They drew closer, heading for a fishing harbour, which on a bright day might have been somewhere pretty and peaceful to stop for lunch. But now it was a tangle, a mass of boats of every size, bringing refugees from Naples and perhaps from other parts of Italy, more and more of them drawing in from every direction. It was lucky that the huge wave that had nearly crushed the Medusa seemed to have missed this part of the coast. The town, with its solid line of five- and six-storey buildings, many of them right up against the waterfront, looked untouched.
Angelo expertly steered them between two trawlers, each so weighed down with passengers that their bowlines were barely above the water, and they were able to moor at the edge of the port. Pedro saw hordes of people fighting against each other as they tried to make their way along the streets, many of them bowing under the weight of oversized bundles and suitcases. The sky was grey and overcast and still smelled of burning.
Emmanuel came over to Pedro. “You must say goodbye to Giovanni here,” he said. “He will stay on the Medusa. “Before Pedro could protest, he went on. “You need an ID card to travel into Rome and he is giving you his. The two of you do not look very similar but you are the same age and hopefully, because you are young, nobody will look too closely. I will accompany you to the home of Carla Rivera and ensure that you arrive safely. Then I must also return.”
“Where will you all go?” Pedro asked.
“We have friends further in the north, in the mountains near Spoleto. We are safer if we stick together and they will look after us. We are doing exactly what Franceso Amati told us to. Say goodbye quickly. The train leaves soon and we do not want to miss it.”
Pedro barely knew Giovanni. Not being able to speak his language had made it impossible for the two of them to become friends. But he embraced the other boy warmly and felt genuinely sorry that the two of them were being separated. Giovanni nodded and tried to smile but he was clearly as cold, wet and exhausted as Pedro.
“Buona fortuna!” he said.
“Good luck.” Pedro smiled back. And then Pedro and Emmanuel were gone, the two of them, slipping onto the quay and making their way hurriedly inland.
Almost immediately they came upon a crush of people, filling the Riviera Zanardelli, a wide thoroughfare that crossed the entire town, running parallel with the shoreline. Anzio was a neat, elegant place with open squares, fountains and palm trees – but it hadn’t been prepared for this invasion. If it had once had cafés and restaurants, they were all closed. The shutters were down, the terraces empty, the canopies rolled back. Pedro was aware of many different languages being spoken around him. These weren’t just Italians pouring out of the boats. They must have come from all over Europe, maybe even from Africa. Once again, the streets were lined with policemen, barking orders, occasionally pulling people out of the line, slapping them for no good reason and sending them spinning into the gutter.
Somehow Pedro and Emmanuel fought their way through. The station at Anzio was just as crowded, with every inch of the platform taken up by people, parcels and even animals … chickens in cages and sheep. It reminded Pedro of a war film. Sometimes he’d managed to sneak into the cinemas in Lima and would watch the latest American releases until he was discovered and thrown out. Saving Private Ryan, Pearl Harbor, Schindler’s List … apart from the modern clothes, everything he was seeing could have been a throwback to the Second World War. Even the light made everything look black and white. There was a train waiting, with uniformed guards at every door.
“Give me your ID card,” Emmanuel said. Pedro handed it over. “I need it to buy tickets. Wait for me here. I won’t be long.”
Pedro did as he was told. Emmanuel pushed his way to the front of the crowd that surrounded the station office and returned with the tickets a few minutes later. Pedro was surprised that he had been so quick, but then nobody actually seemed to be going anywhere. Perhaps they couldn’t afford the fare.
They chose the busiest carriage, where a tired and flustered guard was already being overwhelmed by the number of passengers. As Emmanuel had guessed, he barely looked at their ID but allowed them to climb on board.
