The Fallen (14 page)

“Pigeons pass on messages,” replied the Father, a smile turning up the edges of his mouth. “Use one of them.”

“Pigeons can't get to where we wish to reach.”

“Perhaps you've been misinformed about my capabilities.”

Henry shook his head gently. “From what I've been told, I think not.”

Strettavario's hands began to drop to his side and at once Henry stepped back out of reach of a lunge should the old man be foolish enough to try anything.

“You do surprise me,” said Strettavario, knotting his hands together. “Sister Isabella?” He chuckled, shaking his head gently, and Henry saw how the folds of skin beneath his chin wobbled. “The last I heard she was engaged by the Chaste with a multitude of Priests willing to pass on any messages she requested. Indeed, most would do anything to help that woman, it would seem?”

“Not this time. She needs your help,” said Henry.

“What do you mean, help? I am an old Priest. There is little that I can
do.” He opened his hands and Henry saw that they were calloused and thick, hands which had seen action. He gave the Priest a look of suspicion.

“From what I have been told, I do not think you either too old or unable. This is important, Father Strettavario.” He gripped the revolver tightly. “It involves Tacit.”

Strettavario seemed to cool. “Tacit?”

Henry nodded. “We need him back.”

The old Priest's eyes turned heavenward and he chuckled more freely this time, a quiet laugh into the rafters of the chamber. “Back?” He laughed again, revealing a face that must once have been handsome. “Why on earth would you want Tacit back, or believe that he would choose to return, or is in any way able to?”

“Things have changed.”

At once Strettavario thought again of the Eagle Fountain.

“I am not disposed to going away with strange men,” he said, “especially those who hold me up at gunpoint and tell me they are intending, with my assistance no less, to break convicted murderers out of prison. You need to do more to convince me.”

“You care for him.”

The old Father hesitated, dropping his head to his chest, loose skin hanging in folds beneath his chin. He imagined the instruments of torture being used on his Inquisitor friend at this moment in a cold cell buried deep beneath the earth.

“Who suggested I cared for him?” he asked.

“Sister Isabella, she said you believe in Tacit.”

Strettavario shook his head. “My evidence at his trial helped condemn the man. Life imprisonment. No chance of release.”

“You did only what was expected of you.” Henry took a step forward and grasped the old Father gently by the arm. “We need him back. And only you can help.”

But Strettavario shook his head. “I don't think you or Sister Isabella understand. It's inquisitional rules that when you go into Toulouse Inquisitional Prison, you only ever leave in a coffin.”

“Then it's time to break the rules,” said Henry his fingers straining against the grip of his weapon. “Father Strettavario, we need him. And you're going to help us get him out.”

TWENTY ONE

T
HE
I
TALIAN
F
RONT
. T
HE
S
OČA
R
IVER
. N
ORTHWEST
S
LOVENIA
.

Pablo stopped and looked back down the way he had climbed. Below him the mountainside seemed to writhe with the sight of ten thousand grey-green infantrymen following in his wake, as if the Carso was a rotting hunk of meat on which maggots were feasting. It was a scene which both inspired and terrified him, the immensity and the power.

“We cannot lose this war!” he exclaimed, on seeing the vast numbers of soldiers of the Third Army, raising his rifle as a mountaineer might his pick on conquering a summit. A smile broke across his face for the first time in days.

“Take your fucking hands down, you fool!” shouted Corporal Abelli, reaching out and slapping the young Private's arms back to his sides. “You want to draw every fucking Hungarian sniper in your direction?”

“No. But look, sir!” Pablo said, giving the rocky crags a cursory glance for the enemy, before looking back down the mountainside, Private Lazzari beside him turning to look as well.

“What about it?” snapped the Corporal.

“We are so many!”

“And the Austro-Hungarians aren't?” called the Sergeant Major, stepping up and snorting, a sound Pablo had quickly come to despise since his time in the Carso. “Don't worry, we have more than our equal ahead of us.”

The Sergeant pushed past him roughly, warning the three of them not to dawdle on the mountainside path. Fellow soldiers, who had stopped to listen to what the Corporal and their Sergeant had to say, turned and trudged after him with heavy feet. The young soldier watched them go, his enthusiasm and momentary joy trickling away.

“What have you got to be so unhappy about?” asked Corporal Abelli, sucking his teeth. Pablo shrugged and he patted him on the shoulder. “Come on Pablo! We go to do a great thing!” he said, and Pablo wasn't sure if he said it partly in jest. “Surely the Priests told you so? They wouldn't have brought you here if they didn't think it to be a good thing. An act ordained by the Lord!”

Abelli chuckled, his good humour returned, but Pablo shrugged once again. “They never gave me any choice. Always I've done as I've been commanded by the Priests.”

“And I should think so!” replied Abelli. “After all, they've fed and watered you all your life!”

“How do you know that?” asked Pablo.

“Priests talk,” Abelli deftly replied. “I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't know where my men came from. I know that they took you in when you were just a young child, cast out by your family and friends for the shame of your deformities.” The Corporal indicated Pablo's hands, and the young man blushed and drew them into tight balls. Now it was Abelli's turn to shrug. “As long as you can fight and know how to stay alive, that's all that matters to me. I don't care what you look like.” He indicated Lazzari and said, “Look at that poor bastard next to you!”

