A SHER TOSSED THE DAMP TOWEL OVER THE EDGE OF THE TUB, THEN checked his face in the mirror. Every hint of stubble had been whisked away, and the haircut looked good, not too severe. It wouldn’t be wise to enter Unione Globale headquarters looking too eager.
He turned to the bed and picked up the shirt he had purchased with the designer suit in an exclusive men’s store. The purchases would barely cause a ripple in his bank account, but the thought that he had spent the equivalent of an average Roman’s two-month salary galled him. He hated spending money on clothes, but intuition told him the investment would reap rewards.
He shrugged his way into the shirt, fastened the buttons, slid a pair of gold cuff links into the holes at his sleeves. The suit fit him perfectly, as well it should, and the silky cotton shirt felt wonderful against his skin.
One corner of his mouth quirked downward when he caught his reflection in the mirror. Fabrics had vastly improved over the past generation, but what fabrics gained in texture, tailors lost in craftsmanship. With regular wear, this suit would last maybe five years, while others in his closet six times that age still looked as good as when he bought them. They were outdated, of course, but they just might last forever . . .
He slipped into his shoes, knotted a silk tie at his neck, and took a moment to rake his fingers through his close-clipped hair. He wore it shorter than he had a generation ago, and he preferred the shorter look. Longer hair meant freedom from frequent barber visits, but he had never liked his hair bristling out over the tops of his ears. Perhaps his fondness for neatness stemmed from his youth—after all, the Romans of antiquity had clipped their heads, wisely recognizing that long hair could be dangerous in battle.
Asher straightened, flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulders, then flashed a practice smile at the mirror. He had to appear earnest, intelligent, and quick. More than anything, he had to appear supportive.
Only one more ritual to observe. Girding himself with resolve, he moved to the desk in his sitting room, pulled the leather journal toward him, then lifted his fountain pen from its holder. After uncapping it, he hesitated for a moment, then began to write:
Today, Lord, I begin a new approach. I pray I will act while there is yet time to attain my goal. I have never felt as certain as I do today, I have never seen so many signs pointing to a single man, and yet I wonder if this is the path you would have me seek. If it is not, O God, show me another way. But if it is the path I am to tread, help me reach the soul of the wayward one before the enemy claims another victory.
If Santos Justus is the man, lead me to him and open the door for a personal confrontation, Holy God. Clear my path. Give me strength and cunning and wisdom to defeat all those who would stand in my way—and I know there will be many. Give me the courage I will need to complete the task before me.
I ask these things in the Name above all Names, in the Power That Fails Not. As you have cursed me, so send me forward to do your will. I am your penitent servant, Holy God, to use as you see fit.
He paused for a moment to murmur his words aloud as a prayer, then put both pen and journal aside.
Squaring his shoulders like a Roman soldier under Tiberius Caesar’s command, he stood and lifted his chin, then moved toward the door.