Chapter 29
Colosseum
IT WAS A RELIEF to know that Laura and Riccardo had gone. Bruno sighed. Enzo had made his way to the top level and seemed unaware that his young minder had run off. The whole amphitheatre was the web, with the big fly now securely trapped in it. There would be only one winner in Rome today: the spider.
Bruno paid his entrance fee and walked towards the stone staircase that would take him to the upper floor. When his half-brother's new name was published, the killing would cause panic among Mussolini's elderly followers. There were plenty of them still around, men who had gone on to be members of the now disbanded MSI, the Movimento Sociale Italiano, the successor to Mussolini's Fascist Party. They were living outwardly decent lives while hiding their extreme right-wing past. Bruno thought about the list he had compiled over the years, many of the names formerly in prominent positions, now spending their retirement in tranquility. Every surviving person on the list had been identified and photographed. The files on his computer at work had a disturbing story to tell.
Within days he was going to expose the senior members -- men who had secretly supported the Nazis and later done so much damage to the unions and the workers. They would spend their last days living in terror of retribution from the people they had wronged. When he published Enzo's Nazi background, everyone would understand the motive behind the killings, but no one would suspect him of masterminding the revenge. No, not revenge, he had to remind himself. This was punishment -- justice.
Massive brick supports ran up from stage to stage of the crumbling amphitheatre, reaching almost to the top of the high outer wall. These supports had once held row upon row of marble seats, stepped up so that each line of eager spectators could have a clear view of the blood sports in the arena below. Following its partial collapse in earthquakes in the ninth and thirteenth centuries, generations of builders had used the Colosseum as a quarry, taking the cut marble for palaces, churches and humble dwellings. The brick vaulting that had supported each tier of seats now looked like sloping buttresses and arches, still preventing the remains of the enormous oval amphitheatre from falling in on itself.
Enzo was standing by the railings, looking down into the central arena. For a crazy moment Bruno wanted to rush forward and tip him over, sending his half-brother crashing onto the stone walls that made up the floor below. But although it was early, there were visitors crowding the walkway. Enzo turned, attracted by the shout of a child. He saw Bruno and came forward.
"I thought you'd be here," he said quietly.
Bruno pointed at him. "You're a murderer," he taunted. "A monster. The Shrine of Evil will never be yours!"
"I'm not afraid of you, Bruno." His brother's voice sounded remarkably calm, the Italian accent flawless. "I have only to call for help and the security guards will arrest you."
"You do that, Enzo, and I'll tell them you murdered Canon Levi eighteen years ago."
He caught hold of Enzo and pulled him roughly to the shelter of one of the deep alcoves that surrounded the walkway, confident in his ability with a knife. In the center of the alcove was an exquisitely detailed model of the Colosseum on a stand. An older man and a young woman were standing in the darkness in a guilty embrace. They moved out quickly as Bruno pushed Enzo through the doorway onto the floor. Enzo lay where he was for a moment, concentrating on the blade in Bruno's hand. Slowly he lowered his hand and closed his fingers round the dust beneath the display.
Bruno was unprepared for the sudden movement in the darkness, the cloud of dirt flung into his face. Half blinded he twisted backwards. With lightning speed Enzo ran past him towards the high walls, clawing his way up the first stage. A party of women nearby began to scream.
His hands damp with sweat, Bruno held the knife tightly as he squinted in the daylight. "You're dead, Enzo. Dead!"
Enzo was on the move again. Bruno realized his life of ease had taken the edge off his once healthy body. He no longer kept up his physical exercise. Enzo was getting away. He knew the muscles were there in his legs. With sheer effort he forced himself to relive his younger days, ignoring the crowds who were turning in his direction. His body could provide all the power he once had. He had only one more mission to accomplish in life -- the death of his evil brother.