And then, almost at once, the train pulled away and they were heading down the line, slowly picking up speed, on their way to Rome. The thought made Pedro dizzy. He had never visited Rome. He had never even seen a picture of it but he remembered that it was the capital of Italy. And it was in Rome that he would find the church of St Peter’s that Matteo had mentioned to him in his dream. Pedro was certain that somewhere inside, he would find the door that would reunite him with his friends. But first he would have to find this woman … Carla Rivera. How could he be sure that he could trust her when all he knew about her was her name? And what about Emmanuel, for that matter? He could hand Pedro back to the police, to the same people who had kept him prisoner in the Castel Nuovo. The Old Ones. They would surely pay a great deal for the return of one of the Five. He examined the young man, half-Italian, half-English, who had brought him this far. Emmanuel was almost asleep, exhausted by the long journey from Naples. Pedro decided that he had to believe in him. Emmanuel seemed genuine enough. And, alone in a foreign country, unable even to speak its language, what choice did he have?
He felt the same drowsiness stealing over him and rested his head against the window. He and Emmanuel had been lucky to get seats. Every bit of space inside the carriage was taken by people standing, sitting or crouching on the floor. They were moving much faster now. Emmanuel had said this was a direct train. Rome couldn’t be more than an hour away.
But twenty minutes later, they slowed down and stopped, held up at a red light. It was raining, the grey water travelling horizontally across the windows, splattering down hard on the stony ground. They were in the middle of the countryside with a few houses dotted around them, and as they waited a second train pulled into a siding next to them, so that for a moment the two of them were side by side and quite close. It looked like a cattle train. Half asleep, his head against the window, Pedro saw wooden carriages with heavy padlocks and chains fastening the doors, and tiny windows, barred but without glass. Curiously, there were armed soldiers with capes protecting them from the weather, sitting on the roof, their legs dangling down. That couldn’t be right, could it? Why would you need to guard animals?
But as he looked, he saw a hand and an arm stretching out of the window exactly opposite him, as if trying to touch his train. The hand opened, the fingers reaching out. And there, on the wrist, he saw what looked like a number, tattooed in black ink.
Maybe he had imagined it. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Because when he looked a second time, the other train had gone and they were moving once again. But even so, an hour later, when they reached the outskirts of Rome, he still couldn’t put the image out of his mind.
FORTY-TWO
St Peter’s Square, in the very heart of Rome, was huge, magnificent and anything but square. Pedro had never seen anywhere like it: a great expanse of cobbles with hundreds of columns curving round the edges and two stone fountains on either side of a twenty-metre-tall Egyptian obelisk. Dominating everything – St Peter’s Basilica itself, the most famous cathedral in the world, stood there with more columns, statues and balconies, all crowned by the magnificent dome designed by Michelangelo. Every Easter, the Pope would step out of a window at the front of the cathedral to bless the hundred thousand people who gathered in the square … and there would be room for all of them. Pedro wondered how big this city could be to have so much space in its centre.
Emmanuel had brought him here because Carla Rivera, the woman who could supposedly help him, lived nearby. They crossed the square together and Pedro found himself gazing at the cathedral, as if his whole life had built up to this moment. He had never seen it before. He had only heard its name for the first time when Matt had told him about it in the dreamworld. And now it was here, right in front of him. He noticed a long line of policemen and soldiers, all dressed in black, stretched out in front of it, and
realized that although the square was as crowded as the rest of the city, nobody was being allowed in or out of the building.
He grabbed hold of Emmanuel. “I want to get closer,” he said. “Why?” Emmanuel was in a hurry. He wanted to see Pedro safely delivered so that he could return to Giovanni and the others.
“Please…”
The two of them crossed the square, stopping in front of the wide, marble steps that led up to the front entrance. Pedro was right. The doors were bolted. There were two lines of guards preventing anyone from getting close. What was the point of having a holy place if people weren’t allowed to pray there…
Perhaps they knew about the magical doors spread all over the planet. This cathedral was at the very centre of the Roman Catholic religion: pilgrims came here from all over the world. So the door had to be here. The guards had found it and they were determined he wouldn’t get anywhere near.
He would have liked to have explored more but Emmanuel was already getting nervous. “We should move,” he said.
