Page 51 of The Medici Return

He was hungry. But he was more curious.

“Tell me exactly where it is.”

He navigated the labyrinth of Siena’s narrow cobbled streets and stepped into the campo, admiring one of Italy’s greatest public spaces. A shell-shaped piazza set in a sloping hollow where three hills of the city met. To prepare for the Palio the outer portion of the square had been turned into a racetrack. The gray flagstones all around covered with thick layers of volcanictufo, trucked in, packed tight, ten meters wide, its central open core separated from the track by a chest-high fence. Centuries ago the pre-race trials were more dangerous than the race itself, since the dirt was not brought in until the day of the race. Many a horse had been killed or maimed. Today the track’s depth and firmness were carefully gauged.

Tens of thousands would be crowded into the center tomorrow, the horses racing around them. Today there were only workers busy with last-minute preparations and tourists taking a final opportunity to examine the track. In a few hours there would be a closing trial run, the sixth, theprovacci, called by many the sham trial. Run at night when the suspense mounted to an almostreligious intensity, providing the last opportunity for horse and jockey to become accustomed to the surroundings. All ten would line up at the start and leave together, but only a few would make it all the way around three times. Most would stop their run long before finishing one lap. The point? To not tire the animal? Sure. No jockey would be crazy enough to run out his mount so close to the race. But the main idea was not to give away what the horse may or may not be capable of doing.

Hence the labelsham.

Growing up in Florence he’d attended many Palios. He’d often stood inside the center, crushed shoulder-to-shoulder with sixty thousand other people, unable to see much except the jockeys’ heads atop their mounts. The best views came from the palazzos that ringed the campo with their hundreds of windows. Some came free to the owners and their invited guests. Others were hotel rooms with a view. The vast majority were rented out to visitors, who occupied the private palazzos during the day before and the day of the race for huge fees. He’d watched one Palio years ago from a third-story window near the starting gate. The view had been extraordinary, casting the race in a whole new light.

Daniele had said that the Palazzo Tempi, which Cardinal Ascolani now occupied, was located on the campo’s west side. The majority of the buildings there dated to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, all made from one particular type of a brick in a distinctive reddish-brown color.

Burnt Siena.

A long row of bleachers lined the ground beneath most of the buildings. Invited guests from the variouscontradaswould fill those seats tomorrow, each decked out in their respective colors. Above them he determined the Palazzo Tempi’s location and zeroed in on the windows where one set hung open.

He stood near the fountain that occupied the highest point of the sloping piazza among a few hundred other people. Movement past the open window caused him to seek refuge among a clump of tourists who were busy snapping photos. He did not wantto be seen. Within the darkened rectangle he caught sight of a face he knew. Ascolani. Staring out. Beside the cardinal another man appeared. Shorter, pale-skinned, middle-aged, thinning hair. Ascolani was speaking to the other man, pointing outward. Stefano felt awkward spying on his superior. But he considered it merely looking after the second in command of the Holy See, making sure he was safe.

Still, he wondered about the other man.

Who was he?

CHAPTER 35

THOMAS HAD NEVER BEFORE MET HISVATICAN BENEFACTOR. ALWAYScontact was through Bartolomé. But last night, when he’d been ordered to Siena, Bartolomé had informed him that further instructions would come once there.

And not from him.

They would be delivered personally by someone else.

He’d been waiting inside the palazzo for nearly two hours, the window open, sitting back and away, out of sight, taking in the sounds from outside. He’d prayed some more and enjoyed the solitude. On the far wall of the bedchamber hung an oil painting, its detail dulled by time. Four figures with wings circling Christ. The four Evangelists. Man, Bull, Lion, and Eagle. Symbols for Incarnation, Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension. Then there was the carved crucifix. A figure at rest. Not a dying man, but a surviving God. Fitting for here. And his own life. Something a priest once said came to mind.

Itself to itself.

How true.

He’d been forced to act on the train, taking out the woman. Surely, the body had been discovered. But what had the American, Malone, done, if anything? Hopefully he’d gone back to wherever he’d come from.

A knock broke the quiet.

From downstairs.

He left the bedchamber and navigated the rooms, finding the wooden staircase and descending to ground level. He opened the front door to see an older man, dressed casually, standing outside in the entrance alcove off the street past the closed iron gate.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” the man said in English, the voice carrying a firm, self-confident ring. “I am Sergio Cardinal Ascolani.”

The name meant nothing to him.

“Your employer,” the cardinal said. “May I come inside?”

He gestured and closed the door after the man entered.

“I am head of the Entity.”

Thomas bowed his head in respect and noticed that the man wore no cross or ring—nothing that marked a status as a prince of the church.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I have no idea that you are who you say you are.”

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