thomas Kelly laser-beam concentration, that blazing focus that allowed for no distractions. “If I were leaving a poem for you”—he felt a flush of heat in his cheeks—“I’d try to think what you’d be likely to look for. Something that meant a lot to the two of us—the two of them, I mean. If I were Mario. That meant a lot to them—to Damiani and Spencer George. What would that be? You knew them.”

  “Only Spencer.” He could tell she was trying to keep amusement out of her voice.

  “Yes, I know that. But he—they—” He swallowed. “Or maybe, not something they shared, but something Damiani would expect Spencer George to expect him to think of . . .”

  “A place,” she said, taking over. “A saint, a name. This was Damiani, so a pun, a joke, an elliptical reference. Maybe—”

  Bees, Thomas thought, trying desperately to detour his brain away from the sound of her voice. Swarm. It meant something. Those were the words that had led them to Ludovica Albertoni, not to this cell, but still . . . Wings untorn. Nothing about the Ludovica tomb particularly called for bee imagery. It was odd, almost forced, in a way nothing of Damiani’s had been before this. Bees . . .

  “Virgil!” he burst out.

  “What? Where?”

  “Virgil. He thought bees were immortal. That a hive could come back to life after a plague wiped it out. That would’ve appealed to Damiani, wouldn’t it? To one of your people?” The words tumbled out so fast Thomas nearly tripped over them. “He wrote about it. Virgil did. A whole beekeeping manual. Part of a larger work called ‘Farmers.’ In English, it’s called that. Virgil wrote it in Latin but he titled it in Greek.” He grinned. “‘Farmers,’ in Greek. He called it the Georgics.”

  Livia stared at him. “You’re amazing. I’ve spent the last century among academics, but you’re amazing. Can all Jesuits do this?”

  Thomas turned away to hide the glow of pride suffusing his cheeks. Honestly, Thomas. A female vampire is impressed by your intellect and that makes you blush? Add that to the ever-growing list of things to take into the confessional next time he had the chance. He scanned the reliquaries. Each bore a small silver plate inscribed in tiny, flowing script. The low light made them hard for him to read. He knew she could do better, and it wasn’t thirty seconds before she pointed and said, “There.” Thomas leaned forward to examine one of the larger, more elaborate of the boxes, a gold castle flying a tiny gold flag. The silver script spelled out a name that should have been obvious to them from the start. With his erudition, his love of wordplay—and his love of Spencer—Damiani had chosen images for the poem to the erotic Ludovica sculpture that would have made his lover smile. They were Noantri, the lovers, and they were homosexuals; Thomas supposed he’d have to add to his list of items to take into the confessional the fact that he hoped, when this was over, the historian got a chance to see the poem, and that it did make him smile.

  “It’s a toe bone,” Livia said, gently rocking the golden castle to see if it could be removed. “From the left foot of Saint George.”

  71

  Over his coffee cup, Spencer George considered his visitor. The young Gendarme from Naples was unself-consciously handsome, with his sharp nose, dark eyes, and quick, catlike movements. He was clearly making an effort to appear cool and professional, but Luigi Esposito projected an excitement like a badly banked fire, ready to blaze up at any moment. Spencer found that refreshing. Why the stifling boredom that must attend a year-in, year-out daily presence in those musty Vatican rooms had not smothered in the young man all trace of enthusiasm for anything, Spencer couldn’t answer. He didn’t seem to be burning with the fervor of faith. It was unlikely he’d chosen the Gendarmerie out of a calling to serve the Holy See, and thereby the Church; but if his vocation was police work, could it really be fulfilling to spend his days chasing pickpockets and confidence men around Saint Peter’s Square?

  Probably not, which might be one explanation for the heat in Luigi Esposito’s cheeks as he confronted Spencer: the business that had brought him here was real police business, a meaty investigation, a problem that would engage what Spencer gauged as the young man’s considerable intelligence—and his even more considerable ambition. Whether a successful resolution to the situation would satisfy Esposito’s hopes, Spencer didn’t know; he’d still be a Gendarme, after all. Nevertheless, the opportunity this case had handed him couldn’t be one he came across very often, and Esposito was pursuing it for all he was worth.

  Even if he was headed in the wrong direction.

  A smile tugged the corner of Spencer’s mouth as he considered the other possible reason for the young man’s bright-eyed animation. Spencer had had a number of lovers since he’d lost Mario, men both Noantri and Unchanged. Come to that, he’d had many before Mario, too. Mario was the anomaly, the miracle, the one great love Spencer had thought he’d never find, immortality notwithstanding. After Mario was gone Spencer had spent many years—decades—alone, a recluse among his papers and books, a Noantri hermit monk whose work was enough for him. But what good is eternal life, if one doesn’t live it? Finally the voice of Mario in Spencer’s head, berating him, demanding that he re-enter the world and the Community, was too much to bear. Spencer had started to live in the world again. The voice of Mario had of course been right. Spencer had renewed old friendships, found new ones—Livia Pietro, for example—and taken lovers. None of these liaisons were serious and he hadn’t pretended they were, to himself or his partners. Nevertheless, he’d enjoyed them.

