The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 43

CHAPTER 43

J ASON STEPPED FROM THE CAR.

The vehicle had been waiting for him where a caller from earlier had instructed him to go. An older priest had been behind the wheel and they’d left Siena, heading south toward Rome. After about fifty kilometers they veered off the main highway and took one of the narrow local routes into the darkened countryside. Finally, the path turned to dirt for the final few kilometers, broad at its start but narrowing as they climbed.

He was deep into the Val d’Orcia, a region of Tuscany that extended from the hills south of Siena down to Monte Amiata. A landscape of cultivated hills broken by gullies and picturesque towns and villages. Its wines were considered some of the best in Italy, the entire region a World Heritage Site. The journey ended at Castiglion del Bosco, a luxury hotel located in the heart of the Val d’Orcia. He knew the place. Unique in that its buildings were once a small village, all converted into elegant guest suites, a cooking school, and two restaurants, along with all the other amenities expected at a five-star resort. He’d actually stayed here for one night a few years ago.

He was directed past the registration building and down a set of stone steps to what was once the village’s main street. Lanterns lit the cobbles with a flickering amber glow. Towering cedars reached up into the sky at the end of the path, more steps leading upward to the top of a hill dissolving into the night. Before that, tables and chairs dotted an outdoor restaurant, all unoccupied save for one.

He approached and smiled.

Chas Stamm was still in command.

“I was unaware that a retired cardinal could afford a room here,” he said. “What do they go for? Several thousand euros a night?”

His friend was nursing a glass of wine and what appeared to be a cheese pizza.

Stamm motioned. “At least that. Sit. I ordered this food for you.”

He accepted the offer and helped himself to a slice, which was hot, fresh, and delicious, fire-oven-baked.

“Wine?” Stamm asked, lifting the bottle on the table.

He nodded.

“It’s a local red. Quite good,” Stamm said, filling the glass with a generous pour. “And expensive.”

“You know the management here?” he asked.

Stamm nodded. “They have always been quite accommodating for me.”

He kept enjoying the pizza.

Stamm set the wine bottle down. “Not far from this place is the Badia Ardenga, a handsome abbey, built around A.D. 1000. Have you ever seen it?”

He shook his head.

“Emperors and popes once visited there. There is a story that, in 1313, the German emperor Henry VII and his army went to the abbey to take communion. Taking advantage of the opportunity, the monks supposedly poisoned the Eucharist and killed him.”

He finished the slice and reached for another. “And the point of that lovely story?”

“Careful what you eat.”

He ignored the jab and kept chewing.

“When Henry died,” Stamm said, “the town of Pisa built a monumental tomb inside their cathedral for him. Sadly, it did not last long. For political reasons it was dismantled, its stone reused elsewhere. But the body stayed in the ground.”

He sipped some of the wine. Yes, it was good.

“In 1921 Henry’s tomb was opened and examined. It was studied again in 2013, seven hundred years after his death. The bones were examined by X-ray diffraction, infrared spectroscopy, and scanning electron microscopy to study medieval postmortem practices.”

He decided to bite on the bait. “Did they determine he was poisoned?”

Stamm shrugged. “There was no way to confirm or deny. History says he died of malaria. But I like the story of the murderous monks better.”

Two pieces of pizza were plenty, but the wine he would continue to savor. “There has to be a good reason why you have come here from Rome, summoned me from Siena, then related this fascinating story.”

“Along with Henry VII other bones have been freed from their graves and studied,” Stamm said.

He waited for more.

“I received a call earlier from a close friend, a bishop assigned to the Basilica of San Lorenzo in Florence. Last night Eric Casaburi made his way into the Medici crypt and opened the grave of Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici. He came with a renowned DNA expert who extracted a sample for testing.”

He instantly recalled what Casaburi had told him.

“You have DNA evidence of your ancestry?”

“I do, and DNA evidence does not lie.”

“You will have to prove all of that.”

“I will.”

“Anna Maria was the last legitimate royal Medici heir,” Stamm said. “Or at least that is what history notes.”

“Casaburi is obviously trying to establish a connection to her.”

“Clearly. Which is both disturbing and fascinating. He is currently in the village of Varallo, where he grew up,” Stamm said. “His parents are dead, but his grandmother is still alive. She lives there in his childhood home. All her life she spoke of being a Medici. No one ever paid her any mind.”

“And you would have dismissed all that as fantasy too. Until tonight.”

Stamm lifted his own wineglass and gestured. “Precisely.”

“Are you watching Casaburi?”

Stamm finished his wine. “Quite closely.”

“More wine,” Jason said, motioning that he would pour.

His friend waved the offer off. “Lucky for you there are lots of people still loyal to me.”

“You have your own private Entity?”

“Something like that.”

He was grateful for his friend’s foresight and efforts. It was good to have him on his side.

Stamm reached down and brought up a small cardboard box, sealed with tape. “Please give this to Malone. He asked for it.”

“Do I want to know what that is?”

The older man shrugged. “I do not see why you should. I hear that Malone will be riding in the Palio tomorrow.”

He nodded. “I am glad it is him and not me.”

“It is important he do as Camilla wants.”

“He gets that.” But he was still bothered by another point. “Do you think Casaburi is actually a Medici?”

“Many Medici were left after Anna Maria died in 1743, from the two other branches of the family. But they were not of the royal line. That went extinct. Casaburi came to you and specifically mentioned the Pledge of Christ and the fact that only a legitimate Medici could call the debt. I am assuming he was not bluffing and knows more than we do. He would not have risked going into that tomb unless he was reasonably sure. But it seems the real question for Eric Casaburi is not whether he is Medici. There are countless of those around from those other two branches. No. He has to prove that he is a legitimate royal Medici heir.”

“How could he do that?”

Stamm smiled. “We are about to find out.”