The Sacred Blood

As he stared at the old man’s closed fist, Aaron’s face glowed with anticipation.

“For many, many centuries, our family has used a symbol to represent our ancestors. See here . . .”

Grandfather turned over his hand and opened his fingers to reveal a round object resembling a silver dollar. When Aaron pressed closer to examine its details, he realized it wasn’t a coin at all.

“Tell me what you see on this talisman.”

It was the strangest symbol. Certainly nothing that looked Judaic. In fact, the occultist images seemed to go against Jewish teachings concerning iconography. “A fish . . . wrapped around”—his brow crinkled—“a fork?”

“Yes, but not a fish, a dolphin. And not exactly a fork, but a trident.” Seeing the boy’s muddled expression, he sternly said, “You are never to speak about anything that you are taught in this room unless it is to someone who possesses this same talisman. And you must promise that you will never show this to anyone else. Not even your best friend in the yeshiva. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Grandfather.”

“Yasher koach.” And the boy would certainly need strong will, thought Grandfather. The world was fast changing. Snatching the boy’s left hand, he placed the talisman in Aaron’s palm and wrapped the boy’s fingers around it. “Protect this.” He clasped both hands around Aaron’s fist.

The cold metal disk pressed hard into Aaron’s sweaty palm, sending a shiver up his arm.

“Because from this moment forward,” Grandfather warned him, “you will dedicate your life to preserving everything this symbol stands for.”

1

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Rome, Italy Present Day

A flock of pigeons took flight as Father James Martin moved swiftly around Caligula’s obelisk, which rose up from the center of Piazza San Pietro like a colossal dagger against the steel-gray sky. Its mid-September shadow would normally have let him know that it was just past five o’clock. But for the third consecutive day, the sun remained hidden behind a shroud of lifeless clouds. Glancing over at St. Peter’s Basilica, he saw the faithful pilgrims queued for the last tour. Even a typhoon couldn’t scare them away, he thought.

He pulled his raincoat tighter to fight off a damp chill. He’d need to move quickly to beat the imminent downpour.

Near the end of Via della Conciliazione, he heard a voice calling to him over the sounds of the traffic.

“Padre Martin?”

Stopping, Martin turned. A man waved to him, splashing through the shallow puddles in quick strides. Of medium height and build, he was ordinary looking—clean-shaven with dark hair and unreadable dark eyes. “Si?” Martin replied.

“Sorry to bother you on your way home,” he said, planting himself at arm’s length.

A laminated Vatican ID badge was prominently displayed on the lapel of his raincoat, just below his white priest collar. The unfamiliar face was forgettable. Italian? Lebanese? Maybe thirtysomething, or perhaps a youthful fifty, Martin guessed. “Have we met?”

The man shook his head. “Not yet.”

“What can I do for you, Father . . . ?”

“Fabrizio Orlando.” He extended his right hand.

Italian. When Martin reciprocated, he noticed that the priest’s skin was rough. Unusual for a cleric. Perhaps the man had spent time as a missionary? The Lord’s call doesn’t place everyone behind a desk, Martin reminded himself.

“I’ve just been appointed to the secretariat’s office.”

Why hadn’t he been notified? “I see. Welcome to Vatican City.”

“Grazie. Mind if I walk with you for a minute?”

Suspicion showed in Martin’s eyes. “Not at all.”

The two men proceeded down the sidewalk past the cafes and souvenir shops.

“I was told you’d been Cardinal Antonio Santelli’s secretary?”

“That’s right.” Martin’s gait quickened and the man kept pace be- side him.

“Very unfortunate, His Eminence’s death. A deep loss for the Holy See.” He tightened his lips in a show of solemnity. “He was a visionary.” As they approached Piazza Pia’s busy thoroughfare, his pitch rose to compete with the bus and scooter traffic. “Many had said he would be the Holy Father’s successor.”

“Yes, well . . .” Attempting to echo the priest’s fond words, Martin stalled, knowing that his own remembrances wouldn’t be nearly as complimentary. The fact remained that regardless of Santelli’s unsullied public image as having been a last great defender of Catholic dogma, the late cardinal had been merciless to his subordinates—a bulldog. Martin chose to bow his head in prayer.

“May God rest his soul,” Orlando said loudly as a whining Vespa sped past.

At the busy intersection, they remained silent to negotiate the crosswalk.

Martin resumed the conversation as he led the way down the cobbled walkway in front of Castel Sant’Angelo’s outer rampart. “So how can I assist you, Father?”

The priest’s chin tipped up. “Yes, about business then.” A momentary stare down at the roiling Tiber helped him collect his thoughts. “The secretariat has retained my services to assist in ongoing inquiries concerning the death of Dr. Giovanni Bersei.”