Private Rome

Chapter 74

Rome is full of mysteries that extend beyond the metaphysical into the physical. How did the emperors and senators flee from a siege and escape to their homes in the provinces? Or the old Renaissance families hide from civil unrest?

Secret tunnels like the one linking Basilica di Santa Maria in Montesanto and Chiesa Santa Maria dei Miracoli, the church where Father Carlos had died, run beneath the city like veins, a physical manifestation of the intrigue and mystery that has been the city’s lifeblood for centuries.

Faduma and I took a taxi from Ostia to Via Angelo Emo, a busy street a few blocks from the western edge of Vatican City. She led me past shops and offices until we reached the mouth of Via Giovanni Secchi, a narrow sidestreet that bent sharply before running east. We followed it past a line of modern five-story apartment blocks until we came to a dead end. The street was fringed by thick greenery; bushes and trees packed tightly together beneath the ancient Fornaci Viaduct, a tall, multi-arched brick causeway that ran toward Vatican City.

Faduma guided me through the thick mass of undergrowth and I thought I could discern the faintest of paths as we pushed on. Suddenly we came to a clearing beneath the viaduct, a stretch of stone under one of the arches. It looked like a storm drain and followed the line of the viaduct above us. Faduma turned into it, heading toward the brick column that formed one side of the arch we were standing in. When we got closer, I realized it was a freestanding wall, designed to look like part of the arch, and that there was in fact a one-foot gap between the wall and the viaduct structure. As we edged into the gap, I saw granite steps leading into the ground, beyond the line of the viaduct, past the foundations. When we reached the bottom of the steps, we found an ancient cobblestone well capped with a manhole cover.

We were about sixteen feet below ground level, and the area around the well was cool, damp and shaded. Moss grew on the walls and the stone beneath our feet was wet. Faduma knelt down and brushed away some drifts of leaves to reveal cobblestones interspersed between the big flagstones. She counted three stones across and one up, then applied pressure to it. The stone gave under her touch. As it dropped, the manhole cover rose and I realized it was on a runner. I pulled it round, revealing a spiral staircase.

Faduma went down it and found a light switch. I followed, closing the manhole cover as she brought a row of lights to life. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I peered along a narrow gray stone tunnel that felt as old as the city itself.

“How did you know about this?” I asked.

“I’ve been smuggled into the Vatican in the past,” she replied. “When the Church wanted a favorable view of the restitution it made to victims of abuse. I didn’t give them the puff piece they were looking for, but the route they used to smuggle me in is something I’ve never forgotten.”

I shrank inside a little at this mention of one of the great crimes of history, and one of the reasons my faith had waned.

“They did not want to be seen consorting with someone who had been so outspoken in criticizing the Church, which was why they brought me this way.”

“Why didn’t you write what they wanted?” I asked as we moved along the tunnel.

Faduma’s nose crinkled as she thought about this.

“The Vatican is where the temporal is supposed to touch the divine. The Holy Father is God’s appointed representative on earth, but he is still bound to the same soil as the rest of us. All clergy are, and if we are fallible so are they. Crimes are to be expected in any human population,” she said. “Where the Church went wrong was in failing to honor the victims and give them the justice that is at the heart of Christianity. Instead, some members of the clergy at the highest level tried to cover up the abuse and sweep the victims under the rug.”

I nodded. Humans are fallible and some are evil, but the Church is meant to embody all that is best in us and protect those too weak to protect themselves. In that respect it had been a major disappointment to me.

We walked along the tunnel and climbed three flights of steps that tracked the slope of the hill beneath Vatican City. The stairs were steep and long, the ceiling low, so that we almost felt the weight of the city pressing down on us.

Finally, we reached a dogleg in the tunnel, which was now blocked by an ancient metal grille.

“This brings us out near the Gallery of the Candelabra, not far from the bank,” Faduma said, running her fingers along the wall until she found a particular stone, which she pressed to unlock the barrier.

She swung it open and we stepped out into a narrow alleyway between two red-brick walls. I followed her along this until we reached the end and emerged from the narrow alleyway to see the Gallery of the Candelabra, a long gray building famed for the paintings it housed. We saw a couple priests walking together, chatting, and when they had moved out of sight, we took the deserted lane that would lead us to the headquarters of the Vatican Bank.

We passed under an archway that led us into one of the Vatican’s car parks and joined Via Sant’Anna near the bank. We walked around the semi-circular building and found a stairwell in the adjacent block leading to a basement. Here we stood a few steps down, so we could watch the bank entrance without being seen ourselves.

We waited there for an hour, hardly talking, to minimize the risk of giving away our location. The Swiss Guard and Vatican police each conducted one routine sweep of the courtyard ahead of us and the streets nearby, but we ducked into the stairwell on both occasions and remained undisturbed in our hiding place until 8.15 a.m. when Christian Altmer walked through the courtyard in front of us on his way to the bank.

I left our hiding place immediately and headed straight for him. He turned when I was almost within touching distance, face contorting in shock as he registered me and then Faduma, a few paces behind.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you crazy?”

“I want the truth,” I said. “I know you’re working with the Dark Fates. Are you a member of Propaganda Tre?”

“I can’t talk about these things. Not here,” Altmer protested. “You have to leave.”

“Not until you tell us the truth,” I responded.

“Hey!” a man yelled, and I turned to see the Vatican police officers who’d swept the courtyard, approaching from Via Sant’Anna.

“You have to go. For your own safety,” Altmer said, as the men started running toward us. “I’ll meet you at the Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano tonight at ten. Now go!”

I hesitated.

“Run!”

“Listen to him, Jack,” Faduma implored. “Go! I’ll try and slow them down. Just go!”

I took her advice and started running.