But first, you and I must come to an agreement. You will tell me how I may serve you." He glanced at the still figure. "Is she of no use at all to you?"
"Not to speak to her. My wife has . . . had . . . certain religious problems that made it necessary for her to remain celibate and . . . and alone for a time."
_That'll make you sound more sympathetic._
Then: "She is in no danger?"
"She will sleep forever. But I don't want her in _my_ way. I must be able to work and move about and enjoy life."
The old man considered this for a moment, then spoke.
"If you'll tell me what I must do to protect her from whatever is in the vault, and if you will do the same for the others that are already there, I'll work in secret for you. As you have seen, I know how to shield and hide."
"You're sure I can't see her?"
"Only with great difficulty."
Again, that _almost sure . . ._
"You'll tell me how to get into the vault?"
"That is not a problem. But the vault is difficult to enter. You must bring the right incense."
"Where am I to find it?"
"In a small, brass, box in a box on the bottom shelf of the third-from-the-left bookcase. The box contains the _Chalice of Mizar."_
"My _chalice_?!" Titus's eyes were wide. "My _chalice_! My _chalice_!"
_The brass box, you idiot!_
Once again, Titus's eyes glazed over, but this time his own name drifted through the haze: . . .
. . . _Titus!_
"Titus!" he called.
The little man blinked. "What?"
"I want you to help me now. _Together._ "
Titus stared into the eyes of a stranger, then looked around in sudden fear.
"This is the _man_ I spoke to? But you said he would join me in a moment, and he didn't even have a chance to tell me his name!"
"I cannot control what he will say. All I can do is make suggestions."
"But that's not fair!" Titus frowned. "He has worked for you for years, but you keep him a secret. Why?"
"You have work for me, he does not. You also said he would not be any good to you . . . until . . ." The old man smiled. "Ah, he does not realize what you are. He still has a chance to prove himself."
Titus took a deep breath. "My name is Titus, and I will help you because I will get what I need to save her. But you'll have to do your part."
"I do not speak for my _employer_ , and I make no promises, Titus."
"Your name is Titus, and I know you will do what I need if I do as you ask." Titus's eye twitched. _Keep a hold on yourself._
The old man was pleased.
"I will help you as you have helped me, _Titus._ You will hear from me."
_You did it. That little twitch is only_ . . .
The voice of Titus rose, as if by osmosis, and filled the room.
"I heard!" Titus said, amazed. "But . . . how?"
The old man had to look out the window at the sky and his house as he replied.
"There is _always_ a way. And if you find the way, it always works. It has happened this time, and it will happen again."
_He's not alone!_
With a sigh, Titus let go of the controls.
A soft glow moved into the room. The old man raised his face to the ceiling and smiled.
"All right, now . . ." He turned to the side and, with a smile, lifted the old dog's head and placed it on his lap. Then he held it there and smiled. "That's better. How good it is to see you!"
Wagging his tail, the dog looked up at the old man and whimpered. Titus was speechless.
"But I don't understand. What happened?"
The old man laughed. "Do you not?"
Titus rose from his chair. He stood for a moment, then spoke as he slowly descended into a crouch.
"I believe . . . I just . . . talked to the . . ."
And he smiled at the dog.
# CHAPTER 9
VATICAN CITY
NICCOLO BACCANA sat in his wheelchair and looked out over the city of Rome from his perch on top of the dome of the St. Peter's Basilica. It was an amazing view, and he loved to look down into the square that held the magnificent basilica and watch the crowds milling about.
But today he was too distracted.
He turned to the man beside him. "I tell you, Benito, I don't know what's gotten into me, but I just can't seem to get any peace of mind. I've been up all night. I've read every Bible passage I can think of on faith. I've cried and prayed and cried some more. I can't help myself. I simply must have faith, but I don't seem to have any left." He shrugged. "At least, none of the _good_ faith."
Benito, an African American who'd only been living with him a few weeks, stared straight ahead and didn't say anything. His head was bent in quiet contemplation.
Bacona continued to study his partner. Benito was not just any African American: he was a former slave from the north, and it was his belief that he was one of the _gabelli_ —the enslaved who served the high priests.
Bacona had met him during a visit to the slave cemetery, and had been delighted to learn that Benito was a Hebrew. The man had such a glow to him. Like any great believer, the man was a child of God, but he wore his faith as well as his collar.
"I've asked the Holy Father about Bacona's problem. I'd like to give you this job, Benito, but he didn't really seem to care one way or the other. He's probably heard it all before. And my new boss? Well, he's simply a big pain in the butt. He's a real prick. He's always nosing into things, questioning my methods and judgment. There's something so arrogant about him. I feel so bad for the priests and slaves that work for him. I just don't know how I'm going to put up with him."
Benito turned. "You've had no luck with the good reverend?"
"None at all. But we'll figure it out, I'm sure." Bacona paused. "I just have to keep going, don't I?"
The black man chuckled. "You keep goin', _mano,_ and the bad times will keep comin' until you get 'em figured out."
Bacona thought for a minute, then sat up straight. "Let's pray."
They both stood and turned to the altar. But when Benito bowed his head, Bacona frowned and stopped him.
"I can't pray to God that He will do His will. He doesn't know that, does He?"
"Nope."
"So why should I pray to Him?"
"Just in case, I guess."
Bacona nodded. "That's what I thought. We need to talk to God about His will, but how? _All right, I'll try it this way._ "
He turned, looked up at the cloudless, blue sky, and slowly closed his eyes.
"God, I don't know what's gotten into me, but I just can't seem to get any peace of mind. It's all . . . all mixed up, as if I was the one who needs to change, not Him. It's getting to me, and I think I need Your help. But I'm not sure I'm ready to deal with my past, and I'm really not sure I _can._ But I know You don't seem to be either. I ask You to do something, to show Yourself . . . and . . . I think it's You."
Bacona looked into the faces of a dozen men gathered around the coffin. A choir stood on the far side of the casket, softly singing in unison.
He looked back to the open casket and the body of a young man, dressed in a robe, face covered with a burial shroud. He spoke to the man.
"You say you're sorry for your sins. You want God to forgive you, don't you?"
He stared at the man. "Can you understand what I'm saying?"
He
