Blood of the Lamb (8 page)

“I really don’t know. Do you want me looking for the Concordat, whatever it is, or the document Damiani stole and hid, whatever
it
is?”

“Both. Pursue whatever trails make sense. But I have a feeling you might be right. Follow your poet. Find what he stole. If it’s the Concordat, you will have done your Church a great service.”

In the opulent room with the unseen clock faintly ticking, Thomas nodded. “I’ll start this afternoon.”

7

Standing in the dank silence of the bone-decked crypt, Livia Pietro struggled to find her voice. She’d been given the instructions of the Conclave, delivered by the Pontifex himself; no argument was possible, but still, she spoke. “My Lord. I can’t.”

“On the contrary,” the Pontifex replied calmly. “You will kill Jonah Richter, or we will. He is your Disciple. He is your responsibility.”

Livia felt faint. Of course he was right. She knew the Law. Her first transgression—bringing Jonah into the Community without prior permission—had been a major one, and it was by grace of the Conclave that she hadn’t been exiled for it. They wouldn’t be so lenient again.

“The search for the Concordat, right now, takes precedence over the search for Jonah Richter,” said the American, Horace Sumner. At that, Livia felt a spark of hope. Perhaps if she found the document and returned it, Jonah would be spared. He was impatient, yes, but he was still New, and he was young. He could be made to understand—to see that many others had thought through the position he’d taken and that the results of Unveiling would not be what he hoped.

Sumner went on. “As far as that, we’ve fallen into a bit of luck. A priest has recently arrived in Rome, sent for by the new Librarian of the Vatican. Father Thomas Kelly, from Boston by way of London. Father Kelly’s field is the history of the Church. His specialization is Italy in the nineteenth century.”

“The Cardinal is searching for the Vatican’s copy of the Concordat,” Cartelli said. “He had people comb through the collection when he arrived, and of course they didn’t find it. He knows when it was last seen, thus more or less when it disappeared. Our sources say he’s brought Father Kelly here because of that expertise, but we think the priest doesn’t know the nature of the document.”

Livia looked from Cartelli to Sumner. “An odd coincidence. The timing, I mean.”

“No.” Sumner shook his head. “It’s more likely that Jonah Richter, seeing the Cardinal make such a serious effort to locate the Concordat, feels his hand’s been forced and so is forcing ours.”

The scholar in Livia, trying to stay calm, focused on an unanswered question. “Why, in fact, is the Cardinal making this effort? From what you say, the Archivists before him have been content to let this secret lie.”

The Pontifex spoke. “Just as we have always been divided between those who are grateful for the Concordat and willing to abide by its provisions and those who believe it constricts us and that the time is past for Unveiling, the Church has had for centuries its own internal debate. Among those in the Church who know about the Concordat, all—
all,
Livia—find it repugnant. But an extremist faction feel that in agreeing to it, Martin the Fifth poisoned the Church’s very soul. They believe any relationship with us beyond the murderous enmity of old is a tragic and irresponsible mistake and argue Martin’s act delegitimizes him and all Popes since. That it is proof he was never fit to lead the Church. They maintain it was we who engineered Martin’s rise, in exchange for this contract. A charge,” he added with a small smile, “not entirely without merit. We didn’t engineer it, but once assured of the transformation in our lives Martin was prepared to bring about, we . . . took part in events already under way.”

“A fine distinction,” Cartelli sniffed, “which is lost on the extremists. A sour and unsubtle crowd. Their dearest wish is to go back to the apostolic line of the man who would have been John the Twenty-third, now called Antipope. It was he who was defeated by Martin.”

Livia considered this. “They want to install whoever’s in that line today, as Pope? The Church would never allow it.”

“Whether they would or wouldn’t does not signify!” Cartelli snapped. “For myself, I believe they might indeed. But can you not see the danger of the argument erupting, irrespective of who wins it? If the Church were to split publicly on this issue, our existence would be revealed. In order to gain sympathy for their cause, the militant faction would paint us in the darkest of colors. Vicious and bloody rhetoric would be used to terrify the faithful, as in years past. The power struggle within the Church would be couched in terms of us:
Are you a true and pious child of the Holy Mother Church? Or a friend of the Godless Noantri?
Those currently in power would try to make people understand the Concordat as a lesser-of-two-evils way to keep the wicked Noantri under control. The others would claim no compromise is possible with such demons. And no one, Livia Pietro, would claim us as their friends.”

Ice sat in Livia’s stomach; she wanted to argue, but long experience of the world silenced her. Cartelli, in fact, was probably correct.

“The new Librarian,” the Pontifex said, and Livia was grateful for his calm, measured tones, “Lorenzo Cardinal Cossa, is of the extremist camp. He would happily use the Concordat as a scourge against us. But he is bound in obedience to his Church. We believe his search for the lost copy, therefore, is his attempt to do the next best thing: to ensure this compromise never comes to light.”

“I see,” Livia said slowly. “But if it does—”

“If Jonah Richter were to reveal the contents of the Concordat and prove its existence, the Cardinal, we think, would be bitterly grateful. The ensuing hysteria within the Church—and around the world—would set him free to argue to the current Pope and the Church powers that nothing could restore the Church’s legitimacy but an abrogation of the Concordat and the destruction of the Noantri.”

The Pontifex paused, then spoke like iron. “That will not happen.” His echoing voice seemed to agitate the shadows, to make the bones dance on the candlelit walls. Livia did not doubt him. One of the Eldest, the Pontifex was a man of great learning, wise judgment, and respected counsel. And something more, also: a depth and delicacy of understanding of the Community, their lives and their situation, that set him apart and above. There were those, like Jonah, who believed that they needed no Conclave and no leader and after Unveiling, would have none. But while they had a leader, no Noantri had ever argued that another was more suited than this man.

