‘That’s good thinking, Marcellus,’ Stephen said quietly. She had not noticed him amongst the others in the darkness. ‘This young lady is a good strategist, a worthy daughter to such a great warrior king.’ He smiled at her. ‘If this man is so desperate to get his hands on her he might not be thinking too clearly. We can demand he has no escort otherwise we would all be in danger. He might agree.’
‘He would cheat and hide a whole army if he could,’ Eigon put in. She straightened her shoulders. ‘He is not a man of honour.’
‘Nor are we when it comes to saving our own,’ Marcellus said grimly. ‘It’s worth a try. So, how do we reach him?’
‘We send a messenger. And that person must be the bravest of us all,’ Stephen said gloomily. ‘I suggest we draw lots. Let God decide.’
Dan rang Carmella’s doorbell and waited by the speakerphone. To his surprise there was a buzz and a click and the door swung open without anyone asking him who it was. He smiled.
He had had no luck at the palazzo. Jacopo, when he had finally managed to rouse him had been so drunk he could barely utter a coherent word, but he had at last managed to come up with the information that la signora Kim had closed the apartment and gone to spend the rest of the summer with a friend in the Lakes.
Dan took the stairs two at a time and found Carmella’s door on the latch. Pushing it open, he sniffed appreciatively. Garlic; onions, some sort of meat sauce. She was obviously expecting guests for lunch.
‘Henrico?’ Her voice came to him from the kitchen above the hiss of frying. ‘Ciao, carissimo. Help yourself to a drink and bring me one too! This is almost ready.’
Dan smiled. The gods were with him so far. He walked into the sitting room and glanced round. There were fresh flowers on the side table and a bottle of Barolo on the desk with two glasses. Carmella’s mobile was lying on the coffee table. It was that easy. He wasn’t even going to have to use threats. He picked it up, blew a kiss towards the kitchen and slipping it into his pocket, he crept back out of the room, carefully pulling the door behind him, leaving it exactly as he had found it. Taking the stairs two at a time he had reached the street and was several yards away before a car drew up, tucked itself into a gap, and a silver-haired man climbed out. Dan strolled across the road, watching out of the corner of his eye. He grinned. She was going to think it really strange when Henrico made a second appearance. He wondered how long it would take her to miss her mobile.
He struck gold with the call register. The fifth number he tried was a pensione. The girl who answered said yes, there was an English lady staying there, on the top floor and she believed her name was Jess but she didn’t appear to be registered in the book. She sounded very vague; almost simple. Dan smiled. The house was half an hour’s walk, if that, from the bar where he was sitting over a very pleasant glass of chianti classico, making his calls. He tossed a couple of olives into his mouth and continued to scroll through Carmella’s phone. He hadn’t decided what to do yet. He could not afford to fail again. He had a very narrow window in which to find Jess before he got back on the motorway and drove north.
He ordered another glass of wine, leaning forward to see the screen better as he began to go through Carmella’s undeleted text messages. Old Henrico seemed to be a devoted follower; he also, so it appeared, had a wife about whom Carmella knew. They seemed sanguine about her. He chuckled. How civilised. How very Roman. How unlike the tempestuous events he seemed to find himself embroiled in. He downed the wine and prepared to leave. It was time to find the pensione and case the place, see how he could get in, see where he could hide if necessary. Making his way towards the door he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking, then slid the phone into the brass cachepot of a large aspidistra near the doorway. It was only as he turned up the street that he wondered if he ought to have wiped his fingerprints off it.
He stood at the corner for a few minutes, watching the quiet street with its old houses drowsing in the heat, their soft earthy colours punctuated here and there by ancient stone walls. The front door of the house was open. Did everyone in Rome leave their doors open at lunchtime? Walking swiftly up to it he raised his hand to knock and peered inside. ‘Hello? Buongiorno? C’è qualcuno a casa?’
The hall was elegantly furnished with Afghan rugs and exquisite antiques. The place smelled of beeswax. ‘Signora? Hello?’ He walked further in.
