CAPITOLO XLIX
1778
Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia Tommaso's monastic cell is so small he can't even lie full length without his head touching one wall and his feet the other. He's living in a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. No matter. Right now it feels the most comfortable place in the world.
The revelations by the Jew Ermanno have shocked him. Rocked him to his core. His cell seems the only safe place to curl up and think.
And think he does.
He is still uncomfortable about the way the Jew and the other two had pressured him for information about the tablet. Mercenaries – that's all they are. Desperate to have him sell them the artefact – no doubt at a fraction of its value – so they can hawk a piece of his family history all over Europe to the highest bidder. As well as angry, Tommaso also feels disappointed and saddened. He'd hoped his enquiries on the mainland would have led to some answers. Instead, he seems only to have acquired more questions. Very disturbing ones.
Was his mother somehow involved in the occult?
He hopes not. The words in her letter tumble through his mind: something that you must guard – not only with your life, but with your soul. Its meaning is too important and too difficult to explain in a mere letter. It seems to him that she knew of its evil, perhaps even Satanic importance, but was she acting with good intent? He flinches as he remembers her instruction, 'It must never leave your care.'
Were the stories in the Jew's book true? Did his tablet have some unearthly power, something that might be unleashed when reunited with the other two?
His tablet. He realises he is thinking possessively about it. Unquestionably, it belongs to him. Has belonged to his family for generations. And now he doesn't have it. He's let his mother down. The only thing she'd ever asked him to do and he's failed her.
Tommaso feels guilty, and also increasingly angry at the abbot for taking it off him.
He comforts himself with the thought that, if it has the potential to be an instrument of evil, then perhaps it is safer in the care of the abbot and the Catholic Church than with him.
But then again, the jails and torture racks of the state inquisitor are full of villainous priests.
He reaches below the bed to retrieve the box and reread the letter in full. Perhaps there are other things in the missive that will now make more sense to him.
His hand picks up nothing but dust.
He kneels and searches beneath his bunk.
Nothing.
The cell is so tiny it takes only seconds to understand that the box and the letter are gone. Taken, no doubt, on the abbot's instructions.
But why?
Tommaso feels like he's going to explode. Tomorrow he will confront his superior and demand the return of his things. He'll do it whatever the consequences. Whatever.
His head hurts with the strain of it all. He blows out the lone candle in his cell, lies in the darkness and wishes for sleep.
Despite the inner turmoil he is exhausted, and soon drifts into a slumber as dark and rhythmical as the waves he so enjoys rowing through.
Then he hears a noise.
Voices.
Banging.
Cell doors opening. People running. Some kind of panic.
He creaks his way off his bunk and opens the door. 'Fire! Fire!' One of the monks races past him, his face filled with panic.
Barefooted, Tommaso follows. Outside, the boathouse is ablaze. Orange and yellow flames are devouring the black timbers he'd just repaired. The buckets of pitch he'd hauled up from the boat are burning like torches, their contents no doubt spread all over the building.
Several brothers are throwing water on the blaze. To no effect. The boathouse is lost. The best they can do is contain the fire and stop it spreading.
'Brothers! Brothers! Come with me.'
Tommaso leads a team of helpers to the compost heap. They wheel stinking barrowloads of wet mulch to the edge of the fire and lay down an oozing, black wall that dams the blaze. Tommaso is pleased it's working. 'Now, we'll get more. Shovel soil and the wettest of the compost on to the fire and smother the flames.' The brothers work eagerly for him, shuttling past in quick relays; digging, filling barrows, then spreading the putrid compost before returning for more.
By sunrise they've beaten the blaze.
Red-faced, robes torn and totally drained, Tommaso slumps on the grass outside the monastery. His back aches from shovelling and his throat is raw from the smoke and shouting.
'Brother Tommaso.'
The voice comes from above and behind him. He twists to look over his right shoulder. It is the abbot.
He struggles to his feet. Two other brothers flank his monastic mentor.
The abbot's face is solemn. 'My chamber, Brother. Now!'
CHAPTER 51
Present Day The Secret Archives, Vatican City Alfredo Giordano was by no means amazed that Tom Shaman begged him to make one trip – just one trip – into the musty vaults of the secret archives.
What did surprise him was that he agreed to do it.
He was persuaded by the indisputable fact that, although the archives are these days supposed to be more private than secret, should the Carabinieri make a viewing request then they could easily get tied up in Vatican red tape until Judgement Day.
And so Alfie finds himself heading to the entrance to the archives, adjacent to the Vatican Museum through the Porta di S. Anna in via di Porta Angelica. He steps out of the warm sunlight into the cool corridors with fear crawling up his throat. When his duplicity is discovered – for he realises that, even if he succeeds today, he is going to have to confess his actions – he knows he'll be severely punished, maybe even suspended.
Fortunately for Alfie, he is no stranger to the endless miles of passageways and rooms, or to some of the staff working there. As a general librarian he regularly mixes with the archivists, delivering new documents and books into their care, and he can even boast a passing acquaintance with the Archivist Emeritus, Cardinal Mark van Berkel.
As he nears the point of no return he focuses once more on the main problem he faces. Even those who can get into the archive still face horrendous restrictions, the main one being that even authorised visitors are not permitted to browse the shelves in search of what they want, and no one is allowed to take any materials away. In other words, Alfie has to know exactly which book or document he wants – and he doesn't – and then he has to wait for someone to get it for him.
Clutching a Vatican notebook and some index files from the general library of the Holy See, he approaches a young, scaly-skinned, trout-eyed helper at the busy reception desk. 'I am Father Alfredo, I have come from the main library and need to check a document.'
Father Trout-eyes floats his fingers over a computer keyboard. 'Do you have a reference number?'
Alfie tips his notebook and flicks through a few pages, then swings it round for his colleague to copy.
The computer clacks away. The archivist squints at the screen and can't find anything. 'Let me try another search. What exactly is it?'
'It's Etruscan, a document suggesting an old artefact may have influenced some early church altar designs.'
Father Trout gives up a 'humph' and clacks some more. 'Sorry, I can't find anything. When did you send it through?'
And so for half an hour Alfie works the system, grinding the archivist down. Then, judging his moment, he slaps a hand on the counter like a man who's reached the end of his tether. 'This isn't good enough,' he protests loudly. 'I need to see the Cardinal. It's outrageous that this material should be lost.'
The archivist looks shocked. He painfully reaches for an internal directory.
'Wait!' says Alfie, trying to look exasperated but reasonable. 'I don't want to get anyone in trouble, especially not you or me. Let me talk to the archivist stacking that particular section – if I describe it to him, I'm sure he'll find it.' Alfie points at the computer. 'Sometimes those things let us down.'