  As he’d enjoy a dalliance with this Neapolitan detective. And if Esposito’s heartbeat, temperature, and adrenaline level—all of which Spencer could discern—were any guide, the detective, although Spencer suspected he himself might not know it, would likely enjoy it, too.

  However, it was not to be. To hide a sigh, Spencer sipped at his coffee. Too much was at stake—not least, the life Livia had made for herself in the wake of her unfortunate love affair, a life Spencer knew she treasured. Any entanglement between himself and this Vatican detective would create far too many complications in an already precarious situation. The effect of the Noantri body on the Unchanged—especially an Unchanged with his own hungers—was not something Spencer could control, but he could certainly refrain from flirtatious cues, and refuse to respond to any the Gendarme might deliberately or, more likely, involuntarily, offer.

  He replaced his cup into the saucer with a small clink, recrossed his legs, and gave the detective an affronted stare. “Let me see if I understand,” he said coldly. “The barely credible theory put forward this morning by you and your Carabinieri counterparts—the idea that, one, a ring of art-and-antiquities thieves has been responsible for the recent unpleasantness, and two, that the eminently respectable and highly regarded Professoressa Livia Pietro is a member of it—has become firmly entrenched and is the basis for your continuing investigation. Is this correct?”

  Luigi Esposito replaced his coffee cup also, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs, too. “Please remind me, Professore. Where is it you teach?”

  Mirroring, Spencer thought. Put your subject at ease, make him feel you’re on the same side underneath it all. A good approach. Better than the bogus befuddlement of that mustached Carab
iniere, in any case. “I’m retired,” he responded stiffly.

  “Yes, of course, I’m sorry.” The Gendarme looked around with a lazy gaze. “You have so many unusual and interesting objects here.” He swung his sharp eyes back to Spencer. “Antiquities.”

  Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Are you a connoisseur?”

  “No, no.” The young man smiled. “I’m just a cop. But I’ve done a little studying on my own. I try to better myself. Connoisseurship on a Gendarme’s pay—it’s just not possible. I’m impressed that you’ve managed to do so well on an academic’s salary. This, for example.” He tapped the glass top of the small display table where his coffee rested. Under it lay an open bronze hinge, highly polished to show off the delicate vines winding over its surface. “It’s beautiful. It must be an important piece?”

  Well played. A little self-deprecation, a touch of flattery, the tiniest hint of suspicion, and redirect my attention before I bristle. “You’re correct. It’s from the door to the Cathedral in Constance. It was in place when the Council of Constance was held.” The Gendarme’s face was an expectant blank. Spencer continued, “Where the Church’s Great Schism was finally ended, and the papal line of succession that’s been followed to this day was clarified and established.”

  Esposito raised his eyebrows. “I got the impression earlier, Professore, that you don’t highly value the Church.”

  “How observant of you. However, a historian certainly can’t ignore it.” Not, at least, a Noantri historian. Particularly the moment in Church history from which sprang the papacy of Martin the Fifth and the beginning of a new era for all Noantri.

  “Well. As I said, even a cop can see it’s beautiful. How did you come by it?”

  “Come by it?” Spencer leaned forward for the silver coffeepot. He refilled Esposito’s cup, mostly so he could watch the grace with which the young man added and then stirred his cream and sugar. “Vice Assistente Esposito, I’m getting the uncomfortable feeling you’re questioning the provenance of my collection.”

  “Oh, no, sir, not at all. Just, you’re clearly a resourceful and dedicated collector.”

  “And you’re clearly a police officer with more urgent issues on which to spend your time than a retired professor’s pieces.” He couldn’t stop himself from adding, “No matter how impressive.”

  As the Gendarme gave him a rueful smile, Spencer could feel the young man’s body temperature rise a fraction. “I’m afraid that’s true. But it’s occurred to me, Professore, that you might be able to tell me where to look.”

  I certainly could, Spencer thought, but said, “I don’t follow.” Well, sometimes I do, and sometimes I lead.

  Esposito leaned confidentially forward. “There’s no question in my mind that a reputable academic like yourself would only deal with the most respectable merchants.”

  “Of course.”

  “I also have no doubt that you’re well known in certain circles.”

  How true, though they might be different circles from the ones you’re thinking about.

  “I’m sure, sir,” the Gendarme went on, “that, because of your tastes and interests, you’ve been approached more than once by people much shadier than the ones you usually deal with.”

  Yes, and if one is careful, they can be rather fun. “I see.” Spencer nodded as though he’d just caught on. “And you were wondering whether I might be able to supply you with the names of some of these . . . shadier people. I must say I’m relieved. I was beginning to worry that you thought I myself was caught up in this international theft ring you’re postulating. Which, by the way, I still find hard to credit.”

  “The ring? Or Professoressa Pietro’s involvement in it? Or maybe the American priest’s?”

  “The involvement of an American priest in any sort of criminal activity would not come as a shock, I assure you. Livia Pietro’s would. I suppose it’s possible you could be right, though, no matter how dubious I find the proposition.” There are other propositions I’d accept sooner, but never mind. “Very well. I believe I can, after all, be of some service to the Gendarmerie. Let me make you a list.”