The staircase, a wonder of carved oak finials and twisted banisters led up into the cool centre of the house which was shady and appeared deserted. Helping himself to a couple of letters off the table in the entrance hall to use as an alibi if he met someone, he set off upstairs.
At the top there were two doors leading off the landing. Neither was locked. He shook his head in disbelief. The first room he peered into was neat and tidy and as far as he could see unoccupied. He paused outside the other door, listening. Then he knocked softly. There was no reply. Carefully he clasped the handle and turned it. There was no one inside. A bag lay on the floor near the door. A brush and comb sat on the dressing table and he recognised the pale sweater thrown across the chair. He went in and closed the door behind him very quietly. One set of doors in the room concealed a wardrobe area with several empty hangers. The other led into a small shower room. Someone had left a pile of fresh towels on the side of the basin. He turned back and surveyed her sanctuary, wondering where she was. The shutters were closed against the heat. He went over and pushed them open. The window looked out across a narrow declivity between the buildings and then over a vista of red clay tiles broken here and there by the tops of trees. The only living things he could see were pigeons. Smiling he pulled the shutters closed again and turned back into the room. It was going to be too simple. All he had to do was wait for her to come back.
26
Eigon had drained every ounce of energy that Jess possessed. Her head ached and her whole body had cried out for a rest so when the girl at the pensione had knocked on the door, wanting to clean her room, she had seized the excuse to go out. After all, there were still places she wanted, no, desperately needed, to see, places that resonated through history. Places where Eigon had been. Dan was almost certainly long gone, following Rhodri across Europe, and she had foiled Titus’s attempt to access her brain so it would be quite safe; no one could find her now and she would only go out for a couple of hours so no one would know. She was very careful leaving the house, scanning the street in both directions, sunhat and glasses hiding her face and hair. There had been no one to see her, she was sure of it, and before leaving the house she had taken all the precautions she could think of to block Titus out of her mind. This time she was reciting TS Eliot.
Slowly Jess walked towards the river, threading her way between the crowds, heading towards the Vatican. Nero’s circus, the scene of Melinus’s death, had been somewhere here, at the foot of the Mons Vaticanus. ‘On the left facing church’, as her guidebook said tersely. She smiled as she gazed in front of her at the great basilica of St Peter’s. This traditionally was the site of St Peter’s tomb, nestling deep beneath the great dome. And the obelisk in front of her now in the centre of Piazza San Pietro, which had been brought to Rome by the Emperor Caligula in AD 36, had stood for years at the centre of the circus and marked the spot where Peter had died almost where she was standing now. Her recital of poetry forgotten she riffled the pages of her guidebook, staring up at the obelisk. What sights it had seen. For two thousand years it had stood here or nearby. It had seen the lions tearing apart the so-called enemies of the state, heard their screams, watched the sawdust raked clean and every trace of their passing removed. It had seen an old man crucified and witnessed the growth of the faith he had so loved, marked now by Michelangelo’s great dome rising to dwarf everything around it. Slowly she turned away. She had no wish to go into the building. Now was not the time for architecture and art; nor to be reminded of the church militant as it evolved. That was the bit she couldn’t get her head around. The inquisition. The fun
damentalism. The politics. The vast riches. The church of the Peter she felt she knew, the Peter who had known Jesus, been his rock, the church of Eigon and Marcellus, was one of small gatherings in people’s homes; private heartfelt prayer and the celebration of meals of bread and wine. They had built no special buildings, not then, not yet. Their church was one of love. People. Faith.
The enormity of what she was witnessing was slowly coming home to her. She gave a wry smile. How many of the people wandering round here with their guidebooks, just like hers, their cameras, their passion for this place, would believe that she had seen St Peter? Heard him speak. She frowned as she headed back towards the Tiber. She had witnessed amazing things in her dreams, a stunning awesome privilege. And now she had breathed the same air as them, walked the same contours, seen the river they had seen. Dan was forgotten as the story she was following once more enveloped her.
