Acts of the Assassins

by Richard Beard

  A scab of time has grown here, protecting tourists from the horror, one more stop for the gawping barbarians on their Roman visit of a lifetime. Already the fire is history, though security remains tight. To one side of the Circus main entrance two centurions in feathered helmets buckle their leather skirts. They’re from Eastern Europe for the coach tours, and they share a cigarette before their shift in front of the cameras. The real thing is provided by Securitas employees with scanners beside the turnstiles. Everyone gets checked, even Claudia. She can jump the queue, flash her ID, but she has to walk Gallio through the scanner. On the other side she ignores the hawkers offering private guided tours.

  ‘Second tier,’ she says, and follows Cassius Gallio up crumbled steps to an archway where he blinks into the brightness of the damaged grandstand. Valeria is waiting midway along a stone terrace, in the shade of a dyed sail usually deployed during performances. Her face is in orange shadow.

  Claudia stays at the end of the row, formally out of earshot, sunglasses fixed in place.

  Gallio takes the seat next to Valeria and for a while they win at keeping silent, a trusted Speculator tactic. Whoever speaks first will say too much, and is therefore usually the loser. They watch the banked seats in other sections of the stadium, where security teams launch search dogs along the rows. Low-income employees sweep the sand of the arena. If some are undercover agents, and Gallio assumes they are, he can’t tell who is working for Jesus.

  ‘Remember when we came here on leave?’ Valeria speaks: she loses. ‘Years ago, soon after we met in Jerusalem. We planned to take on the world, you and me.’

  Cassius Gallio does remember, though he won’t squander his advantage by saying so. Strange that back then she was younger than him, and that had seemed to matter, but now her age is irrelevant. They had sat in exactly these seats and he had failed to say he loved her while crocodiles chased a Parthian and at some point they watched a crucified lion.

  ‘The two of us together, Cassius, once you’d left your wife. Now you’ve finally become a deserter, but in a more official sense. Sorry, but that’s the choice you made when you boarded a plane for Patras.’

  ‘I came back. Here I am in Rome, reporting for duty.’

  ‘You couldn’t keep out of Claudia’s pants, could you?’

  Of course she knows; information is her specialism, because knowledge is power.

  ‘I have high hopes for Claudia,’ Valeria says, ‘despite her lapse in Caistor, and with luck she’ll survive you unscathed. As I did. You, however, deserted your post and lost your tracer. Unfortunate. We recovered your phone from beneath an altar in the Agios Andreas in Patras, along with your documents. Now we pick you up in Rome, running round and threatening to kill the disciple John. What happened to you, Cassius?’

  ‘I can explain.’

  At the end of the row Claudia is sunning herself, holding up her face to the light.

  ‘You disobeyed my orders. I wanted you to locate Matthew in north Africa, but you developed a strange fascination with Caistor. Then you disappeared without permission. I brought you back too soon from Germany, I think, and the tribunal was right about you, Cassius. You’re unhinged. You forget which way is up.’

  Cassius Gallio is aware of his weathered and beaten clothes, his beard and hair grown long. ‘I’m undercover. I’m an active Speculator.’

  ‘I hardly recognized you, and you don’t have the right to use that title.’

  ‘I’ve been on the road, looking for Jesus. That’s what you asked me to do, and if finding him was simple you’d have done so before now. You needed me. You still need me. I know more about these people than anyone else you’ve got.’

  After the crucified lion they’d seen a gladiator’s nose sliced off by a short–sword. How the Circus laughed that day. Gallio remembers the sound of forty thousand people in hysterics, and a gladiator scrabbling for his nose. The joke was probably funnier because earlier they’d put out his eyes. Tomorrow is Peter’s turn, and Valeria should know she’s making a mistake.

  ‘I think Jesus is coming back. The Circus gives him an opportunity to make a spectacular reappearance.’

  ‘And this intelligence comes from where? You spoke to Jude and Bartholomew and Andrew. None of them offered a specific place or date. Even Simon failed to confess to Baruch, and by all accounts Baruch did not ask nicely.’

  ‘So why the security?’

