Page 49 of The Medici Return

He was beginning to understand. “Who do you wantnotto win?”

“The Porcupines. They have won two of the last four Palios. We want that to end.”

The horse and rider rounded the final turn and again headed for the home stretch, moving faster now.

“You gaincontradamembership by birth, blood, or choice,” she said. “Once done, you cannot change that. Nor can you move from one to the other. We are part of ourcontrada. So my loyalty is clear.” She paused. “What did Cardinal Stamm tell you about me?”

Richter said, “That you have long been the power and force within Golden Oak.”

The horse raced by and gradually came to a stop. The jockey turned toward Camilla and she gave him a wave, indicating he should head for the stable.

For the first time she turned and faced them. “Did he now?”

Richter nodded. “He also said that you have a close relationship with the Carthusians at Santa Maria di Castello.”

Cotton appreciated the fact that Richter had omitted the reference Stamm had made to being an opportunist and untrustworthy.

“My father and the monks were quite close, and I have maintained that relationship.”

“Can you get us in?” Richter asked.

“I might be able to.”

Cotton wondered about her posturing. She surely already knew all of this since Camilla Baines did not appear to be a person who enjoyed surprises.

“My vote,” Richter had said on the drive north, “is she wants something.”

He agreed.

“What do you want?” he asked.

CHAPTER 33

THOMAS LOCATED THE KEY EXACTLY WHERE HE’D BEEN DIRECTEDto look. Late last night, after fleeing the train in Koblenz, he was redirected from Munich to Siena. So he flew to Rome, rented a car, and drove the two hours north, finding one of the many palazzos that bordered the Piazzo del Campo. This one was in the Renaissance style, constructed, according to a bronze plaque outside, in 1460. Three stories. Large, rambling, its stone-and-brick façade overlaid with a rough coat of gray cement. Stone animals topped the cornice. Iron beasts held unlit torches. Rows of mullioned windows, topped by triangular pediments, dotted all four sides, one of which faced the piazzo. Each floor was a longitudinal series of successive rooms, one into another. He admired the Old World feel of the ornate parquet floors, timbered ceilings, gray-green walls, and tiled stoves. Some of the walls were decorated with frescoes displaying geometrical motifs, birds, and heraldic devices. Up high a painted arched loggia offered trompe l’oeil views over lush gardens.

He carried his travel bag upstairs to the main bedchamber, a comfortable, airy room with blue-gray walls and a white ceiling. The still air carried the musty scent of age. He laid his bag down and stepped to the windows, each a high, iron-bound rectanglewith casement doors of leaded glass. He released the latch and pushed the panes outward. Below stretched the Piazza del Campo, across the way sunlight and shadow etched on the pink brick of the Mangia tower and the Palazzo Pubblico. Once it was the tallest tower in all of Italy. Buildings completely encircled the piazza up four and five stories. Mostly opulent palazzos built by the Sienese wealthy. Many of the homes remained, but a lot had been converted to cafés and boutique hotels. People were moving in every direction across the cobblestones. Workers were busy readying everything for tomorrow’s race. The D-shaped piazza was ringed by a dirt track, created especially for the event. He noticed the turns. Two seemed treacherous, one nearly a right angle, the other a sharp bend at the end of a slope. Both were equipped with padded crash barriers. A feeling of anticipation vibrated in the air, which seemed intensified by the tolling of the Mangia bell for noon. He glanced upward and caught the figure of a man ringing the bell, his tiny swaying figure outlined against the clear sky.

He never questioned orders. He simply obeyed. A good and loyal servant. How had he been first located? Impossible to know. But a few years ago a priest had appeared in London who knew an awful lot about him.

“You are a man of extraordinary talent,” he’d been told.

“I have never heard what I do explained that way. Especially from a servant of God.”

“The church has long been in need of services like yours.”

Which was correct.

Centuries ago protection came from armies that popes personally commanded, fighting alongside their soldiers. That eventually evolved into popes employing men to lead their armies and fight for them. When the church was threatened by what it regarded as heresy from Cathars, Muslims, and Jews, it created the Inquisition. Holy men, anointed by the pope, mainly Dominicans and Franciscans, who traveled from town to town, ridding them of heresy through torture and murder.

Millions were killed.

“Here is something we learned long ago,” the priest said to him. “First, when the faith is in question, there is to be no delay. Rigorous measures must be resorted to with all speed. Second, no consideration is shown to prince or prelate, however high his station. Third, extreme severity must be exercised against those who shield themselves. And fourth, never show tolerance toward any enemy or heretic. Those principles were first uttered in 1542. They apply today, just as they applied then.”

The modern church faced threats from all sides, especially in the most dangerous parts of the world. Today the largest percentage of Catholics were Hispanic, living in places with either little to no government or an openly oppressive one. Hot spots. Where prayer was not always the answer. An organization so vast as the Roman Catholic Church could not exist without enemies. His job? To deal with those enemies, as requested. No longer were there inquisitors appointed by popes. Those were abolished long ago.

Now there was only one.

Twenty-four hours ago he’d been directed to Munich with a kill order on Cardinal Jason Richter. That had been rescinded. What had changed? What now? He felt like the inquisitors of old. Come to town in the search for righteousness.

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