He was ordinary-looking, with clear, congenial features and handsome dark eyes. He was so absorbed in the scene around him that he didn’t see Dave coming. “Hello,” Dave said casually, following his gaze across the piles of debris. “It’s a dismal prospect, isn’t it?”
He looked up, surprised. “Hello, Father.” He sounded preoccupied and probably hoped the priest would move on. “Yes,” he added, “it is.”
Gray smoke drifted out of the mounds. Carrion eaters wheeled overhead.
Dave sat down beside him.
“See that?” The young man pointed at a broken column. “That’s what’s left of the Forum.”
Two men approached, wheeling a cart loaded with trash. They said hello as they passed, and proceeded along the crest of the hill. “Tell me,” Dave said, “are you Michelangelo Buonarroti? The sculptor?”
He brightened. “Indeed I am, Father. Why do you smile?”
The men with the cart stopped and tilted the vehicle’s contents into the dump.
“I’ve heard you are talented. But you must already know that. I’m looking for a friend. He said he was coming here to give you a commission.”
Michelangelo got to his feet. “I have not yet established myself. But I’m happy to hear my reputation is growing. Your friend, is he a priest also?”
Dave was not sure how Shel might have presented himself. “He is, but he works among the poor and often dresses accordingly.”
The young man’s brow wrinkled, and he looked as if he had just made a connection. “Is your name David?”
That startled him. “Why do you ask?”
“I was given a message for David. Are you he?”
“Yes.”
“That is odd.”
“What is?”
“He did not say you were a priest. Just to be sure there is no mistake, what is your friend’s name?”
“Adrian,” David said.
“
Father
Adrian.”
“Yes. That is correct.
Father
Adrian. And the message?”
“It’s back at the house, Father. It came by courier two days ago. Would you care to walk with me?”
It was a warm, still afternoon. The sun was high and bright, and the sky filled with clumps of white cloud. “How long have you been in Rome?” Dave asked.
It was Michelangelo’s turn to be surprised. “Only a few weeks,” he said. “How did you know I had just come?”
“You’re better-known than you realize, young man. What are you working on now?”
“Not very much, I’m afraid. Only Cardinal Riario sends me assignments. I am very much indebted to him.”
“But you
do
have a commission from Father Adrian?”
“Oh, yes. But I have not yet begun on it. He wants two sculptures.”
“What are they?”
“He asked me to do an Athena for him. In her role as protector of the city. And Hermes. As healer. But I haven’t been able to decide yet what form either should take.”
Dave took a couple of pictures, doing it as unobtrusively as he could. But Michelangelo saw the gooseberry and asked what it was. “A relic,” Dave replied.
His house was one of a group of nondescript structures crowded around a muddy courtyard. It was halfway up a low hill, just high enough to glimpse the Tiber, which also looked muddy.
A workshop was visible at the rear of the house. While Michelangelo retrieved the message, Dave stuck his head inside. It was damp and smelled of wet stone. Tables, benches, and shelves were made of planks. A small piece of Carrara marble with a child’s head just emerging was set atop a pair of boards on the floor. It might be, he thought, the
Sleeping Cupid
, long since lost.
He took more pictures. Children played in the courtyard, screaming and shrieking, and he wondered how it was possible for genius to function amid such bedlam.
Michelangelo reappeared and handed over a sealed yellow envelope with DAVID DRYDEN printed on it. “It does not indicate you are a priest,” he added. “It is why I was confused.”
“Thank you, Michelangelo. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.” They shook hands, and it was one of those electric moments you get to enjoy if you’re a time traveler. Then Dave gave him a gold coin and watched his eyes go wide. “See you finish his commission properly.”
“Oh, I will, Father. You may be sure.”
Dave waited until he was out of the neighborhood to open the envelope. The message read:
DAVE, COME AT ONCE. I AM IN THE BORGIA TOWER. ACCUSED OF HERESY OR SOME DAMNED THING. THE GUARDS CAN BE BRIBED.
SHEL
SHEL’S
converter must have malfunctioned. Or someone had taken it from him. Otherwise, the authorities could not have held him. So there was no point going directly after him. Dave had to make a stop first.