  ‘Not for the second coming, I can assure you, but what the second coming might stand for. An attack of some kind, most likely a bomb. We know from Jude that whichever disciple Jesus loved is at the centre of their big event. When Jesus comes back, whatever that means, it’s going to happen in the beloved disciple’s lifetime. Peter confirmed this information under questioning. It was something Jesus told them, and Peter was his favourite. Now Peter is about to die, so if the attack is going to happen it has to be soon.’

  ‘And John?’

  ‘Can’t find him anywhere. Let’s face it, he may already be dead. Rome can be a tough city if you don’t have money. Peter is the last one.’

  ‘What happened to religious tolerance? Just out of interest. That used to be a priority of ours.’

  ‘We should have crucified the twelve of them, right at the start. Tolerance makes us look weak, but tomorrow Peter comes to the Circus and everyone will see how intolerant we can be, when we make the effort. No secret assassins, no local mobs. Civilization will take responsibility for killing Peter the disciple of Jesus, as a lesson to anyone who chooses to favour superstition over reason.’

  ‘You’ve misread the enemy. The disciples aren’t a danger in the way you think. They have a strategy and you’re being played for a longer-term result. The disciples of Jesus want to die.’

  ‘Nobody wants to die. You’ve been on the road too long.’

  ‘It was the same with Jesus, and Lazarus before him. This goes back to Jerusalem. Death works in their favour. Andrew admitted it.’

  ‘He’s a liar. Their belief system is based on lies, a fact you choose to ignore. No one walks on water, or dies and comes back to life. Of course they’re scared of death, otherwise they wouldn’t be human.’

  ‘It’s not too late to stay Peter’s execution. Out in the territories they’re using the crucifix as a symbol of their support for Jesus, if you can believe that. Listen to me, Valeria. You brought me back as an expert.’

  ‘No one else wanted the job. No glamour, no glory.’

  ‘I’m advising you to keep Peter alive. Change the plan and question him further.’

  ‘Too late. Much too late. Peter deserves his fate, because coming to Rome was a suicidal act.’

  ‘My point. That’s my point exactly.’

  Cassius Gallio wants eye contact but Valeria looks away, and she must be weighing up whether he’s right. She’s a born Speculator, as he is; she can’t help but speculate. Gallio pushes home his advantage. ‘Was Peter an easy arrest? I bet he was.’

  The low-income workers sweep at the sand, and they sweep. They level out the arena, then level it again. Valeria lets a silence develop. Cassius Gallio loses.

  ‘Terror isn’t their strategy. Dying is their strategy.’

  ‘You’re not making sense. You’re a deserter, which means you gave up on the reasonable approach. The disciples don’t want to die.’

  ‘Yes, listen. Killing them is counterproductive at every level.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very likely. Not at every level. Not in our business.’

  ‘Which is why we fell into their trap. We assume that dying can’t be positive, but for them it is, and death is the only plan they have. They were never going to stage an attack.’

  ‘And the fire?’

  ‘Bad luck. Coincidence, I don’t know. The fire means you have to kill Peter, or now that you want to kill Peter you have your justification. Everything ties in with their plan, or they cleverly make connections after the event. They’re brilliant opportunists.’

  ‘You’ve seen th
e list of victims at Ground Zero, the photos taped to the fence. If Jesus or his god is responsible, someone has to pay.’

  ‘We don’t know they’re responsible, not for the fire.’

  ‘The odds look good, though. According to you Jesus had himself killed, and then killed the disciples to grow his religion. Why would he bother showing mercy to people he doesn’t even know?’

  ‘These are his calculations, not mine.’ Gallio thinks he understands what Jesus is doing now, but he can’t see as far as the ultimate why. ‘I don’t know how he works them out.’

  ‘No one can think that far ahead.’

  Valeria waves Gallio’s theory away, pushing out his thoughts to merge with the empty air of the stadium. She has senatorial committees to placate, decisions to implement that are not her own. She isn’t always free to speculate. ‘Soon the twelve disciples of Jesus will be dead, meaning the principal eyewitnesses to his unbelievable miracles will be gone. Without first-hand accounts to back them up, as admissible in a court of law, the events become lies then fiction. No one will believe they ever happened.’

