Blood of the Lamb

by Sam Cabot

  “A what?”

  “Deadly and contagious. The officers you had with you this morning are already there. So are the Carabinieri you’re working with, and from what you say they had no physical contact with him.”

  “No, they didn’t. But, sir, he—”

  “Esposito. It’s an order. They’ll keep you until they finish the autopsy and isolate the virus. It’s not just for you. It’s to keep you from infecting anyone else. I’m sure you’re fine,” he said, in tones that made it clear he wasn’t. “But go.”

  This wasn’t happening, Luigi thought. He had a case! A real crime to solve. A theory that was right, he knew it was. Two Carabinieri detectives who respected him. This was his chance—this was his blue uniform—

  “Esposito! Do I have to send an ambulance to find you?”

  “No.” Luigi cast a last, longing glance at Spencer George’s door. “Sir. Not necessary. I’m on my way.”

  97

  Neither Livia nor Thomas had spoken since they entered the Orto Botanico; their silence continued as they emerged at the bottom of the hill and made their way through Trastevere. Livia kept them to the less-traveled, more-shadowed streets, though they saw few Carabinieri or polizia; whatever had happened on the Janiculum seemed to have drawn all the law officers in Rome. Livia’s thoughts, unbidden but uncontrollable, kept returning to that long-ago violet evening, to the cobalt cloth in the candlelit room, to the moment she’d given in to her own desires, and his, and made Jonah Noantri.

  The fault was hers. He wasn’t strong enough, and if she’d brought the request to the Conclave, as the Law required, they would have told her that. She had ignored the Law, because she already knew.

  She’d done it, as she’d revealed herself to him at all, because she was afraid of losing him. Now he was lost: to her, to the world. To himself.

  Thomas hadn’t asked where they were going, but as they reached the middle of the Ponte Sisto, Livia stopped and faced him. “The place where the Conclave meets is just over the bridge.”

  Thomas leaned on the stone balustrade and watched the Tiber flow. “You intend to give the Concordat to them?”

  “They’ll keep it hidden. I wasn’t sure that was still necessary, even as late as this morning. But now . . .” She leaned beside him, trying to marshal an argument. This was his Church’s copy; by rights it should be returned. Still staring out over the water, he held up a hand to stop her.

  “I agree. I don’t know how many in the Church know it exists, but Lorenzo can’t be the only one who feels—who felt as he did. About your people. I don’t think we can return it to the Church.”

  “Jonah wasn’t alone, either,” she said quietly. “The Conclave will protect both copies. Until it’s time.”

  He nodded and straightened, and they walked on.

  98

  Father Thierry Ateba unlocked the Librarian’s office suite, entered, and closed the ornate door behind. He crossed himself as though in the presence of death, although the death of Cardinal Cossa, of which Father Ateba had just learned, had occurred within the hour on the Janiculum Hill, not here. The room, of course, did not know its occupant was gone forever, and the Cardinal’s open books, his papers, and his humidor all sat as he had left them, awaiting his return.

  It would fall to Father Ateba, as Lorenzo Cossa’s personal secretary, to sort and organize these items, to separate Cardinal Cossa’s possessions from those of the Church and ensure that each item was ultimately disposed of as it must be. It would take time, but meticulousness and patience were two of Father Ateba’s virtues. He glanced about the room, unconsciously planning his strategy for where to begin, how to conscientiously, efficiently fulfill this final responsibility. After his work was complete, he himself would no longer be needed here. The new Librarian and Archivist would bring with him his own assistant.

  Father Ateba moved to the window and threw it open to rid the air of the lingering smell of cigar smoke; not offensive, but an odor he had never liked. Turning back to the room, he regarded the books and papers on the late Cardinal’s desk. Father Ateba had been made privy to the work the Cardinal was doing, and he wondered if the new Librarian would want to continue it.

  He walked to the desk, the obvious place to begin. First, though, now that he was alone here where he wouldn’t be disturbed, one other task demanded his attention. As he’d been requested to do when he’d received the sad news, he took his cell phone from his jacket pocket and pressed in a number. He was greeted by a voice familiar to him for many, many years.

