Emil strode alongside Bartolomeo as they walked past the site of the next plague that would flare up in the Eternal City. Yiannis, the second person in Bartolomeo’s team, walked a step behind.
It brought Emil a certain satisfaction to be so bold about it. He could be right here, in the public eye, surrounded by the tense tourists and frightened locals, seen by everyone – it made no difference. The art of prophecy was its origin; the whole reason it had been chosen.
With everyone’s attention called towards God, no one was looking at him.
They moved past the spot, letting its ominous edifice recede behind them. The details were in place. Emil was confident it would come off as planned, tonight, just after sundown.
It would be so much more dramatic in darkness.
But his mind was already further afield.
‘After this plague comes and goes, the fervour of fear and interest will be at its peak,’ he said softly to Bartolomeo. A public transit bus drove past them, roaring diesel engines momentarily overpowering their conversation. ‘Which means everyone will be glued on the one to come next. The fifth plague.’
Bartolomeo laughed. ‘It’d be kind of hard for anyone not to have taken notice by then. The city’s already an anxious mess.’
‘And they’ll have the hour, and the place.’
Another bus, and Emil let its blaring engine call their words to a halt. They kept walking, but he said nothing further.
The fifth plague had been ‘prophesied’ to take place tomorrow at daybreak. With such a specific time, and such a specific place, the eyes of the city would be glued there.
God, it was all so easy. By the morning he’d have everyone in Rome either believing, or at least questioning and curious enough about what the hell was going on, to be out, in the appointed place, watching. The spot foreordained by ancient words, confirmed by the voice of modern visionaries and seers, would be thronged with pilgrims, believers, sceptics and critics. With clergy. With reporters.
And, most importantly of all, with security. And Emil’s men would already be moving.
‘Your two threats,’ Bartolomeo’s voice suddenly cut through Emil’s anticipatory reverie, ‘they’re not going to be a problem?’
Emil shook his head. ‘Between now and then? No chance. Even if they were able, there wouldn’t be time for debunking to stop curiosity from taking its natural hold.’
‘But they’re . . . not?’ Bartolomeo persisted. ‘Not “able”?’
Emil halted and turned to face Bartolomeo. He smiled at his diligent worker, discerning precisely what the other man meant.
‘No, my friend. They’re not. I suspect that at this very moment, Rome is being relieved of two scholars whose presence was . . . no longer required.’
The smile lingered, was returned, and the men walked onward through the haze in silence.