“Let’s take the shortest option,” Geraint decided. So they stayed within the Veneto and made the short haul, Michael booking rooms in an airport hotel as they went, and the journey was a lot faster than the car ride through the narrow streets of Venice. But with the clock showing a quarter to two, fatigue was beginning to catch up with them. There had certainly been enough excitement for one day. But though tired, they wouldn’t get to sleep easily and they knew it. Adrenaline was still coursing in veins too fast.
“Tomorrow’s May Day and another bloody public holiday,” Michael lamented. “And the deadline’s fast approaching.”
“So, let’s order up fifteen gallons of java and start chewing the rag.” Streak said cheerfully. “We’ll listen, eh, boys?”
“For what you’re paying us, you can talk about collecting postage stamps and we’ll listen,” Juan said, a grin on his face.
“Yeah, I’ll even take notes,” Xavier agreed, adding a few mineshaft-deep chuckles.
The combination of relief at being away from the threat of imminent danger, some light-headedness from tiredness and travel, and a swiftly delivered caffeine rush had them more bright-eyed and lively by the time the clock had passed two. The hotel room was small, Michael having booked the first on the list without worrying about details, and the air quickly grew stale from the scent of bodies and cigarettes. To Streak’s delight, Juan had also brought some rather fine export produce of Jamaica, and he knew how much could be inhaled without feeling useless in the morning. He settled back happily and breathed out with an expression of sheer delight.
“I think I have that munchies feeling,” he said. “What do you say? Let’s order a bucket of choccy biccies.”
“I don’t think Italian room service would be quite up to that. But the airport’s full of malls,” Michael said. “I bet you could find something.”
Slowly and more languidly than usual, the elf got to his feet and almost glided to the door, to search for the essential sustenance he craved.
“We haven’t really discussed what happened in the square,” Serrin said.
“Just a bunch of assassins fried alive and we had to run our lives,” Geraint said Sarcastically.
“I didn’t mean that. I meant the point of it,” Serrin replied quietly.
“The point of what?”
“Not them, not the idiots and fanatics with the guns and the spirits and the death wishes. I meant the demonstration.”
Geraint looked incredulously at him.
“The figure that appeared,” the elf said impatiently. “The woman.”
“I thought the severed head was pretty gross,” Michael said with some disgust.
“A very potent image. Outside the church of St. Mark, our man creates an image of real blasphemy. The Magdalene with the head of John the Baptist, that’s who she was. No wonder the Jesuits were so stunned.”
“I don’t get it,” Michael said.
“That figure was the Magdalene. I’m certain. I saw her in the painting outside, the Last Supper. It’s her, and there’s something very, very strange about that painting.”
“That’s for sure,” Michael said.
“And the painting of John is so odd. So androgynous. It’s the same thing as the icon he left: the Shroud with the black woman’s face. These images are highly powerful,” Serrin said deliberately, as if admitting something to himself and being surprised in the process. “I just don’t understand what they’re actually saying. They’re obvious I blasphemy. But it’s not being done just for shock value, There wouldn’t be any point in that, and I don’t think our man is up for pointless demonstrations. I just wish I could fathom exactly what it is he’s saying.”
“So he maybe has a thing about the Magdalene,” Michael pondered. “I certainly agree that she’s the central figure in the Last Supper painting.”
“And unless I’m much mistaken, there are references in the Bible to the disciples being jealous of her and disliking her,” Serrin said, reaching for the bedside table, “And for the first time in the history of this planet, someone somewhere is about to find the Gideon Bible in here of some actual bloody use.”
He leafed through the pages for a moment, found the relevant passages, and nodded a couple of times.
“They protest to Christ that she’s a whore and a bad woman, and they clearly don’t like his consorting with her. Read,” he told Michael, tossing over the flimsy book.
“It’s a long time since I did this,” Michael admitted as he scanned the New Testament references.
“All right, so they do, and the painting shows that. But why have her show up with the head in the square?”
“That’s what I can’t figure,” Serrin said. “It was Salome who brandished the head, as I recall. But our man has something about heads. The head on the original Shroud was separate from the rest of the body. And our man replaced it with another severed head, if you will.”
“The Priory,” Michael said slowly, clenching and unclenching his fist in an effort to reclaim a memory hidden deep inside his subconscious. “I remember something from my research on them. The Priory of Sion, our chummers back in Rennes. They claimed some descent from the Knights Templar, and the Templars were accused of worshiping a severed head that talked to them. At least, that’s one of the things they were accused of.”
“Along with sodomy and tax evasion, insider dealing and breathing in and out in a heretical fashion,” Serrin said with a grin. “I rather think the Pope drummed up every charge he could-possibly think of apart from lesbianism.”
“They were men!” Michael protested.
“That’s what I mean,” Serrin said dryly.
“So what’s our man doing playing with these images, and why is he so fixated on Leonardo?”
“That’s the million-nuyen question,” Serrin concluded. “And we don’t know the answer.” He paused while another thought slotted into place. “We also don’t know where he is.”
“Blondie was in Venice yesterday morning.” Geraint reminded him. “If he was, then so was whoever he refers to as his master.”
“That’s logical.”
“And I bet they aren’t there now,” Geraint reasoned.
“That also seems pretty likely.”
“So where have they gone, and have we any clue as to where and how they’re going?”
“Nope.”
“So we have to stay passive and wait for another move in the game, dammit!” Geraint growled. “I really don’t like this. We’re back where we were again.”
Michael flipped open his laptop. “Now that they’ve made a move, I wonder if there might be some information for us. Ah, right. Good one.” His face broke into a smile. Then he looked puzzled, even a little angry.
“Consider the Hejira,” he read from the email drop. “That’s it. Drek.”
“The flight of the Prophet,” Serrin said. “Mohammed fled from Mecca to Medina, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, you got it, but what’s that got to do with all this? Don’t tell me he’s convened to Islam all of a sudden.”
“Think metaphorically, Michael,” Serrin said exasperatedly. “Mohammed left one city of divinity. Our man has left Venice.”
“So he’s saying he’s some kind of prophet?” Michael sounded as if he disapproved.
“Maybe he is.”
“And maybe he’s suffering serious delusions.”
“Maybe,” Serrin smiled. “But we know he can sure as hell move mountains.”
“All right. So he takes a flight and-” Michael looked astounded at the idea that had just leapt unbidden into his brain. “No, it can’t be as simple as-”
He was already reaching for his traveling cyberdeck.
“As simple as what?” Geraint asked, puzzled.