He watched Enzo stumble, feet kicking wildly for a firm grip on the steep climb of the walls. The vaulting was jagged and riddled with holes where ancient bricks had been removed. Enzo began using these as hand and foot holds, climbing rapidly from one level to the next. But Bruno could see his half-brother had made a fatal error. Soon Enzo would reach the top, and have nowhere left to go.
With his heart pounding in his chest, but oblivious to the pain, Bruno dragged himself up the gigantic brick construction using his hands to pull his body forward, gaining on Enzo all the time.
Enzo reached the top, resting in an open archway that overlooked the wide Via dei Fori Imperiali. He turned over, obviously not realizing how close Bruno was, leaving his whole belly exposed. "No, Bruno! We loved each other once!"
"Love? You're an evil bastard, Enzo. I always hated you!" He raised the knife.
Then he drove the blade home, releasing his hold on the handle.
Enzo gave a long scream of agony, and Bruno watched his half-brother attempt to pull the blade from his stomach. He and Mamma were finally rid of the name of Kessel.
He looked down at the sea of upturned faces and began to laugh at the irony of it. The carnival scene was being played out in reverse. The spectators were in the arena, watching two combatants fight to the death on the terraces.
Then came the pain.
He felt his chest erupt in a searing fire. He tried to breathe. The world about him was ending. The pressure was unbearable. A crushing pain spread from his chest into his arms. He had driven his heart beyond its limits.
And Enzo was still alive.
MARCO PAID THE taxi driver, his eyes on the outside walls of the massive Roman amphitheatre. Somewhere around here Laura was in trouble, but he had no idea where. People in the street were looking up and he stopped to see where they were pointing. High in the wall, perhaps a hundred feet up, silhouetted against the sky in an open archway he could see the figure of a kneeling man. The crowd shouted in alarm each time the man tried to stand, but he kept falling back onto his knees. It might be an attempted suicide.
Marco hurried round to the entrance. There were signs of panic among the visitors and staff. It was time to pull rank.
"I'm a priest," he said loudly. "I have to offer help, maybe even a prayer."
The man in the pay booth looked him up and down, obviously seeing no clerical collar. "Better wait for the carabinieri, signore," he advised. "They're on their way. You have to stay..."
Marco shook his head and ran up the steps before the man could protest further. As he emerged at the top he realized there were two figures: one in the archway, the other sprawled full length on a brick buttress on the high part of the amphitheatre. Two security men were busy holding the people back from the walls, but they didn't try to stop him as he hauled himself up from the walkway and started to climb the mass of broken brickwork. He reached the first man and stopped in horror. It was Bruno Bastiani. "Bruno! Has there been an accident?"
Bruno's face was deep blue, almost purple, his eyes staring wildly. "Marco? Marco Sartini?"
"Hold on. There's help on its way."
"The man up there, Marco, is he still alive?" Bruno's voice was indistinct, and Marco had to bend forward to hear the words.
The other man kneeling in the archway was clutching his stomach. The edge of the wide stones was stained bright red with blood.
"He looks bad, Bruno, but he's still alive. He's bleeding from his stomach."
Bruno gave a low moan. "Kill him for me, Marco. His father raped my Mamma."
"You can't kill a man for that!"
"You don't know anything about him, Marco. Everything about him is evil. He killed Laura's father in Saint Pet
er's. We want him dead!"
"We? You mean Riccardo? Not Laura. No, not Laura! Have you seen Laura? She phoned me from here."
"Don't you understand? Don't you understand anything?" Bruno sounded confused. "That man is my..."
The exertion of the speech proved too great. A large blood clot, forced forward by the rapid heartbeats, caught on an artery wall, blocking the flow to his overstressed heart. His mouth opened but there was silence. Within seconds he was dead.
Marco felt numb. Bruno had said he was Jewish, but as a Christian himself, he felt under an obligation to say a prayer, to commend the man to God's mercy. He did it quickly. It was not for him to judge Bruno's life.
