“Heretics, are we? Well, for a good Catholic, you are singularly ignorant about your own faith, my dear. This heretic will help educate you, and we will begin by visiting this most interesting and ancient church. Ha—but, what is this?”
She turned and peered near-sightedly at one of the yellowed placards fastened to the facade of the church.
“It is a notice of taxes,” Galiana said. She could read—barely.
“So I see.” Miss Perkins adjusted her pince-nez. “An inappropriate notice for a church, is it not?”
Galiana sighed impatiently. Miss Perkins proceeded to read all the notices, while we fidgeted. Finally she walked toward the door. We were about to follow when there was a shift of movement all over the piazza. For a second everything froze. The women stopped in midstride, balancing their jars; the men looked like statues caught in a dramatic gesture; even the children stopped pushing the pebbles around in the dust. The next moment—it was amazing, how quickly it all happened—the piazza was half empty. The women and children had gone.
The troop of soldiers came into the piazza two abreast. They must have filled the narrow street from wall to wall. They carried long muskets, with bayonets attached. Behind them came the cavalry, a dozen or more mounted men—and Captain De Merode.
“What miserable-looking soldiers they are,” I said, remembering the Queen’s Household troops whom I had seen on parade in London. In comparison to their spotless uniforms and military precision, these slouching rascals looked like scarecrows.
Miss Perkins shook her head. “Don’t you remember the Swiss mercenaries we saw in Civitavecchia—lazy, fat men whose muskets were rusted with disuse? These men may look dirty, but their bayonets are freshly polished…. Look at their faces—their eyes. The peasants call them ‘lupi’— wolves.”
“How do you know all that?” I asked in surprise.
“I talk to people,” said Miss Perkins. “What is more, I listen.”
I took a closer look at the soldiers, who had spread out around the piazza like troops occupying a hostile city. The villagers had melted away; the chairs before the café were empty. But I was aware of watching eyes, flashes of movement in doorways and windows. The soldiers sensed the invisible watchers too. Now that Miss Perkins had alerted me, I saw the ferocity of the bearded faces, the animal keenness of the eyes.
The mounted men rode straight toward us. The Captain lifted his hand, and the little troop came to a ragged stop around the curving steps of the church. De Merode dismounted with a jingle of swordbelt and spurs. He swept off his helmet.
“Ladies, what a pleasure to meet you here. I would not have thought this wretched hole had any amusement to offer ladies of your sort. And you, Mademoiselle—Parker? I was under the impression that you had returned to England.”
“Were you?” Miss Perkins did not bother to correct his mistake about her name. “You do your spies less than justice. Captain. I am sure you know everything that goes on in this district.”
The word was ill-chosen—deliberately, if I knew my Miss Perkins. The Captain scowled.
“My spies”—he emphasized the word—“are less efficient than I could wish. I have not yet succeeded in the task my commander honored me with.”
“Honored?” I repeated, glancing at his unkempt soldiers with a curling lip. I had learned this gesture from watching Stefano. Apparently it was just as annoying on my face. De Merode’s cheeks reddened.
“Any service of His Holiness is an honor,” he snapped. “To be assigned to clean out this viper’s nest of traitors is a duty worthy of a soldier. There is no more dangerous post in the Papal States, I assure you.”
“I can see that,” I remarked, glancing around the empty square. “What dangerous mission have you come to perform, Captain?”
“Since you are here, you may watch,” said De Merode. Turning, he snapped out an order. Two of his men came forward. One was carrying a roll of paper, the other a pot and a brush. Before long, the facade of the church bore a new notice. From where I stood I could see only one line of the printing—the number 10,000.
Miss Perkins scrutinized the notice. “So much money for the capture of one local rebel? But I suppose you need not pay it, eh?”
“The money will be paid,” De Merode said. “It is a small price to pay for peace in this province; but a large sum for a poor man.”
His voice carried across the quiet piazza. He spoke Italian, instead of the French he had been using; and Miss Perkins answered in the same language and in the same loud tone.
“Larger than the thirty pieces of silver Judas earned…. You will excuse us, Captain. I have brought these two young ladies to see the church. It is of great antiquarian interest.”
She swept us before her through the heavy doors.
The interior was so dark, after the sunlight of the piazza, that I stopped short, gripped by a wave of panic. The darkness reminded me…. Then Miss Perkins caught my arm.
“Straight ahead. There is a heavy leather curtain between this entrance and the body of the church.”
It was not much lighter inside; the high narrow windows were so encrusted with grime that little sunlight struggled in. Toward the altar, some distance away, a few tiny candle flames burned bravely.
Galiana muttered, “I want to go.”
“So long as you are here, you may as well say a prayer,” said Miss Perkins. “If I do not mistake my saints, that statue is of the Holy Sebastian; you observe the arrows protruding from his side, like the quills of…Say a prayer. Galiana, while we examine the church.”
Galiana obeyed reluctantly, falling to her knees before the statue. It was a horrid-looking thing, of painted wood, unpleasantly lifelike despite its crudity. Streaks of garish red streamed down the saint’s body from his manifold wounds, and his face was contorted by a spasm of anguish.
Still holding my arm, Miss Perkins drew me to the far side of the church.
“The reward,” I said. “Was it for the Falcon?”
“Yes.”
“But why make such a great show of putting up the notice? One soldier could have done it.”
“I don’t understand that myself,” Miss Perkins admitted. “I think perhaps we should go back to the castle. I have an uneasy feeling.”
But when this proposition was put to Galiana, she made a loud outcry. She had followed our desires with regard to the church; the least we could do was let her visit the shop. Miss Perkins gave in, but I could see she was still uneasy.
I began to share her feelings as we crossed the square toward the shop. The mounted men had gone, but many of the foot soldiers were still there, relaxing like men released from duty. Some occupied the chairs outside the café. A waiter, wearing an exceedingly filthy apron, was serving them wine. The others strolled two by two or sat on the edge of the fountain.
At first the shop seemed to be deserted. Galiana called the proprietor’s name and after a moment Signor Carpaccio appeared from behind a curtain at the back of the shop. He greeted us with his usual obsequiousness and ran to show Galiana a tray of trinkets newly arrived from Florence. They were cheap-looking things, shiny silver rings and pendants set with mosaic, but Galiana’s tastes, like those of a magpie, were all for the cheap and shiny. She poked at the trinkets, bartering like a fishwife. I joined Miss Perkins, who was examining the ceramics I had seen before. The animal figures were rather appealing.
“Strange, how the talent survives,” said Miss Perkins, holding up a small glazed statue of a stag. “The Etruscans were particularly skilled in the art of terra cotta.”
