M. Rose - The Reincarnationist

By the time the other priests were his age they’d married and fathered children. They teased him about his unmarried state, not understanding it. Marriages allowed for every taste and predilection, they chided—even for men who preferred sex with other men. Why can’t you find a wife?

Only to himself, only now, could he admit that he’d found a woman he wanted to wed, but of all the women in all of Rome she was one of a very select few he couldn’t have.

He had been a young priest when she became a Vestal. And from the very beginning she had stood out. She was bright and curious as a young girl, then feisty and determined as an adolescent. His admiration had turned to attraction when her slim body had started to curve, when her breasts and hips teased him from under her robes.

For the past twelve years, Sabina had taunted him, then challenged him. Now, in death, she would haunt him.

Her hatred of him should have cooled his ardor. Instead, it seemed to inflame it. Alone in his own rooms, when thoughts of her would come, he’d find a prostitute. But not the lewdest, the lustiest, nor the most comely chased away the images of the virgin. Julius prayed to the gods to take away his desire. When they didn’t, he ignored and surmounted his feelings … He needed to … His attention could doom her. Any congress they might have shared could be her death sentence. And his.

Her eyes were shut. Her lovely red hair was singed and blackened. Julius sat beside her on the grass, unable to get up, although the fire was still raging and he knew the men needed him. Her sisters would come and get her body later and prepare it for burial, but he couldn’t leave her yet. Helplessly, he reached out and pushed a lock of hair off of her forehead. It was the first time he’d touched her. Tears coursed down his cheeks, surprising him with their velocity. Julius couldn’t remember the last time he’d wept.

“Sabina.” Again, a cry, not a word, still not a prayer.

And then it seemed as if the wind answered him, softly whispering his name in response. He looked down.

Her eyes were open. And upon him. And there was no anger in them anymore, but another expression: a mixture of defeat and desire.

Sabina had not perished in the fire after all.

He heard a sound that didn’t fit the picture. Loud. Shrieking. Not human. No. It was the ambulance coming to him from a great blue-green distance.

She looked at him, longing and pain in her eyes.

But the siren was pulling him up, up through the murky, briny heaviness into some fresh hell.

Rome, Italy—Tuesday, 8:12 a.m.

There were three paramedics. Too many people in a suddenly claustrophobic space. As much as Josh wanted to get out of the tomb, which now reeked of blood, he couldn’t. Backing up, he flattened himself against the wall and watched the team go into action.

The female medic wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around the professor’s arm. One of the men swabbed his other arm and stuck a needle in his vein, readying him for an IV. The third asked Josh questions in broken English.

How long ago did this happen?

When had the professor become unconscious?

Did he know the professor’s family?

Did he have any phone numbers for them?

Fifteen minutes.

Five minutes.

No.

No.

He didn’t know.

They worked with choreographed precision, totally focused, not seeming to notice where they were or that there was a mummified woman broken apart in the corner. But Josh kept glancing at her, checking on her.

From where he stood, he could see the professor’s face, colorless and motionless. But his eyes were open and his mouth was forming words. Josh couldn’t hear the words, so he moved as close as he could without getting in anyone’s way. Which, in that tiny space, meant taking only two steps forward.

The professor continued whispering in Italian: the same few words over and over.

“What is he saying?” he asked one of the medics.

“Aspetta. Wait for her. He’s repeating it over and over.”

They worked on him for a few more minutes and then the woman counted— uno, due, tre —and together they lifted him off the ground, onto a stretcher, strapped him in, and then, in a complicated series of maneuvers, hoisted him out.

Josh followed after them.

Moving quickly, but also being careful not to jostle him, they wheeled him toward the ambulance. In the distance, the roar of a car engine grew louder. A navy blue Fiat raced up the road, dust flying in its wake. A few seconds later, it pulled to a screeching halt and a tall woman jumped out on the driver’s side. She moved in a blur—pure energy—rushing toward the gurney. Josh got a flash of sunburned skin, high, wide cheekbones and windswept, wild, honey-colored hair. Her voice was a combination of authority and fear as she called out her questions to the medics. Even under stress there was a lyrical cadence to her words. As focused on her as he was, Josh didn’t notice Malachai until he called out to him.

As always, Malachai was wearing a suit, despite the heat. He was so meticulous even his shoes were newly shined. That wouldn’t last long now that he was on site.

“Are you all right?” Malachai questioned.

“Fine. I’m fine. But I need to talk to Gabriella Chase.” Josh pointed to the woman who’d gotten out of the car. “Is that her?”

“Yes, but first—”

“The professor made me promise I’d tell her what happened, and—”

He put his hand on Josh’s arm to stop him. “She’s with the medics. So tell me, what happened?”

Briefly, Josh explained about the shooting.

“Were you alone with him?”

“Yes.”

“You were the only witness?”

“Yes. No one else was down there. Now I need—”

“Did you see the man who shot Rudolfo?”

“Yes. Yes, I saw him… .” Josh pictured the scene again as if his mind had filmed it. The man grabbing the box, opening it, pulling out the dark leather pouch, throwing the box on the ground, the professor’s moan, the scuffle, the shot. He stopped the pictures.

“The guard took the Memory Stones, if that’s what was in the box. Shot the professor and took the stones.”

“Did you get a photograph of him?”

“I was rushing to help and then it was too late.”

Malachai stood shaking his head back and forth, trying to absorb the loss. They’d both desperately wanted to see the stones, to talk to Rudolfo and Chase about them, discover if they did indeed have the legendary power assigned to them. Now it appeared they’d never have that chance.

“Did you see them before they were stolen?”

“No.”

“So you don’t know for sure they were in the box? They could have been somewhere else in the tomb?” A faint expression of hope.

“I don’t know for sure … but from the way the professor reacted I’m fairly certain—”

“I don’t think you should mention the stones to the police when they get here. Don’t conjecture about what was in the box.”

Malachai must have read the confusion in Josh’s eyes because he didn’t wait for his question before answering it. “If it appears that you know too much it will make you a more likely suspect.”

“But I’m not a suspect, and shouldn’t they know what they are looking for? Don’t they need to?”

“If they know, word will get out, it’s inevitable, and the very last thing Beryl or I—or, I’m sure, Gabriella, once she knows what happened—want is for the world to know of the existence of those stones. Especially if they’ve been stolen.”

“I don’t know. You’re asking me to lie to the police.”