The Fifth Gospel by Ian Caldwell Page B

can’t mount his exhibit without him. In some of the galleries it’s not even clear what’s to be hung where.”
    My brother rises from his seat. Almost hysterically he says, “You can’t do that. He gave his life for this.”
    I murmur to Simon that after what happened last night, a change or postponement might be a good idea.
    Lucio taps a bony forefinger on a budget sheet. “I have four hundred invitations out for opening night. Postponing is out of the question. And as of right now, since Nogara never finished setting up the last few galleries, it isn’t really a matter of changing an exhibit so much as mounting one. Therefore I’d like to discuss the possibility—particularly with you, Alexander—of centering the exhibit around the manuscript rather than the Shroud.”
    Simon and I are agog.
    â€œYou mean the Diatessaron?” I ask.
    â€œNo,” Simon says. “Absolutely not.”
    Lucio ignores him. For once, only my opinion counts.
    â€œHow would that even be possible?” I ask.
    â€œThe restorers are done with the book,” Lucio says. “People want to see the book. We put the book in a case and show it to them. The details would be up to you.”
    â€œUncle, you can’t fill ten galleries with one manuscript.”
    Lucio snorts. “If we remove the binding, we can. Each page can be mounted separately. And we’ve already made some large photographic reproductions for the walls. How many pages in the book? Fifty? One hundred?”
    â€œUncle, that’s probably the oldest intact binding on any gospel ever discovered.”
    Lucio makes a brushing motion with his hand. “The people in the manuscript laboratory know how to manage these things. They’ll do whatever we need.”
    Before I can refuse, Simon slams a hand on Lucio’s desk. “ No ,” he says firmly.
    Everything freezes. With a look, I urge Simon to sit. Lucio raises one great, snaking eyebrow.
    â€œUncle,” Simon says, running a hand through his hair, “forgive me. I’m . . . grieving. But if you need help finishing the exhibit, I can tell you what you need to know. Ugo told me everything.”
    â€œEverything?”
    â€œThis is very important to me, Uncle.”
    There was a time when these unpredictable eruptions doomedSimon in my uncle’s eyes. They were a Greek trait, Lucio said, not a Roman one. But now he says this is what sets Simon apart. What will launch him places even my uncle has not been.
    â€œI see,” Lucio says. “I’m glad to hear that. Then you’ll need to direct the other curators, because we have much to do in the next five days.”
    â€œUncle,” I interject, “you realize Simon and I are dealing with a situation of our own right now?”
    He shuffles the pages on his desk. “I do. And I’m having Commander Falcone send an officer to guard you and Peter as a precaution.” He turns to Simon. “As for you: you’ll sleep here, under this roof, until the exhibit work is done. Agreed?”
    Simon would sooner sleep on a street corner outside of Termini station. But this is the price of all this uncharacteristic pleading. He’s shown Lucio who holds the cards.
    Simon nods, and Lucio raps his knuckles twice on the desktop. We’re done. Don Diego returns to see us to the elevator.
    â€œShould I send someone for your bags?” Diego needles Simon.
    They will be suitemates for the next five nights. Warden and prisoner. But there is momentary solace in the hollow of Simon’s eyes. Relief. He won’t take the bait. When the metal door slides open, Peter rushes inside, eager to push the elevator button. Before Diego can find another way to prod Simon, Peter and I are descending.

C HAPTER 8
    I T WAS SHORTLY after my dinner at Ugo’s apartment that I helped him break into the Vatican Library to see the Diatessaron. “Meet me at my