Private Rome

Chapter 34

I left the bank puzzling over the fate of the priests. Altmer said he would phone me if he found anything, and Stadler assured me the Vatican would take steps to protect its own if it discovered someone was targeting members of the clergy.

I walked east along Via Sant’Anna in the shade of the Pope’s official residence and heard the sweet sound of a sung mass coming from one of the churches nearby. I didn’t know whether it was a service or a choral rehearsal, and it didn’t matter because the joy expressed in the harmonious chant lifted my spirits.

“We meet again,” a man said, and I looked round to see Father Vito, the priest I’d met in the Garden of Secret Confession. He hurried along the street to catch up and fell in beside me. “I’m glad to see you again. I sought guidance after our last conversation. You seemed conflicted.”

I curled my lip. Most people are conflicted. Was I any more torn than the average person? It seemed to me as though this priest might be fishing for a vulnerable soul.

“Your faith once comforted you,” Father Vito said. “It can be a safe haven for you again. If you embrace it.”

“Do we deserve comfort if there is hard work to be done?” I asked. “Difficult work. Shouldn’t we be troubled by leaving it undone? Shouldn’t we feel conflicted, guilty even, about so much left undone in the world?”

He put his right hand on my shoulder and gently pulled me to a halt.

“Are you the Christ?” he asked, and the question surprised me. “Are you the one to carry all the world’s burdens?”

The heresy of the suggestion was quite shocking.

“Yes. It is a ridiculous idea. You are not the Savior. You can take comfort in the faith of your forefathers, knowing all is as it is meant to be and that the great plan is unfolding as it should.”

“And suffering? Injustice? Poverty? Pain?” I responded.

“Can you see the end of time? Can you peer into the beyond?” Father Vito asked. “Your conception of the world is limited. Only the Almighty sees and knows all. Only the Almighty can judge what should be and what is necessary for each of us, now and forever.”

He held my gaze.

“Rest your troubled soul, Mr. Morgan. Find your way back to your faith.”

He stepped back before heading west along Via Sant’Anna, returning the way he’d come.

I thought about what he had said and wondered how one could find peace in a world full of injustice. I walked the other way toward the gate near the North Colonnade. As I passed by a small fountain set in a yard between two buildings draped in flags, a priest I didn’t recognize came hurrying toward me.

A lean man in his late twenties, he had short black hair and Southern Mediterranean features. He held up his cassock as he jogged to intercept me.

“My name is Carlos Diaz,” he whispered. “You are in grave danger. Meet me tonight — ten at the Basilica di Santa Maria in Montesanto. I will tell you everything.”

He hurried away, taking the same route as Father Vito, but glanced back at me intermittently until he disappeared from sight around the corner of Via della Posta.

I had no idea whether he was friend or foe, wise man or lunatic, and the only way I would find out was by going to meet him.