  “Salve.”

  “Salve. Sum Thierry Ateba. Quid aegis?”

  “Hic nobis omnibus bene est. Quomodo auxilium vobis dare possumus?”

  99

  “You’ve done well, Livia,” said a deep, slow voice. “And you, Father Kelly. The Noantri thank you.”

  Thomas nodded, unable to speak. As he’d walked with Livia through the twilight from the Ponte Sisto to Santa Maria dell’Orazione e Morte, she’d told him where they were going and what to expect. She’d tried to prepare him, but how could he have been prepared for this? This morning he’d have laughed at the idea that vampires existed. Twelve hours later he was standing beside one, in front of thirteen more, in the light of two great candelabra in the basement of a bone church.

  Arrayed before him, robed in black, were what had been described as the most powerful figures in the Noantri world. Their College of Cardinals, in a way. He suddenly realized: their ruling body! Body, now that was funny. A laugh threatened to explode out of him; understanding himself to be on the edge of a cliff of exhaustion, shock, and grief-fueled wildness, he clamped his jaw shut and forced himself still.

  “We will keep this copy of the Concordat safe,” the voice went on. “As we have the other, all these years.” The speaker was the Noantri leader, the Pontifex Aliorum. It was he himself who had signed the Concordat. He spoke in English; Livia had said that would be the case, out of courtesy to Thomas. His was the first voice heard in the room since Livia had presented the lead tube, along with Mario Damiani’s notebook and its missing pages. The Pontifex had passed the notebook to the woman on his right and opened the tube in silence and with great care. Once he’d unfolded the document Thomas could have sworn he saw the man’s face lose some of its somber tension, though you couldn’t say he relaxed. Probably—like Lorenzo—this man never relaxed. He’d passed the document, also, to the woman on his right; each Counsellor had taken it in turn and looked it over while Livia and Thomas stood before them.

  “The time will come when our peoples—yours, Father, and ours—will be released from the requirements of this agreement. On that day, your names will be spoken in praise. Until then, what’s happened must remain our secret.” He regarded Thomas. “Father Kelly, you’ve lost a friend today. Please accept our deepest sympathy, and understand none among us sought this outcome.”

  Again, Thomas could only nod. The Pontifex turned his attention to Livia.

  “Livia, you’ve also suffered a loss. That it was inevitable makes it no less tragic. We offer our sympathy to you, also.”

  “Thank you, Lord,” Livia said, her voice quiet but steady.

  A long moment of silence followed. All eyes rested on Livia as the Pontifex said, “Mandatum exsecuta es et opus perfectum est.” You have followed your instructions and your task is complete. It was a formal acknowledgment, no doubt part of a ritual centuries old. What other rituals, Thomas wondered, were observed here?

  “Officio perfungi mihi gratum est.” Livia responded formally. I am grateful to be of service. She took a breath and, switching back to English, she said, “Lord, might I make a request?”

  The Pontifex traded glances with the woman beside him. He nodded. “Speak.”

  “Thank you, Lord. The circumstances of the day have left many questions in the Unchanged world. The Carabinieri are searching for Father Kelly and myself.
Jonah’s—” Thomas saw her swallow and blink back tears. She recovered and continued, “His death will go unnoticed by the Unchanged, but two men, churchmen, are also dead.”

  “And a Noantri who certainly has not gone unnoticed,” said the woman beside the Pontifex. “The clerk from the Library. On the Janiculum Hill. You didn’t know?”

  Livia gasped. “Not unnoticed? Was he—”

  She stopped as the woman nodded. “Yes. His Lord destroyed him.”

  Thomas wasn’t sure of the significance of that, but Livia clearly was. She paled. “Who is that?”

  “A woman named Anna Jagiellon. She made him without our consent, and has done this without it, also. She will be dealt with.”

  “On the Janiculum.” Thomas was surprised to hear his own voice. The Counsellors turned to him. “Is that why the emergency vehicles were there?”

