'A seashell, a scallop shell. Like the one next to the poor bastard being stoned.' Lang's face lit up with recognition. 'St. James! But he was martyred by stoning, right? What's blasphemous about that?'
Francis was staring at the floor. 'The other man, did you see what he was holding?'
'A key, a big one. He was going to throw that, too?'
Francis managed a weak smile. 'Hardly. The key is the symbol for St. Peter.'
Lang paused, shoelace in hand. 'St. Peter led the mob against James the Just? They were both Christians. That makes no sense.'
Francis nodded slowly. 'It does in a way, I suppose. See, at the beginning, right after the Crucifixion, Jesus's followers took up his ministry. Most believed Christianity was a sect, a subspecies of Judaism. That meant to be a Christian, you had to be a Jew, be circumcised, follow the dietary and other laws. James the Just opposed that idea, saying anyone, Gentile or Jew, could be a Christian as long as they ate no meat that had been bled out, sacrificed and avoided fornication.'
'Clearly he won out. With the possible exception of the last part.'
Francis nodded. 'Clearly. As the first bishop of Jerusalem, James gave Peter his orders. Like any good soldier, Peter died obeying those orders not two hundred yards from where we sit.'
'Then, someone just made up the bit about Peter leading a lynch mob.'
Francis stood and went into the bathroom. Lang could hear him over the running water. 'It's hard to believe someone just imagined that.'
Lang raised his voice to be heard. 'Go down to the Sis- tine Chapel. I doubt Michelangelo ever saw people falling into hell.'
'At least there was some theological basis for the idea.'
'But none for the fresco?'
Francis emerged from the bathroom, toweling his face. He reached to his throat and began to remove the studs attaching his clerical collar to his shirt. 'That is what worries the church. That fresco could very well date back to the time of the rebuilding of St. Peter's. Who knows what heresies might have been around then?'
'And for every heresy, the possibility of truth.'
Lang propped a pillow behind his back and stretched out. 'Someone faced the problem before. They plastered right over it. Why not just do it again?'
'I'd guess when that painting was obscured, there weren't newspapers and television. Word gets around pretty fast these days, and, will of the Holy Father or not, news of the discovery of an unknown fresco will get out, particularly if it's dated back to the rebuilding of the basilica. Could be attributed to Raphael or Michelangelo, far too big for a cover-up. Besides, the church is no longer in the business of concealing things.'
'Right. Tell me what day the Vatican's secret archives will be open.'
'It already is open to accredited scholars.'
'Accredited scholars' being defined as those whose loyalty to the church is unquestioned.
But Lang felt this wasn't a time for argument. Instead he said, half joking, 'You could always just give it an acceptable twist.'
Francis looked at him blankly.
'You know, like how the church defaced or tried to destroy nearly every Roman monument in this town. The marble and steel support rods were stripped from the Colosseum to build the 'new' St. Peter's and I doubt Trajan was the one who put a statue of St. Peter on the top of his column.'
'I doubt we'd have the Colosseum today if it hadn't been preserved for use as a church at one time. And as for Trajan… One of the early popes, Gregory I, I think, was so taken with the depiction of the emperor comforting the widow of one of his fallen soldiers, he ordered not only the column be preserved but prayed Trajan's soul be released from hell where all pagan souls went.'
Lang had never heard this before. 'And?'
'And we still have Trajan's column and Gregory had a dream in which God told him he had released the emperor's soul but please not pray any more heathens out of hell.'
Lang sensed the dark mood the fresco had inspired in his friend was lifting. 'Just for the sake of argument, what if there really were some truth to the painting?'
'Peter is the founder of the church. It would change more than I can imagine. Christianity's premier saint exposed as a murderer. It could tear the church apart, something the more conservative members would never permit' Francis carefully placed his collar and studs on the top of one of the dressers. 'Word of that fresco gets out, there'll be a brief stir among the usual skeptics. The faithful will continue. It would take more than a fanciful painting to convince anyone Peter killed James. Did you have anyplace in particular in mind for dinner?'
Even if his curiosity was far from satisfied, Lang was glad to drop the subject that had so bothered his friend. 'I understand there's a really good seafood restaurant near the Pantheon, La Rossetta. Do you get priest discounts in this town?'
His BlackBerry buzzed.
He felt uneasy when he saw it was Gurt calling. She wouldn't be phoning after speaking with him only a few hours ago unless something had come up.
'Yes?' he said curtly.
Then he listened for the next two minutes before saying, 'I agree.'
He ended the call.
Francis was studying his face. 'Trouble?'
'Yeah, sort of.'
Had it been any woman but Gurt, Lang would have been overcome with anxiety. Gurt was not exactly your typical damsel in distress. The description fit her worse than a double-A bra. A deadly shot, she had run out of fellow agency partners with whom to practice martial arts, men and women. She had caused too many injuries.
And, as she was quick to point out, she had saved Lang's ass more than once.
She certainly hadn't called to worry him, to distract him from what he was doing. That wasn't the way they both had been trained.
But the training hadn't included a small child, his child.
'What sort of trouble?' Francis asked.
'Er, a car accident, nothing serious.'
'Then why do you look worried?'
Because I am, Lang said only to himself.
Real worried.
'You need to leave Rome?'
'As soon as I finish some business.'
IX.
Piazza dei Calvalleri di Malta
Aventine Hill
Three Hours Later
Late every afternoon, a phenomenon takes place in Rome: As the sun edges westward, it tints otherwise ordinary buildings a color somewhere between sienna and ochre. There is no hue exactly like it elsewhere, a fact disputed by Sienna, Florence and several Tuscan and Umbrian hill towns. Their afternoons are dismissed as either too red or containing not enough yellow by any native of Rome whose opinion is sought on the subject.
Dispute notwithstanding, the two men who had one of the city's best views from the window next to them paid no attention. Instead, they listened closely to the hissing of a recording device, interrupted by voices.
'The fresco has been found,' the younger man said. 'I had come to believe it existed only in rumor.'
The older man shook his head. 'An unfortunate time. It will only encourage the American to get whatever copy he has translated if he has not already done so.'
'Why else would he have gone to see the Greek priest, Strentenoplis, other than seek a translation?'
