Page 7 of The Medici Return

Time to end this.

Wild throws to the net were not common. It would be easy to hurl the ball from a long way out and hope for the best. But a miss would cost the Greens half a point and the match.

In this game you had to be sure.

In life too.

The Blues were closing in. One slammed into him from behind and tried a quick tackle that failed. His shoes dug in and out of the soft sand, which was great when you were taken down, plenty of cushion for the fall, but terrible for traction. Usually, the pitchbecame firmer the closer to the goal. He’d noticed that was the case twenty minutes ago when they’d last scored.

Use that.

He gripped the ball between his hands, leading with it as he made a dash for the end. Blues and Greens engaged all around him, his teammates trying to provide an opening, the defenders intent on stopping them.

Spilled blood did not always come from the players. Games had often turned into full-blown brawls involving both players and supporters. His family was among the spectators today, minus his mother, who never cared for the Calcio. She tolerated it, as a good Florentine mother would, but her displeasure was no secret. His father, brothers, and sister loved everything about the game. His brother-in-law was on the field with him.

He’d made nine goals during his career on the pitch. So he knew how to get it done. Shift. Move. Stay loose.

Twenty meters.

Two Blues converged.

The crowd roared.

Ten meters.

He managed to dodge one Blue defender but not the other, who reached for the ball in his outstretched hands. There’d be only one chance to make the goal. But if he missed the Blues would get half a point, enough for victory as the clock was winding down to zero.

More Blues appeared.

He’d never make it to the end.

A Blue defender slammed into him. He mouthed a prayer and launched the ball into the air.

Down he went.

The ball flew over the players high enough that no one could leap up and stop its flight. He’d not been able to apply enough force for it to go all the way to the goal. But thankfully there were no players between the ball’s flight and the field’s end. So it hit the hard ground about two meters before the fence, bounced once into the air, and dropped cleanly over.

A shot of gunpowder signaled a goal and victory.

The Green supporters exploded in joy, their flags held high.

His teammates leaped in victory.

He rolled in the sand and stared toward heaven.

Thank you, Lord.

CHAPTER 3

VATICANCITY

1:00P.M.

ERICGAETANOCASABURI KNEW HE WAS BEING PLAYED. THEREreally was no other way to view it. He’d been ushered to the second floor of the Apostolic Palace by two Swiss Guards who wore the traditional blue, red, and yellow uniforms, along with black berets. Supposedly, Michelangelo designed the original costumes using the colors of the Medici coat of arms. But who knew for sure? No one of any official stature or standing had been waiting when his car arrived. No cardinal, bishop, or monsignor, not even a priest or nun. Just the two young guards who said they were there to escort him.

A rebuke? Without a doubt.

All consistent with the arrogance that the Roman Catholic Church loved to display.