He went back to Shel’s town house, about 1:00 A.M. on the night of the lightning strike. There was no particular reason for that time, except that he wanted to avoid running into Shel. Maybe that would create a problem in the time flow, and maybe not, but he thought it best to avoid any unnecessary twists in the sequence of events.
He emerged in the living room. The storm that had set in that night was raging. And it seemed odd to be standing once again in the house that, he knew, would become a smoking ruin in a few hours.
He walked into the den and went straight to the desk. It occurred to him that he should come back here later to find out who murdered Shel. But he wasn’t sure he’d have the stomach to stand by and watch that. Still, it was hard to see how he could justify
not
doing it.
Deal with it later.
The key to the desk was kept in a cup, along with some paper clips and rubber bands. The cup, with its Phillies logo, stood on one of the bookshelves beside a framed photo of Shel, Jerry, and their father.
Dave looked in the cup. No key.
Why was he not surprised? Nothing goes well when you’re in trouble. But he needed to get the spare unit.
He dug through the clips and rubber bands. Stood on his tiptoes and checked the shelf.
Damn.
It wasn’t on the desktop. Wasn’t on any of the side tables. Wasn’t on the floor.
He could have gone farther back, maybe a few weeks, but he didn’t want to risk running into Shel and thereby setting up a paradox. So he went into the kitchen and searched the cabinet drawers, where he found bottle openers, bags, tacks, plastic clamps. And a hammer and a couple of screwdrivers.
He carried the tools back to the desk and pushed the larger screwdriver into the space between the top of the bottom drawer and the frame. It was a tight fit, and he had to hammer it in. Outside, a siren sounded over the rumble of the lightning. It got louder for a few moments, passed, and began to fade.
The drawer started to give way. He gave it a final bang, and the frame broke apart.
He started to replay his conversation with Lieutenant Lake:
“The killer broke into his desk, as well. Pried open one of the drawers—Whatever the killer was looking for, he found it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The other drawers were untouched.”
He pulled the drawer out. And there was the third converter. The one that Michael had been using. The one he thought a thief had taken.
He slipped it into his cassock. Then, just to be safe, he used its hem to wipe his fingerprints from the hammer, the screwdriver, and the desk.
Then it was time to go.
THE
Vatican, even at that remote period, was an architectural marvel. Pilgrims filled its courts and streets. The sacred buildings clustered behind crenelated walls and the Tiber, a sacred camp besieged by worldly powers. Dave looked up at Old St. Peter’s, in which Pope Leo III had crowned Charlemagne; passed San Damaso Courtyard, which still hosted jousting tournaments; and paused near the library to get his bearings. The Borgia Tower was an ominous fortress guarding the western flank of the papal palace, paired with its military-appearing twin, the Sistine Chapel. Guards patrolled the entrance. He went up to the front door, as if he had all the reason in the world to be there. A sentry challenged him. “Your business, Father?” he asked. He wore a blue uniform, and he carried a dagger and a small axe.
“I am the confessor,” Dave said, “of Father Adrian Shelborne, who I believe to be a visitor here.”
The guard was barely nineteen. “Have you been sent for, Father?”
His manner implied that if Dave didn’t have an invitation, he would not be admitted. And his instincts told him that, despite Shel’s assurances, a bribe would not work. Not with this boy. He was too new. “Yes,” he said. “The Administrator asked me to come.” He was trying to remember influential names in this Vatican, but his mind had gone blank.
“Ah.” He nodded. Smiled. Thought about it. “Good. Please come with me, Father.”
They entered the Tower. He led Dave into an anteroom, asked him to wait, and disappeared through a side door. The anteroom was decorated with a Domenico Ghirlandaio painting. It was a scene from the Last Judgment. A God who looked much like Jupiter approached his throne in a sun-bright chariot, while angels sang and humans cringed or celebrated, according to their consciences. Dave was tempted to make off with it and come back later for Shel.
The sentry reappeared, trailing a sergeant. “You wish to see Cardinal Borgia?” he asked.
