Blood of the Lamb (7 page)

Livia understood. Though the general terms of the Concordat were known to all in the Community, none but the Conclave had seen it. Mario Damiani couldn’t have quoted it unless he had it before him.

“Jonah Richter has given us a deadline. Impudent man!” Cartelli’s anger was barely contained. “Three days hence, on the feast day of San Gennaro. How symbolic.” Her curled lip told Livia that if they’d been alone, woman to woman, Cartelli’s next words would have been,
Really, what did you ever see in him?

“Richter has since gone into hiding,” the Pontifex said. “Because of the way he phrased his threat, we don’t believe he has the document with him. We think he’s discovered its location but left it where it was.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Perhaps it’s in a place too public, or too private, for easy access. Now, we could find him and eliminate the immediate danger.” The casualness with which the words were uttered, in this crypt of the dead, chilled Livia’s blood. “But that won’t lead us to the Concordat. Unless we find
it,
we’re at risk of this happening again. Livia,
you
must find them both. Jonah Richter and the Concordat. He is your responsibility. You know him well, know how he thinks. Do whatever he did, follow whatever trails he followed. Find them before the deadline.”

“And then?” She asked this with a tremor in her voice, because she knew the answer.

“You will bring us the Concordat. And you will kill Jonah Richter.”

6

Forty-eight hours ago Thomas Kelly had been in cool, fall-fresh London, facing a comfortably predictable day of students, books, and his plant-filled office. Now he sat in a silk armchair watching dust motes dance on a shaft of sunlight at the Vatican. He was still trying to comprehend this shift in the pattern of his life when his thoughts were interrupted by a cheerful young priest, an African with a lilting voice, who led him across the anteroom and ushered him through a grand pair of doors. Lorenzo Cossa looked up from behind a gilt-trimmed desk.

“Your Eminence!” Thomas couldn’t help grinning. “You look well.” The Cardinal was thin as ever, but a glow of purpose suffused his sharp features. Thomas knew that look: Lorenzo Cossa was at the start of a major new work. Neither the Cardinal nor anyone else involved would be sleeping much for a while.

“You’re clearly flourishing yourself, Thomas.” Lorenzo stood and came out from behind the desk, looking his protégé over as the African priest left, discreetly shutting the door. “Come, sit. There? Here? Shall we try them all?” With theatrical despair he waved a hand, taking in the throng of furniture, the inlays and rare woods; and the silk-covered wall panels, the marble statuary, the paintings. “What do you think? Too early to redecorate?”

“You haven’t changed.” The suite, like every inch of the Vatican, was luxurious and ornate, these rooms even more than some because they were the office of a cardinal. Most Princes of the Church took seriously their status as Princes. But Lorenzo had always found luxury distasteful. “All that gilt,” he’d say, shaking his head. “Distracting. We have work to do.” If Lorenzo had his way, Thomas knew, this room would be emptied and painted white. Filing cabinets would replace cherubs, bookcases would line the walls where Renaissance Madonnas now hung. Everything would go but the desk—and the humidor.

“And you, Thomas? Have you changed your ways? One of the advantages of Rome over home—I can smoke wherever I want. Father Ateba’s arranging for coffee. Can I offer you a cigar?”

“No, thanks.” Thomas sat in a velvet armchair, smoothing his cassock under him. He rarely wore it, preferring to teach in jacket and collar; but presenting himself at the Vatican for the first time seemed to call for more formal attire.

“You can wear whatever you want, by the way,” Lorenzo grunted, appearing, as so often, to read Thomas’s mind. He himself was in a black jacket and shirt. A heavy gold chain draped into his jacket pocket, where his cardinal’s cross was tucked to keep it out of the way of his work. That and the gold ring on the hand that had swept the air were the only changes Thomas could see in the cantankerous scholar he’d met years ago. “I want you focused on your work, not the trim on your ferriaolo. They take the trappings seriously here but don’t let that fool you. A lot of what goes on is less pious than you’d think. Than you’d hope. More of a business, sometimes, than God’s holy work.” Briefly, Lorenzo glared; then he relaxed. He thumbed an onyx lighter, puffed his cigar. “That’s why you’re here.” He settled against the gilt and velvet of an armchair and looked at Thomas steadily. “The Church was founded by our Lord, but it’s run by men. Good men, most of them, and some not, and all of them—all of us—make mistakes. Sometimes those mistakes, large or small, come back to haunt us. You’ve seen that happen.”

