“Agios Konstantinos Akanzon.”
“Saint Constantine of the Thorns…,” I murmured, pensive. “It can’t refer to Emperor Constantine, although he is also a saint, because he has no title after his name, much less Akanzon. Could it be the name of some important Staurofilax patron or perhaps the name of a church?”
“If it’s a church, it’s in Ravenna. The second test takes place there, the sin of envy. And that part about the thorns…” He raised his glasses and ran his hands through his filthy hair, then looked down. “I don’t like the part about the thorns one bit. In Dante’s second cornice, the bodies of the envious souls are covered with hairshirts and their eyes are sewn shut with wires.”
Suddenly, a cold sweat covered my forehead and cheeks, as if my blood had instantly drained from my face.
“Please!” I begged, scared of the thought of what was to come. “Not tonight!”
“No… Not tonight,” Farag agreed, coming over and putting his arm around my shoulders. “Tonight let’s attack Kaspar’s refrigerator, then sleep for several hours. Come with me to the kitchen.”
“I hope Dr. Arcuti gets here soon.”
The captain’s kitchen was a sight. The moment we entered it, my first thought was for poor Ferma. With only a third of space and a tenth of the appliances, she took great pains to prepare delicious meals. What would she do with the captain’s household version of NASA? An amazing stainless-steel refrigerator, with a water and ice dispenser in its door; next to that, a computer panel. When we opened the door, it beeped softly and told us it was time to buy more veal.
“How do you think he manages to pay for all this?” I asked Farag, who was taking out a loaf of bread and a pile of cold cuts.
“It’s none of our business, Ottavia.”
“Why not? I’ve worked with him for over two months and all I know is he has the emotions of a stone and he reports to the Sacred Roman Rota and Tournier. Go figure!”
“He no longer reports to Tournier.”
Leaning on the red marble counter, Farag fixed mouth-watering sandwiches.
“Fine, but he still has the emotions of a stone.”
“You’ve always seen him in a bad light, Ottavia. Deep down, I think he’s just unhappy and lonely. I’m convinced he’s a good person. Life has dragged him into the unsavory place he now finds himself in.”
“Life doesn’t drag you along if you don’t let it,” I pronounced, convinced I’d said a great truth.
“Are you sure?” he asked, sarcastically, as he cut the crusts off the bread. “I know someone who wasn’t very free when it came time to choose her destiny.”
“If you’re talking about me, you’re wrong.” I was offended.
He laughed and brought two plates and a couple of brightly colored napkins to the table. “Do you know what your mother told me on Sunday after the funeral?”
Something poisonous was twisting around my heart by the second. I said nothing.
“Your mother said that of all her children, you were the brightest, the smartest, and the strongest.” Without missing a beat, he sucked hot sauce off his fingers. “I don’t know why she talked so frankly to me. In any case, she said you would only be happy living the life you’re living, giving yourself to God, because you were never made for marriage and could never have borne a husband’s demands. It seems like your mother measures the world according to the values of her day.”
“My mother measures the world however she pleases,” I replied. Who was Farag to judge my mother?
“Please, don’t get mad. I’m just telling you what she told me. Now, let’s eat these greasy, spicy sandwiches. They have a bit of nearly everything there was in the refrigerator on them. Dig in, empress of Byzantium, and you’ll experience one pleasure in life you’re not familiar with.”
“Farag!”
“Sorry,” he said. With his mouth so full, he could barely close it when he chewed. He didn’t seem the least bit apologetic.
How could he be so wide-awake when I was so dead on my feet? Some day, I told myself as I chewed the first bite and admired how good it was, someday I’d commit to some type of healthy exercise. The days of spending long hours in the lab, never moving my legs, were over. I would walk, I’d work out in the mornings and take Ferma, Margherita, and Valeria with me for a run through the Borgo.
We’d almost finished eating when the doorbell rang. “Stay here and finish,” Farag said, getting to his feet. “I’ll get the door.”
