Joshua and Job circled him, anticipating, the tips of their katanas rising; telltale signs to Ezekiel that they were getting ready to strike.
So he ground the balls of his feet against the floor, readying himself to pivot and defend from all points.
And here they came.
Job and Joshua struck from opposite sides, the blades of their swords cutting, slashing and slicing, the air divided with a series of whooshing sounds.
And then the sound of contact, wood against wood, blade against blade, the young men joining together as action-reaction, the blades of the swords becoming blurs as Ezekiel skillfully defended his position.
From one side to the other Ezekiel brought his blade up, over, and across with blinding speed deflecting blows proffered by Joshua and Job. His movements were skilled and fluid, his actions now driven more by instinct than thought. And then he came across and struck Joshua’s sword above the hilt, the faux weapon breaking, the wooden blade skating across the floor and into the shadows.
Joshua exited from the battle — now considered a kill by the rules.
Now Ezekiel was one on one with Job, a truly skilled warrior, both hands on their hilts as they clashed with subdued fury. Blow after blow, strike after strike, Job drew Ezekiel to the far side of the arena. And then Ezekiel countered with a primal scream, only to find an inner reserve and struck back with unbridled force.
Up and over and across he countered with lightning quick strikes, the energy of his muscles driving his counterpart backwards, Job becoming the defender, his eyes flaring, blades clashing. And then Job ducked and drove his blade across the tissue above Ezekiel’s knee, a debilitating strike that ended the contest.
Job had become the victor.
Disappointed, Ezekiel dropped his weapon.
“Very good,” stated Kimball, emerging from the shadows. “Going up against two of the best is never an easy task.”
“But I still lost,” he returned.
“I would have been surprised if you won. To defeat a couple of Vatican Knights is no small feat, Ezekiel. You should be proud of yourself. You nearly pulled it off.”
Job laid his sword aside and stood next to Ezekiel, as did Joshua. They stood side by side as brothers not by nature, but by camaraderie. They had grown together — spiritually, mentally and physically.
And Kimball had watched them grow from adolescents to teens to young men. Each one developing a strong constitution where knowledge became power and power became knowledge. They had become learned and skilled and devoured anything books could offer. But even more so, they had developed the fortitude to live their lives by the proverb that loyalty was above all else, except honor. Kimball Hayden was proud of them.
And now, at his time of need, they will now serve him and become his shield.
Several hours later, Kimball’s plane began its final descent into Fiumicino Airport in Rome. Job, Joshua and Ezekiel continued to remain in his thoughts as the jumbo jet touched down on the runway.
After a forty-five minute wait for his bag at the carousel, Kimball grabbed it and left for Passenger Pickup. Parked next to the curb was the papal limo, the driver holding the door open for Kimball. Inside, Cardinal Vessucci sat waiting, smiling the biggest smile Kimball had ever seen.
It was good to be home, he thought.
“It’s good to see you again,” said Cardinal Vessucci.
“Yeah, well, unfortunately my mission was a huge failure. I’m totally lost, Bonasero. Whoever is doing this remains faceless. I’m no closer to solving this than when I was the day I left.”
“It was believed to be a political faction.”
“There was only one person who had anything to lose by the knowledge that the Pieces of Eight held. But I honestly don’t believe he had anything to do with any of this. The man was genuinely surprised to see that I was alive, whereas the assassin knows I am. You would think that type of information would have gotten back to the senator.”
“And this political factor?”
“Dead,” Kimball quickly said.
“By your hand?”
“No. I had no intentions of killing him. But the Hardwick brothers saw differently, I’m afraid.”
“I see.”
“When will Ezekiel and Joshua return?”
“Soon,” he said. The moment as he answered the limo hit a groove in the road, the vehicle bucking hard before rolling back to a smooth journey.
And then: “I’ll need them, Bonasero. I can’t do this alone.”
“I know. And believe me, Kimball, the pontiff and I feel much better with the security of the Knights behind you. We’ll get through this together.”
Kimball turned and viewed the landscape whipping past, noting the full greenery of the trees and the true aesthetic beauty of Rome. Without turning back to the cardinal, he asked, “How is the pontiff?”
“He’s well.”
Kimball faced him, his features firm. “How is he really?”
Vessucci took in a long breath. “He has cancer, Kimball. And he’s dying. Mentally and spiritually he’s the same man. Physically, however, he’s breaking down every day and it tears my heart out to see this slow degradation of a great man. But as Amerigo always does with a smile on his face, he reminds me that it’s a way of life.”
“I’ll miss him.”
The cardinal looked out the window. “The world will miss him.”
They drove on in silence — the men looking out the window acknowledging the scenery of Rome’s historical heritage of aged columns and marbled structures.
All of a sudden it seemed that life was too short to let things past by without an appreciative eye.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It’s said that if you do not view everything on a daily basis but return later after a long gap of interaction with someone, then the changes are evident. But if you see someone daily, then the changes are not as clear. Such was the case of Pope Pius XIII.
When Kimball saw the man he seemed to have aged dramatically over the past few days. He was pale. And his face was beginning to drop as his jowls became more pronounced. But the old man’s smile was remarkably genuine as the pontiff raised himself from his seat to greet Kimball as he walked through the chamber doors.
The men fell into each other’s embrace, and suddenly Kimball felt a terrible pang of impending loss and did not release the man after a long moment.
“I’m glad you’re well,” said the pontiff, drawing away.
“Your condition…” Kimball let his words fall away.
“It’s all right, Kimball. I’m fully prepared. And that makes all the difference in the world. Now please,” he said, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. “I want you and the cardinal to have a seat. We have much to discuss.”
Kimball was dressed as a Vatican Knight — the black cleric shirt and Roman collar, which was incongruous to the black fatigues and boots. Cardinal Vessucci wore his typical black cloak and scarlet zucchetto.
“What’s going to happen to me is inevitable,” began the pope. “What may also be inevitable, if Cardinal Vessucci does not ascend to the papacy, is the continuance of the Vatican Knights.”
Kimball turned to Vessucci, then back at the pope. “Bonasero has a strong camp,” he said. “And he’s the secretary of state. He’s well positioned.”