The sun did not rise on Rome the following day. At least, not in a way visible to any of its inhabitants. The dense black clouds that unusually strong prevailing winds from the Strait of Sicily had blown over it at daybreak the day before had yet to depart, though they were thinning slightly. Beneath them they left a layer of grey-white ash that coated the Eternal City in a blanket of what could have been snow, rendering it ghostly in the limited light.
The City of Seven Hills lay dormant beneath the remains of Pantelleria’s Montagna Grande volcano, whose sudden eruption more than three hundred nautical kilometres to the south had been a surprise to geologists the world over. The cloud of ash and gas that it belched into the air now covered a massive section of southern Italy, and already there were questions about what its long-term environmental impact might be on the region, not to mention what the unpredicted eruption meant for the renewed activity of the other supposedly dormant behemoths in the Strait of Sicily.
The violent earthquakes that had shaken the Italian peninsula as far north as Bologna were after-effects of the eruption on Pantelleria, and it was another mystery that would consume the attention of geologists for years, how the shocks could have been felt so forcefully in Rome. Thirteen buildings had suffered what the city would formally call ‘significant or complete structural collapse’, while hundreds met the far end of the quake with fractures running through foundations and facades crumbled. Monuments had toppled and sinkholes had opened in numerous locations throughout the city. Even the obelisk at the centre of the Piazza San Pietro had suffered – not a complete collapse, to the relief of millions who cherished the Egyptian monument that had stood in the heart of Rome since the time of Caligula, but it no longer pointed up into the sky. It lay at an odd angle, the earth beneath it newly recessed, its red granite tip now aimed awkwardly at the dome of St Peter’s Basilica behind it.
What struck Angelina Calla as particularly strange, in light of all the bizarre events that had taken place around her and the whole of Rome over the past seventy-two hours, was that as they had all ended, it was not these details that most consumed her.
It was not even the details of the fate that ultimately would befall Emil Durré and his men. The fate they had hoped for – escape with the stolen wealth of the Vatican’s raw riches – was not to be. The drawn-out confrontation at the edges of the underground chasm had given the men of Heinrich’s rearguard Special Action Team time to work their way back up the access shaft and out on to the piazza. Having discovered that Emil’s crews had worked their way into the vault from its southern side, it didn’t take long to determine that it must have been via a connecting tunnel dug out from the sewer system. By the time André’s body had followed Ridolfo’s into the pit and his distraught father had darted into retreat, running with his remaining men towards what they thought was safety, the Swiss Guard was already waiting for them where their tunnel joined the sewer.
Emil Durré was in custody, and Heinrich’s forces would not be the only ones questioning him and his accomplices over the coming days and weeks. The Polizia di Stato wanted their share of him, as did the Italian government. They would track down his friends, his companions, and there would be trials and prison terms to last out the years these men had thought they would spend in luxury. All those trials would be held behind closed doors, of course, and without press awareness. The Vatican still didn’t want the world knowing about the secrets, and the wealth, it hid beneath ground.
‘But the vault was destroyed,’ Ben had protested as Heinrich had told them this. The Major of the Swiss Guard had simply placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled.
‘Did you ever stop to think, Dr Verdyx, that it might not have been the only one?’
So there were still secrets, and buried realities, and truths not to be publicly known.
But, again, even these details were not what consumed Angelina the day after everything had concluded. She had more questions than she might ever be able to ask, much less answer, and more emotion pent up, seeking escape, than she knew what to do with. She’d been chased, shot at, and nearly buried alive. She’d met new faces, and watched too many of them killed in front of her.
At the end of it all, however, there was one face she felt herself strangely compelled to see again.
‘Is he in there?’ she asked, motioning towards an antiseptically blue door.
The duty nurse nodded. ‘But you can only have a few minutes with him. He’s still extremely weak.’
But alive, Angelina muttered to herself. Relief filled her with spirit. She turned to Ben and, despite herself, reached out to take his hand.
‘I’m glad you let me come with you,’ she said.
‘I’m glad you wanted to come,’ he answered softly.
Beyond the door, Father Alberto Alvarez was wrapped tightly in hospital blankets, an outline of his bandaged chest traced in contour and IV drips hosed into both arms. He was gaunt, pale, but his face brightened as he recognised the identity of his two visitors.
