Why forgiveness? Because he had taken no time for it today, no time for the Mass he had abandoned, no time to quiet his mind. He slipped across the road, down along the uneven cobblestones, and through the door into the vaulted church.

Inside, the light was spare, enough to cast angular shadows from the statues of saints who filled the raised niches along the circular wall. Hard plaster faces stared down at him, cheeks and hands chipped here and there, pleated robes too rigid at the edges, the caress of Bernini nowhere in evidence on the austere figures. Yet all he felt was their serenity. He dipped his hand into the holy water, crossed himself, and moved to the wooden benches that stood in front of the altar. Sitting, he let the strain of the last ten hours seep from his muscles, a sudden sense of exhaustion overwhelming him. On the verge of sleep, he allowed his head to slip back.

Caught in that honeyed mist between conscious and unconscious, he found himself drifting. For little more than an instant, Slitna, Prjac, the countless other towns he had long ago forgotten, all seemed to rise up in wild assault around him-sounds, smells, tastes, nothing distinct, all of it trapped in dissonant haze, yet so palpable, it forced him to bolt upright, its grasp almost too much.

His heart was racing, his mind lost to an endless array of sensations. One, however, stood out as he tried to reclaim focus. A quiet resolve, strangely familiar, an echo from his days with Petra. Even then, he had understood it as an imperfect reflection of hers, a naive courage that had all too often bordered on the reckless. Still, it had kept him alive on more than one occasion. Now, as he stared at the grained wood of the pew in front of him, Pearse allowed it to wash over him, resonate within. A moment with her. There might have been more to it than that, but he let it pass.

It wasn’t difficult to understand why it had come to the surface now; he only hoped he could sustain it.

Lips moving silently, he began to pray.

Cardinal von Neurath held the large velvet drape back, his gaze drawn to the lights of Rome as they spread out in front of him. Half past four, still so alive. How many times, he wondered, had he allowed himself to stand in robe and slippers, peering out, the chill from the hour and the lure of sleep both forgotten? Too many to recall. The endless twists and turns of streets disappeared into the labyrinth of the city, landmarks dotting the landscape to give his meditation some bearing-the ivory cream of the Colosseum, the garish white of Il Vittoriano, and always the silent dome, crisp against a blackened sky, beckoning him, calling him. Only him. Perhaps tonight.

The sound of a taxi broke through, fatigue and chill suddenly more intrusive. Still he stared. Rome. It was almost too much to pull himself away.

“Why don’t you get some sleep.” Blaney sat in an armchair at the far corner of the large bedroom, lamp at his side, legs extending to a cushioned footstool. “I can wake you if any news comes in.”

Von Neurath continued to stare out. “No, this is fine.” After a few moments, he turned. “If you want to get some-” The shake of the head across the room told him there was no reason to finish the thought. They had known each other for the better part of forty years, tied together by what had once been so clear a path. In fact, it had been Blaney who had administered von Neurath’s Rite of Illumination all those years ago. All so clear.

Things change. The priest, so devoted to his Manichaean faith, had never wanted more, content to be a spiritual beacon. Keep the teachings of Mani pure. Keep the Word alive. Blaney had always believed that the Word itself was all they needed to bring about the one true and holy church.

Von Neurath had recognized the weakness early on. Faith and teaching could take one only so far. There had to be a practical side to Mani’s vision. And the more that pragmatism had asserted itself, the more Blaney had kept his blinders on, an attitude that made him appear all the more pathetic in von Neurath’s eyes.

A relationship built on mutual mistrust. It was why they would both wait up for the call.

Von Neurath moved back to the bed and sat. “Any confirmation from Arturo on the transfers?” he asked, more to pass the time than anything else.

“About an hour ago,” answered Blaney. “Our Pentecostal, Baptist, and Methodist friends were all very appreciative.”

“I don’t care how much they appreciate it,” replied von Neurath, scratching away at a small stain on the bedspread. “I want to know that they understand what it’s for.” He brushed a few crumbs away and looked over at Blaney. “I can’t start consolidating the fold without grassroots support.”

“I’m sure they’re getting the message out, Erich.”

A quizzical look crossed von Neurath’s face before he turned to the stain again. “‘Message’? That’s a rather precious way of putting it, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. It’s what you would call the ‘soft sell,’ I think.”

Von Neurath laughed to himself; it seemed to catch Blaney by surprise. “I didn’t realize you were so good at it.”

“Hardly.”

“Oh, don’t underestimate yourself, John.”

“No, I’ll leave that to you.”

Von Neurath looked up from the stain. “Have I struck a nerve?”

Blaney said nothing.

Again, von Neurath waited. “You’ve really grown to dislike me, haven’t you?”

“Not at all.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re disappointed?”

“Disappointment implies expectation.”

A smile. “Touche.”

“We see things differently,” said Blaney.

“Yes, we do. I know the message isn’t enough. One has to be certain that they understand it.”

“Well, then, I’m sure you have the people in place for that.”

“We, John. We have the people in place.” He began to scrape away again. “Painting the world in black and white isn’t that easy with all those other colors out there. One pure church won’t just suddenly appear because you hope it will. You have to lead them to it. And the only way to do that is-”

“To manipulate them?” said Blaney.

Von Neurath didn’t bother to look up. “A little crude, but, yes, that sounds about right.”

Blaney nodded to himself. “‘And when the light descends, and the darkness recedes, who shall be worthy of the mystery that has been hidden since eternities?’”

“‘He who can make the world whole,’” answered von Neurath. “Epistle of Seth.”

“I don’t recall all that much about ‘manipulation’ in the epistle.”

Von Neurath now looked up. “And what would you propose? Unless we have a willing constituency among our Protestant friends, no amount of papal encyclicals will make anything whole again, infallibility or not. The olive branch goes only so far.”

“If, in fact, you’re the one holding it,” reminded Blaney.

“I don’t think that will be much of a problem.” The cardinal turned back to the bedspread, the stain clearly getting the better of him. “Sometimes the Word isn’t sufficient to motivate people to action.”

“I’m not sure Mani would agree with you.”

“Mani wasn’t dealing with such a complicated world.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Poor, naive little Mani.”

Again, von Neurath laughed. “Sarcasm doesn’t really suit you, John. You’re much better when self-effacing. I’d stick with that.” Von Neurath stood, stepped to a small washbasin on a nearby table, and began to dip a washcloth in the water. Wringing it out, he returned to the bed and went back to work on the stain. “Nobody’s quite sure who or what the agents of darkness are nowadays. Too many would-be demons to choose from. If I can simplify that-”

“If we, Erich. We.”

Von Neurath waited before continuing. “If we can simplify that, all the better. One clear threat. One ultimate demon to send them back into the arms of the true church.”