Chapter 30
CHAPTER 30
S TEFANO WORKED HIS WAY THROUGH A CROWD INFECTED WITH Palio fever. A mass celebration of municipal pride. He liked how one observer described it. A burlesque, with a touch of cruelty, that tens of thousands of people enjoy. It reminded him of the Calcio Storico, when Florentines behaved the same way every year for a ball game.
He’d stayed on station outside Charles Stamm’s apartment all night, until Cardinal Richter and another man emerged around 8:00 A.M. Thankfully, he’d thought ahead and had a car and driver dispatched from the Vatican, waiting nearby if needed. He’d also snapped some pictures of the second man. Tall, broad-shouldered, sandy-blond hair. He’d forwarded those to Entity headquarters, and an identification came back fast.
Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone.
Ex-military. United States Navy commander. Trained fighter pilot. Obtained a law degree from Georgetown Law School. Worked for a short time as a navy litigator, then transferred to the Magellan Billet, a covert arm of the United States Justice Department. He received eight commendations for meritorious service in his twelve years there, all of which were refused. He suffered three serious injuries while on assignments, and a fourth came in Mexico City during the assassination of a public prosecutor. Malone brought down three of the assailants but sustained a severe gunshot wound. After that incident he retired from the military and quit the Justice Department, moving to Copenhagen, Denmark, where he owned a rare-book shop.
But he still freelanced for the United States.
Malone’s presence raised two questions. Had Stamm involved him? Or was there another player on the board?
Richter and Malone had driven off and Stefano had sent the car at his disposal to follow discreetly. Ascolani had ordered him to keep Richter in their sights. Okay. Done. He’d moved in another direction, after receiving a short text from Ascolani. Come to Siena. Which he’d also done. He’d texted his boss on arrival and a reply had come fast. Upper gallery of Cathedral of St. Mary of the Assumption. At your convenience.
Which he knew meant now.
He continued to make his way toward the cathedral, the buildings and balconies draped with colorful banners. Every nook and cranny of Siena vibrated with the tingle of the celebration. There would be games in the streets, concerts, and baptisms of all those born during the previous year. So much to see, even more to feel. The famous parade was happening. All eighteen contradas participated, though only ten of those would race tomorrow. It had to be that way as the track could not accommodate them all. So a procedure had evolved. The eight who did not run in the previous race were automatically included. The remaining two were drawn by lot from the other ten. Here, though, in the streets, there was plenty of room for all.
Each contrada fielded drummers, men-at-arms, horsemen, and flag wavers who performed with flawless agility. In the lead were the trumpeters dressed in medieval black-and-white tights and red tunics. Next came the standard-bearers marching in formation, followed by the flags of the mercers, apothecaries, painters, blacksmiths, and stonemasons. Then came the Capitano del Popolo astride a solid charger adorned in armor, with a page walking ahead bearing a sword and shield. He was the ceremonial head of the Palio. Strangely, no one appeared out of place or embarrassed by the odd regalia. Just the opposite, as the people of Siena seemed to walk with grace and ease into the fifteenth century.
Representatives of the contradas then appeared. One after the other. Last rode each contrada’s jockey upon a parade horse, the actual horse for the race at the end with only a cloth flung over its back.
Color abounded. Which he knew was important. White for glory. Red for strength. Blue for peace. Yellow for nobility. Each contrada utilized a unique mix of the four colors, their territory across Siena marked by their flags angling from the buildings. Those individual color schemes were also incorporated into scarves the people wore around their necks, given to them when they were children but donned only twice a year. It was considered bad luck to wash the scarves, so they all bore the dirt and grime from past Palios.
He stopped for a moment.
One of the contradas drew level to where he stood. The men were dressed in tunics of yellow with black and blue edging, their hose yellow, the calf of each leg encircled by two blue bands.
Eagles.
The roll of a drum moved the air.