I knew the minute he headed for the door I’d fall asleep right there, right on top of that table, so I gulped down the last bite and followed him. I greeted Dr. Arcuti as he walked in. While he examined the captain, I headed for the living room, to stretch out for a few minutes on the sofa. As I passed by a half-closed door, I couldn’t resist temptation. I turned on the light and found myself in an enormous office, decorated with modern office furniture that somehow went perfectly with the antique mahogany bookshelves and the portraits of Captain Glauser-Röist’s military ancestors. On the table was a sophisticated computer that looked like it could run circles around the one in my lab. To its right, next to a window, was a stereo with more buttons and digital screens than an airplane control panel. Hundreds of CDs were stacked in strange, tall, twisted cabinets; from what I saw, there was everything from jazz to opera, including folk music (there was a CD of music by actual pygmies) and Gregorian chants. The Rock was quite a music lover.
The portraits of his ancestors were another story. With slight variations, Glauser-Röist’s face was repeated over the centuries in his greatgreat-grandparents or his great-uncles. They were all named Kaspar or Linus or Kaspar Linus Glauser-Röist. They all had the same stern expression the captain often wore—serious, grave faces; soldiers’ faces; the faces of officers or commanders of the Vatican’s Swiss Guard who dated back to the sixteenth century. I noticed that only his grandfather and father—Kaspar Glauser-Röist and Linus Kaspar Glauser-Röist— appeared in the fancy uniform designed by Michelangelo. The rest wore metal armor, breast- and backplates, as was the custom of armies in the past. Was it possible that the famous colorful uniform was actually a modern design?
A photograph much larger than the rest stood between the computer and a splendid iron cross resting on a stone pedestal. I walked around the desk to get a better look and came face to face with the same brunette whose framed picture I’d noticed in the living room. Now I was sure she was his girlfriend. Nobody has so many photographs of a friend or a sister. So, the Rock had a delightful house, a beautiful girlfriend, a noble family; he was a big fan of music and also a book lover, for there were many books in every room, not just in that office. You would have expected to find the typical collection of antique weapons that all military men value, but the Rock didn’t seem interested in that. Except for the portraits of his ancestors, that home said its owner was anything but an army officer.
“What’re you doing, Ottavia?”
I jumped and turned toward the door. “My God, Farag, you scared me!”
“What if I had been the captain? What would he have thought?”
“I didn’t touch anything. I was just looking around.”
“If I’m ever in your house, remind me to ‘look around’ in your room.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Get out of there right now—let’s go,” he said to me, ushering me out of the office. “Dr. Arcuti needs to examine your arm. The captain is going to be fine. They must have given him a very strong sleeping pill. He, too, has a nice cross on his upper right forearm. You can see it now. His and mine are a Latin design, framed by a vertical rectangle with a little seven-pointed crown on its upper half. Maybe they gave you a different model.”
“I don’t think so…,” I murmured. To tell the truth, I’d already forgotten about my arm. It had stopped bothering me quite a while ago.
We entered the Rock’s bedroom, where he was fast asleep, and still as dirty as when we left the Cloaca Maxima. Dr. Arcuti as
ked me to lift up the right sleeve of my sweater. The upper inside part of my forearm was a bit swollen and red, and you couldn’t see the cross because they’d put a bandage over it. For a thousand-year-old sect, they were very upto-date in the practice of tribal scarifications. Arcuti carefully pulled off the bandage.
“It’s fine,” he said, looking at my new tattoo. “It’s not infected and it’s clean, despite this greenish coloration. Some herbal antiseptic, perhaps—I couldn’t say. It’s a professional job. Would it be too much to ask…”
“Don’t ask, Dr. Arcuti,” I replied, looking at him. “It’s a new fashion trend called body art. David Bowie is one of its most ardent followers.”
“And you, Dr. Salina?”
“Yes, Doctor, I too follow the trend.”
Arcuti smiled. “I suppose you can’t tell me anything. His Eminence Cardinal Sodano told me not to be surprised by anything I see tonight, and not to ask. You must be on an important mission for the church.”
“Something like that,” Farag mused.
“Well, in that case,” he said putting a new dressing on my cross, “I’m done here. Let the captain sleep until he wakes up. You both should get some rest, too. You don’t look so good. Sister Salina, I think you’d better come with me. I have a car downstairs, and I can take you to your community.”
