Richard Beard - Acts of the Assassins

‘These are his calculations, not mine.’ Gallio thinks he understands what Jesus is doing now, but he can’t see as far as the ultimate why. ‘I don’t know how he works them out.’

‘No one can think that far ahead.’

Valeria waves Gallio’s theory away, pushing out his fears to merge into the empty air of the stadium. She has senatorial committees to placate, decisions to implement that are not her own. She isn’t always free to speculate. ‘Soon the twelve disciples of Jesus will be dead, meaning the principal eyewitnesses to those unbelievable miracles will be gone. Without first-hand accounts to back them up, as admissible in a court of law, the events become lies then fiction. No one will believe they ever happened.’

Gallio gestures around, taking in the empty seats for forty thousand witnesses. ‘They’ve set you up perfectly. Major public event. His beloved Peter alive and at the heart of civilisation. Aren’t you worried Jesus may have plotted this?’

‘We’ve doubled security. Every operative we have has been briefed and issued with his picture.’

‘Think about it. You’re bringing together a huge audience who’ll be reminded by the taunting of Peter, who looks like Jesus, that Jesus himself is supposed to be dead. This is his method: he makes his exploits unforgettable with witnesses and you’re providing him with forty thousand live YouTube uploads. A beloved disciple to save, a sellout occasion at which to reappear, a frustrated Messiah who loves a show. Who could fail to be impressed?’

Valeria leans forward in her seat, takes a renewed interest in the arena. A steward bites the corner of a triangular sandwich, head back, pulling in his stomach to avoid falling crumbs. A pair of petrol-headed pigeons swoop in for the clean-up. Then Gallio sees what Valeria wants him to see. His daughter Alma is in the arena of the Circus Maximus. She looks older, too old for the Ave helium balloon she holds in her hand, while her personal guide points out items of architectural interest. A man in jacket and sunglasses follows them with a finger to his ear.

‘In the arena,’ Gallio says, sitting back. He breathes out with disbelief. ‘You are unforgivable.’

‘She’s a lovely girl, very excited to be in Rome. When you went missing in action I felt it was our duty to provide for your family.’

‘Where’s her mother?’

‘Safe in Jerusalem, but also quite content. We’ve booked Alma in for a series of sessions with the leading physiotherapist in Rome. Comes highly recommended, reckons he can cure that limp she has.’

‘You’re threatening me.’

‘What’s the point of our Roman lives if not to help when we can? You’ll have to trust in my good intentions.’

The guide is showing Alma the portcullis gate through which the lions arrive, and he indicates with broad gestures how lions and also hyenas first turn to the left whatever prey is placed before them. Strange, but true.

‘Once upon a time you were a decent Speculator, Cassius, and the CCU acknowledges that, but on this particular case you lost your bearings. The problem and the solution are much simpler than you want to make them.’

‘So how does Jesus qualify as Complex Casework?’

‘We’re tidying up loose ends. That’s all we have left to do.’

Valeria pats Gallio’s arm, as if comforting a child frightened by a story. Poor thing. None of his concerns are real. Gallio watches Alma limp into the tunnel to the underground stables and chariot house, always popular with visitors. He loses sight of her.

‘I hate mass persecutions,’ Valeria says. ‘They’re messy and counter-productive. Better to target twelve leaders than thousands of innocent followers.’

‘What happens to me if I’m as wrong as you say? Another tribunal?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. You’re deniable, Cassius. I told you that from the start. You don’t exist. However, I do have one more job for you, which includes the opportunity to save your skin.’

She reaches into her bag and pulls out two embossed tickets for the next day’s performance. ‘Solid gold,’ she says. ‘Completely sold out.’

‘As Jesus would have wanted.’

‘Enough. There’s no way you’re getting in without a ticket. I’ve doubled security.’

‘I hadn’t looked that far ahead.’

‘No, I thought not. You have a day, one day, in which to capitalise on the knowledge you’ve gained about the disciples of Jesus. Find me John, however you can. Bring him to the Circus tomorrow and we’ll take him off your hands.’

‘What if I don’t?’

‘If you run again, I have Alma.’

‘I’ll find you John. I’ll do my best.’

‘That would be good, the last of the twelve. Bring John to the Circus, Cassius, and you can walk away. Mission accomplished.’

CASSIUS GALLIO SPENDS the night in the garden of Claudia’s suburban Roman villa. She has an organised garden, with shrubs in borders and trees in pots, but also many blocked sightlines that allow a vagrant to take advantage. She would be furious, presumably, if she knew that her former lover was asleep beside the compost bin.

Early the next morning, before dawn, Gallio is crouched behind a miniature cypress tree when the first lights in the house come on. Through the lit kitchen window he sees Claudia’s husband the architect searching through cupboards for cereal, in the fridge for milk. He finds what he’s looking for. He leaves the house before the sky has fully lightened, because after-the-fire is boom time for architects in Rome. The misfortunes of others will provide.

A little later, once the sun is up, Claudia and her two young daughters sit at the kitchen table for breakfast. Through the window Gallio approves their impeccable manners. Alma doesn’t join them. In Jerusalem Valeria had assigned Claudia to Gallio’s investigation, sent Claudia to keep an eye on him in Hierapolis and Caistor, and later it was Claudia she dispatched to intercept him at the bakery on the Via Veneto. Claudia is Valeria’s fixer and Gallio’s best guess, his only guess, is that Claudia will be responsible for Alma. John the disciple of Jesus can wait.

Cassius Gallio scuttles round the side of the house in time for a partial view of the front door where the girls kiss their lovely mother goodbye. The children join the neighbour and her son to walk to the bus stop, but the younger daughter dashes back for a forgotten lunchbox, snatches another kiss and she’s on her way.

Gallio waits ten minutes, goes round the back and knocks at the glass of the French windows. Claudia has nothing to fear, he thinks, because she can see all of him in her garden before she has to open the door. He has nothing to hide. She sees him, stops, moves forward and slides open the doors. She checks left and right outside, then bundles him into the house.

‘Fuck,’ she says. She shuts and locks the door and leans back against the glass. She’s wearing pyjamas. ‘Fuck I don’t believe this.’ She screws up her nose, looks at him. ‘You need a shower.’

‘Have you got Alma?’

‘I’ll fetch you a towel.’

He wonders how close he is to the limit of the warmth of her welcome. After his shower he hears her moving about in the kitchen, and he flits quickly through the upstairs rooms. The two girls share, and he admires their shelves packed with bedtime stories. No sign of Alma. The bed in the marital en suite is unmade, and on the dresser a framed photo catches his eye, a studio portrait of the smiling family. A life like Claudia’s could have been mine, Gallio thinks, but it wasn’t to be. He blames Jesus, he blames himself.

Downstairs Claudia is dressed, black jeans, grey woollen polo-neck. She looks attractive in grey, and clever, like the first time he saw her. Bare feet, toenails painted black. She sets up the pot for stove-top coffee, and for some reason, maybe the same reason, the kindness of Claudia affects him like thinking about Jesus. His eyes start to brim. Cassius Gallio has a problem with kindness, obviously. With love.