In a quiet voice, the Pontifex spoke again. “That Cardinal Cossa has not already begun this argument within the Church indicates, we believe, that he does not know about Jonah Richter’s threat. Nor will he. As I said, if you make no progress in your search for the Concordat, the Conclave will attend to Jonah Richter. But there will be other Jonahs, other cardinals. Until the world becomes more enlightened, this danger will be with us. The document must be recovered.”

In the silence, all eyes rested upon Livia. It seemed to her she was seeing the Pontifex, the entire Conclave, from a great distance; but with exquisite clarity just the same.

“The priest,” she heard herself say. “Father Kelly.”

“You will need him,” the Pontifex replied. “We’re fairly certain Mario Damiani left instructions of some sort to the place where he hid the Concordat, where Jonah Richter stumbled upon it.”

“‘Stumbled upon’!” Cartelli scoffed. “More likely, has been obsessively searching for under our very noses.”

“Perhaps,” the Pontifex said evenly. “In any case, Mario Damiani was a man with enormous contempt for the Church. A very intelligent man, also. He would have understood the Concordat might have to pass decades, perhaps centuries, in its hiding place. Concealing it on Church property would be a sensible decision: Church-owned buildings are the last to be demolished, are rarely even renovated beyond minimal structural repair. Such a course would have appealed to Damiani’s sense of irony, also. He’d have chosen carefully, appropriately. If Jonah Richter has already located the document’s hiding place, an expert in Church history might be able to right the balance.”

“Also,” said Cartelli drily, “we do not like the idea of a priest running around loose, digging into our past. We’d like an eye kept on him.”

“So you want me to enlist Father Kelly in my search?”

“Or offer to aid his,” said the Pontifex. “An art historian who’s lived a long time in Rome—you could be valuable to him. Our information is that Father Kelly is an obsessive researcher. He’s been charged with an important task. He might welcome the help. But bear in mind, the priest has no deadline and feels no sense of urgency. We do.”

“If he refuses?”

“Persuade him.”

“If that involves telling him—the truth? About the Noantri?”

The Counsellors glanced at one another. The Pontifex didn’t take his eyes off Livia. “Then you will tell him. We have debated this. Father Kelly is a scholar of great achievement and deep intellectual curiosity. It strains credulity to think that Cardinal Cossa expected once he found the Concordat, he would not read it.”

“Does he believe as Cardinal Cossa does, about us?”

“They all do,” Cartelli said with disgust.

The Pontifex, for the first time, turned on Cartelli a look of mild impatience; but he didn’t correct her.

“If Father Kelly doesn’t yet know the contents of the Concordat, he most likely doesn’t know the truth of our existence, either,” he said. “But Cardinal Cossa has been grooming this young man for some time. He probably intended to make him privy to that secret as he advanced in the Church. Father Kelly will almost certainly know one day.”

“And so you are giving me permission to tell him now?”

“My,” Cartelli said, “why suddenly so obedient? I don’t recall you asking for permission the last time.”

Livia’s cheeks burned. The last time: when she had told Jonah. Revealed what she was, who the Noantri were. She had wanted to share with him the deepest part of herself, and to make him comprehend her certainty and her fears: what could be theirs in a life together, and what could not. The risk had been that he’d react as so many always had, with fear, with revulsion. She’d wanted him to know she understood that and was willing to take that chance, for him. From the start of time lovers had promised to climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest ocean, to prove their love, but Livia had offered Jonah a greater gift: their love itself, to claim or destroy.

And he’d been neither afraid nor repulsed. Nor merely accepting. Amused, at first, believing she was joking with him. Then, once persuaded, he was thrilled, and soon was asking, pleading, to join her. To be Noantri, too. She had thought, at the time, that it was from love. That he wanted to be everything she was.

“Livia.” The dark voice came to her as though from far away. “Livia. You must begin.” She looked up to see the Pontifex leaning forward in the flickering light. “Time is short.” He smiled a tiny smile, acknowledging the irony in that statement.

“My Lord,” she said. “I may not succeed.”

He shook his head. “You will. You will search until you find the Concordat. If the deadline is near and you haven’t found it yet, you will continue the search and we will see to Jonah Richter.” He sat back again. “Jonah cannot escape this sentence, Livia. It will be far better for him if you are the one to carry it out.”

The Counsellors, the Pontifex, all sat motionless, eyes on Livia in the candlelit gloom. She had been given her instructions and dismissed; she understood that. Still, in a shocking breach of protocol, as though she were not part of the proceedings, but only watching, she heard her own voice whisper, “Is there no other way?”

The Pontifex may have been about to speak, but Cartelli slapped the arm of her chair. The sound rattled like a gunshot. “
What
other way? Are you a fool, too? Or”—her eyes narrowed in her wrinkled face—“are you in sympathy with Jonah Richter? Do you, also, believe the time for Unveiling has come?”

Livia shook her head. “No, no. I wish I could say I think so. But I don’t believe it has.”

“Then go. Do as you’ve been told. Or six centuries of peace will be destroyed. The fires will come again. In fear and raging fury we will be hunted, driven out, and we will die. You did not know those times. I did. We did.” She nodded to the Pontifex, to a few of the others. “All this will be repeated, magnified a thousand times, if the world learns once again whom to label ‘vampire.’”

8