Chapter Two
“It is a tragedy.”
“It is a crisis which must be overcome.”
“Have the police had any luck whatsoever in tracking down the vile culprits?”
“None. None whatsoever.”
“And who do they suspect? There are rumours flying about, but they might easily have been created by the press. These journals, for the most part, are highly unscrupulous.”
Cardinal Zuccarelli nodded his thin head in agreement. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the speculations engaged in by the papers are as solid as our own. We have no more facts than they. As many valuables were left behind, I don’t think it is a case of, as the Theodosian Code says, nemo martyrem mercetur, selling them, but more of some variety of sinister plot. If it was simply a matter of material gain I scarcely think that paintings by Tiepolo, Mantegna and Veronese would have been left behind.”
“I personally would not be surprised if it was the work of the Jews,” Bishop Vivan ejaculated with a sneer.
“It might as easily be Muslim radicals,” the cardinal said, stroking the white mouse which sat perched in his pocket with one finger.
“Or the Buddhists.”
“Indeed the Buddhists. Orientals will stop at nothing. They are quiet, but their very silence makes them all the more ominous.”
“Well, at least the jaw was not taken,” Vivan said presently.
“True, but the tongue is what people come to see. For some reason it is the tongue that fascinates, not the jaw.”
The two men walked through the Prato della Valle, along one of the two straight paths that cut through the quadri-triangular landmark. Statues encircled the zone, adding an extreme measure of elegance to the scene, with their manneristic gestures and antique solemnity, that seemed to rub off on the holy pair as they strolled along, gracing the ground with their feet.
Cardinal Zuccarelli was the older of the two; a man fifty-four years of age, tall and thin, with an aquiline nose and penetrating eyes. His features were stiff and his flesh almost grey in tone. His bearing was serious and imposing. He had the elongated, severe look of a painting by El Greco. By his supreme gravity, it was obvious that he took himself and his office very seriously.
Vivan, the Bishop of Padua, was quite young for the position he held. He was forty-two. However, he looked even younger: his hair, which he wore just long enough to cover his ears, was full and black. His face was round and lively, the skin smooth and fresh as a boy’s. Though he was not a fat man, he did have a delicate paunch which he stuck forward as he walked, or rather minced along. He had the elastic, red mouth of a sensualist and the sparkling eyes of a lively fellow.
The two men, as they walked side by side, gave a picture of two extremes in ecclesiastic behaviour.
A figure approached them from the far end of the path, tonsured head bent, the very muscles of the legs becoming obvious as they stretched out the fibre of his cassock in their advance, with steps long and brisk.
“It is Father Torturo,” said Bishop Vivan.
“Yes, I have seen him before,” said Cardinal Zuccarelli, peering forward with his keen black eyes. “I have seen him before, but I must say have had nothing to do with him. I suppose he is one of those inoffensive shadows which decorate the musty corners of our churches.”
“Oh, he is as inoffensive as a fly – but he is far from being a fool. He is deliciously brilliant.”
“Well, that is comforting. Inoffensive brilliance has a tendency to be far more useful than belligerent genius. Mousy men who know their grammar generally make good priests.”
“Yes; he is an ideal priest.”
“He appears to be hurt; – a bandaged head and hand. How extraordinary!”
“I believe he must have had an accident while doing gymnastics. A similar thing happened to him last year when he was showing the choirboys how to do some kind of special hand-stand he called ‘the scorpion.’”
“So we have a priest who does gymnastics?”
“Yes,” Bishop Vivan simpered; “the man is athletic to a remarkable degree. Though, in our line of work, callisthenics are not an exactly orthodox, I cannot help but admire him, for a good physique is a beautiful thing.”
Father Torturo by this time was quite near. The two ecclesiastics stopped, one tall, thin and somewhat grave, the other shorter, somewhat stouter, with a clear, effeminate, almost boyish face and a bow-like grace to his posture.
“How do you do father?” Cardinal Zuccarelli condescended to ask, as the other passed them, gaze still set on the ground, apparently unaware of their presence. Father Torturo looked up for an instant, nodded his head curtly, and then continued, moving away with his long, virile strides.
”The nerve!” Cardinal Zuccarelli gasped, his normally bloodless cheeks turning plum coloured. “The loathsome man hardly acknowledged my presence.”
“I am afraid you will have to excuse him,” the bishop said, touching the other’s hand lightly. “I believe the poor fellow is overwrought over the loss of the tongue of the blessed St. Anthony. To my understanding, he has taken a temporary vow of silence.”
“Has he taken a vow of pertness as well?”
“Oh, he is an odd fellow, I’ll admit that,” Vivan replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “But your Emminency would be hard pressed to find a more devoted servant.”
“That may very well be,” Zuccarelli said, slipping his arm through that of the younger man and resuming the stroll forward, “but we must remember that He most appreciates the humble servant. The proud servant often disdains those dirty little tasks which make up his daily duty. One day you find that he has been sweeping all the dust under the rug instead of doing things proper, and you say to yourself, ‘Oh so that is why I have been sneezing so much!’ Indeed, it is the humble servant He most appreciates.” The mouse peeped out of his pocket and chirped. “Yes Picolito,” he said, stroking its little white head with his thumb. “Papa knows you’re a wee-wee-humble servant.”
The two men slowly moved through the Prato della Valle, and on towards Il Santo, the Cathedral of St. Anthony, their figures swaying slightly from side to side with each advancing step.
