out.
Wherever I had gone so far I had come up against the most enormous brickwork wall. Its foot sloped outwards from a point several feet above the pavement. It could not have been less than a good eighty feet high. Presumably the rear end of St Peter’s church was in some churchyard behind it.
I drank my coffee feeling decidedly less full of myself. If
that
was the wall of the Vatican, there was no way of climbing it, for sure. Still, a church is a church is a church. There was bound to be a proper way in. And out. Nicking an antique from a church would be child’s play. Always is.
Despite the early time of year, numerous tourists had begun to troop about when finally I left the café. I thought, follow the wall and you will come to the entrance. Nothing could be simpler. Full of resolution, I crossed by the tourist shops crammed with mementoes and religious statuary. A group of Germans, superbly organized, were already photographing a small gateway up ahead. I headed for them and mingled. I disliked what I saw.
The gateway was one car wide. It had everything except size. Its traffic lights worked. It had businesslike gates folded back, but worst of all it had a group of vigilant blokes. They wore the navy-blue attire of tidy artists, slanted berets, cloaks with arm-holes, black stockings. That didn’t paralyse me so much as their air of diligence. No car was allowed to enter but these chaps scrutinized each car’s occupants and the passes. Worse still, an imposing-looking car earned itself the sailor’s elbow.
‘Excuse me, signor,’ I asked a man nearby. ‘What is this place?’
He did not understand and anyway saw his guide raise her folded multicoloured umbrella – the signal of the Roman guide – and was off with the rest. A hand tugged my elbow.
‘You never heard of the Vatican, son?’
My drab old lady who had ribbed me so mercilessly at the kiosk, her hat still with its ludicrous black cherries.
‘
That’s
the Vatican?’ I said weakly. ‘What’s the wall for?’
‘To keep bad people out.’ She chuckled at my face. ‘We Romans have this joke – it’s to keep the good people in.’
‘What are those men doing?’
‘In the gateway? They’re the Swiss Guard.’
I looked again, this time harder. Young, tough, vigilant and very fleet of foot should it come to a sprint. My heart sank. That bastard Arcellano.
‘How many of them are there?’
A slyness had crept into her voice. She tilted her head up at me, birdlike, her spectacles glinting. ‘Enough. You want to go in? There’s a museum, but the entrance—’
Irritably I shook her off and walked dejectedly along the wall pavement. People were drifting like a football crowd. Ahead were the pillars of the Colonnade rimming St Peter’s square. A toffee-maker and a trinketseller were doing a roaring business, blocking one of the arches leading into the square with tourists mobbing the stalls. The square itself was crammed. A pop group was singing somewhere on the Colonnade steps. There was a caravan shop selling Vatican City stamps, obviously an improvised post office. Ahead, between the fountains, rose the great basilica of St Peter’s. It was a real ball, everybody agog and full of good cheer, but I drifted into the throng feeling a right yeti.
Until then I had really felt quite confident. Idiot that I was, I had assumed the Vatican to be a church – okay, a big one, but still a church, with perhaps one or two elderly vergers pottering among the churchyard flowers. Now I was sure Arcellano had bitten off more than I could chew. It was like a frigging castle. Those calm diligent guards . . .
The mob of us moved like a slow tide, across the great circle and up the steps. The sheer scale of everything was awesome, doors a mile high and the basilica unbelievable in size and splendour. The last thing I expected was to find the place used, but there it was with people praying and milling and a Mass being said. I joined the crowd round
Wherever I had gone so far I had come up against the most enormous brickwork wall. Its foot sloped outwards from a point several feet above the pavement. It could not have been less than a good eighty feet high. Presumably the rear end of St Peter’s church was in some churchyard behind it.
I drank my coffee feeling decidedly less full of myself. If
that
was the wall of the Vatican, there was no way of climbing it, for sure. Still, a church is a church is a church. There was bound to be a proper way in. And out. Nicking an antique from a church would be child’s play. Always is.
Despite the early time of year, numerous tourists had begun to troop about when finally I left the café. I thought, follow the wall and you will come to the entrance. Nothing could be simpler. Full of resolution, I crossed by the tourist shops crammed with mementoes and religious statuary. A group of Germans, superbly organized, were already photographing a small gateway up ahead. I headed for them and mingled. I disliked what I saw.
The gateway was one car wide. It had everything except size. Its traffic lights worked. It had businesslike gates folded back, but worst of all it had a group of vigilant blokes. They wore the navy-blue attire of tidy artists, slanted berets, cloaks with arm-holes, black stockings. That didn’t paralyse me so much as their air of diligence. No car was allowed to enter but these chaps scrutinized each car’s occupants and the passes. Worse still, an imposing-looking car earned itself the sailor’s elbow.
‘Excuse me, signor,’ I asked a man nearby. ‘What is this place?’
He did not understand and anyway saw his guide raise her folded multicoloured umbrella – the signal of the Roman guide – and was off with the rest. A hand tugged my elbow.
‘You never heard of the Vatican, son?’
My drab old lady who had ribbed me so mercilessly at the kiosk, her hat still with its ludicrous black cherries.
‘
That’s
the Vatican?’ I said weakly. ‘What’s the wall for?’
‘To keep bad people out.’ She chuckled at my face. ‘We Romans have this joke – it’s to keep the good people in.’
‘What are those men doing?’
‘In the gateway? They’re the Swiss Guard.’
I looked again, this time harder. Young, tough, vigilant and very fleet of foot should it come to a sprint. My heart sank. That bastard Arcellano.
‘How many of them are there?’
A slyness had crept into her voice. She tilted her head up at me, birdlike, her spectacles glinting. ‘Enough. You want to go in? There’s a museum, but the entrance—’
Irritably I shook her off and walked dejectedly along the wall pavement. People were drifting like a football crowd. Ahead were the pillars of the Colonnade rimming St Peter’s square. A toffee-maker and a trinketseller were doing a roaring business, blocking one of the arches leading into the square with tourists mobbing the stalls. The square itself was crammed. A pop group was singing somewhere on the Colonnade steps. There was a caravan shop selling Vatican City stamps, obviously an improvised post office. Ahead, between the fountains, rose the great basilica of St Peter’s. It was a real ball, everybody agog and full of good cheer, but I drifted into the throng feeling a right yeti.
Until then I had really felt quite confident. Idiot that I was, I had assumed the Vatican to be a church – okay, a big one, but still a church, with perhaps one or two elderly vergers pottering among the churchyard flowers. Now I was sure Arcellano had bitten off more than I could chew. It was like a frigging castle. Those calm diligent guards . . .
The mob of us moved like a slow tide, across the great circle and up the steps. The sheer scale of everything was awesome, doors a mile high and the basilica unbelievable in size and splendour. The last thing I expected was to find the place used, but there it was with people praying and milling and a Mass being said. I joined the crowd round
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