From a smallish egg-shaped anteroom they entered a long, narrow hallway, completely without ornamentation or color. It had an arched ceiling and electric lamps in wall niches where once torches must have flickered.
At one point, they passed what looked like a coat rack-a long wooden bar into which had been bolted a series of wrought-iron hooks. From each hook hung a long narrow leather strap, one side of which was coarsely matted horsehair.
Unable to control her curiosity, Jenny reached out to touch one, but Suor Maffia di Albori took her hand away.
'Those belong to the nuns, they are private.' Her dark eyes regarded Jenny for a moment. 'You don't know, do you?' She took one of the straps off its hook, held it by one end. 'This is what we call a discipline. It is, in fact, a flail. The discipline is used periodically. Every night during Lent and during Advent three times a week. At other times of the year, twice a month.' With a deft flick of her wrist, the flail arched over her head and with a sharp report struck her along the spine. 'You look horrified, but the process is imperative to relieve the inner tensions of the body. Like fasting, it better readies the spirit for devotion.' With a kind of reverence, she put the discipline back on its hook.
'Before we go any further, it is important that you understand something. Venice is in many ways still a medieval city. It has very little interest in the modern world. Here, time stands still, and we are grateful for that gift. If you cannot grasp this, Venice will surely defeat you.' With those last words, she turned on her heel and continued down the corridor.
Jenny took a last look at the discipline, swinging balefully on its hook, before she followed the madre di consiglio to the end of the hall, where it gave out onto another hallway running perpendicular to it, like the head of the letter T.
As they turned left, Suor Maffia di Albori said, 'I am from the noble house of Le Vergini. I followed my two aunts and three sisters here, and took the veil while they watched.' She turned. 'When I was born, my parents asked themselves the same question that all parents of girl-children ask themselves: maritar o` monacar? Would I marry or become a nun?' Her voice was impassive, matter-of-fact. 'I was neither shrewish nor in any way deformed by birth or illness or accident. But you see my face, what man would have me? Besides, in that regard I had very little interest in men. I had no choice but to take the veil, where, with a modest dowry, I was married to Jesus Christ. I did not mind, but it was not uncommon for families with many daughters to force some of them into nunneries as a way of saving them from having to pay much larger dowries to prospective husbands.'
The ghost of a smile tinged Suor Maffia di Albori's mouth like lipstick. 'I seem to be making a habit of shocking you.'
'It's not that, but I must say that I feel a certain kinship.'
'With a nun? But you're a Guardian.'
'I live in the Voire Dei-I suspect the Plumber must have told you about-'
'Oh, yes.' The lips pursed, drained of blood now, so that they were almost stark white.
'The outside world is as alien to me as it is to you and your fellow nuns.'
'Is that what you think, Jenny?' The madre di consiglio made a curious little gesture that could have meant anything. 'Well, then, it's as well you've come to visit us. It's as well I am taking you to see the Anchorite.'
'Who is the Anchorite?' Jenny asked.
Suor Maffia di Albori placed an admonishing forefinger across her thin, bloodless lips. 'It is not for me to enlighten you.' She turned and continued down the hall. 'You will see for yourself soon enough.'
To Jenny, this seemed an unnecessarily melodramatic pronouncement. She felt Bravo's absence even more acutely, surely he'd know who the Anchorite was. As they proceeded down the hall, she was aware of a deepening gloom-sunlight had never penetrated this far into the convent. She was normally not prone to claustrophobia, but she had the distinct impression that the walls were thicker here and, further, that they were pushing inward, trying to close off this section of the building forever. It was unnaturally still; even the sound of their footfalls was curiously muffled, as if something unseen were trying to strangle it into silence.
At length, they approached what appeared to be the farthest reaches of the hallway, a dead end, as if the builders, having exhausted themselves coming this far, had given up. More curious still, there were no doors, just three barred windows-one on the left wall, one on the right wall, and one straight ahead.
The light was very dim, and Suor Maffia di Albori took down a torch from a niche and lit it. The illumination cast off by the wavering flame revealed a hall made of brick instead of stone blocks, as it was elsewhere.
Suor Maffia di Albori raised the torch as she approached the iron grille of the window straight ahead. 'Come, Jenny,' she beckoned, 'you must stand close. Closer still. Now look inside and present yourself to the Anchorite.'
Jenny did as she was bade, approaching until her nose was almost against the square iron rods of the grille. Some peculiar quality of the flame allowed her to see clear across the cell, to the crucifix on the wall. There was a cot and an old-fashioned washstand, nothing more. Except the shadows.
All at once, one of the shadows moved, so that Jenny started back. But she felt Suor Maffia di Albori's surprisingly strong hand between her shoulder blades, propelling her forward. And then, the animated shadow emerged into the flame light, and Jenny gave an involuntary gasp.
'I can only imagine the enormous pressure you've been under,' Jordan Muhlmann said as he and Cardinal Felix Canesi stood outside the specially outfitted hospital suite in the private, guarded wing inside Rome's Vatican City. 'Seeing to the pontiff's needs, keeping the press corps in the dark, suppressing the inflammatory rumors that his holiness is on the point of death, holding news conferences, creating 'new' speeches by piecing together snippets of the pontiff's unpublished remarks, as well as keeping our friends on the inner council calm.'
Cardinal Canesi showed his teeth. 'Everything is running smoothly enough and it will continue to run smoothly, God willing, if you do your part.'
'How could I not?' Jordan said, smiling. 'The special relationship between the Holy See and my organization has existed for centuries.'
'Yes. It was the Vatican that brought the Knights of St. Clement into existence, it was the Vatican that underwrote your niissions. You serve at our pleasure.'
There was nothing threatening in Cardinal Canesi's tone, but then there needn't be. He held the weight of history and of holy tradition in the palm of his hand. He wanted to make sure Jordan knew from whose hand he was eating.
'And how is the Holy Father?' Jordan said.
'The pontiff is on oxygen. His heart is laboring, his lungs are slowly filling with fluid. I can feel his death, Jordan. It creeps along my own flesh on its way to take him.'
Jordan's eyes blazed. 'Death will not take him, this I swear, your eminence! We are making progress, the Quintessence will be in your hands within days.'
'I am pleased by your faith and by your unswerving commitment, Jordan. I could not have hoped for a better ally.' Cardinal Canesi was a homely man. His legs were bandy, his head was oversized; it sat on his rounded shoulders seemingly without benefit of a neck. 'It is most gracious of you to take the time to come, to pay your respects in person. Your presence has lifted his spirits considerably.'
'For him I would travel twice around the circumference of the world,' Jordan said with a reverence that privately disgusted him.
'Before you enter, you must be gowned and your feet and hands covered.' Canesi guided him across the hall and into a dressing room. It was small and windowless. A line of pale green gowns hung on pegs. The cardinal took two down, handed one to Jordan, and slipped the other on.
Out the small window, enormous crowds of the faithful came and went across the acres of marble, their foolish placards held high for the news cameras, their eyes lifted as their lips moved in prayer. Here was the power in faith, Jordan thought, the manifestation of Canesi's power. But it was a power from another, an antique age. It was cracked, worn, hollowed out. There was nothing left of it but the facade. The crippled girl guided by her mother, the emaciated man in a wheelchair pushed by his son, they had come here along with all the others to be healed, to be saved, but Jordan knew the truth: they were doomed, just like Canesi.
Jordan turned away from the window and its view on the chamber of horrors, his heart cold as a stone. He had his own problems, and they had nothing to do with God, or even faith.
Canesi said in a low, quavery voice, 'How many are dead?'
