Page 64 of The Medici Return

“Keep me posted.”

He ended the call and stepped back to the end of the street, where the plaza started. Okay, he knew what Malone was doing.

So where was Cardinal Richter?

CHAPTER 43

JASON STEPPED FROM THE CAR.

The vehicle had been waiting for him where a caller from earlier had instructed him to go. An older priest had been behind the wheel and they’d left Siena, heading south toward Rome. After about fifty kilometers they veered off the main highway and took one of the narrow local routes into the darkened countryside. Finally, the path turned to dirt for the final few kilometers, broad at its start but narrowing as they climbed.

He was deep into the Val d’Orcia, a region of Tuscany that extended from the hills south of Siena down to Monte Amiata. A landscape of cultivated hills broken by gullies and picturesque towns and villages. Its wines were considered some of the best in Italy, the entire region a World Heritage Site. The journey ended at Castiglion del Bosco, a luxury hotel located in the heart of the Val d’Orcia. He knew the place. Unique in that its buildings were once a small village, all converted into elegant guest suites, a cooking school, and two restaurants, along with all the other amenities expected at a five-star resort. He’d actually stayed here for one night a few years ago.

He was directed past the registration building and down a set of stone steps to what was once the village’s main street. Lanterns litthe cobbles with a flickering amber glow. Towering cedars reached up into the sky at the end of the path, more steps leading upward to the top of a hill dissolving into the night. Before that, tables and chairs dotted an outdoor restaurant, all unoccupied save for one.

He approached and smiled.

Chas Stamm was still in command.

“I was unaware that a retired cardinal could afford a room here,” he said. “What do they go for? Several thousand euros a night?”

His friend was nursing a glass of wine and what appeared to be a cheese pizza.

Stamm motioned. “At least that. Sit. I ordered this food for you.”

He accepted the offer and helped himself to a slice, which was hot, fresh, and delicious, fire-oven-baked.

“Wine?” Stamm asked, lifting the bottle on the table.

He nodded.

“It’s a local red. Quite good,” Stamm said, filling the glass with a generous pour. “And expensive.”

“You know the management here?” he asked.

Stamm nodded. “They have always been quite accommodating for me.”

He kept enjoying the pizza.

Stamm set the wine bottle down. “Not far from this place is the Badia Ardenga, a handsome abbey, built aroundA.D.1000. Have you ever seen it?”

He shook his head.

“Emperors and popes once visited there. There is a story that, in 1313, the German emperor Henry VII and his army went to the abbey to take communion. Taking advantage of the opportunity, the monks supposedly poisoned the Eucharist and killed him.”

He finished the slice and reached for another. “And the point of that lovely story?”

“Careful what you eat.”

He ignored the jab and kept chewing.

“When Henry died,” Stamm said, “the town of Pisa built a monumental tomb inside their cathedral for him. Sadly, it did notlast long. For political reasons it was dismantled, its stone reused elsewhere. But the body stayed in the ground.”

He sipped some of the wine. Yes, it was good.

“In 1921 Henry’s tomb was opened and examined. It was studied again in 2013, seven hundred years after his death. The bones were examined by X-ray diffraction, infrared spectroscopy, and scanning electron microscopy to study medieval postmortem practices.”

He decided to bite on the bait. “Did they determine he was poisoned?”

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