“No,” he said quickly. That depraved monster was the last person Dave wanted to see. “No, I wish to visit Father Shelborne. To hear his confession.”
“Ah.” The sergeant nodded. It was a noncommittal nod, putting Dave in a holding pattern. He had cold, flat eyes, too close together. His teeth were snagged and broken. He had a broad nose, and a long scar ran from his right ear across the jaw to his lip, where it caused a kind of permanent sneer. Not his fault, Dave thought, but the man could not have managed a smile without scaring the kids. “Father, surely you realize where you are. Father Shelborne would not be denied the sacraments
here
.”
Dave pressed a gold coin into his hand. “If you could see your way clear,
signore
.”
The sergeant slipped it deftly into a pocket without changing expression. “He must have very heavy sins, Father.”
“I would like only a few minutes, if you please.”
“Very well.” He straightened his uniform. “Let me see what I can do.” He led the way deep into the building. Walls were lined with fres coes and paintings, likenesses of figures from both classical and Christian mythology, renderings of Church Fathers and philosophers and of the holy saints.
They mounted four flights of stairs and passed into chambers even more ornately decorated than those on the lower floors. Then the sergeant deposited him in a room with an exquisite statue of St. Michael, wings spread and sword drawn. Not a good omen.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he said. He went back out into the corridor. But Dave had plenty of time to admire St. Michael, and he was beginning to think about looking for assistance when the sergeant returned. “Sorry you were kept waiting, Father,” he said. “Please follow me.” And they were on their way again, down a long corridor, up another flight of stairs, and through a chapel. Finally, they paused outside a paneled door. He knocked, and the door opened into a well appointed study.
A young man sat behind a large, ornate desk, making notes on a sheet of paper. A muscular priest stood on either side of him. He was about Michelangelo’s age. But
this
youth wore a Cardinal’s red garments. And that revealed who he was.
“Thank you, John,” he said to the escort. The sergeant withdrew, closing the door softly. The wall behind the Cardinal was dominated by a variant of the papal seal. And a crucifix. Several thick books were stacked on a table to his left. One lay open. The only light was provided by a set of windows hidden behind heavy drapes, and a pair of oil lamps.
This was Cesare Borgia.
Don’t drink the wine.
Appointed to the College of Cardinals by his father, Pope Alexander VI. My God, what had Shel got himself into?
Borgia smiled pleasantly, crooked his index finger, and signaled Dave to approach. “Good afternoon, Father . . . ?”
“David Dryden, Eminence.”
His lips were full and sensuous. The eyes were dark and detached, the nose straight, the jaws lean. He wore a constant smile, rather like a cassock, something to be taken off and put on. “Dryden.” He tasted the name. Let his tongue roll around on it as if he might swallow both it and its owner. “Your accent is strange. Where are you from?”
“Cornwall, Eminence.” Good a spot as any. “I am a poor country priest.”
“I see.” He placed his fingertips together. The hands were long and thin and had not seen the sun recently. “Somehow you do not look the part.” Dave bowed slightly, as if he’d been complimented. “You wished to see Father Shelborne?”
“If possible, Eminence. I am his confessor.”
His teeth were straight and white. “And where did you take orders, Father?”
“St. Michael’s.” David inserted pride into his response. Good old alma mater.
“In Cornwall?”
“Yes.” He tried not to hesitate. What sort of priest has no idea where his seminary is?
“We’ve had other visitors from St. Michael’s recently,” Borgia said. “It has a magnificent view of the Umber, I understand?”
Where in God’s name was the Umber? “Actually,” he said, “it is the rolling hills of Cornwall that attract the eye.”
Borgia considered the response. “And how do you stand on the matter of the Waldensians?”
The Waldensians were men who gave away all their money and traveled the roads of southern Europe helping the poor. By their example, they had embarrassed the more powerful members of the Church and had therefore been branded heretics. “They should commit to Mother Church,” Dave said.
“Quite so.” Cesare’s tone sharpened. “Obviously, you are a man of piety, Father. But tell me, where does a country priest get gold with which to bribe my guards?”