The Hounds of Rome - Mystery of a Fugitive Priest

by Tom Clancy

  “Unusual? What do you mean? I didn’t notice anything.”

  “Oh you. You never do. Didn’t you notice how those women took a shine to Father Murphy?”

  “What’s unusual? He’s a handsome man.”

  “Didn’t you notice how that woman professor kept after him and even jumped on the motorbike when he was going off sightseeing?”

  “She was trying to help him find the sites. After all, she had been here for several weeks. She knew how to get everywhere. How to get past the guard posts. Stuff like that. Without her help as a tour guide, he would have been wandering around never sure of where he was or where he was going.”

  “Well I think there was more to it than that. Remember how he locked his bedroom door on the night he first met those women?”

  “He’s a priest. He doesn’t want any night prowlers. Especially beautiful women.”

  “Well I sure noticed that when he first came he was very upset. Thrashing around in bed like he was being chased by demons.”

  “He explained that. He’s been having some trouble with the church. They took him out of his parish. Sent him off to teach and after that, God knows what.”

  “But when he got back from his travels with that woman professor he seemed much calmer. No more thrashing about in bed.”

  “Barbara, what are you getting at? Do you think they fell in love?”

  “I know she did, but I don’t know about him.”

  “All I can say is that for all the years I’ve known him, Father Murphy has been a devout priest. There has never been a hint of scandal about him. By the way, did you see all the money he left in his room? He left enough to cover two months room and board even though he was here just a couple of weeks.”

  “Well, I think something went on between him and that woman.”

  “When you think of how lonely that kind of life must be, for his sake, I hope something did.”

  37

  The jet touched down at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport. Steve took a succession of three crowded buses finally reaching the pensione where he had booked a room near the foot of the Spanish Steps on a narrow street a few blocks behind the Via Condotti. After reaching the central city, he would have taken a taxi for the last leg of his journey, but as usual the cabs were on strike for the better part of the day. He loved Rome—dirty, noisy, yet endlessly fascinating. An impossible jumble of the crumbling remains of ancient Rome, modern upscale stores, noisy nightmarish automobile traffic, magnificent sculptured fountains, saucy mini-skirted women on spike heels, children begging coins, armies of black-clad clergy from the Vatican, tourists in garish plaid shirts with cameras slung over their shoulders, Italian men talking with their hands on street corners, and gypsies in long colorful dresses.

  After unpacking, his first visit was to the ancient basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano—Rome’s cathedral. As he knelt to pray in a rear pew, the memories flooded back to that day many years before when he had lain prostrate at the foot of the altar with seven others about to be ordained, to receive the sacrament of Holy Orders. Every nuance of the service would remain etched in his mind for the rest of his life. His emotions had run the gamut from downright disbelief that he had been chosen for this ultimate honor to the humble realization that after years of study and prayer, he was at last at the threshold of a consecrated life—one that was sanctified and devoted to the mission of saving souls for Christ. He would always vividly recall a point in the ordination ceremony: he had been almost overcome by a devotion so intense that as he pressed his face into the cloth on the altar floor beneath him, he could feel the soft touch of Jesus’ hand on the back of his head and the sweet breath of the Virgin Mary as she whispered a joyful welcome in his ear.

  Now, in the shadowy interior of the basilica, in surroundings of many years ago, he felt himself transported back to those early joyous years when as a young priest he was filled with the grace and zeal to spread the word of God. Now, as he knelt, his mind drifting from prayer, he relived compressed memories of his happy years at the Pontifical University in Rome followed by his years in America as a parish priest and then pastor. But too soon, as always, the evil specter spread its sinister wings over him as his mind sank into feelings that stabbed at his heart: that he was a renegade, perhaps not even a priest at all, and worse, perhaps a being that while appearing human had been deprived of a soul.

