His face grew more pale.  His skin took on an unhealthy pallor in the morning light.

“But I am still high in the party . . . these desertions  in my staff . . .  the attacks . . .  this must be stopped . . .”

He asked for Zanche’s story then, realizing before she spoke, I, suppose, that Lodovico—despite his desire for vindication, his alleged devotion to Isabella—would not risk coming after us alone.

––––––––

The streets were clotted with pilgrims. They massed about the arch at the city’s old entrance and overflowed onto the cobblestones. They streamed along the ancient wailing wall, in whose crevices they tucked handwritten messages for the dead pope. The carabinieri put up barriers blocking passage, redirecting traffic into alleys that led back the way we had come. Drivers abandoned their cars.

Gasparo rolled down the window.

“We are on state business.”

The officer peered inside. I had my shades on and my hair up so that the crowd wouldn’t recognize me. I heard crying along the ancient wall. According to legend, the spirits of the dead remained trapped here until their grievances were settled, and the sound of the wind whistling in the crevices at night was not the wind at all but the voices of those dead.

“Let me see the papers.”

Gasparo handed the identification papers through. Paolo was not with us. He had kept Johnny with him at the palazzo, meaning to confront the evolving situation in Rome: to protect his own position and get rid of Lodovico as well. Meanwhile Paolo had sent his nephew, Dazio, and me north, toward Salò. He’d assigned Gasparo to drive, to keep us safe, with Zanche in attendance.

“I can move the barriers,” said the cop. “But the crowd is thick and stubborn. Without a siren it might be difficult. And even then.”

“The other way will take hours,” said Gasparo.

“You might want to roll up your windows.”

The officer winked at me. It was a lascivious wink. Then he patted the car’s fender in the same way you might pat an animal on the rump. We edged past the barrier into the crowd. The stream of people became more dense. The crowd didn’t part easily. They were devout but surly, solemn-eyed, nervous in the heat, at being herded together like cows. We came to a standstill. A child pressed his nose against the glass and put his hands on the window. Soon another child did the same, and a curious old gypsy, too.

“Do something,” said Zanche.