“Which is?”

“He was in an unbelievable state,” Cesare continued, as if not having heard the question. “I’d never seen him like that before. He told me to hold on to it, just for a few days, and to tell no one.” Cesare seemed to lose his train of thought. “He was distracted. Very distracted.”

“It seems to be catching,” said Pearse, trying to lighten the mood.

The comment momentarily brought Cesare back. “What?”

“Nothing. Did he tell you why he gave it to you?” he asked. When Cesare continued to stare blankly, Pearse added, “Have you looked inside?”

Cesare’s eyes went wild. “Why? Why do you ask that?”

Pearse raised his hands in mock surrender, another attempt to calm his friend. “I’m just asking. I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no, of course, you’re just asking.” Cesare placed a hand on Pearse’s knee, his expression at once benign. “I’m sorry. It’s just …” Again, he seemed to lose focus. He took in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Pearse waited until the monk was ready to speak again. “I took it, I put it in my rooms, and I didn’t think about it anymore. And then suddenly, he’s dead. Naturally I’ve looked inside.”

“And?”

Cesare turned the tube around until he found a small handle halfway down one side; he pulled up on the metal hasp and watched as the top of the canister hissed opened-the sound of a vacuum releasing. He gently took out what looked to be a scroll of rolled vellum. “He said it was something he’d found here, behind the frescoes.”

“And you have no idea what it is?” Pearse asked. Cesare shook his head quickly. “Do you know why he gave it to you?”

“To me?” It took a moment for the question to register. “No. He was frightened. We were both down here digging; he saw me … I don’t know. He said it would be just for a few days.”

Pearse nodded, more to reassure Cesare than himself. “So why did you bring the tube back here?”

The Italian let his head fall back against the stone. “Why … why did I bring it here?” Again, he needed a moment to collect himself. “Because the day after Sebastiano was … the day after he died, I went back to my rooms and discovered that someone had gone through the place.”

“What?” Pearse’s tone had lost all trace of humor.

“A few things were slightly out of place. I’m very particular about my things.” He nodded several times for emphasis. “Anyway, I knew someone had been there. Luckily, I have a space where I keep certain other things. They didn’t find it, whoever they were. But they were there. I know that. So to be safe, I brought the tube here.”

“Why not take it to the abbot, or the police?”

“You think I didn’t think of that? I was in a panic. When I realized what I should have done, they’d already decided to have the funeral here. All the preparations-it’s been impossible to sneak down without anyone seeing or asking. I couldn’t very well have gone to the abbot or the police without this,” he said, raising the scroll, then placing it back into the tube. He pulled down on the mechanism and sealed it.

“So why bring me?” It was the first time he’d thought to ask.

Cesare looked at him, his expression momentarily blank. He tried a weak smile. “I don’t know. I saw you. I thought it would be better to have someone with me.” He suddenly stopped, his gaze drifting to the floor. “Actually, that’s not entirely true.” Pearse waited for his friend to continue. “I knew you’d be here today.” Cesare kept his eyes on the ground. “I knew no one would take any notice of us during the administration of Communion.” He was clearly struggling with something.

Again, Pearse waited.

“Sebastiano said that the scroll … the writing …” Cesare looked up. “Well, it might have something to do with the Manichaeans.” When there was no response, he continued. “You’re familiar with the fourth-century heresies-Augustine’s response to Mani and his followers. I thought perhaps you’d know what to do with the scroll.” Now he paused. “And why someone might have been killed because of it.” The last thought forced Cesare to close his eyes, drop his head back against the wall.

“The Manichaeans?” The reference caught Pearse completely by surprise, its absurdity dispelling whatever apprehension he might have been feeling. “Dante”-he smiled, trying to find the appropriate words-“I’m hardly an expert, but I do know that no one would kill anyone because of what the Manichaeans had to say. That’s … ludicrous.” He couldn’t help a little laugh. “The sect died out over fifteen hundred years ago.” Pearse saw his effort to console coming to naught. “Look, if that’s what’s in the scroll, I can tell you, you have nothing to be worried about. Nothing. Maybe you misinterpreted what Sebastiano-”

“No.” The answer was tinged with anger. “I know what I saw. I know what he told me.” He turned to Pearse, no less adamant. “And I know who the Manichaeans are. Of course no one kills because of an ancient heresy. I’m not stupid, Ian.”

“I didn’t say-”

“Sebastiano thought there was something. I find it rather strange that he’s dead two days after he hands me a certain scroll, which, according to you, should give me nothing to worry about. My rooms are rummaged through. If you think it’s something funny-”

“All right.” Pearse was getting tired of sitting on the rock-hard floor. “We’ll take the scroll to the abbot, or the police, or whoever you think best. And we’ll see. How about that?”

Cesare waited before answering. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Pearse echoed. He rested his head against the wall. Sensing things were still a bit dicey, he added, “Then again, you might have reason to be worried.” He kept his eyes straight ahead. He waited for Cesare to turn to him. “The Sox did pull to within four games of the Yanks last night.”

It was several seconds before Cesare answered. “What?”

“The Sox. They’re within four. Might be time to be getting a little nervous.”

Cesare stared at Pearse. “What was the score?”

Pearse continued to gaze at the far wall. “They called it in the sixth. Ten-run rule.”

Cesare couldn’t hide the first hint of a smile. “I thought that was just for Little League?”

Pearse shrugged.

“Well, it’s as close as they’ll get,” said the monk.

Now Pearse smiled. He hoisted himself up, placed a hand on Cesare’s shoulder, and patted the weathered cloth. “Always the pessimist.”

“It’s just that you people never learn, that’s all.” For the first time in the last twenty minutes, he seemed to relax.

Cesare was just getting to his feet when the lights suddenly flicked on in the corridor. At once, panic, then a look of concentrated calculation fixed in his eyes. “The lights for the tourists,” he said as he moved to the door. “They can only be turned on from two floors above.” He scanned the corridor, then turned to Pearse, extending the tube to him. “It’ll take them a few minutes to get down here. Take this and put it back in the hole.”

“Dante, I’m sure-”

“Please, Ian, do as I ask. If this is nothing, you can laugh at me later. Just do this.” Pearse took the tube. “Put the stones back around it, keep your lantern off, and wait ten minutes before leaving. I’ll … try to distract them by going now. Meet me outside the Colosseum in an hour.”

Before Pearse could answer, the monk was through the door, the sound of his feet quickly receding down the corridor. Reluctantly, Pearse did as he was asked and turned off his lantern, the room at once pitch-black save for a tiny patch of light bleeding in through the doorway. The area by the stones, however, remained in complete darkness. He placed the lantern on the floor, then knelt so as to locate the hole. Feeling his way down the wall, he found the opening and slid the tube inside; then, one by one, he replaced the stones. He checked his watch: 4:40. Leaning his head back against the wall, he dropped his shoulders and closed his eyes.