  Suddenly aware that his mind had drifted, that he was not praying, he chastised himself and resumed praying to a God he wasn’t sure was listening. This was his hope: returning to Rome would somehow resolve his predicament. After being hounded from one end of America to the other, and even as far as Israel, here at the seat of the Catholic Church, he hoped to rise above the narrow provincial views of some cardinals and bishops. Surely the answer was here. He hoped to prod an answer to this question that concerned not only him but very likely others like him who were not the sanctified products of normal conjugal births—instead, the products of lab experiments that manipulated synthetic life in embryonic cells. Yes, surely the answer was here. The source was here: the pontiff, Christ’s Vicar on Earth, the one who entered into the inner sacred chambers where God surely dwelt. The pontiff, the one who, above all others, speaks to God. He would learn God’s answer to a question that science had forced on the church.

  As he knelt in prayer, Steve’s attention was drawn to the high lintel on which rested two large covered urns that according to legend hold the heads of Saints Peter and Paul. If true, the heads would be no more than skulls, but since Peter and Paul were saints, saints whose bodies resist immolation, perhaps some flesh remained.

  Leaving the basilica through the huge front doors, blinking in the bright sunshine, Steve walked down the broad front steps. Dressed in casual clothing much like the tourists, he stopped abruptly as two young gypsy women appeared out of nowhere blocking his way. One of the women who wore no bra, suddenly opened her blouse revealing her ample breasts. Steve glancing over, quickly put the image out of his mind as he brushed past the women. Then, a few minutes later, as he left the piazza, he found that a ten euro note he had had in his pants pocket was gone. Good old Rome, he thought. In clerical garb there would not have been a problem because the superstitious gypsies would not rob a clergyman or a nun for fear of the devil’s demons coming in the night to drag them to Hell. But dressed as he was, like a tourist, he was fair game.

  *****

  Steve’s next stop was San Pietro in Vincoli—the church of Saint Peter in Chains where in a lighted glass crypt beneath the altar can be seen the chains that held St. Peter before he was put to death by the Romans. Despite the reverence typically accorded St. Peter’s chains, whenever Steve had visited the church years before he had always been amused as he was today at Michelangelo’s classic life-size marble statue of Moses located against a side wall. Moses had been sculptured by Michelangelo with the horns of the Devil because it is believed that Michelangelo incorrectly interpreted the word for ‘halo’ in the Bible as ‘horns.’ As Steve knelt in a front pew at prayer, he couldn’t help glancing distractedly to the right and smiling at Michelangelo’s horned Moses.

  *****

  Saint Peter’s Basilica, the largest church in the world, always filled Steve, as it did many other visitors, with awe. In the company of a line of tourists, he walked down the side aisle passing Michelangelo’s Pieta. Further down the aisle, as he passed the life-size dark bronze seated statue of Peter mounted on a waist-high platform, he did what most visitors to the church usually did—he rubbed his hand on a protruding shiny bronze foot of the statue. It was an impulsive act, a lark, not intentionally disrespectful. As Steve rubbed the foot, he smiled, recalling that although the statue was original, it was now on its third set of feet.

  Steve knew that when in Rome, a visit to Trevi Fountain was virtually a necessity, and although he was not superstitious, he believed lightheartedly that the coin he had thrown over his shoulder into the pale green water years before with a wish that
one day he would return to Rome, had come true. Yet, on this visit, there was an ill omen: the fountain had been emptied for restoration, and Steve thought it unlikely that the wish to return could be granted by throwing a coin over his shoulder, high enough to clear the large plexiglass sheets that isolated the restoration site. He stood nearby watching in amusement as some tourists, undeterred, with their backs to the fountain, tossed their coins over the plexiglass barrier, coins that landed with dull clinks on the bare concrete floor of the fountain. Would their wish come true anyway?

  With a slight smile and a shrug of his shoulders, Steve left the crowded piazza and strolled back down one of the narrow streets that led to the fountain. In one of the souvenir shops that lined the alley, he bought a postcard for his brother Jonathon.