Several of them then faced one another and cast the flags they carried up thirty feet, catching them shaft-first. As if that were too easy they cast them up again, then turned their backs on the falling flags, catching them backward as they came down. Then they twirled them beneath their legs and tossed them back and forth like flaming torches, one to the other, while the crowd roared its approval. The alzata . A talent unique to Siena, which harked back to when a banner on the battlefield was every soldier’s reference point. Lose the banner and they lost the fight. So its bearers learned to keep it high, which eventually developed into an art form.
The pageantry would go on for another two hours.
No time for him to stay and watch.
He hustled along, elbowing his way through the thick throngs.
The cathedral sat on the highest point in town, on the site where a temple to Minerva once stood. Started in 1229 the Sienese wanted to build the grandest church in the world, but it eventually became only a fraction of what it was supposed to be. Outside was a magnificent striped marble facade, topped by a huge dome and a massive bell tower that could be seen from all over the city.
Why was it never completed?
History noted that a devastating outburst of black plague killed a huge percentage of the population and made it tough to find workers. But constantly battling its archenemy Florence had been the main factor, draining resources. He’d often thought that if Siena had won the Battle of Marciano and never fallen to their Florentine rivals, they may have possibly built one of the greatest cities in all of Italy.
But perhaps they had still managed to do just that.
He crossed the street and climbed the stone steps to the cathedral’s main doors. The parade was headed this way and would culminate out in front. Before all that arrived he paid his admission fee and entered. He could have shown his Vatican identification, which would have granted him free entrance, but he knew not to draw attention to himself.
Inside, the crowded nave was striking with its zebra-striped black-and-white walls, the colors in the Siena coat of arms. A forest of clustered columns reached to ceiling vaults painted a deep blue and sprinkled with golden stars.
He turned right and headed for an open portal, stepping over a chain that said NO A DMITTANCE and climbing a steep set of stone risers. At the top, before a stone balustrade, stood Cardinal Ascolani, dressed in nondescript street clothes, admiring the people below.
He walked over.
“I have always found this cathedral so intriguing,” Ascolani said in a low voice. “Such an array of color and style. But the busts are my favorite.”
Projecting from above the arches around the nave were the terra-cotta heads of the first 172 popes.
Ascolani pointed. “The head labeled Hadrian I. See how young and unlike the others he appears?”
He agreed. There were physical differences.
“Some say that is really Pope Joan. Hadrian lived at the time when a woman might have managed to disguise herself and become pope.”
“That is a legend,” he had to say.
“Is it? For me it is more a mystery.”
And he saw that Ascolani liked the dichotomy.
“Your men following Cardinal Richter say he and the American are at a horse farm, outside of town.”
News to him, as no report had come his way.
“It is owned by Camilla Baines. Do you know her?” Ascolani asked.
He shook his head.
“A rich and powerful woman,” Ascolani said. “She’s the capitano for the Golden Oak contrada . Interestingly, she is there and not here, in town, in the parade, leading her contrada .”
Which was tradition, he knew.
“They drove straight there,” Ascolani said, his attention still on the crowds below. “Stamm sent them. No question. We need to know why.”
He waited for more.
“Do you recall what I said about Miguel Ghislieri, when he was sent into exile in 1559. Banished by Pius IV.”
He nodded.
“Nobody knows how many records Ghislieri took with him.”
He recalled what the priest in the archives had said.
“Inventories were sparse.”
“Those records almost certainly dealt with the popes of his time. Especially the controversial ones. Clement VII. Leo X. Both Medicis, by the way. And of course, Julius II. If the church’s copy of that pledge still exists, it will be within those lost papers.”
Ascolani turned to face him.
“Those records have long been secreted away by the Carthusians. Few know that fact. But Charles Stamm is one who does.”
“How does Camilla Baines fit into this?”
Ascolani smiled. “That is where this becomes really interesting. That monastery has minimal contact with the outside world. But Carthusians have to survive in the modern world, and Camilla Baines’ family has long been their most ardent supporter. If anyone can gain access to what may be hidden away in that monastery, she is that person.”
“You think Richter and Malone will go to the monastery?”
“It is not all that far away. So we are going to find out.”
“And if they do go there?”
“We will be there too.”