Eric Lustbader - The Testament

She came closer, and Jenny could smell her-a rank, sour, animal smell. It was, Jenny imagined, how human beings must have smelled in the time of Casanova.

"You do not flinch from me-well, that is something," Arcangela said. "I am here, I have been here for thirty years to do penance, to pay for the transgressions my charges commit every day of their lives."

"But your charges are nuns," Jenny said. "What kind of transgressions could they commit?"

Pointing at Jenny, Arcangela addressed the sister. "Look at her, Suor Maffia di Albori. Dressed like our own Santa Marina!"

Jenny blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Arcangela crooked a knobbed forefinger. "Santa Marina, eighth century, from the Bythian province of Asia Minor." She nodded. "Like you, she dressed as a man-in her case, a monk's habit-and lived among males all her life. We brought her relics here in 1230, when we founded this convent in her name, so that we could walk among men, talk to men, and so advance our Order's work."

"The Order?"

The abbess's eyebrows suddenly shot up like a release of energy or the beginning of an idea. "Ah, Suor Maffia di Albori, now she has begun to make the connections, to piece together the patchwork quilt of clues we have been patiently feeding her."

Jenny's finger's gripped the iron bars of the Anchorite's cell. "You are members of the Gnostic Observatines?"

"As you yourself are," Suor Maffia di Albori said at her side.

"But I was told that-"

"The Order didn't allow women," Arcangela finished for her. "And now you know the truth. From the day Santa Marina Maggiore was founded, our charges have dressed in monk's habits, passing out of this sanctuary and into the world outside. In this way, we made deals with nobles, bartered with merchants, gathered knowledge for the doge and for ourselves. It was we who furthered Venice's way in the world, it was through our contacts in the Levant that the Serene Republic grew rich and powerful."

"And you with it," Jenny said.

Arcangela's face clouded over. "Ah, now you talk like your male counterparts in the Order."

"Oh, no, I was remembering Bravo's comment that the convent had provided the funds for the church's fourteenth-century renovation."

"And how conveniently our generosity over the centuries has been obscured by the envy of some of the members of the Haute Cour-including the late Father Mosto-who want us disbanded, stripped of our power. All because I dared ask for representation in the inner circle."

"But you should be part of the Haute Cour," Jenny said.

"You believe that-and so did the Plumber. It was he who stood up for us, he who, when shouted down by the others, came to our aid and helped us without anyone else knowing."

That was just like Dex, Jenny thought, tears standing in her eyes.

"We have nothing of our own, else why would we have needed the Plumber's help?" Arcangela said. "We have never wavered from the tenets of poverty laid down by St. Francis for the Observatines. Of course, wealth in many different forms did, on occasion, come our way. But always it was used to help others, for the furtherance of the Order. Our loyalty is unquestionable."

The forefinger was raised again. "And the work for which we are vilified is highly dangerous. When, in 1301, the first of our charges was killed in Trebizond on a mission of grave importance, Santa Marina Maggiore underwent a sea change. The day our sister in Jesus Christ was brought back here from Trebizond, the then abbess, Suor Paula Grimani, swore to become an Anchorite in penance. Within three days, the bishop of Torcello arrived to administer the last rites and the first of our abbesses was bricked in. The penance has become perpetual."

Jenny shook her head. "But to consign yourself to a living hell."

"Do you not understand the purpose of penance?" the Anchorite asked. "Perhaps I should have quit smoking or given up raisins. Do you think such deprivation adequate for the loss of a life?"

"Of course not, but you could have stopped. You could have ordered your charges to return here and never leave again."

"Yes, I could have done that," Arcangela said, "but then I wouldn't have been fit to be abbess. Then our trove of secrets would have been depleted centuries ago, and that would have been the end of the Order."

"So you did most of the work, and the monks took the credit."

"It wasn't as simple as that, the monks were always quite active. But they don't think as we do, do they?" Arcangela said. "And they don't have access to our resources. You see, for centuries Venice's prostitutes came here to pray, to seek penance and have the Virgin Mary absolve them of their sins." She shook her head. "You know, many of them are closer to God than the so-called legitimate citizens of the city."

Arcangela moved a little more into the light, which only underscored the ravines etched into her face. "It was the whores who had access, you see, to everyone from the doge on down, and it is we who had access to the whores. At night, they lie next to politicians, merchant-princes, even Holy Fathers, and the whispered confidences passed in the aftermath of their work came straight to us. It was the masks, you see. It was easy in a city of masks, where identities were hidden, for anyone, married or clergy-even the doge-to move unrecognized through Venice, to visit anyone he wished without fear of being found out. This is why it is often said that what the whores of Venice don't know isn't worth knowing."

"The monks must have hated that you had sources not available to them."

"Of course they did, and they made our lives miserable because of it. They knew the nature of our transgressions. They knew we could not complain or go around them-we could not bring that kind of attention to ourselves. We're females, after all, we cannot give confession or communion or sermons, so even we-who ventured beyond the cloistered walls to further our Order-are in a way all prisoners."

"Nothing has changed," Suor Maffia di Albori said. "It is as I told you."

"I remember," Jenny said. "I won't be defeated by Venice."

"Good, good." Arcangela moved until her clawlike fingers touched Jenny's. Her skin was as smooth as silk. "So, now I will answer your question."

Jenny frowned. "But I haven't asked you yet."

"No need," the abbess said. "An emissary of the man you wish to see has just arrived. Suor Maffia di Albori will take you to him."

"The man? Who-?"

"Why, Zorzi, of course. Paolo Zorzi," Arcangela said shortly. "Now go." She waved a hand vaguely. "I am unused to all this talk and my head hurts."

Jordan passed out of Vatican City into the sprawl and clutter of Rome proper. It was well that his hired car was air-conditioned, Rome was sweltering. At the Piazza Venetia, he turned, inching past the Forum, which was so choked with tourists it was impossible to make out the lower stories. He rose toward the Campidoglio and passed over it and out of the centro storico-the heart of Rome-arriving at the Bocca della Verita` and then on into the Aventino, a calm, leafy district of large old villas, studded with embassies and a scattering of upscale apartment buildings.

Jordan observed everything through the tinted windows, at a remove from the overheated chaos of the Roman afternoon.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Camille. When she answered, he asked her for an update on the situation in Venice.

"Have no worries. Everything is on schedule, my love," she said.

"Good, because Canesi's been flexing his muscles again." He barked a short laugh. "Unfortunately for him, his muscles have begun to wither away."

"What a pity."

"How is Signore Cornadoro behaving himself?"

"Perfectly, my love. And now I must ask the same of Signore Spagna."

"Osman is no concern of yours, Mother. Your focus should be on Bravo."