Hours later the Americans were strolling along Via Condotti. Hoping to arrive on time at the historic Caffé Greco, Paul took Ava’s hand and helped her cut through the crowd.
Open since 1760, the establishment had hosted Stendhal, Goethe, Keats, and Baudelaire. Casanova sipped drinks there, as did Mark Twain and Lord Byron. Gogol wrote Dead Souls in the same room in which Wagner and Liszt met for pastries. Rossini composed on the rear parlor piano. The painter de Chirico called it “the place to sit and await the end.”
Paul and Ava waited in the foyer for a table. Eventually a tailcoated cameriere escorted them beyond a carved wooden bar, past tourists resting on red velvet sofas, and into a labyrinth of private salons. Mendelssohn’s “Violin Concerto in E Minor” played in the background. Rooms were adorned with gilt antique mirrors, faded photos of the café’s illustrious habitués, and romantic paintings set against a backdrop of gold and red damask. The cameriere seated them on richly upholstered chairs before a table of Napoleonic design. Paul ordered granita di caffè; Ava asked for a cioccolata calda with extra whipped cream.
After the waiter left, Ava excused herself to visit the rest room. As she stood, Paul’s eyes involuntarily tracked her thigh-high stockings, right up to the point where they disappeared beneath a pleated miniskirt. Feeling his eyes on her, she suppressed a grin. Paul began stammering an apology but then the world phone rang. Ava scanned the caller ID and answered. Waving adieu to Paul, she walked off engrossed in conversation.
When she returned, Paul asked, “Who was that?”
“durmdvl.”
He tensed. “What’s wrong?”
“Not a thing. We’re getting together when I’m back in the States.”
“Okay,” he said, eyes clouding.
She looked at him. “Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not. That guy saved our bacon. I owe him big time.”
Ava giggled. “durmdvl’s not a guy. She’s a sophomore at Duke.”
He brightened. “Seriously?”
Before Ava could explain the illogic of his sexist assumptions, Barakah arrived. Paul stood to greet him, and Ava invited the officer to sit. He presented the couple with notarized confirmation that Egypt had dropped its extradition demands and dismissed the criminal charges against them. Ava was relieved.
“And may I add that the Order of the Shepherd sends its compliments. You’ve earned our eternal gratitude.”
“Awesome,” said Paul. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
A smiling Barakah said, “We’re a secret brotherhood, sworn to protect humanity. Garagallo’s amulet bears our crest. Some claim the order was founded by Joachim of Flora in the twelfth century, others say it’s much older.”
“Joachim the what?”
“Joachim of Flora was an influential mystic theologian, a contemporary of Richard the Lionheart,” Ava explained. “Joachim visited Jerusalem during the Crusades and foretold the dawning of a new age in which rigid Church hierarchy would be obsolete and Christians could unite with non-Christians. He was too radical to be canonized, but the Franciscan monks considered him a prophet.”
Barakah nodded. “Brother Joachim understood the true message. He taught that Antichrists threaten all humanity, not just Christians. Accordingly, our brotherhood welcomes any who oppose hatred and evil. Regardless of faith, we are all children of God. Catholic Bishop Garagallo and Coptic Father Bessarion are my brothers, as were the seven brave Egyptians who fell defending the jars.”
Recalling that moment, Paul’s face darkened. “I’m not sure I deserve any gratitude. ”
“You played a critical role. But for you, Ava would have perished.”
“But for me, she would never have been in danger.”
“Perhaps, but who else could have unlocked the prophecy? If she’d remained in Boston—”
“I’m not exactly sold on my contribution either,” Ava said. “A helicopter crash stopped La Belva. Simon DeMaj sacrificed his life. All I did was shout into a microphone. Anyone could have done that.”
Barakah shrugged. “The fact remains that you read the prophecy aloud and the devil was vanquished. Whether this was coincidence or predestination is unclear. I don’t believe in coincidences, but then I’m just a policeman, not a philosopher.”
Paul smiled. Barakah stood. “I respect Simon’s decision. He died a hero, but we each played a role. Both of you faced destiny with valor. You put others’ lives before your own, and when darkness threatened, you found the courage to fight. For that, we’re forever in your debt.”
He replaced his chair, bowed formally to Ava, and took Paul’s outstretched hand.
“Gardez bien.”
Ava and Paul left the café. Hand in hand, they walked to the Spanish Steps, where artists, students, and backpackers had gathered to drink wine and socialize. An olive-skinned lad strummed a familiar melody and sang, “Each day I pray for evening, just to be with you.”
While Paul went looking for a good place to sit, Ava dropped a coin in the musician’s guitar case.
Resting on the ancient masonry, she crossed her ankles and leaned back against Paul. Together they watched the Roman sun disappear behind Michelangelo’s dome. Daylight dimmed. Then, for an instant, Ava beheld a bright emerald gleam. “Paul, have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” she marveled.
He didn’t respond. Curious, she turned to find him looking at her. Their eyes locked and he whispered: “Yes.”
Ava couldn’t breathe. Her pulse thundered. He pulled her toward him. Her lips parted. She shut her eyes, opened her heart, and surrendered herself to his kiss.
Epilogue
Catherine de Médicis knows secret paths through the palace. Though born in Florence, she’d lived in Paris all her adult life. It has been twenty-two years since her uncle Pope Clement VII had arranged her marriage to King Francis’s second son, Henry of Orleans. She pauses a moment, remembering the innocent child she’d once been.
Her arrival in France had caused quite a stir. To enter grandly, the diminutive Catherine employed a Florentine artisan who, on her behalf, created Europe’s first pair of high-heeled shoes. After the wedding Catherine toured the country. The king found his new daughter-in-law a wonderful traveling companion, but King Francis aside, Catherine had few allies at court. She was generally disliked by the French. Jealous nobles referred to her as “the Italian woman.” Many suspected foul play when Francis’s eldest son died, making Henry heir to the throne. When Francis died, in 1547, Catherine became queen.
Despite producing seven children (three of whom became kings of France), Queen Catherine has retained her youthful figure. She is an attractive, regal woman with fair hair and the enchanting eyes of a Medici. Nevertheless, her marriage is a loveless farce. Catherine’s husband is openly besotted with his domineering mistress, Diane de Poitiers, who controls the weak-minded king.