Pablo laughed. “Do we have to go the entire way to the top?” he asked, peering up into the Carso.

“To the very top,” the Corporal nodded, soldiers trudging up beside them. He lifted a finger to the summit far beyond. Pablo traced the line it made, up through the clouds to the heavens where he supposed the summit of the Carso lay, hidden in thick cotton white.

“And what lies at the top?” asked Pablo. “Why's it so important?”

But the Corporal shook his head. “If I told you, you wouldn't believe me!”

Pablo tucked his rifle over his shoulder and gripped it tightly with his six-fingered hands.

TWENTY TWO

R
OME
. I
TALY
.

Father Strettavario smelt liniment and sour brandy from the moment he stepped into the damp terraced house. And something else. The earthy musk of wet fur. He recognised the stink at once, and his immediate reaction had been to brace himself for an attack, to harden his limbs for the assault and to tune his mind away from the pain which he supposed would come when he found himself in a fight, even more so when he heard the door close behind him and lock.

But it was an attack which never came. Instead, a voice he recognised called his name; he relaxed and watched Isabella step out of the shadows towards him. “I apologise for the manner by which you've been brought here, Father Strettavario. We've had need for secrecy and haste.”

“Then you should have not brought the automobile,” replied the squat Priest, pulling his robes back around his shoulders in an attempt to present some semblance of respectability. He caught Isabella's curious look. “Whoever it was who pursued you the other night, the Inquisition will be aware, and they will be watchful.” While his voice was quiet and restrained, it carried a presence of authority and control. “The Inquisition do not take kindly to people riding recklessly through Rome's city streets at night, killing Inquisitors. They will have spotted the Fiat. They will be on their way. You know that, don't you?”

Isabella looked across at Henry and he nodded. “This was only ever a temporary place to stay. We have somewhere else to go.” His voice was assured, but she noticed that he immediately crossed to the shuttered windows to survey the street beyond.

“I trust the next place you have in mind is better than these poor lodgings,” replied the old Priest, only now catching sight of Sandrine resting against the far wall.

His eyes narrowed on her as she stepped across the floorboards towards him. “Sandrine Prideux,” he said, his lips gripped white.

“You know me?” Sandrine asked, tensing.

“Yes. Arras. Your little game. We never met, but your description precedes you. You caused us a lot of trouble.”

“Sadly not enough,” retorted Sandrine.

“Which thankfully failed. And now you are reduced to living like this?” Strettavario tutted, looking about the room disdainfully.

“Unfortunately we are not afforded the luxuries of those in the Vatican,” she sneered. Then she caught sight of the Priest's eyes and hesitated, glancing over at Isabella. “I don't like the look of him. Are you sure we can we trust him?”

“Probably not,” Isabella replied, “but he's all we have if we want Tacit back.”

“This Tacit,” said Sandrine, lifting her chin so she looked down even more on the stout Priest, “I've been told it's important we free him. Why? I don't understand, he's only a man …”

Strettavario chuckled and felt something stir within him. “Only a man? I wouldn't call him that.”

“Then what would you call him?”

“A force of nature.” The Priest said the words quickly, as if he knew them without question to be true. “So, you want to break Tacit out of prison? Why would you want to do that? And why should I help you?”

“Because we'll kill you otherwise,” warned Sandrine.

Strettavario chuckled. “That does not concern me. I have been threatened many times before, been told my life is at an end by many enemies. I have made my peace with God. Tell me, have you made your peace with him?”

Isabella stepped between them. “We want you to help us break him out because of what is coming.”

“And what is that?”

Car lights from the street outside reached through the shutters and swept the length of the room.

“They're here!” cried Henry, clawing at his rifle.

“We can go out the back,” said Sandrine. She stepped towards the darkness, Henry following without a word.

But Strettavario remained beside the chair, unmoving. “Tell me, Sister Isabella, what do you think is coming?”

“The Antichrist,” she replied. “He is preparing the world for his return.”

She expected Strettavario to mock the announcement, but instead he nodded, his eyes growing serious and dark. “I believe you.”

“You do?” said Isabella, with a start. “How so?”

“The Eagle Fountain in the Vatican Gardens.”

“What about it?

“It has begun to flow with blood.”

“My Lord!”

“I have seen these signs rarely, but when I have previously, they've only meant one thing.”

“What do the Holy See believe?” asked Isabella, the emotion drained from her words.

The pale-eyed Father chuckled weakly and shook his head. “The Holy See are paralysed with indecision and fear. They know what these signs mean, but choose to hope that they are wrong. When you see your enemy coming, sometimes it's easier to look the other way. So how do you propose we get Tacit out?” he asked, looking at the Sister. “No one has ever broken out of Toulouse Prison. No man can.”

“That is why we found you,” replied Isabella. “We hoped you would be able to help.”

“We don't have time to discuss this here and now. We must leave!” Henry interrupted.