Jew had lingered at a pastry cart, so Gianni grabbed an apple and threw it into the air, a coin plucked from his pocket, flicked across, before the fruit landed in his hand.
He was pleased for another reason. Three shadows meant their quarry had something valuable on him, probably rings, maybe even a necklace. The Grey Wolves hunted for the blooding, but it was always good to have a bonus for their efforts. Christ’s bounty funding Christ’s work.
The old man moved off rapidly, took an unforeseen turning, heading up toward the squatting mound of the Castel San Angelo. They had not been spotted, Gianni was sure, but something had spooked their quarry, some sense of danger in that old Jew head; if he was not to double back and disappear into the ghetto, where they could not follow, they would have to let him be.
Gianni began to eat the apple, not moving from where he’d bought it. It was old, had cellared the long winter, its skin mottled and streaked. A little like the old Jew’s , Gianni thought, chewing slowly, the thought making him smile. He was aware of his men, even though he did not see them, knew they recognized the signal of the apple, and would be finding things to do, books to peruse, nuts or roasted offal to buy. The Jew’s shadows flitted slowly past, one by one, slipping down the alley, soon to be lost in the maze ahead.
It did not matter. It had been a useful exercise. The Grey Wolves had stalked prey through half of Rome. Throwing the apple core into the clogged gutter at the centre of the street, Gianni turned down the alley opposite to the one the Jew had taken. He knew the rest of them would take their own routes to the rendezvous, would assemble there by the mid-morning bell. By that time, the reassured Hebrew would be inside the house in the olive grove on the edge of Trastevere. Thinking he was safe.
He passed a small chapel, erected for the working men of the neighbourhood and their families, its only outward sign a cross scored across the lintel. He paused. It would do him good to pray, to focus upon His words, to meditate as to why he was about Christ’s work in this unique way. Stooping, he entered the dim and scented world. It had rough walls, a lack of any adornment, a complete contrast to the ornate palaces of worship that abounded in Rome. It reminded him of the farmers’ chapels where he’d first met his Saviour, in the hills near Montepulciano.
The floor was crudely tiled, broken in places. Seeing he was alone, Gianni immediately threw himself down on the space before the altar, pressing his face to the ground, paralleling the cross above him with outstretched arms and began to recite his prayers. Usually, he could lose himself in the Latin, its comforting rhythms and familiar cadences, but today it seemed as jagged as the split tiles beneath him. At first he thought his mind was too full of the action ahead, seeking out little flaws in his plan, making adjustments. He struggled, knowing he should be able to put all that aside, to lose himself in his adoration of Christ. Struggled until he realized what was truly wrong – this chapel, so like the ones of his youth, raised memories that drove prayer from him. Even though he had not seen them in three years, his parents’ sins clung to him like choke vines round the stock.
There was a cough. He stood and turned swiftly, a hand reaching to his belt and the dagger there. Behind him, Wilhelm was kneeling before the pews, his hands clasped. He glanced toward the door and Gianni nodded. Making their final kneeling tributes, crossing themselves, they stepped out into the day. Rain had come and Gianni scanned the sky for a break in it. Rain did not help his plan.
‘You’re bleeding.’ Wilhelm ran his finger down Gianni’s cheek. ‘See?’
On the finger before him, a red streak. In its centre, a shard of tile.
Gianni grabbed the finger, bent it back. The big German leaned down toward him in self-protection. When he had him close,
He was pleased for another reason. Three shadows meant their quarry had something valuable on him, probably rings, maybe even a necklace. The Grey Wolves hunted for the blooding, but it was always good to have a bonus for their efforts. Christ’s bounty funding Christ’s work.
The old man moved off rapidly, took an unforeseen turning, heading up toward the squatting mound of the Castel San Angelo. They had not been spotted, Gianni was sure, but something had spooked their quarry, some sense of danger in that old Jew head; if he was not to double back and disappear into the ghetto, where they could not follow, they would have to let him be.
Gianni began to eat the apple, not moving from where he’d bought it. It was old, had cellared the long winter, its skin mottled and streaked. A little like the old Jew’s , Gianni thought, chewing slowly, the thought making him smile. He was aware of his men, even though he did not see them, knew they recognized the signal of the apple, and would be finding things to do, books to peruse, nuts or roasted offal to buy. The Jew’s shadows flitted slowly past, one by one, slipping down the alley, soon to be lost in the maze ahead.
It did not matter. It had been a useful exercise. The Grey Wolves had stalked prey through half of Rome. Throwing the apple core into the clogged gutter at the centre of the street, Gianni turned down the alley opposite to the one the Jew had taken. He knew the rest of them would take their own routes to the rendezvous, would assemble there by the mid-morning bell. By that time, the reassured Hebrew would be inside the house in the olive grove on the edge of Trastevere. Thinking he was safe.
He passed a small chapel, erected for the working men of the neighbourhood and their families, its only outward sign a cross scored across the lintel. He paused. It would do him good to pray, to focus upon His words, to meditate as to why he was about Christ’s work in this unique way. Stooping, he entered the dim and scented world. It had rough walls, a lack of any adornment, a complete contrast to the ornate palaces of worship that abounded in Rome. It reminded him of the farmers’ chapels where he’d first met his Saviour, in the hills near Montepulciano.
The floor was crudely tiled, broken in places. Seeing he was alone, Gianni immediately threw himself down on the space before the altar, pressing his face to the ground, paralleling the cross above him with outstretched arms and began to recite his prayers. Usually, he could lose himself in the Latin, its comforting rhythms and familiar cadences, but today it seemed as jagged as the split tiles beneath him. At first he thought his mind was too full of the action ahead, seeking out little flaws in his plan, making adjustments. He struggled, knowing he should be able to put all that aside, to lose himself in his adoration of Christ. Struggled until he realized what was truly wrong – this chapel, so like the ones of his youth, raised memories that drove prayer from him. Even though he had not seen them in three years, his parents’ sins clung to him like choke vines round the stock.
There was a cough. He stood and turned swiftly, a hand reaching to his belt and the dagger there. Behind him, Wilhelm was kneeling before the pews, his hands clasped. He glanced toward the door and Gianni nodded. Making their final kneeling tributes, crossing themselves, they stepped out into the day. Rain had come and Gianni scanned the sky for a break in it. Rain did not help his plan.
‘You’re bleeding.’ Wilhelm ran his finger down Gianni’s cheek. ‘See?’
On the finger before him, a red streak. In its centre, a shard of tile.
Gianni grabbed the finger, bent it back. The big German leaned down toward him in self-protection. When he had him close,
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