Pedro nodded. It would be easy enough to find his way back here. The two of them set off together.
They walked back to the edge of the square, through the lines of columns and out the other side. Like Naples and Anzio, Rome was full of people carrying bundles and suitcases that might contain everything they owned, and the atmosphere of fear and desperation had followed them north. It had stopped raining but the sky was overcast and the air had the same faint smell of burning. Pedro’s clothes were still damp and he was feeling filthy and exhausted. He was also starving. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d had a decent meal.
They came to a long, narrow street with tall, very grand buildings on both sides. It was impossible to see inside any of them. All the windows at ground level were shuttered and barred, and many of the doors were twice as big as they needed to be with carvings of knights and angels who seemed to stare defiantly at passers-by, daring them to come in. There were fewer people here, and although there were cars and motorbikes parked in neat rows, none of them was moving.
Emmanuel took a sheet of paper out of his pocket and studied it. He pointed at a building that stood on its own, surrounded by an ornate metal fence with a solid-looking gate. To Pedro, it could have been a miniature palace. He had seen similar places in Lima and had learnt that the very richest people – with their own bodyguards – had lived there, and heaven help you if you were found rummaging in their dustbins or begging for food. They would beat you and leave you bleeding and broken in the street. This palazzo, if that was what it was, looked abandoned. The shutters were down and there were several tiles missing from the roof. And yet it had its own walled garden, with palm trees and shrubs still growing around yet another ornamental fountain. The house was pink and white and four storeys high. Some of the windows were square, others were arched. A long terrace ran down one side and Pedro glimpsed a conservatory filled with more plants at the end.
“This is it,” Emmanuel said.
He pressed a bell button beside the gate. It made no sound and nobody came. At least a minute passed – maybe two – and Pedro was beginning to wonder if they’d actually come to the right place. Perhaps there was no one at home. Then, suddenly, he heard a woman’s voice coming from a little speaker above the button.
“Si. Chi è?”
She spoke in Italian and Emmanuel answered in the same language. The conversation went on for quite a while and Pedro understood none of it, although he heard his name mentioned a couple of times. The woman sounded nervous. She spoke so quickly that it was impossible to tell where one word ended and the next began. For his part, Emmanuel was soft, reasonable. He was talking with his face pressed against the gate and Pedro realized that he was watching the street at the same time. They weren’t safe here. They needed to be inside.
The woman stopped speaking. Emmanuel turned to Pedro. “I am leaving you now,” he said. “This is the home of Signora Rivera and she has agreed to accept you.”
“What about you?”
“She does not wish to meet me. Good luck, Pedro. I do not know who you are or why you are here, but I am glad that I met you and was able to help you a little. I think it is important. I hope it all works out for you.” And then, before Pedro could say anything, Emmanuel moved away, following the path that had brought them here.
He had only been gone a moment when there was a click and the gate opened automatically. Pedro went through, closing it behind him. The garden was very neat, with little pebbles forming geometrical shapes between the paths. A statue of a winged child with a finger touching his lips knelt on a pedestal. It seemed to warn Pedro of something secret. Was it telling him to stay away?
The front door of the house opened and a woman appeared, dressed entirely in black, waving him towards her. This had to be Carla Rivera! She must have been in her late sixties … it was hard to be sure because her face was so lined with worry. She had grey hair, swept back, and although everything about her suggested an old, defeated woman, her eyes were still alert and full of fight. She had a simple gold cross around her neck. It was her only jewellery.
“Come in! Come in!” she rasped and Pedro relaxed a little, hearing his own language.
He followed her into a hallway with black-and-white tiles, a gold mirror and solid oak furniture. There were doors opening into rooms in every direction and a wide, marble staircase, leading up. Classical paintings, mainly portraits, hung on the walls. As soon as the woman had closed the front door, she turned and looked at him.
“Your name is Pedro,” she said.
“Yes, signora.”
“You were with Francesco Amati in Naples?”
