The Second Messiah

Becket smiled to himself as he imagined them both armed with pistols under their habits. He had heard that Vatican security used female officers dressed as nuns. He also heard the joke among the religious in Rome that it was impossible to purchase a new habit or clerical suit, because Sean Ryan’s personnel had bought them all up so they could dress as priests and nuns for security purposes.

He approached the east gate, where a pair of Swiss Guards and a plainclothes officer manned the exit. Becket was hoping that it would be easier to get out of the Vatican than to enter it, and sure enough the guards said nothing as he went past them. The Holy City was full of clerics and he was just another one. He strode out into the bustling streets of Rome, filling his lungs with deep breaths as if to celebrate his freedom.

After the hushed walls of the Vatican, the city’s bustle and traffic noise hit Becket like a brick. The air was warm and dusty, the streets alive with pedestrians and cars. He always considered Rome the most insane city on earth. Every driver was a lunatic and every car appeared to have at least one side mirror missing while their drivers tried to maneuver in the narrow backstreets.

Impatience and testosterone crackled like electricity in the air. But whether he liked it or not it was his city, too, for it belonged to him now, to Peter’s successor. He kept walking east, crossing a bridge. Plunging his way through the crowds, he thought how absurd it was—here he was, the most protected man in Rome, and yet he had escaped his protectors. It neither alarmed nor amused him, no more than it did that no one in the passing crowds realized his true identity.

He walked for a long time and passed a pair of young men hanging out on a street corner. When they saw him they sneered and made the sign against the evil eye. He knew of this old Roman custom: its citizens either loved or hated the Vatican’s clerics. Soon he left the crowds on the Via Cavour behind and when he turned into an alleyway he saw the young woman.

She was leaning against a wall, wearing high heels, clutching a white handbag, a cell phone pressed to her ear. Dark-haired and pretty, she was dressed in a short black skirt, a denim jacket, and a tight white top that displayed her bosom. The handbag had Gucci written on it but Becket imagined it was probably a cheap fake, the kind you saw touted by poor African immigrant vendors who plied the tourist back-streets. She saw him, put away her cell phone, and sashayed toward him. “Hello, Father.”

“Hello, my child.”

“Would you like to spend a little time with me, Father?”

Becket stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t shocked by the prostitute’s offer. But close up he saw that her left jaw was badly bruised. The damage was masked with thick makeup but it was still unmistakable.

She forced a smile, as if the effort was difficult. “What do you say, Father? I have an apartment nearby. We could have a good time together. I’ll give you the best experience of your life. It’ll make your eyeballs roll.”

Becket knew that the fact the young woman was touting a clergyman for business spoke for itself. Priests were human. Some perhaps too human. He looked into the young woman’s eyes and said gently, “What is your name, child?”

“Maria. What’s yours?”

A powerful anger rose in Becket’s chest as he studied the woman’s bruises. “Who did this to you? Who hurt you?”

She fell silent. Becket was certain his question had touched a vulnerable nerve. He went to put up a hand to gently examine her face but she drew back. “Don’t touch me,” she said, suddenly defensive.

“You need medical attention, my child. Your jaw—”

“Do you want to spend time with me or not?” the woman snapped back.

Becket wasn’t struck by the direct language—he had heard much worse—but by the irony of the situation. Here he was, the pope, being propositioned by a young woman.

“Please understand, I simply want to help you.”

“Then how about you buy me a drink? There’s a café around the corner. Even a coffee will do.”

“I have no money, child. Please, let me see your face.”

When she realized that she was getting no customer, the woman glanced up and down the alley and said, “Listen, I don’t need your help. If the pimps around here see a goody two-shoes trying to interfere on their turf they’ll do the same to you. Now get lost, and I’m saying that for your own good, Father. Beat it.” She went to lean against the wall and light a cigarette.

“But you really need to see a doctor,” Becket called after her.

The woman drew on her cigarette. “I’ll be fine. Didn’t you hear me? It’s a dangerous place around here. Get lost.”

Two young men entered the alleyway. The woman named Maria forced another smile as she went to approach them. “Hey, you guys want to have a good time?”

Becket suppressed the ire in his heart. He stared up at the alleyway’s nameplate for directions, committed it to his memory, and hurried on.