There was one more place she wanted to go. The Mamertine prison where Julius and his grandfather had been held, and where, later, as she knew from the guidebook, Peter himself had been imprisoned. It was still there, according to the book in her hand. It was possible to visit it, tucked beneath an old church at the foot of the Capitoline hill. It was something she wanted, needed, to see. To reach it she would walk almost past the door of the pensione, heading back towards the Forum. She hesitated at the end of the street. She was tired and longing to go back to her peaceful safe retreat; it would be nice to rest out of the heat. On the other hand she wanted to see for herself the place where Julius had been held and she knew she would not be able to pluck up the courage to go out on her own again if she went back now. Seconds later she had crossed the road and headed on up towards the Campidoglio.
The entrance to the church below which lay the prison was at the foot of a long flight of steps. After a moment’s hesitation she joined a small queue outside. They seemed to be admitting people in small groups and when at last she groped her way down the steep stone staircase that led into the dungeon she realised why. It was small, low-ceilinged, dark and claustrophobic. For a moment she felt like running away. Her arms were covered in goose pimples. She could feel whispers of fear tiptoeing up and down her spine. Taking a deep breath she forced herself to stay calm and made her way inside, keeping close to the wall as the other people in the group clustered round the guide. He was speaking fast in Italian and she gave up trying to understand almost at once, contenting herself with looking round. Faint light came through a hole in the ceiling, the hole down which, so her guidebook had told her, the prisoners were dropped. There had been no staircase then. Against the far wall was a small stone altar and at its foot another hole in the floor at the bottom of which she could see water. This was the spring which had sprung into existence, so her book said, so St Peter could baptise his guards the night before his execution. Behind her the group of visitors suddenly revealed themselves as pilgrims. They were praying out loud in unison. For a moment she was swept up in their devotions; she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She could feel the specialness and holiness of this place. Seconds later it was over, and the crowd was surging once more up the staircase and out towards the fresh air. For a brief second she stood where she was, alone in the dungeon, feeling the atmosphere alive with memories, then as the next group of visitors began to make their way down the stairs she hurried to meet them, suddenly desperate to get outside, overwhelmed with the sadness and awe of knowing what Eigon and Julius could not have known, the momentousness of the events of which they were a part.
The pensione was deserted as she walked in. She had bought herself some pastries, a bag of figs and some bottled water. Climbing exhausted up to her room she pushed open the door and went inside. She put her paper bags on the table, threw her bag down on the bed and went straight into the small bathroom to splash her face with cold water.
When she came out Dan was leaning against the door to the landing. He was swinging the key in his hand. ‘Buongiorno, Jess. Have you had a pleasant day?’
She closed her eyes for a moment, too shocked to speak.
He smiled. ‘This is a nice room, very restful. When I heard you coming up the stairs I thought I would just step into the cupboard there, to give you time to make yourself comfortable.’
‘How did you find me?’ She found her voice at last. She sat down on the edge of the chair near the desk. Her legs had begun to shake. ‘Titus?’
‘Not Titus. Not this time. Something much more mundane! I stole Carmella’s phone. I rang everyone she had spoken to lately and the girl who picked up here joyfully confirmed that you were indeed a resident.’
‘And now you’re here what are you going to do?’
He was still standing leaning against the door. He changed position slightly, making himself more comfortable. ‘Now, that is the thing. I’m not sure. Not sure at all. I’m waiting for instructions.’
‘Instructions?’ She crossed her arms across her breasts, aware that she had taken off her linen shirt as she came upstairs and that now she was wearing only a skimpy camisole with her trousers.
He nodded. ‘That is the problem. Titus is always wanting more.’
‘You are not Titus, Dan!’ Her voice sharpened. ‘You are a good man; a teacher with a great future in front of you. If that future is wrecked it will be your fault not mine. No one knows anything at the moment. Why not leave it at that? Forget me. Go back to Nat.’