Thomas nodded, unsure where Lorenzo was headed.

“A serious mistake was made six hundred years ago. I’d like to undo it, but I can’t. The best I can do is make sure it never comes to light.” Lorenzo tapped ash from his cigar. “In 1431, shortly after he became Pope, Martin the Fifth signed an agreement known as the Concordat. The Church has been living with its provisions ever since. It was wrong to sign it, wrong to abide by it, but at this point the Church would be seriously damaged if its existence became known. Much more than the damage that’s already been done by continuing to follow it.”

Thomas frowned in thought. “The Concordat? I haven’t heard of it.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. It’s hidden even from you deeply learned scholars. It’s a secret even most cardinals aren’t privy to.”

“I see. But now that you’re Archivist and Librarian—”

“That’s what they think. But I was familiar with it already. I’ve known for some time.”

“This Concordat—it’s an agreement with whom?”

“I can’t tell you that. When you read it you’ll know, but until then— Thomas, I’m afraid of what it will do to you, to your faith, to hear me tell it without proof.”

Thomas stared, and then laughed. “My faith? I’ve been through that fire and out the other side. Thanks to you. Whatever this is about, it can’t be worse than that was.”

“You’re wrong.” Flatly, Lorenzo returned Thomas’s gaze. A silence stretched, and Thomas became aware of an unseen clock ticking in some distant corner.

Lorenzo shifted, puffed on the cigar again. “The Concordat is missing.”

“Missing?”

“The Vatican copy. The other party has evidently been able to keep track of theirs through the centuries—at least, I haven’t heard otherwise. Ours, however, seems to have vanished sometime after 1802. That’s the last time a comprehensive inventory was attempted. Though even then, I can’t be sure the records are accurate.” Lorenzo shook his head. “I told you: this collection is chaotic. Disastrously so.”

“But the renovation—the entire Library was closed for three years.”

“Renovated chaos is still chaos. That was all about electronic security chips, computer workstations, and bombproof bunkers. What’s here, and where it is—still anybody’s guess.”

The door opened and the young priest returned, bearing a silver coffee service and china cups. “Thank you, Father,” Lorenzo said. “You didn’t have to bring it in yourself. They tell me that’s what the valet is for.”

The priest smiled. “I had a sense you wanted a certain level of discretion, Eminence. And coffee is not so heavy.”

“A fine young man, that,” Lorenzo told Thomas once Father Ateba was gone. “He has a future here in Rome. Or he could go back to Cameroon, and he’ll become a bishop, without question. The future of the Church lies in Africa. In Latin America. In Asia! Do you know why?”

Thomas took the coffee Lorenzo handed him and added cream and sugar, marveling at the delicate porcelain. “You’re about to tell me, aren’t you?”

“To enlighten you, yes!” Lorenzo’s tone was self-mocking but he continued seriously. “Because they believe. It’s about faith with them—with us it’s logic, it’s reason, it’s rationalism. Other words for compromise. So-called fairness—accommodation!—they’ll be the death of this Church. Oh, wipe off that smile.”

“It’s a pleasure to hear you fume again, is all. Your Eminence.”

“Yes, fine. You think I’m Cardinal Chicken Little. Still, indulge me. This is serious business. I may be wrong, and you’re certainly entitled to keep that thought in your head as you do your work, as long as you do it. I need you to find the Church’s copy of the Concordat. That’s why I called you here. I had a search made when I took this office. No trace of it’s turned up. But we need to find it. Before someone stumbles over it by accident and everything comes out.”

