The Lost Testament Read Online Free

consciousness while the opiates did their work and eased the burning in his chest, reducing it to a dull but persistent ache, he guessed that the end was near. But he still had one more duty to discharge before he finally stood before his maker.
    Adolfo Gianni waved away the nun who had been adjusting the flow of painkilling drugs through the intravenous line attached to his left arm, and gestured feebly to the other man, a slim and dark-haired young priest wearing rimless spectacles, who was standing uncomfortably against the wall of the room, mounting the death watch.
    “Yes, Father,” the man murmured, stepping forward immediately and looking down at the frail, thin-faced man, his head outlined by a virtual halo of white hair, who lay on the bed, his body markedly and almost daily diminished by the disease which was steadily killing him. “Do you wish me to administer the
viaticum
now?”
    Despite the pain in his chest, a clutching tightness that made breathing difficult and any kind of strenuous movement completely impossible, Gianni summoned a weak smile from somewhere.
    “Not quite yet, Francis. I can delay the last rites for a little while longer, I believe. No, I must see Father Morini.”

3
    Until his terminal illness had forced him to cease work within the Vatican, Adolfo Gianni had been the Prefect in charge of the Secret Archives, and of the staff of priests appointed to work there. The archives weren’t a collection of dusty books and manuscripts ranged on shelves in a darkened room, but were bright and busy most of the time, people coming and going throughout the hours of daylight, and often late into the evening as well.
    When it became clear that Father Gianni would not be able to continue with his work, another very senior cleric, Father Antonio Morini, had been appointed in his place, and had been spending most of his time in the archive ever since, improving his knowledge of the way the system worked and familiarizing himself with his new employment. Francis Gregory knew exactly where he would find his new superior.
    He knocked twice on the Prefect’s door, waited a few seconds, then opened it and stepped into the office.
    The man sitting behind the desk was heavily built, his broad shoulders straining at the fabric of his habit, with a ruddy, round face, topped by a thatch of graying hair. He looked more like a farmer than a senior Vatican official.
    Morini looked up as the young man entered his office and gave him a slight sad smile.
    “Has he finally slipped away?” he asked.
    Gregory shook his head.
    “Not yet, Father, but I think the end is very near. I offered him the
viaticum
, but he declined, at least for the moment. Instead, he asked me—in fact, he told me—to summon you to his bedside.”
    “Perhaps he wants me to personally administer the last rites to him?” Morini wondered.
    Again Gregory shook his head.
    “Possibly, but I think it’s something else, something that he wants to talk to you about.”
    Morini nodded, glanced at the papers covering the desk in front of him, and then stood up.
    “I could do without the interruption, but of course in these sad circumstances I will speak with Father Gianni if that is his wish.”
    Morini closed and then locked the door of his office—some of the documents he had been studying were fairly sensitive and, even within the Vatican, curious eyes were to be discouraged—and the two clerics strode away down the corridor.
    A few minutes later, Gregory opened the door to Gianni’s room and stood to one side as Father Morini stepped into the chamber. The dying cleric’s eyes were closed and he did not appear to have moved, but Gregory noticed that there were flecks of blood around his mouth that had not been there before. The medically trained nun was still in attendance, and as they entered she was again altering the dosage of the opiates the old man was receiving. Seeing Morini, she dipped her head in respectful salute and retreated to