  A rotund man answered, someone who hadn’t previously spoken. “Yes. The death of a Noantri, when brought about this way, resembles some of the more frightening human illnesses.” Unlike the other two, this man spoke English—American English—without a trace of an accent. No, Thomas realized: with an accent like his own. A Boston Noantri, from Southie. Thomas set that aside, to think about later. “The body was removed and will be autopsied,” the man said. “Nothing, of course, will be found.”

  “The microbe?” Thomas asked.

  The man smiled. “Ever the scholar, eh, Father Kelly? The autoimmune reaction triggered by re-exposure—the cause of death—destroys the microbe. Nothing,” he repeated, “will be found.”

  Thomas felt questions arising in his mind in infinite number, but their sheer quantity prevented his articulating any single one.

  “Father Kelly,” the Pontifex said, “your curiosity regarding our natures is obvious. So is your weariness. Perhaps you’d prefer to renew our dialogue at some future time? Because of your services to the Noantri this day, I speak for each member of this Conclave, including myself, when I say we will be pleased to make ourselves available to you for further discussion, whenever you choose. We have held these dialogues from time to time, through the years, with friends of the Noantri. You are one.”

  As exhausted and grief-stricken as he was, Thomas still understood the value of the gift he’d just been given. “Yes,” he said. “I’d welcome that. Thank you.”

  The Pontifex turned back to Livia.

  “You, too, are weary. But you have a request to make of us?”

  “Yes, Lord,” Livia said. “I, of course, will leave Rome, but I’m concerned about Ellen Bird and Spencer George. Most of all, about Father Kelly. The authorities will continue their investigations, and I don’t want Spencer’s or Ellen’s lives interrupted. And Thomas—Father Kelly—can’t just change identities and vanish, as we can. Nor, I think, would he want to.” Her gaze briefly met Thomas’s, then returned to the Counsellors. “If there’s any way the Conclave can . . . affect the course of the authorities’ processes? I’m not sure what I’m asking you to do, but . . .” She trailed off.

  “There is no reason for you to leave Rome,” the Pontifex said. “Or to Cloak.”

  “The Carabinieri have been looking for us since Father Battista died in Santa Maria della Scala. Spencer told me that. And surely someone will have seen us near the Tempietto. We’re suspects and, at this point, fugitives.”

  “At the moment, yes. But you have a very good friend in Spencer George. He contacted us a few hours ago, with a clever proposal. Arrangements have already been made.”

  “Arrangements, Lord?”

  The Pontifex looked to the woman on his right.

  “The Carabinieri and the Gendarmerie are in fact looking for you,” she said, “though their theories about the basis of your involvement keep changing.” In her dry voice Thomas heard her disdain for the quotidian forces of the law. “What they are sure of is the existence of an international ring of art thieves. Spencer George has elected himself head of this cabal. When his home is searched, as it will soon be, many valuable items belonging to the Vatican will be found. They’re being selected as we speak, from the office of the Cardinal Librarian, and will be scattered about. They will include this notebook. Certain other treasures will also be found, which will be traced back to other collections. On those items the provenance marks are recent and false, provided by Spencer George himself. Evidence planted in certain places will make it clear that you, Livia, were aiding Father Kelly in a search, instigated by Cardinal Cossa, to find the leader of this criminal organization, and to do it with utmost discretion, in order that the Vatican not be embarrassed by the ease with which its collections have apparently been raided. The Holy See, realizing you were both in service to the Cardinal, will intervene with the Carabinieri on your behalf.”

  “I . . .”

  Livia seemed no more able to take all this in than Thomas was himself. The woman continued.

  “Ellen Bird, if she’s noticed at all, will be considered an ally of yours and therefore of the Vatican’s. The unfortunate death of Father Battista will be ascribed—correctly, I think?—to Jorge Ocampo, now dead himself, and a member of this ring of thieves, though his murderous behavior will most likely be attributed not to the requirements of larceny but to a mental instability brought about by the infectious fever that killed him. Cardinal Cossa”—she gave Thomas a brief, piercing look—“will be thought to have been slain in a confrontation with these thieves. Whose leader, by the time this has all been worked out—the Carabinieri and Gendarmerie detectives involved in the case being temporarily indisposed—will be found to have fled the country.”