  On a sudden urge, he stopped for a slice of pizza at an open-air counter. Casually dressed in a Redskins football jacket and slacks, he leaned back against the counter holding the pizza slice high and nibbling on the cheese that hung down. Two beautiful mini-skirted Italian girls strolled by, one of whom sidled up to Steve and said in English in a low sultry voice: “Hey, handsome American, buy us something to eat.” But when Steve good naturedly offered to order two more slices, the girls laughed and walked on. Until they walked away, Steve didn’t realize they meant dinner at a trattoria or ristorante, not a snack at a sidewalk counter.

  As the girls walked away, one of them looked back over her shoulder with a look that asked the question: Why aren’t you following us? Then, shrugging their shoulders and tossing their heads, they clicked on in their spiked heels towards the fountain.

  Oh to be in Rome and not be a priest! he thought. A sudden surge of guilt went through him when he remembered touring Israel with Alice.

  *****

  Steve found himself wandering, confused as he walked the streets of Rome. He found himself in front of a large church. Inside, he knelt to pray on a marble step beside one of the side chapels in Santa Maria Maggiore, the basilica in Rome devoted to the Blessed Virgin. The large dark church had always been a source of fascination to him partly because of the huge vaulted nave but mainly from the row of brilliantly lit side chapels each with an altar set behind tall wrought iron grillwork. While Steve prayed silently in front of a white marble statue of the Blessed Virgin that adorned a flower-covered altar in the grotto, he was distracted by the hubbub in the church. The church had become a popular stop for busloads of tourists. It seemed more like Grand Central Station in New York than a place of worship. He remembered that it hadn’t always been that way. As a newly ordained priest studying in Rome, the church had been a quiet sanctuary where he was able to deepen his devotion to the Blessed Virgin. But now, Santa Maria Maggiore was crowded not only with worshipers droning in prayer, but also with a swarm of tourists bent on recording everything in the church with video and flash cameras.

  Growing increasingly angry at the tourists who acted as if they were at a circus, he wondered why the church sexton didn’t put a stop to it. It galled him that the house of God was being treated with utter disrespect. In a far corner behind him, tourists buzzed around a kiosk displaying racks of postcards and other mementos. He was reminded of Jesus who drove the money-changers from the temple. He suppressed an urge to do the same. Standing behind him, a teenager was noisily chomping on a piece of peanut crunch. The candy wrapper lay discarded on the floor at his feet. As Steve twisted around to admonish the boy, the teenager, noticing that Steve was a priest, slunk away into the crowd.

  After a few moments telling himself to calm down, Steve resumed his prayers. His prayers became an earnest plea for help from the Blessed Virgin that his ordeal as a renegade priest might soon be ended, although he knew he hadn’t the faintest notion as to how a resolution might be brought about...or even if his problem could ever be solved. It seemed as if it would take a miracle.

  As he prayed, peering through the opening in the iron grate, he saw what appeared to be a glint of light coming from the face of the statue of the Virgin. At first he ignored it, but found after a few minutes that it was too obvious to ignore. Could it be that the statue was weeping? He had heard of weeping statues of the Virgin, but had always seriously doubted the incidents. He felt that until proven otherwise, the incidents were merely concocted by people, including some religious, who craved attention. But as Steve continued his prayers, the weeping became profuse. It was real. Others nearby spied the weeping statue and began to collect around Steve as he knelt in front of the wrought iron grillwork outside the chapel. One woman, recognizing that Steve had been kneeling alone in front of the chapel, shouted to those standing around, “It’s the priest! The Virgin is weeping because of the priest. It’s a miracle...a miracle!”

  A stampede began in the direction of the chapel. Hundreds collected with those in the rear craning their necks above the crowd to witness the miracle. Black-robed clergy elbowed their way through the throng. One shouted, “I’ve waited a lifetime to see a miracle, and at last here is one before my very eyes!”