  Gallio gestures around, taking in the empty seats for forty thousand witnesses. ‘They’ve set you up perfectly. Major public event. His beloved Peter alive and at the heart of civilization. Aren’t you worried Jesus may have plotted this?’

  ‘We’ve doubled security. Every operative we have has been briefed and issued with his picture.’

  ‘Think about it. You’re bringing together a huge audience who’ll be reminded by the taunting of Peter, who looks like Jesus, that Jesus himself is supposed to be dead. This is his method: he makes his exploits unforgettable with witnesses and you’re providing him with forty thousand live YouTube uploads. A beloved disciple to save, a sell-out occasion at which to reappear, a frustrated Messiah who loves a show. Who could fail to be impressed?’

  Valeria leans forward in her seat, takes a renewed interest in the arena. A steward bites the corner of a triangular sandwich, head back, pulling in his stomach to avoid falling crumbs. A pair of petrol-headed pigeons swoop in for the clean-up. Then Gallio sees what Valeria wants him to see. His daughter Alma is in the arena of the Circus Maximus. She looks older, too old for the Ave helium balloon she holds in her hand. Her personal guide points out items of architectural interest, while a man in jacket and sunglasses follows them with a finger to his ear.

  ‘In the arena,’ Gallio says, sitting back. He breathes out with disbelief. ‘You are unforgivable.’

  ‘She’s a lovely girl, very excited to be in Rome. When you went missing in action I felt it was our duty to provide for your family.’

  ‘Where’s her mother?’

  ‘Safe in Jerusalem, but also quite content. We’ve booked Alma in for a series of sessions with the leading physiotherapist in Rome. Comes highly recommended, reckons he can cure that limp she has.

  ‘You’re threatening me.’

  ‘What’s the point of our Roman lives if not to help when we can? You’ll have to trust in my good intentions.’

  The guide is showing Alma the portcullis gate through which the lions arrive, and he indicates with broad gestures how lions and also hyenas first turn to the left whatever prey is placed before them. Strange, but true.

  ‘Once upon a time you were a decent Speculator, Cassius, and the CCU remembers that, but on this particular case you lost your bearings. The problem and the solution are much simpler than you want to make them.’

  ‘So how does Jesus qualify as Complex Casework?’

  ‘We’re tidying up loose ends. That’s all we have left to do.’

  Valeria pats Gallio’s arm, as if comforting a child frightened by a story. Poor thing. None of his fears are real. Gallio watches Alma limp into the tunnel to the underground stables and chariot house, always popular with visitors. He loses sight of her.

  ‘I hate mass persecutions,’ Valeria says. ‘They’re messy and counterproductive. Better to target twelve leaders than thousands of innocent followers.’

  ‘What happens to me if I’m as wrong as you say? Another tribunal?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. You’re deniable, Cassius. I told you that from the start. You don’t exist. However, I do have one more job for you, which includes the opportunity to save your skin.’

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out two embossed tickets for the next day’s performance. ‘Solid gold,’ she says. ‘Completely sold out.’

  ‘As Jesus would have wanted.’

  ‘Enough. There’s no way you’re getting in without a ticket. I’ve doubled security.’

  ‘I hadn’t looked that far ahead.’

  ‘No, I thought not. You have a day, one day, in which to capitalize on the knowledge you’ve gained about the disciples of Jesus. Find me John, however you can. Bring him to the Circus tomorrow and we’ll take him off your hands.’

  ‘What if I don’t?’

  ‘If you run again, I have Alma.’

  ‘I’ll find you John. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘That would be good, the last of the twelve. Bring John to the Circus, Cassius, and you can walk away.’

  XI

  Peter

  “CRUCIFIED UPSIDE DOWN”

  Cassius Gallio spends the night in the garden of Claudia’s suburban Roman villa. She has an organized garden, with shrubs in borders and trees in pots, but also many blocked sight lines that allow a vagrant to take advantage. She would be furious, presumably, if she knew that her former lover was asleep beside the compost bin.