  “Leader?” Livia asked. “Spencer? Fled the country?”

  “He’ll be traceable for a time, to give the authorities something to do. His ultimate plan, once he’s finally disappeared, is to spend some years in America.”

  “Spencer?” Livia repeated. “America?”

  “He expressed a desire to see the New World.”

  “The New . . .” A pause. “Yes, I see. And his collection?”

  “The most valuable pieces—valuable to the Noantri, I mean—will be found to have unassailable provenance. They, and his home, will turn out to be not strictly Dr. George’s possessions, but actually those of a distant cousin in Wales. This cousin will continue to pay the taxes and costs of upkeep on the home and will visit occasionally. A number of years hence he will, I believe, retire to Italy.”

  She settled back in her chair with a satisfied huff. The Pontifex spoke. “You have, as I said, a very good friend in Spencer George.” With a small smile, he added, “As does the Gendarme detective. Apparently the entire idea of an art-theft ring was his. Dr. George feels he’s wasted on the Gendarmerie and has requested that, in return for Dr. George’s participation in this scheme, we arrange for the young man to be reassigned—transferred to the Carabinieri. If, of course, he’s willing to go.”

  “I see,” said Livia again. “So, I may just . . . go home?”

  “You may, but I wouldn’t suggest that you do, just yet. You and Father Kelly will be cleared of all suspicion shortly, but not until the various detectives become available, sometime tomorrow. Until then your house is being watched by officers who have instructions to bring you in for questioning. I assume you’d rather avoid that eventuality?”

  “Very much so, Lord.”

  “Well, then. As I’m sure you know, we maintain a number of residences throughout Rome for the convenience of visitors. May we offer you both our hospitality this evening?”

  100

  In fitful sleep that night, Livia was haunted by shadowy, oppressive dreams; between them, lying awake, by the image of Jonah engulfed in fire. Arising with the sun, she showered, then chose gray slacks and a soft blue sweater from among the items they’d been told would be waiting at the spacious apartment on Via Giulia for their use. “You both look rather the worse for wear,” had been Rosa Cartell
i’s assessment.

  Livia made her way into the kitchen. She and Thomas had been met the night before by a friendly young Noantri—though, from his manner of speech, Elder to her, Livia thought—who had shown them their rooms and served a light supper of pasta al limone before retiring discreetly to his own apartment across the hall. Now, at this early hour, she expected to be alone; but she found Thomas already at the table in the bright room. He was drinking a cappuccino, and grounds in the sink indicated it wasn’t his first.

  “Good morning,” Livia said, smiling softly. “How are you doing?”

  She could see he’d also had a shower; his wet hair was neatly combed and parted. The purple bruises from Jonah’s hands were visible above the collar of a new sweatshirt, plain and black. He considered her question as though it were complex and arcane. At last he said, “I’m not the same man I was yesterday, that’s for sure.”

  “I hope,” she said, “that I like this man as well as I liked that one. Do you want more coffee?”

  At his nod, she opened a ceramic canister and spooned coffee into the moka pot. She put it on the stove and unwrapped the blue and white paper around the cornetti that sat in a bowl in the center of the table. In a small pitcher she steamed milk and drizzled it into their coffee cups. Bringing the coffee to the table, she sat down across from him. “Were you able to sleep?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m not surprised. It will be a long time, for both of us, I think.”

  He nodded, reached for a cornetto. He ate; she leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee, looking beyond him to the window and the glorious blue sky. In this quiet moment, in this bright, airy place her people maintained to shelter their own, she began to feel, not the end of her shock and sadness over what had happened yesterday, but the possibility of that end. The Noantri sense of time and thus of potential was different from that of the Unchanged. To Livia’s people, even to the Eldest, the future was always longer than the past. Thomas’s relationship to his own history was quite different, but she hoped he could feel some echo of optimism, too.