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He said her name again, and this time it was not harsh, nor demanding, but strange—very strange.
As if he, too, were deluged by the flood of disbelief that was dissolving through her.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned.
And as she did so, her gaze fastening on him, she felt her heart squeezed in a giant vice.
‘How can you be here?’ he said.
His voice was strange, so very strange.
And yet so familiar.
She felt her knees begin to buckle and reached out a hand to steady herself against the wall.
She stared at him.
It was Diego Saez—but not Diego Saez.
He was jacketless, and his white shirt was smeared with terracotta dust. It was also soaked in sweat, and his hair was damp with sweat as well.
She stared, bewildered—bewildered by his appearance, by his presence.
And then into the silence came another noise—footsteps walking briskly.
Father Tomaso came around the corner.
When he saw the tableau in front of him he stopped dead.
Then, his eyes moving between the two frozen figures, he spoke, the blandness in his voice quite at odds with the keen, assessing look in his eye. ‘Ah, Portia, let me introduce our latest, if somewhat temporary, volunteer. This is who I was telling you about last night.’
Breath hissed into her lungs and her eyes widened.
She dragged her eyes to the priest.
‘It can’t be! I know this man. He owns millions! He—he—’
‘He used to live here,’ said Father Tomaso simply.
She shook her head.
‘No. It can’t be true. It can’t.’
‘I found him in a doorway when he was twelve,’ Father Tomaso said, his eyes never leaving her. ‘He was sleeping. I had some food with me. He woke, sensing danger, perhaps smelling the food as well. I offered him the food but he would not take it. He ran, suspicious, wary. I watched him run. He had no shoes; his bones stood out with hunger. I found him again the next night, in another doorway. I offered him food again and told him I was simply a priest, no one to harm him. This time he ate the food I gave him—wolfed it down, tearing into it. And then he ran again. It took me weeks to bring him here, and he ran away several more times. But eventually, he stayed. Until…’ He paused, and this time he glanced at Diego as well. ‘Until he ran for the very last time. Out into the world he conquered.’
His eyes rested on Diego’s face. ‘But did you conquer the world, Diego? Or did it conquer you?’
Diego’s face was set, as tense as steel. He did not answer.
Instead he turned away, making to go.
‘Running away again, Diego?’ came the voice behind him.
‘No,’ he answered, and his voice was harsh, self-mocking. ‘Merely rejoining the ranks of the damned.’
‘You’re not damned, Diego.’
The priest spoke with a calm assurance that infuriated its target.