Dr. Arcuti was a numerary member of Opus Dei, the religious organization with more power inside the Vatican since the election of the current pope. He didn’t look favorably upon my staying overnight in a house with two men. To make matters worse, those men weren’t priests. They say the pope doesn’t do anything without Opus Dei’s blessing. Even the strongest, most independent members of the powerful Curia Romana avoided openly opposing the politico-religious directors of that conservative institution. Its members, such as Dr. Arcuti or the Vatican’s spokesman, the Spaniard Joaquin Navarro Valls, were omnipresent in every branch of the Vatican.
I looked at Farag, disconcerted, not knowing how to answer the doctor. There were plenty of bedrooms in that house. It was late, and, as tired I was, it hadn’t occurred to me that I needed to go back to the apartment at the Piazza delle Vaschette to sleep. But Dr. Arcuti insisted.
“You want to get out of those dirty clothes, right? Don’t give it another thought! How could you take a shower here? Oh no, sister.”
I realized it would be crazy to resist. Besides, if I refused, the next day or that same night my order would be severely reprimanded. And I couldn’t risk that. So I said good-bye to Farag, who was more dead than alive, and left with the doctor. He let me out at the Piazza delle Vaschette, smiling like someone who has done his duty. Ferma, Margherita, and Valeria were scared to death when they saw the state I was in. I know I showered, but I have no idea how I got to bed.
True to his Swiss-German nature, the captain refused to rest a single day, and despite Farag’s and my insistence, he showed up the next afternoon at my lab, his head bandaged, ready to risk his life again. To him there was more to that demented story than hunting down and capturing some relic thieves. Captain Glauser-Röist seemed consumed by the idea of getting the jump on the Staurofilakes and their earthly paradise. Maybe for him those initiation tests represented more than a personal challenge. For me they were only a provocation, like a glove flung at my feet which I chose to pick up.
I awoke on Thursday around noon, recovered from the terrible spiritual and physical wear and tear from the previous week. It felt good to open my eyes and find myself in my own bed in my own room, surrounded by my own things. The eleven or twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep felt marvelous. Despite all the bruises, the muscle spasms in my legs, and my strange new tattoo, I felt at peace and relaxed for the first time in a long time, as if everything were in order.
But this pleasant feeling barely lasted a moment. From my bed, the covers pulled all the way up to my ears, I could still hear the phone ring and I figured the call was for me. But not even when Valeria came in to wake me up did my good mood change. There really was nothing like a good night’s sleep.
It was Farag on the phone. In an uncharacteristically furious voice, he told me that the captain wanted us to meet at the lab after lunch. I insisted the Rock stay in bed for at least a day, but Boswell, angrier than I was, shouted that he’d tried everything. I begged him to calm down and not worry so much about someone who didn’t take his own health seriously. I asked how he was feeling, and in a much calmer and gentler tone he said he had just woken up a couple of hours ago. He said aside from the scar on his arm, still green but less swollen, if he didn’t touch the bump on his head, he was fine. He had rested and eaten a huge breakfast.
So, we decided to meet in my lab at four. In the meantime, I had lunch with my sisters, prayed in our chapel, and called home to see how everyone was doing. I couldn’t believe I had three whole hours all to myself. I needed it to get my feet back on the ground.
Fresh as a rose, a happy smile on my lips, I walked from my house to the Vatican, enjoying the fresh air and the afternoon sun. How little we value things until we lose them! The light on my face infused me with the joy of living. The streets, the noise, the traffic, and the chaos brought me back to my normal daily routine. That’s how the world was, so why complain when anything could be beautiful, depending on your point of view? If you look at things the right way, even dirty asphalt or an oil spot or a piece of paper thrown on the ground can seem beautiful. Especially if you had been sure you’d never see them again.
I ducked into the Al Mio Caffè to get a cappuccino. Being so close to the Swiss Guards’ barracks, it was always packed with young guards talking loudly and laughing raucously. People like me also came and went on their way to work or home. Besides being a very pleasant place, it served a terrific cappuccino.