  Early the next morning, before dawn, Gallio is crouched behind a miniature cypress tree when the first lights in the house come on. Through the lit kitchen window he sees Claudia’s husband the architect searching through cupboards for cereal, in the fridge for milk. He finds what he’s looking for. He leaves the house before the sky has fully lightened, because after-the-fire is boom time for architects in Rome. The misfortunes of others will provide.

  A little later, once the sun is up, Claudia and her two young daughters sit at the kitchen table for breakfast. Through the window Gallio approves their impeccable manners. Alma doesn’t join them. In Jerusalem Valeria had assigned Claudia to Gallio’s investigation, sent Claudia to keep an eye on him in Hierapolis and Caistor, and later it was Claudia she dispatched to intercept him at the bakery on the Via Veneto. Claudia is Valeria’s fixer and Gallio’s best guess, his only guess, is that Claudia will be responsible for Alma. John the disciple of Jesus can wait.

  Cassius Gallio scuttles round the side of the house in time for a partial view of the front door where the girls kiss their lovely mother goodbye. The children join the neighbour and her son to walk to the bus stop, but the younger daughter dashes back for a forgotten lunch box, snatches another kiss and she’s on her way.

  Gallio waits ten minutes, goes round the back and knocks at the glass of the French windows. Claudia has nothing to fear, he thinks, because she can see all of him in her garden before she has to open the door. He has nothing to hide. She sees him, stops, moves forward and slides open the doors. She checks left and right outside, then bundles him into the house.

  ‘Fuck,’ she says. She shuts and locks the door and leans back against the glass. She’s wearing pajamas. ‘Fuck I don’t believe this.’ She screws up her nose, looks at him. ‘You need a shower.’

  ‘Have you got Alma?’

  ‘I’ll fetch you a towel.’

  He wonders how close he is to the limit of the warmth of her welcome. After his shower he hears her moving about in the kitchen, and he flits quickly through the upstairs rooms. The two girls share, and he admires their shelves packed with bedtime stories. No sign of Alma. The bed in the marital en suite is unmade, and on the dresser a framed photo catches his eye, a studio portrait of the smiling family. A life like Claudia’s could have been mine, Gallio thinks, but it wasn’t to be. He blames Jesus, he blames himself.

  Downstairs Claudia is dressed, black jeans, grey woolen polo neck. She looks attractive in grey, and clever,
like the first time he saw her. Bare feet, toenails painted black. She sets up the pot for stovetop coffee, and for some reason, maybe the same reason, the kindness of Claudia affects him like thinking about Jesus. His eyes start to brim. Cassius Gallio has a problem with kindness, obviously. With love.

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Claudia says. ‘How did you get my address?’

  Gallio pulls himself together, blinks a couple of times to hide his weakness. ‘I’m a Speculator.’

  ‘Me too. I’m supposed to be hard to find, not part of the story.’

  ‘Took some numbers off your phone in Caistor. Then there’s a procedure. The Internet. We both know how to do it.’

  ‘I trusted you.’

  ‘You put a tracer in mine.’

  They sit on high kitchen stools on opposite sides of her kitchen island, which is narrow enough for them to hold hands, should they choose to do so. Gallio drinks the coffee, strong and good. ‘Nice house.’

  ‘You’re scaring me. Why did you come here?’

  ‘To find Alma. You work as Valeria’s fixer.’

  ‘I’m not a nursemaid.’

  ‘Busy time. All hands to the pump. You’ll have other jobs, probably secret, but I thought you might also be keeping my daughter.’

  Claudia scratches at the marble counter with the polished nail of her index finger. The counter is clean, so she has nothing to pick at except deep-set grains in the stone. She wipes the flat of her hand over the smooth finish as if to sweep away crumbs. No crumbs, but she sweeps them anyway with a flick of her hand, as far across the kitchen as imaginary crumbs will go.

  ‘You’re paranoid,’ she says. ‘You can only take speculation so far. When your conclusions stop following logic you become as deluded as anyone who believes in life after death. And sometimes you’re deluded even when every individual step looks reasonable.’