Private Rome

Chapter 48

Antonelli led us through his family home. The interior seemed simpler than the house I had previously visited. This one seemed more comfortable, decorated to be lived in, rather than to impress with conspicuous displays of wealth. We walked through a sitting room filled with old furniture, including a couple of large well-worn couches that looked perfect for a lazy Sunday afternoon with a novel.

We went through a doorway into a stone-flagged dining room that contained an eighteen-place oak table and chairs. A couple of landscape paintings hung on one wall, and opposite them French doors opened onto a terrace overlooking the hillside.

A manservant was already setting another two places. As he finished and began to clear away the cutlery and plates from what I guessed must have been Trotta’s place, Elia Antonelli gestured to us.

“Please, have a seat.”

He took the chair at the head of the table, and Faduma and I sat at the newly laid places to his right while Luna returned to her seat to his left.

The servant offered us warm rolls from a basket on the serving table. We drizzled olive oil from a tiny silver jug onto our side plates and tore the rolls into pieces for dipping. I sprinkled mine with a little rock salt and glanced at Antonelli as I took a bite. He seemed deflated and distracted tonight, in stark contrast to the larger-than-life personality I’d first encountered.

“Are these made from your own wheat?” I asked, finishing my roll, which had tasted delicious and made me hungry for more.

“Of course,” he replied, growing animated for a moment before slumping slightly in his seat as though remembering his woes.

Luna reached across the table and squeezed his hand tenderly.

“What brings you out here, Mr. Morgan?” she asked me.

“Another priest has been murdered in Rome,” I replied, watching Antonelli carefully.

He glanced at Luna with unmistakable concern as he replied, “Yes, Father Carlos Diaz.”

“We heard about that on the news,” Luna said.

“But you don’t know anything about why he was killed?” Faduma asked.

The servant returned with a tray of dishes that he set on a serving table. Everyone fell silent. He served small plates of ravioli, and I thanked him when he set mine down. It smelt rich yet fresh, and the tomato sauce covering the plump parcels looked delicious.

“Why would we know about that?” Luna asked, after the waiter had withdrawn.

“Because the priest died with your father’s name on his lips,” I replied. “Your name, Signor Antonelli. He told me you were responsible for the murders of all the priests who’ve died recently. And that you also ordered Filippo Lombardi’s death.”

Antonelli glanced at Luna, his face like thunder, then his anger dissipated and he looked crestfallen. He turned to face me and I couldn’t help but hope a confession was imminent. It would save us all so much effort and trouble.

Instead, our host broke into a broad grin and laughed.

“I’m very sorry about this latest priest but I certainly didn’t kill him.”

I glanced at Luna and saw she was taken aback by the suggestion that he might be responsible.

“This is why you’re here, Mr. Morgan? To accuse me of the murder of a man I have no interest in killing?”

Antonelli laughed again, only this time it sounded hollow.

“You have wasted your time,” he said, spearing a forkful of ravioli. “If I wanted to kill a priest, I would not send in a hit squad. Eat, Mr. Morgan, Ms. Salah. You will need all your energy.”

I picked at my food and Faduma did likewise. It tasted wonderful, but my keen appetite of only minutes ago had been blunted by the racing of my mind.

“Someone killed this Father Carlos to make it look as though I wanted him dead,” Antonelli said. “Instead of paying unannounced visits, you should be trying to identify the real culprits.”

I tried to find a hint of duplicity in the man’s demeanor and tone, but everything about him spoke to his innocence. Of this crime at least. Someone was playing me, but I couldn’t be sure it was him.

“Did he say anything else?” Antonelli asked.

I nodded. “Proditio. Mendacium. Quia precium sanguinis est.”

Antonelli laughed yet again. “You understand the significance of these words?”

Faduma was blank-faced and I shook my head.

“It is a reference to Judas Iscariot. Betrayal. Lies. This is the price of blood,” Antonelli revealed. “The price of blood is a reference to the thirty pieces of silver paid for the betrayal of Christ.”

I had translated the Latin but not set it in any wider context.

“It tells me Father Carlos knew he had been betrayed,” Antonelli continued, “and that the killer, like Judas, was likely a fellow disciple of the Church.”