The Fifth Gospel by Ian Caldwell

tumble through the darkness. “Ugo was robbed. I think whatever happened at the apartment had to be different.”
    Yet there’s the slightest wobble in his voice.
    My phone rings. I check the screen.
    â€œIt’s Uncle,” I say. “Should I take it?”
    He nods.
    On the other end of the line, a deep, slow voice says, “Alexander?”
    Uncle Lucio always seems discommoded by people who answer their own phones. He can’t understand why the rest of us don’t have priest-secretaries.
    â€œYes,” I say.
    â€œWhere are you right now? Are Simon and Peter safe?”
    He must already know about the break-in. “We’re fine. Thanks for asking.”
    â€œI’m told you were both at Castel Gandolfo earlier tonight.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou must be very upset. I’ve had the guest rooms prepared for the three of you to stay here tonight, so tell me where you are and I’ll send a car.”
    I falter. Simon is already shaking his head, whispering, “No. We’re not doing that.”
    â€œThank you,” I say, “but we’re staying with a friend at the Swiss Guard barracks.”
    There’s no answer, just a familiar silence, the courier of my uncle’s displeasure. “Then I want you to meet me at the palace tomorrow,” he says finally. “First thing. To discuss the situation.”
    â€œWhat time?”
    â€œEight o’clock. And tell Simon, too. I expect to see him as well.”
    â€œWe’ll be there.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear it. Good night, Alexander.”
    Unceremoniously, the line goes dead.
    I turn to Simon. “He wants to meet us at eight.”
    The news makes no impression.
    â€œSo,” I say, “maybe we should get some sleep.”
    But Simon announces, “You go ahead. I’m going to sleep right here.”
    Here. In the open. Under the pope’s window.
    â€œCome on,” I say. “Come inside.”
    But it’s hopeless. The refusal to sleep in a bed is a common self-­deprivation among priests, and healthier, at least, than cinching a rope around his thigh. Finally I give in and tell him I’ll come get him in the morning. He needs to be alone. I’ll say a prayer for my brother tonight.

    LEO AND SOFIA ARE in bed when I return. This is their way of giving me the run of the apartment. I’d hoped to talk to Leo about what he heard at the cantina after we left, but it will have to wait. A set of sheets lies on my old companion, the sleeper sofa, veteran of ancient benders. Its former geography of stains is gone, victim of a woman’s touch. From beyond the distant bedroom door I make out faint sounds that can’t possibly be lovemaking; my friends are too considerate for that. But like most priests, I’m not one to gamble on human nature.
    When I check on Peter in the nursery, he’s entwined in his sheets. His Greek cross, which he’s found some reason to remove from his neck, is slipping from his hand onto the floor. I scoop it up and place it in our travel bag, then kneel beside the window. There’s a Bible here, the Greek one I packed, which he and I use as he learns to decipher words. Placing it between my hands, I try to bury my emotion. To master the fear that lurks in this darkness and the rage that burns when I think of Peter threatened in his own home. Wrath runs deep in a Greek heart. It is the first word of our literature. But what I’m about to do, I’ve done hundreds of times for Mona.
    Lord, as I pray forgiveness of my own sins, so I pray forgiveness of theirs. As I ask You to forgive me, so I forgive them. As they are sinners, so am I. Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison .
    I repeat it twice, wanting it to stick. But my thoughts are a muddle. I know there’s a good reason why the Swiss Guards have posted more men outside the barracks. A reason why Lucio is calling us to his apartment. When I told Peter we were