“Yes.”
“Is it true that the entire city has gone?”
“The volcano erupted. I don’t think there can be very much of it left.”
“Dear God!” The woman crossed herself. “Where will this end? What is expected of us?” She examined him. “You’re wet. You look worn out. Have you eaten?”
“I’m very hungry,” Pedro admitted.
“Then come with me. We do not have much but you are welcome to what we have.”
She led him into a gloomy kitchen with a high ceiling, a wooden table, and pots and pans hanging from hooks. There were no lights on anywhere but Pedro knew the house must have electricity. Both the doorbell and the front gate had worked. The woman gestured and he sat down at the table while she opened various cupboards and produced some rough brown bread, ham and salami, cheese and salad. Finally, she uncorked a bottle and gave him a glass of wine. The food looked meagre, spread out on the empty table, but Pedro wolfed it down as if it were a banquet. The wine was the best of all. The liquid was dark red, almost black, and warmed him inside, at the same time making him sleepy.
The woman examined him intently while he ate. It was only when he had nearly finished that she continued with her questions. “My name is Carla,” she said. “Emmanuel told me you were a prisoner in Naples. What did they want with you?”
“I don’t know.” As always, Pedro wasn’t sure how much to say. “I think they wanted to kill me.”
“You are one of the Five.”
Pedro said nothing.
“You must tell me! I have a son in the Vatican … he is a priest, with high office. With his help, I have been given access to books in the Vatican library and I know about the Five, the Gatekeepers, the Old Ones. So you have nothing to hide from me. Are you one of the Gatekeepers?”
“Yes, signora.” Pedro nodded. He saw no point in lying.
“It is unbelievable. It is extraordinary to have you here in my house. All my prayers have been answered. My son, Silvio, will be home in a few hours. He will wish to speak to you at length. For now, I thank God for sending you to us.”
Pedro was becoming uneasy. Carla Rivera was gazing at him with a sort of fervency he had never experienced before. He was also very tired. The events of the past twenty-four hours had finally caught up with him and the wine ha
d helped to knock him out.
She saw this. “You need to change your clothes,” she said. “You’re soaking wet. And you must sleep. I do not know what you have been through and you will tell us everything when Silvio arrives. I cannot imagine how much you must have suffered. But that is over now.”
“Am I safe here?” Pedro asked.
“You are not safe in Rome. I do not think anyone is safe anywhere in Italy. But while you are in this house, you are protected.”
Pedro yawned and as if taking this as her cue, Carla rose to her feet. “We have a spare room where you can rest,” she said. “Please, follow me.”
She led him out of the kitchen and up two flights of stairs, passing a long line of gloomy-looking portraits, hanging in gold frames. The house was empty and silent, the carpet threadbare, but Pedro got the impression that this had been a wealthy family once. They arrived at a hallway with an antique cabinet in front of them and a chandelier above. Two doors stood facing each other. Carla led him to the one on the left, but even as he went, for reasons he couldn’t understand, his eye was drawn to the door opposite.
She noticed this. “Do not go in there,” she said. “It is my daughter’s room. She is resting. She is not well.” She opened the other door. “Here you are.”
Pedro found himself in a small, square room dominated by a brass bed and with a double window looking over the garden where he had entered. There was a chair and a wardrobe but no other furniture. A wooden cross hung on the wall. A second door led into a bathroom and toilet.
“The water is warm,” Carla said. “Leave your clothes outside the door and I will wash them for you. Silvio will arrive after dark, at eight. The Pontifical Commission is meeting today so he will be kept busy. You do not need to worry about anything, Pedro. We will look after you and we will help you get to where you want to go.” That puzzled Pedro. How could they know where he was going when he wasn’t even sure about that himself? But the woman seemed kindly enough and, although he hated to admit it, he was almost her prisoner. He had nowhere else to go. “Sleep well,” she said. “If there is anything you want, I will be downstairs. Do not call out. I don’t want to wake Maria.”