The Power of Five Oblivion

Silvio will arrive after dark, at eight. The Pontifical Commission is meeting today so he will be kept busy. You do not need to worry about anything, Pedro. We will look after you and we will help you get to where you want to go.” That puzzled Pedro. How could they know where he was going when he wasn’t even sure about that himself? But the woman seemed kindly enough and, although he hated to admit it, he was almost her prisoner. He had nowhere else to go. “Sleep well,” she said. “If there is anything you want, I will be downstairs. Do not call out. I don’t want to wake Maria.”
    She took one last look at him, then bustled out, closing the door softly behind her.
    Pedro was desperate to lie down but first he peeled off the wet clothes, dropping them on the floor outside the door. He went into the bathroom, his bare feet slapping against the floorboards. The bath was old-fashioned with heavy, golden taps and a brown stain leading down to the plug-hole where water had dripped for perhaps a hundred years. He turned the tap. The water coughed then came spitting out in a steady stream and, as Carla had said, it was warm. Pedro got in and washed himself. He even had a block of soap, hard and gritty but effective nonetheless. All around him, the water turned dark brown and he realized that even after everything he had been through, despite the tons of water that had fallen on him when he was on the Medusa , he was still filthy from the Naples sewers. What must Carla Rivera have thought when he turned up in her home?
    He used the soap twice, lathering himself all over and then washing it off. He held his head under the tap, letting the water stream through his hair and over his neck. Finally, he got out and dried himself. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Although he had been well fed when he was staying with the Incas, he had gone back to being thin to the point of scrawny. His black hair was long and unkempt. His eyes had sunk into his face. He examined the hand with the broken finger. Despite everything, it had finally begun to heal. At least that was something to be grateful for.
    Finally, he climbed into the bed. The mattress was hard but the sheets were clean and the blankets warm. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that he could still be in danger. What did he know about Carla Rivera or her family? Almost nothing. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t have run any more, even if he’d wanted to.
    Downstairs, the woman waited for her son to return. Upstairs, on the second floor, Pedro slept.
    The meeting for the Pontifical Commission for the Vatican City state had come to an end. The seven cardinals who were its members took their leave of the Holy Father, bowing but saying nothing. Pope Pius XIII was a very old man, well into his nineties, and it was quite possible that he had been asleep for the last half-hour. These days, it was impossible to tell. He seldom spoke and when he did mutter something, his words often made no sense at all. “Dogs! Magicians! Murderers!” He repeated the words endlessly. It was possible he was thinking of the Bible … some said the Book of Revelations. Nobody knew for sure.
    The cardinals all looked very grand in their bright scarlet cloaks and berrette – the square caps with four peaks and tufts that they were entitled to wear. The room where they had met was equally magnificent, with pillars and tapestries, thick velvet curtains, a swirling marble floor and a ceiling covered in gold leaf. The curtains were closed. The Holy Father could no longer bear to look outside. He spent much of the day in bed with his eyes closed and a young priest reading to him in Latin from the Old or New Testament.
    Cardinal Silvio Rivera left the meeting with a sense of dismay. The country was crumbling. There were people starving in the streets … and there were too many of them. It seemed as if the whole world had chosen Italy as a final refuge, and with all the overcrowding, crime and violence were everywhere. The government had responded with a ferocity that he preferred not to think about. He had heard the stories about the transportations, about the prison camps outside Arezzo. How could it have come to this? Could the world really be as evil as it seemed?
    The cardinal returned to his office, where his secretary was waiting for him, to help him disrobe. But Silvio shushed him away. He wanted to be on his own. There was a heavy crucifix made of solid