Standing up he looked down at the crowd. There were cameras pointing at him. Some holiday makers would return with an album of macabre prints, and others with gruesome videos as a holiday memento. He could hear vehicles with sirens stopping in the street below as he clambered past Bruno, up to the fair haired man whose life was oozing away in a red stream. It was the older man he had seen outside TV Roma talking to the skinhead.
"My name is Marco Sartini. I'm a priest," he called. "Do you want me to pray with you?"
The man stayed silent.
A sudden thought occurred to Marco. "Did you know Bruno Bastiani?"
MANFRED KESSEL CLUTCHED his stomach in an attempt to stop the flow of blood. "That man was a Jew, Priester. I am a German!" His knew voice came out faintly, but he tried to put on a show of confidence. He had no need of a priest's help. There was power in the Shrine -- a mystical power. Soon it would be his to control.
The agony of the knife wound made him cry out.
He stared at the blood that covered his clothing and watched it spread across the ground. The hurt was too much. Were his plans coming to nothing? The loss of blood made his head feel strange. Then the deep pain in his stomach stopped and remarkable apparitions began to form before his eyes. Were these what Rüdi had witnessed in the hours before his death?
"There will be a Shrine of Unity." He spoke the words aloud but not to the young priest. "Yes, it will be done."
The priest was looking at him. "Shrine? You mean the Nazi shrine?"
The rapidly diminishing blood in his body was making coherent speech almost impossible. "You look for the final return of your Leader, Priester, and I look for mine."
The priest leaned over and wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. "Help is on its way," he said reassuringly. "But if you're expecting Adolf Hitler, he's not coming back."
Kessel raised himself on one elbow and tried to explain. "Rüdi's finger pointed -- but not at me. Someone is coming in my place ... to continue the eternal work. Someone young and fearless. Someone like Karl Bretz. But supposing the Führer could come back."
His voice was gaining strength. The figures in the vision were still here. The return was imminent. "Just think what our two leaders could do together. Look! Over there, Priester! I can see them working hand in hand, arm in arm, to set up the most powerful kingdom ever."
The pain was coming back, worse than before. The visions passed, as reality firmly took their place.
He started to panic. He felt like a vulnerable child again.
"I'm dying, Sartini. You've got to help me. My name is Enzo Bastiani. Please, Priester, please pray for me."
MARCO COULD SEE two carabinieri climbing his way. Were they the men in the vision?
"Why should I help you, Enzo? The Son of God and Hitler? Bruno was right, even your thoughts are evil. Don't try to move; the carabinieri are nearly here."
He felt disgust for the man. Nothing would persuade him to offer spiritual comfort now.
As the two men in uniform reached Bruno's body he felt shame overwhelm him. He put a hand gently on the man's shoulder.
"We'll pray together for forgiveness, Enzo. Don't die in hatred. There's forgiveness from God for everyone who asks."
He watched as the man tried to speak, the deep wound in his stomach making him shiver uncontrollably. For a brief moment their eyes met. Marco was shattered by the look of fear in those eyes.
The voice was faint now. "I'm not a religious man, Priester. My mother told us nothing about God. I want to confess. I killed Canon Levi. I told people it was Rüdi Bretz who did it, but it wasn't. It was me. I wanted the bronze head. I wanted to prove that Christ was not a Jew, to prove that the pure could come to him. Now I'm dying and I don't know what to do. You have to pray for me. I want peace."
Marco felt far from being at peace himself. Like the thief dying beside Jesus on the cross at Calvary, this man who had caused so much evil was asking for instant forgiveness. It was the greatest test ever of his faith, but he would do it. As Marco leaned forward, his heart pounding, the injured man screamed out in terror.
High above, with a flutter of troubled wings, a single pigeon flew up from the ancient walls.
His eyes wide, Enzo slipped sideways. Marco grabbed at the man's hand but the blood made it too slippery to hold. Enzo rolled down the slope to where Bruno lay, leaving a red trail glistening on the ancient bricks that had once witnessed so much blood.