  72

  Climbing the stairs in the run-down building in the Pigneto district, Giulio heard his cell phone ring. He pulled it out. To Raffaele he said, “It’s Esposito.” To the Gendarme: “How did it go? Learn anything?”

  “He gave me a list of shady dealers who might fence stolen art. I think they ought to be followed up but I don’t expect anything to come of it.”

  “Okay, I can get someone on it. Unless you have people who can do it?” After all, it was Esposito’s find.

  “They’d be me,” Esposito answered shortly.

  “Fine. I’ll give my boss your number. Someone’ll call for the list. That’s all?”

  “Not exactly.” Esposito’s grin came through loud and clear. “I insisted that he himself wasn’t under suspicion, oh no way. That we overworked cops only wanted the help of an upstanding citizen like himself. That we felt lucky to have him as a resource.”

  “Did he buy it?”

  “Of course not. In fact he tried to distract me by coming on to me.”

  “Why, that old dog.”

  “As you say. I pretended to pretend not to notice.”

  “Esposito, you’re confusing me,” said Giulio, who wasn’t in the least confused.

  “I’m sure,” Esposito said cheerfully. “Anyway, I’m hoping now he’ll tip his hand.”

  “If he has one to tip.”

  “He does.” The Gendarme sounded completely confident. “I’m not sure how deeply he’s involved but there’s no question he’s hiding something. I know you have a man here, but I’d like to stay on him myself. I have a feeling things could get interesting.”

  It didn’t escape Giulio’s notice that the idea was phrased as a request, as though Esposito were under Giulio’s authority. They both knew that wasn’t the case, and that Esposito could stay if he wanted, or go if he wanted. “You have any experience with surveillance?”

  “Not here. On the force in Naples, though.”

  And I bet you’re good at it, Giulio thought. “Okay, go ahead. I’ll get my man reassigned.” Freeing up a Carabiniere—that should make the maresciallo happy. “Let me know right away if anything breaks. Hey, Esposito,” Giulio said as a thought struck him. “I don’t suppose he gave you anything I could use to get a wiretap warrant?”

  “I fished for it, but no such luck. But he’s probably using a cell phone anyway.”

  “True. All right, give me a call when you have something.” He was going to add, Or when you want to be relieved, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t be for a long time.

  “I will. If you don’t mind my asking, what are you up to?”

  Giulio wasn’t used to that question from anyone except his partner and his boss. But it had been asked deferentially enough; and the kid had earned an answer. “I had search warrants for Livia Pietro’s house and Jorge Ocampo’s flat. And through your boss, for the priest’s room in the Vatican. Pietro’s and Kelly’s places haven’t given us anything, but we got a call from the team going through Ocampo’s place. Orsini and I just got here.”

  “Anything good?”

  “We’re about to walk in the door. Don’t worry, Esposito, we’ll let you know.”

  At the top of the stairs he handed his cell phone to an officer, telling him to get the last number that called it to the maresciallo and explaining why. The officer was clearly pleased to have a reason to bring himself to the attention of the big boss, and Giulio was equally pleased to avoid him.

  Raffaele was waiting for Giulio in the hallway. “Esposito found something?”

  “Not yet. He set the guy up. He’s pretty good, Raffaele. He’s wasted over there.” They’d reached the top floor, where the ceilings and the rents were lower than for the other dumps in this exhauste
d building. The door at the end of the hall was open. An officer standing at it waved Giulio and Raffaele in.

  Dingy, rank-smelling, its chipped tile floor sticky under their shoes, Ocampo’s one room was more of a mess than even Carabinieri executing a search warrant could have made. Giulio grinned to himself as the dapper Raffaele wrinkled his nose.

  “What do you have?” he asked the officer in charge.

  “Over here, sir.”

  Over there, indeed. Giulio would have spotted it himself as soon as he turned around. A wall of photos, a vase of fresh flowers on the shelf below. A silk scarf under the vase. The scarf, the flowers, and the blond girl in the photos were all of them far too high-class for a man who lived in a room like this.

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name’s Anna. That’s all we know so far.” The officer tapped one of the photos, where the margin was carefully labeled Anna en la playa.

  “We’d better find her. She might be in danger. This guy just went from thief to serious nutcase.”

  “Or not,” Raffaele said. “Look. The guy—Ocampo—he’s in half these pictures with her.”

  Giulio looked again. It was true. Smiling, sometimes with their arms around each other, Ocampo and this Anna looked out at them from a café, from someone’s living room, from a tree-lined street. The girl seemed perfectly happy, even smug, while Ocampo himself had a grateful, puppy-dog air. Giulio’s thinking started down an entirely different path. “You know what? Find her anyway.”

  73

  The notebook leaf from the toe-bone reliquary cracked along one of its folds as Livia smoothed it out on the altarpiece. The art historian in her winced and wanted to fold it up again and get it to a conservator as fast as possible. She pushed that thought aside and read along with Thomas.