‘Benedict,’ he said with muted energy, ‘and Dr Calla.’ The priest smiled. Ben walked to his bedside and gently wrapped a hand around his fingers.
‘So,’ Father Alberto said, after a moment of silence that Angelina presumed was dedicated to an interior prayer, ‘it’s all over.’
‘It seems to be,’ she replied, drawing closer to him, standing beside Ben.
‘All God’s predictions have been fulfilled,’ he added.
Angelina felt herself clench. At the end of the day, it always comes down to this, pronounced the familiar voice in her head.
‘I’m not sure God was as involved with these things as you suspected,’ she answered, trying to keep any trace of bitterness or sarcasm out of her voice. ‘These were the workings of men,’ a pause, ‘plus a few additions from the natural world.’
Ben’s face remained stoic, but Father Alberto smiled knowingly in Angelina’s direction.
‘Ah yes, of course. The doubter must always doubt.’
She flushed, but the priest’s expression was too kind to have meant her any injury.
‘In the end, the Lord’s commandment was heeded,’ he added.
A brow rose involuntarily on Angelina’s face. ‘His commandment?’ She knew of ten of them.
‘I’m speaking of the seventh, of course,’ answered the priest.
Angelina tried for the numeration in her head, but she didn’t know them well enough.
‘“Thou shalt not steal”,’ Ben recited from memory, lifting her out of her predicament.
Angelina huffed. ‘I’m not sure all this was worth keeping a group of thieves from stealing a bit of gold. There have been far bigger heists in history.’
Father Alberto sighed, then lifted a weak hand and beckoned Angelina closer.
‘Have you ever thought,’ he said as she drew near, ‘that the Lord might not be overly concerned with money, stolen or not?’
Her eyes were a puzzle, mirroring her thoughts. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I don’t understand.’
‘That maybe,’ the priest continued, ‘the commandment is about stealing something else?’
Angelina tried to interpret his meaning, but her emotions, her weariness, her confusion – they all warred against her.
‘Plagues, revelations, prophecies,’ Father Alberto finally said, ‘that’s pretty heady stuff. Holy, some would say.’
She gazed into his eyes. Ben had said he found peace when he looked into them, and for a moment she wondered if she felt the same.
‘That kind of glory,’ the priest said, ‘should be reserved for God alone. It shouldn’t be taken into man’s hands. It shouldn’t be—’
‘Stolen,’ Ben said. His face was filled with sudden contentment.
‘I’m sorry,’ Angelina said, ‘I still don’t understand.’
Father Alberto tapped a hand over hers. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And that’s okay. Understanding doesn’t always come in an instant. Tomorrow, my child, is another day.’
Outside the hospital, Angelina walked alongside Ben in silence. She’d found the encounter with the priest oddly emotional. She had wanted, for reasons she didn’t fully comprehend, to know he was okay, that he’d survived the attack in his church which she had been powerless to prevent. But his words only evoked new emotions and frustrations.
‘I know you think this was all part of some divine plan,’ she said to Ben as they walked along the ash-covered street, ‘but I just can’t accept that.’
‘Nobody’s asking you to,’ he said calmly. ‘We each have to believe what we believe. These things can’t be forced.’
‘I just can’t bring myself to believe that God acts like this,’ she said. She caught herself. ‘That God exists at all, but that he would act like this in particular. That he would control events. Talk to people.’
Ben slowed and turned to face her. ‘You’re telling me that never, not once in your life, have you heard God talking to you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not the superstitious kind, Ben,’ she answered. ‘I have my own inner voice, my thoughts, my conscience. They speak to me, urge me along.’
‘And you’ve never thought that voice might be . . . something more?’ Ben asked.
Angelina peered into his eyes. No, she thought, I never have, but she was tired. Too tired to have this conversation today, now.
Instead, she did the very last thing either of them expected. She leaned forward and kissed Ben on the lips, slow, but firm and with passion. As she drew away her face, she smiled, and he smiled back.
The loner finds a companion, pronounced her familiar inner voice, and after the plagues are done, a new life begins.