Page 54 of Skotos
“We do not know,” the caller said. “They were alone. The Pontiff insisted on privacy.”
The silence was absolute. It was the kind that drew out confessions.
“Cardinal,” the caller added, his voice losing a bit of its blusterous confidence, “will not be pleased.”
A grunt came in reply.
Whether in agreement or contempt, it was impossible to say.
The caller hesitated. “Should I remove them from the board?”
“No,” the old man said at last, his voice calm but firm. “Not yet. Gather information, but do not interfere, not until we understand what they know.”
“They are also meeting with the Curia. They are in thelowervaults as we speak.”
Another pause.
“What have they found?”
“They requested information on symbols and ancient orders. One of them recognized a spear icon—believed it might connect the killings.”
“Did they use the wordLonginus?”
“I know only that they seek meaning in something old, something very, very old.”
The old man rose from his chair, joints cracking like dry wood as he moved toward a sideboard where a silver seal—small, ornate, and depicting a jagged spear over a circle—rested beside a stack of parchment.
“Continue surveillance. If they find the name, I want to know before they draw breath to speak it aloud.”
“Anything else?”
“Do not inform Cardinal. That task is mine alone.”
The old man hung up without another word.
Outside the window, Roman rooftops glistened with sun, domes shining like sanctified shields.
Within the room, shadows thickened and lengthened.
Some relics, the ancient man thought, were never meant to be exhumed.
26
Thomas
We returned to our hotel as the sun dipped behind Rome’s ancient skyline, shadows stretching like the long fingers of time across the cobbled streets. The concierge barely looked up as we passed through the marble-floored lobby, too engrossed in his newspaper to care about two Americans with tired eyes and suits dusted with Vatican stone.
I tossed our key onto the desk in our room and collapsed into the armchair beside the window, but Will didn’t even bother sitting. He was already rummaging in the minibar like a man on the brink of a breakdown.
“Will,” I said, deadpan, “we just stood before the Holy Father and unburied a secret order of assassins. Could you at least pretend you’re not thinking about food?”
His head popped up from behind the minibar door. “You’re lucky I wasn’t thinking about foodwhile we were in the catacombs. You know how cold it was down there? I burn calories when I shiver.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
Then silence came creeping back, curling around us like ivy.
“I need air,” I muttered, standing. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”
