The Last Cato Read Online Free Page B

door and came to the kitchen right away with a concerned look on her face. “Ottavia, a Kaspar Glauser is waiting for you downstairs.”
    I was petrified. “Captain Glauser-Röist?” I mumbled through a mouth full of bread.
    “He didn’t say anything about being a captain,” Margherita said, “but the name sounds right.”
    I hurried to finish the rest of my breakfast without chewing and gulped my coffee.
    “A problem at work.” I excused myself and rushed out of the kitchen under my sister’s surprised gaze. The apartment in the Piazza delle Vaschette was so small that in a second I had time to straighten up my room and pass through the chapel to say good-bye to the Lord. I grabbed my coat and purse from the hanger at the front door and ran out, closing the door behind me, totally confused. Why was Captain Glauser-Röist waiting for me downstairs? Was something wrong?
    Hidden behind impenetrable black glasses, the robust toy soldier leaned, expressionless, against the door of a flashy, dark-blue Alfa Romeo. It is a Roman custom to park right in front of the door, even if you’re blocking traffic. Any good Roman will explain to you that this saves time for everyone involved. Despite being Swiss—all the members of the small Vatican army had to be—Captain Glauser-Röist must have lived in Rome for many years to have seamlessly adopted its worst customs. Oblivious to my neighbors’ ogling, the captain didn’t move a muscle when I finally opened the door to my building and came out to the street. In the strong sunlight, I was very happy to see that the hulking Swiss soldier looked a bit older than at first glance. Time had left some wrinkles around his eyes and on his deceptively youthful face.
    “Good morning,” I said, buttoning my coat. “Is something wrong, Captain?”
    “Good morning, Doctor.” His very proper Italian didn’t hide a slight German inflection in the way he pronounced his r ’s. “I’ve been waiting outside the Archives since six this morning.”
    “Why so early, Captain?”
    “I thought it was time to get to work.”
    “I start work at eight,” I mumbled, irritated.
    The captain cast an indifferent glance at his watch.
    “It’s eight ten,” he announced, cold as a stone yet just as pleasant.
    “Is that so? Well then, let’s get going.”
    What an irritating man! Didn’t he know that the boss always arrives late? It’s one of the perks of being in charge.
    The Alfa Romeo crossed the alleys in the Borgo at top speed. The captain had also adopted the suicidal Roman way of driving. Before you could say amen, we were crossing the Porta Santa Anna, leaving the Swiss Guard’s barracks behind. If I didn’t scream—or open the door and throw myself from the speeding death trap—it was only thanks to my Sicilian roots and the fact that I’d gotten my driver’s license in Palermo, where the traffic lights are for decorative purposes only and the rules of the road are based on the laws of physics, the use of the horn, and general common sense. The captain stopped the car abruptly in a parking space that had a plaque emblazoned with his name. He turned off the motor, a satisfied look on his face. That was the first trace of human emotion I’d observed in him, and it really got my attention. Clearly he loved to drive. We walked toward the Archives through parts of the Vatican I didn’t know existed, passing a modern gym full of machines as well as a shooting range. All the guards came sharply to attention and saluted Glauser-Röist as we passed.
    One thing that had really piqued my curiosity over the years was the origin of the Swiss Guard’s gaudy, multicolor uniforms. In the Classified Archives, there was nothing that confirmed or debunked the rumor that Michelangelo had designed them. However, I was sure that one day we’d find some proof when we least expected among the vast quantity of documents still left to study. Unlike his fellow soldiers, Glauser-Röist didn’t wear