Chapter 2
Six years later
(The Present)
Rome, Piazza Venezia
Morning
"TELL ME, FATHER Marco, do you believe in the devil?"
Marco Sartini put his arm round Old Savio's shoulder. The unexpected question from the homeless man disturbed him. Asked the same thing yesterday, during the thunderstorm, Marco guessed he might have felt a shiver of fear at the probability -- the certainty. Today, wearing casual clothes with his new clerical collar, he smiled and tried to make a joke of it.
"What do you want, Savio: a full theological answer?" They often exchanged greetings by the roadside, but never had the questions been as deep as this.
"The devil used to live in Europe, Father."
Marco looked at the man in surprise. Old Savio was sleeping rough somewhere near the remains of the Foro Romano. As usual he felt in his pocket for a few coins, aware of the deadness in Savio's eyes. "You mean Hitler?"
"Hitler, Mussolini." The old man coughed vigorously. "The devil Mussolini used to preach to us from the window over there." He cleared his throat and drew a soiled sleeve across his mouth. Then the unwashed hand waved towards the drab brown building of the Palazzo Venezia, with the single balcony extending over the sidewalk. Bony fingers caught hold of Marco's arm.
"I believed him, Father." The old man coughed again, his eyes streaming. "I was a Koch Fascist. You can't understand it today. I had a friend. There, that surprises you -- an old man like me with a friend." He continued to cough as he tried to laugh at his own humor. "We raided churches in the war. Stole the gold and silver. My friend wanted forgiveness. He even went to work for Canon Levi. That sort of thing wasn't for me. Not then. But now? Yes, I want forgiveness now."
Marco wondered why Old Savio was wearing a coat on a day as hot as this. Filthy coats seemed to be part of a uniform for beggars, winter or summer. He remained silent as the sun blasted down on the busy piazza, overlooked by the glaring marble Vittoriano, the gigantic white wedding cake. Ruins and opulence, this was Rome, his home. Yes, long ago Germans had occupied the city -- until the Allies arrived with their tanks. The 1940s. A different century. A different millennium. School history had touched on it; his grandfather occasionally had some story to tell.
It was strange to think there were so many people still alive who had been involved in the wartime cruelty. Families, married couples like his grandparents, caught up as innocent victims. Men like Old Savio here, willingly taking part. There had been no neutrality. A few experts in European history said it could happen again, as immigrant workers took the jobs of those who could claim a national identity going back for generations.
"You're right, Savio, there were many devils in the war."
Old Savio's grimy hand pinched more tightly. "But do you believe in the devil, Father?"
The only cloud in the sky started to pass across the sun as the old man spoke, and Marco fought back the feeling that this could be some sort of ill omen. Having lived through the Nazi occupation, Savio should know the answer to his own question from personal experience.
Marco nodded. "Yes, I believe in the devil. I believe in Satan."
But Old Savio was becoming agitated. "It wasn't only gold and silver we stole. We took holy relics. Important relics."
"How important, Savio?" Marco noticed the deep veins showing through the ingrained dirt on the man's scarred face.
"Important to the faith, Father."
Marco laughed. "Surely faith is more important than any relic."
It was a clever answer. No, it was stupid. Even as he spoke he felt angry with himself. It might have been a good answer on an exam paper at the seminary, but it was a pathetic response to a confused inquirer in the street. He reached out and touched the old man; hugged him for a brief moment. The people passing by turned their eyes away, deliberately, in embarrassment.
Marco looked up, and in black outline against the bright sky he could see the balcony on the side of the Palazzo Venezia. He could imagine Mussolini standing, arm raised in salute while the crowd in the piazza yelled and clapped and shouted in hysteria. Television sometimes showed film clips. Old Savio must have stood here with the crowds. Other priests had lived in those times of shame.
"The relic they're showing on television tonight, Father." Old Savio pulled at his coat as though Marco had untidied it with his touch. "They say it could shatter the Christian Church."
Marco shrugged. "I doubt it. The Vatican only found it recently -- on a dusty shelf." Then he grinned in an attempt to lighten the situation. "I hope it isn't one you stole. I've been invited to join the studio audience at TV Roma!"
Old Savio gripped him again anxiously. "No, not that one. But I stole a lot of things. Can I have forgiveness, Father Marco?"
Marco ignored the plea. "I wish I could have found that relic. Imagine presenting the Vatican with a discovery like that."