  Then, very slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the altar in the chapel began to move side-to-side with a slow deliberate rhythm. The crowd was transfixed in awe. Many dropped to their knees vigorously crossing themselves. Some fell back scared, ready to run. Steve was wide-eyed, stunned, as he knelt on the step in front of the iron grillwork. He couldn’t believe his eyes. His first thought was that the early tremors of an earthquake were rumbling in the ground beneath, shaking the church. But as he looked around, he saw that the rest of the church was not moving—only the altar he was facing seemed to be in slow oscillation. The vibration, which at first was hardly noticeable, began to grow in intensity so that after a few minutes the movement grew almost violent. A candelabrum on the altar tipped on its base and fell over crashing to the tiled floor of the chapel. Startled, Steve saw that the statue of the Virgin on the altar began rocking on its base. His jaw dropped as he watched the statue in wobbly, erratic lurches turn to face the rear wall. The strange incident was immediately obvious to him—it was a message that his living as a renegade priest was disfavored by the Virgin. She was using the statue as a symbolic way of turning her back on him. He was filled with dread but couldn’t help feeling sad and even angry at being rejected after a lifetime of devotion to Mary. Now, in the hour of his greatest need he was being left to drown without any help from his patron.

  The din of the crowd in the church became an uproar as the bells of the church began a thunderous clanging. Steve was forcibly pressed against the iron grillwork by the surging crowd. A woman near him began screaming in his ear. Smoke burned his nostrils. He was so overcome, he slumped in a near faint. Was someone throwing water on him? Was he being blessed with holy water?

  Steve opened his eyes and sat up groggily in bed. His pajamas were drenched. He was so disoriented, he first thought he was still in the church. As his situation came into focus, he realized the incident in Santa Maria Maggiore had all been just another bad dream. Through the window he could see that it had grown dark outside. His embarrassment was extreme as he saw half-a-dozen people gathered in the hallway just outside the open door to his room. He saw their angry, disgusted faces.

  “Get up...get up!” It was the old woman who ran the pensione standing at his bedside. “Padre, get up! You have fallen asleep in bed with a lighted cigarette and have started a fire. The engines were here but I sent them away after I threw water on you and put out the fire. It was a small fire, but the bed covers are ruined. You will have to pay damages. The fresco on the ceiling was painted by my son. The smoke has damaged it. Why can’t you use this room without setting fire to it? You will have to leave my pensione. Yes, tomorrow, find someplace else to stay where you can make a fire while sleeping in bed. Go there and make someone else miserable. Per favore, go.” Although he apologized profusely to the woman; promised to pay damages and vowed never to do it again, it was of no use. Shaking her finger in his face, all she kept repeating was, “Padre, per favore, go! Favor me by goin
g.”

  38

  On the morning following the incident at the pensione, Steve packed up and lugged his bags down the stairs to check out of the room. Downstairs, he made a generous payment for the damages and asked if he could leave his bags until he could find another place to stay. He was not only dismayed about his history of strange dreams that always seemed to contain an element of violence, he was also confused about the erratic nature of their occurrences. While in Dutch Harbor the dreams were so frequent they caused some alarm to Father Sergius, but while sightseeing in Paris he had not had a single one. While in Israel at the Lavines, although he had had some initially, after the days he spent with Alice, he had not had any. It occurred to him that some element of fear surfaced occasionally that resulted in what he could only call adult nightmares. Therapy would probably help but he never seemed to be able to stay in one location long enough for a course of treatment.

  Outside, in the street near the Spanish Steps, Steve learned that a taxi strike was not likely because the drivers had struck five times in the previous week, and most of their demands had been granted. He decided to take a chance on a cab. The driver took him across the city to the south of Rome where he told the driver to pull up in front of the entrance to the San Callisto Catacombs on the Old Appian Way. Entering the small rectory built above the catacomb entrance, Steve was ushered into an office where he took a seat to wait. After a few minutes, he restlessly got up and walked around leisurely examining the photographs of the catacombs on the walls.

  A door opened and there stood his friend of long ago—Father Angelo, the rotund middle-aged priest with a huge nose that gave him a booming sonorous voice of which he was justly proud. Steve recalled that you could always tell when Angelo was singing in the choir at the Pontifical University chapel. His Gregorian chant could easily be heard a block away. Angelo, the ebullient, almost happy-go-lucky priest, was perhaps the only one in Rome Steve could trust to help him.