Thomas sat back against the chair and let his gaze wander the high-ceilinged room. The weight of history was palpable in the paintings and the statues, in the thick, figured carpets. The worries and triumphs, the work and the scheming—the prayers and uncertainties—of centuries of churchmen could be breathed in with the air. Two days ago, he’d sat in a dusty archive in London, reading a letter from an implacable enemy of this place, and now, he was breathing this air. He set down his coffee cup.

“It’s not here.”

Whatever Lorenzo had been expecting Thomas to say, it clearly wasn’t that. “Excuse me? You’ve suddenly developed unshakable faith, and it’s not in vital theological doctrine but in the efficiency of the Archivist’s staff? Just because we can’t find it, you conclude it’s not here?”

“That’s not what I mean. I’ve never heard of this Concordat until today, but . . . Does the name Mario Damiani mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“Possibly.” Thomas resettled himself, hearing his cassock rustle. “Damiani was a poet of the Risorgimento. A captain in Garibaldi’s army. It’s likely he was involved in the looting of the Archives in 1849.”

Lorenzo’s gaze was steady. “You think that was when the Concordat disappeared?”

“I think he stole it. Deliberately.”

“Do you now? Based on what?”

“There’s a letter he wrote to Margaret Fuller. The American journalist?” No light went on in the Cardinal’s eyes, but it didn’t matter. “It’s what I’ve been doing in London. Going through Fuller’s papers. She was enormously important in Italy. Her reporting shaped the American view of the uprising and helped make Garibaldi a hero. She was married to a partisan, knew them all, and didn’t pretend to be objective. Damiani and she were particularly close. In his letter he tells her he stole something from the Vatican. He’s coy about what it is, but calls it, quote, ‘a document that will shatter the Church.’”

Briefly, Lorenzo was silent. Then: “No, I don’t think so. If he had it and knew what it was, why didn’t he use it?”

“I’m not sure he got the chance. He claims to have hidden it somewhere safe. He made a copy and sent that to Fuller with instructions not to read it, but to take it to Garibaldi if anything happened to him. Something did, though it’s not clear what. That letter, from 1849 just before the French entered Rome, is the last time he’s heard from.”

Lorenzo sat very still. “There’s a copy?”

Thomas shook his head. “Fuller headed for New York a year later, on a sailing ship. No one’s ever been sure why.”

“Why she went? Or why a sailing ship?”

“Either. But both make sense in light of Damiani’s letter. He tells Fuller to take care, because the Vatican will be after the document, and to give it to Garibaldi if she hasn’t heard from Damiani in a year. By then Garibaldi was already in New York. Steamships had just begun to cross the Atlantic, faster than sailing ships but also bigger. More danger of being followed. On Fuller’s ship, besides her family, there was only one other passenger, an American named Horace Sumner, who boarded at the last minute. The ship turned out to be a legendary mistake, though: they sank in a storm within sight of the New York coast. Most of the bodies were never found, and all Fuller’s papers were lost. Besides her published books and articles, she only left behind a few scattered items.”

“Which you, my eminent scholar, have discovered?”

With a grin, Thomas said, “This is my period, you know.”

“Well, don’t you look pleased with yourself? I seem to recall it wasn’t your period until some wise man recommended it to you. Nevertheless, a little back-patting might be in order, if you’re correct.” The Cardinal smoked in silence for a time. Finally he said, “If that document was the Concordat, it would answer two questions: why we haven’t located it here, and why it hasn’t come to light.”

“Exactly.”

“Well.” Lorenzo laid his cigar in a crystal ashtray. “Do you think you can find it?”

“I have no idea. But why not leave it hidden?”

“You mean, since it hasn’t been found in all these years, assume it won’t be? For two reasons. First, we’re not sure Damiani—is that his name?—was talking about the Concordat. I’d hate to think he’d unearthed yet another document equally dangerous, and I’d like to know. For another, assuming it
is
the Concordat, it’s too big a risk. Maybe it’s been destroyed by now, but if it hasn’t, it could still be found. Someone will be digging a foundation or knocking down a wall, leafing through an old book or reframing a picture . . . No, what I need is either the thing itself or some believable proof it’s gone for good. Can you bring me that?”