Papal decree

26

The morning darkness was cold. It wasn’t raining, though the pavement was wet. He continued on foot, going down Via Cavour toward the Via dei Fori Imperiali. He turned right and followed the long street toward the Piazza Venezia, turning his back on the Colosseum. Francesco shivered, but couldn’t tell whether it was from the chill. Cold sweat made him anticipate the moment of truth a few hundred feet ahead. The man had said Sarah needed him. Everything was all right, there was no problem, not to worry, but he needed to meet her in the Piazza di Gesu, which was after the Piazza Venezia on the left side. Just a few steps down Via del Plebiscito. Spread out on both sides of Via dei Fori Imperiali were the vestiges of what was once the Roman Empire. History didn’t lie and was there to be seen. At the end on the left was the Vittoriano, commonly known as the Altar of the Fatherland, an eccentric work by Giuseppe Sacconi in homage of Victor Emmanuel II, the father of the country, the first king of a unified Italy. The building was jokingly called the torta nuziale, or ‘wedding cake,’ by the Roman citizens.

Francesco ignored all this, thinking only about Sarah, not what was waiting for him in the Piazza di Gesu. The man spoke with a Tuscan accent, which in itself meant nothing. Sarah was a mystery. How she was able to make such influential contacts in the inner circles of the church and politics, he had no idea. Only she could say, and she never did. She was very reserved, and Francesco’s hot blood, even if it boiled, always respected her will and her space. He’d be excluded entirely if Sarah felt he was invading her privacy.

He crossed the Piazza Venezia to the left side and walked beside the Palazzo Venezia, which had once served as the Venetian embassy. He rounded the corner and walked down Via del Plebiscito.

At the end, the small Piazza di Gesu, dominated by the Church of the Gesu.

Two beggars slept next to the church door, rolled up in dirty clothes that covered them to their heads. With the exception of these two souls, forgotten by God, he saw no one else. From time to time a car or motorcycle passed. A bus emptied out its few passengers, on their way to work.

Where could Sarah be? Or the man who had called him? Was she in danger? He put the thought out of his mind. Absurd. Sarah left with a priest. What danger could come of that? It was true there were many examples of despicable acts committed by the church, but they wouldn’t have the courage to hurt a journalist, or two, if they considered him.

He tried not to think about it for a while. His mind always looked for patterns, labeled situations, good, bad, cold, hot, comfortable, uncomfortable, restful, uneasy. He was nervous now because he let his mind elaborate on innumerable theories about what would happen next. Not one true because the future is always unknown… always.

His phone pinged, indicating a text message. He took it out and looked at the screen: Continue toward Largo di Torre Argentina.

The sender was unknown. Had they called him to come to this location and were now changing it? What did it mean? He’d asked to talk to Sarah when they called, but the man said she was busy, but wanted to see him. Later they called him on his cell, which meant they had his number. Sarah could have given it to them, or, of course, whoever was responsible for this could have his own methods for finding out his number. His curiosity was greater than his fear, so he turned toward the Largo di Torre Argentina, which was close by. According to legend, it was in these Roman ruins of the Theater of Pompey, protected by a wall, that long ago some conspirators, including Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, stabbed Julius Caesar twenty-three times. No place was more opportune for a meeting.

The yellowish light from the streetlamps created a mysterious atmosphere. A group of drunken partiers passed him, singing louder than was appropriate for the hour. Finally he reached his destination after covering several yards on Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. Some people were wandering out from a bar after the alcohol they’d enjoyed had awakened their spirit of adventure.

‘Do you have a match?’ a completely drunk man startled Francesco.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.’

The guy mumbled some unintelligible curse and continued limping in the direction of Via dei Cestari, where he disappeared.

Small groups came and went, but didn’t stop. This was a passageway, not a place to linger.

‘Do you have a light?’ the drunk again asked. He had suddenly reappeared.

‘I just told you I don’t smoke,’ Francesco repeated with irritation.

‘You’re a son of a bitch,’ the man insulted him, turning back toward Via dei Cestari. ‘You’re not the man for her, you bastard,’ he murmured before disappearing.

What did he say? Did he say what I thought he said? Without thinking, Francesco followed the drunk, who continued down the street, limping with his left leg. He didn’t notice Francesco, who gained ground on him with each step. Had the idiot been talking about Sarah, or just muttering nonsense? He wasn’t exactly credible, having downed countless drinks. At a certain moment he lost his balance and almost fell. He laughed hard at himself.

That guy couldn’t know anything about Sarah. At least that’s what Francesco thought. He followed along out of nervousness and anxiety. It would be better to turn back. This was the place specified in the message he’d received. He gave a half turn and sighed. Ah, where are you, Sarah? he asked himself, but unfortunately there was no reply.

‘Do you have a light?’ Behind him, Francesco heard the voice of the drunk, who should have left him behind by now.

Francesco walked faster and didn’t reply.

‘Do you have a match, you fool?’

Francesco ignored him. It was the alcohol talking. He didn’t have to listen to someone in that state. It was a mistake to have followed him.

‘You’re not the man for her,’ he said again.

Francesco stopped and looked at the man. ‘What did you say?’

Francesco lost control and grabbed the drunk, but when he recovered, it was he who was pressed against the wall by the other, who drove a powerful hand into his throat. He tried to free himself, but couldn’t.

‘Now you’re not so brave, are you?’ The words were no longer slurred, but firm and dry, his movements precise. He was more sober than Francesco.

‘What… what do you want with me?’ Francesco asked fearfully, his voice constricted by the hand on his throat.

‘Me, nothing,’ answered the man close to his face, with a Tuscan accent.

Francesco could smell his breath.

‘But Sarah does,’ he added.

‘What?’ Francesco was confused. What was he saying? ‘Sarah?’

The man loosened his grip. ‘Is Sarah important to you?’

‘What?’

‘Can’t you say anything else?’ the man joked. ‘Is Sarah important to you?’

‘Yes,’ Francesco replied with difficulty.

‘Would you die for her?’

‘Yes.’

The man released him completely. He took off a dirty jacket and dropped it on the ground, revealing an impeccably tailored Armani suit. He straightened his jacket, shook off the dust, and assumed a cool but annoyed expression.

‘Good. Let’s see if she’ll do the same for you.’