He shook his head. ‘Ah, but that is the trouble. I’ve spoken to Nat. It appears the police want to talk to me. Now why do you suppose that is?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s not because of anything I have said. I told you, I haven’t reported you. If anyone has said anything it’s Will, and I think you know why that is.’
‘Ah yes, Will. But then there is also Steph. And Kim. And Carmella.’ He was counting on his fingers. ‘And the inestimable Welshman, of course. You have so many friends.’
She bit her lip. Seeing it he gave an angelic smile. ‘And none of them are here, are they.’ He shook his head. ‘Carmella is shacked up with her Henrico for the afternoon. Rhodri and Steph must be clean across France by now. Kim has closed up her palace and gone to stay with her friends in the Lakes. Only Will is an unknown quantity and he is clearly not here.’
‘But he is on his way.’ She said it at once without thinking.
His face closed. ‘That of course makes things a little more urgent.’
‘No, it doesn’t, Dan. It just means you should leave now. Before he comes. Just go. We’ll forget you were here.’ She gave him a pleading smile. ‘Please. You don’t want to hurt me any more. You are not Titus. Titus was a complete shit!’
‘He was, wasn’t he.’ He smiled. ‘What a rôle model! But the trouble is that he is in my head. I know I accused you of madness and as far as other people are concerned that is probably true, you are as mad as a hatter, but I am a bit afraid I might be mad too.’ He sighed thoughtfully. ‘You are just being haunted by a ghost, Jess. With me it is something much more profound. It’s very strange having someone else inside one’s head. An odd sensation. It somehow exonerates one from whatever actions one decides to take. One can stand back and watch. And yet one is taking part.’ He paused. ‘Twice the fun, I suppose.’ He put his head on one side. ‘When I made love to you after the school party it was just a bit of a joke. Slip you something to make you sleepy. Stuck up, snooty Miss Kendal, who wouldn’t look twice at me, performing in the sack like a true whore at my command. It was wonderful. But not worth losing my job over. When you said you knew it was me, when you put everything in jeopardy I knew I had to do something. The rage I felt was amazing. That is what attracted Titus. He loved the energy. He recognised at once that we were soul mates.’
She found she was shivering uncontrollably.
‘Dan. Please. Fight him.’
Dan smiled. ‘Why? It’s a fantastic feeling. Such a buzz!’
‘Can you see him?’ Somehow she had to keep him talking – not rise to his ta
unts, talk him down. As you did with a child who lost it in school. Calmly leading the conversation back to sanity. ‘Describe him. I want to know if he is the same Titus I see.’
He paused. She could actually watch him scanning some inner screen up in the air in front of him. ‘He’s tall. Dark. Roman nose. Good-looking. Tattoo on his arm. Just the man one would cast in the part if one was a film director. Shifty eyes, strange golden eyes.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘I must admit, I wouldn’t want him as my commanding officer.’ He chortled. He switched his attention abruptly back to her. ‘So, does he look the same?’
Jess nodded. ‘And Eigon?’
‘Dark hair. Pale complexion. Tendency to freckles. Fabulous clear grey eyes. Good bones. Beautiful. Nothing like you!’
‘Thanks!’
‘I meant she doesn’t look like you.’ He adjusted his stance against the door again. He must be getting tired, she thought. That was good. Wasn’t it?
‘She is getting a bit pious though,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘Signs of spirit now and then, but this Christian stuff is a bit of a trial. What she needs is a good seeing to!’ He grinned.
‘Do you know what happens in the end?’ Jess ignored the last comment.
‘No. Do you?’
She shook her head. ‘But I know where she is now. Where Titus can’t find her.’
‘Where?’
‘They are holed up in the hills in a ruined village quite a way from Rome.’ She made herself smile too. ‘An awful lot of Christians survived to spread the word, you know. Obviously.’
‘I could tell him where she was. Is.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘He listens to me.’
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