I finally arrived at the Hypogeum five minutes early. Work was back to normal on the fourth level of the basement, as if the craziness brought on by the Iyasus Codex had been wiped from everyone’s mind. I was surprised when my staff greeted me congenially; some even waved. With a timid, awkward gesture, I responded to everyone, then flew into my lab to hide, asking myself what strange miracle might have caused such a change of attitude. Perhaps they had finally discovered that after all I was human and that my feeling of well-being was contagious.
I was just hanging my coat and purse when Farag and the captain showed up. A lovely bandage covered the captain’s huge blond head, but from under his eyebrows, metallic flashes forecast stormy weather.
“I’m enjoying the beautiful day, Captain,” I warned him as a greeting, “and I don’t feel like seeing gloomy faces.”
“Who’s gloomy?” he answered dryly.
Farag wasn’t in a good mood either. Apparently whatever had happened at the Rock’s house had been apocalyptic. The captain didn’t even take off his jacket or make a move to sit down.
“In fifteen minutes I have an audience with His Holiness and His Eminence Cardinal Sodano. It’s very important, so I will be gone for a couple of hours. In the meantime, I need you to read Dante’s next cornice. When I get back, we’ll finalize our plans.”
Without another word, he disappeared out the door. A heavy silence lingered in the lab. I didn’t know if I should dare ask Farag what had happened.
“You know something, Ottavia?” He was still looking at the door. “Glauser-Röist is coming unhinged.”
“You shouldn’t have insisted he rest. When someone as stubborn as the captain wants to do something, you have to let him do it, even if it kills him.”
“If that were all it was!” He gave me a strange look. “Am I my brother’s keeper? I get it that Kaspar is a grown-up and can do what he likes. It’s just… Look, I don’t know, but this story about the Staurofilakes is driving him crazy. Either he’s trying to win a medal or he wants to prove to himself that he’s Superman or something. Maybe he’s using this adventure the way other people drink—to forget or to selfdestruct.”
“I was thinking the same thing this morning. I
mean this afternoon.” I took my glasses out and put them on. “For you and me, this is an adventure we were drawn into voluntarily, out of interest and curiosity. For him it’s something more. He doesn’t give a damn about anything—getting rest, my father’s and brother’s deaths, the fact that you lost your life and your job in Egypt. He has us racing against time as if the theft of one relic was a major catastrophe.”
“I don’t agree. I think he was deeply sorry about your father and brother’s accident and he’s worried about my situation. But he is obsessed with the Staurofilakes. The moment he woke up this morning, he called Sodano. They talked for a long time, and during the conversation he had to lie down a couple of times, because he was on the verge of collapsing. He still hadn’t had breakfast when he shut himself away in his office (the one you were poking around in, remember?), opening and closing drawers and files. While I ate and showered, he staggered around the house, shouting in pain, sitting down a moment to recover, then getting up to do more. He hasn’t had breakfast or lunch since the sandwich in the Cloaca.”
“He’s going nuts.”
We grew silent again, as if there were nothing more to say about Glauser-Röist. I’m sure we both were thinking the same thing. Finally I sighed deeply.
“Shall we get to work?” I asked, trying to get his spirits up. “Ascent to the second comice of Purgatory. Canto XIII.”
“You could read it out loud,” he proposed, stretching out in an easy chair propping his feet up on the computer box sitting on the floor. “Since I’ve already read it, we can comment on it.”
“Do I have to read it?”
“I can, if you like; but the thing is, I’m comfortable here and I like the view.”
I ignored his flip comments, so I started to recite Dante’s verses.
“Now we are standing on the highest step,
where, for a second time, we saw a ledge
cut in the mount that heals all those who climb…”*
“Our alter egos, Virgil and Dante, come to a new cornice that was smaller than the previous one. They walk quite a way, looking for some soul to tell them how to keep climbing. Suddenly Dante hears voices saying ‘Vinum non habent,’ † ‘I am Orestes,’ and ‘Love those who do you harm.’”
The Last Cato Page 23