"It used to belong to Canon Levi -- years ago, before the neo-Fascists murdered him. My friend ran around for him in Vatican Archives, fetching and carrying heavy books. He had to leave when the Canon was killed. I'll bet you didn't know Canon Levi had a secret daughter." Old Savio smiled slyly. "About your age, she'd be. Maybe the two of you should get together."
Marco shook his head, but returned the smile briefly. Canon Levi was now just a name from the past.
Old Savio coughed loudly as he tried to laugh. "The affair cost Canon Levi his job in the parish. That's why they pushed him into Archives. Had to get him out of public view to save a scandal."
The car appeared from nowhere, its tires screaming on the polished road surface. It was coming too fast for the bend into the Piazza Venezia, and the driver was clearly in trouble. In a moment of panic Marco Sartini could see exactly what was going to happen. He put his hand out to grab hold of the old man, to pull him to safety.
Old Savio glanced up but ignored the approaching Alfa. "Help me find forgiveness," he whispered urgently.
Marco tugged at Savio's jacket, gripping the filthy threads between his fingers as the car mounted the sidewalk. The sleeve was torn from his fingers with the impact.
As a crowd gathered, Marco bent over the lifeless form. He must pray for peace for Savio's soul. He felt a rush of tenderness and lowered his head to Savio's chest. A stench of urine and unwashed clothing rose from the hot ground, making him want to turn away, but he rested his head on the body. Rejected in life, Savio would not be rejected in death. Something had been on the vagrant's conscience from the war.
Marco Sartini spoke into the blood-soaked ear. "You wanted God's forgiveness, but I ignored you. Forgive me." And he began to cry.
The driver of the rusting Alfa, scarcely more than a boy, stayed in the car and stared out at the bloodstained corpse. For a moment it wasn't Old Savio on the ground, it was Anna, and he was crouching helplessly by her side in the darkness on the Spanish Steps. A terrible reminder of Anna's death six years ago had returned to haunt him.
Marco jumped up and strode towards the driver, his tears quickly forgotten. "You stupid fool!" He wrenched open the door and grabbed the kid by the shoulders. As he dragged him from the seat he began to shake him furiously. "You've killed that old man."
As he spoke, he realized that this must be the most useless start in the priesthood anyone had made. Perhaps his jeans and casual clothes were an attempt to conceal his new role in life. Why else had he used it as a disguise for his clerical collar? Until this moment he'd not realized just how much grief and anger there was still inside. Bitterness even now that burned towards the drunken gang who had killed his wife.
"Leave him, Father. The smelly old fool's dead," a woman shouted from the small crowd. "We've already phoned for the emergency services."
Marco turned to the terrified kid from the Alfa who was being sick in the gutter. "I'm sorry ... sorry I shouted at you. Here, wipe your mouth with this."
He passed over his handkerchief and recalled Savio's unanswered plea. Help me find forgi
veness. Why had the man left it so late? Seminary never prepared you for real life. Today should have been a time of meditation, of preparation for the coming years of service in the Church. Three years of theological training, of hard work, and what answer had he been able to give an old man?
The war was long over, but evil lived on. Evil was a great survivor. He stared down at Savio.
"My name is Father Josef Reinhardt. Where is your parish, Father, Father...?"
Marco was closing Old Savio's eyes and looked up in surprise as someone tapped him on the shoulder. "Father Marco. Marco Sartini," he responded quickly. An elderly man wearing clerical black had come forward from the chattering crowd. "I don't have a parish yet," Marco explained, realizing with relief that experienced help was at hand. "I'm due to start at my first one next month."
"Do I take it that you are only just ordained, Father Marco?"
He nodded. "I entered the priesthood late."
Father Josef Reinhardt shook his hand, and the hold was warm and comforting. "You seem to be coping well. I will let you speak to the paramedics, Father Marco. Perhaps we can talk for a few minutes when this is over."
"Could you please tell me...?"
But the old priest was already on his way back to join the people watching.
Marco shook his head as he hurried back to the body of Old Savio. An ambulance had just arrived. "You're wrong, Father Josef," he called back over his shoulder. "I didn't do well. This man wanted forgiveness. I didn't help him. I wasn't listening. All I did was talk about relics."
A carabinieri siren wailed in the Via dei Fori Imperiali. The full emergency services were on their way. This patch of instant death would soon be swept and hosed clean. Marco shook his head slowly. And things had been going so well lately.