The Stray Bishop Day Two

The morning after, Beppe Dosi in full uniform presented himself for a briefing in the Colonel’s office.

“Captain Dosi, please have a seat. Are you aware of the latest news?”

“No, please tell me.”

“Yesterday’s incident was a false alarm. The municipal administration had removed the statue of Giordano Bruno for cleaning. They had temporarily replaced it with a work by the sculptor Alberto Morini. Unfortunately, due to a mishap in the press office, the news wasn’t made public. This led to the immediate spread of the urban legend about the melting statue, which, combined with a couple of cases of heat-related fainting, caused an unjustified moment of panic. The rumor about multiple deaths is completely unfounded. The only actual death was that of an elderly ecclesiastic. I apologize for having disturbed you unnecessarily yesterday.”

It was clearly a false version of events, but there was no need to get upset. Assignments to the non-existent department always started with such a script, and the response had to follow suit.

“No trouble at all, don’t worry. It’s all in my report.”

The colonel picked up a sheet of paper from the table; it was an identikit. The features of the person described by the fruit vendor the day before were clearly distinguishable.

“However, there’s still a bit of a nuisance before we can close the case. According to witnesses, this person was present when the ecclesiastic fell ill. It would be advisable to locate him for further investigations, but most of our personnel are already engaged in more important matters. Would you mind taking care of it?”

“I’ll take care of it immediately. Do I have permission to transmit this identikit to the field units?”

“Already done. It’s been distributed to all our patrols and the Police as well.”

“And it’s fortunate that this is a secondary matter. If it were important, would we be mobilizing the Army?”

The quip was a bit much, but he couldn’t hold it back. He was already growing tired of pretending that nothing had happened. The colonel’s expression darkened.

“Beppe, cut the humor and find him!”

“At your command, Colonel!”

In the early afternoon, Dosi was back in casual attire, wearing an open-front white shirt with laces because that day he felt “on the road.”

Alongside Chiattoni, he walked among tourists under the Colosseum. Amidst one group and another, the extras dressed as ancient Roman legionaries could be seen, posing for photographs in exchange for a few coins.

Two of them were staging a gladiator battle. One was massive, heavy-set, wielding a foam gladius, with a plastic square shield often used during carnival, and a helmet that might have looked real, complete with a grand red mane and a perforated visor concealing his face. His attire was completed by a T-shirt with the words “Saluti Romani,” jogging shorts, and sneakers paired with sponge socks.

The other was unmasked, with a small beard on his chin and curly hair held back by a bandana. He only wore a sleeveless vest and tight-fitting faux leather pants. Around his left arm, he had wrapped a net, while in his right hand, he waved a plastic trident with the tips covered in aluminum foil.

The retiarius countered the greater strength of the gladiator with agility, circling around him while keeping his arm protected by the net. He taunted his opponent to goad him into exposing himself, but the gladiator knew he couldn’t match the retiarius’s speed and remained shielded behind his defense.

Failing to provoke a response, the retiarius slid his trident within his grip, holding it by the last quarter of the handle. Instead of thrusting the tip, he executed a lateral strike towards his opponent’s temple.

The gladiator swiftly blocked it with his shield and immediately lunged forward with his gladius, which the retiarius deflected using his forearm shielded by the net.

He shifted his grip just below the trident’s head to attempt a close-range thrust, but it was met once again by the gladiator’s shield.

They separated.

The retiarius tried the spinning strike again, this time diagonally downward in an attempt to break the gladiator’s leg. However, unexpectedly agile, the gladiator leaped over the oncoming blow and quickly counterattacked the exposed side of his opponent. The retiarius, in turn, moved out of danger by executing a backward somersault and roll.

Applause erupted from the spectators, and camera flashes created a wall of light between them and the fighters.

As he rose after the somersault, the retiarius freed the net and maneuvered it like a whip, managing to wrap it around the armed arm of the gladiator.

They both began to mimic an intense struggle, as if the first, with all his weight, couldn’t move the other, who resisted solely with the strength of his arm. Eventually, the gladiator pulled his opponent towards him and struck his knee with the lower corner of his shield.

A true scutum, made of heavy wood with bronze reinforcements at the corners, would have shattered ligaments.

The retiarius’s acting skills were impressive as he fell to the ground, lamenting like a soccer player in the penalty area. The gladiator dropped his shield. With his free hand, he grabbed the retiarius by the bandana and lifted him to his knees.

He raised the foam gladius and turned towards the spectators, seemingly asking them what he should do with the fallen opponent. The tourists eagerly responded, and a forest of thumbs went up, although a small group of troublemakers persistently gave thumbs down.

Given the majority’s willingness, the defeated retiarius was spared. He got up to thank the forgiving crowd and began his round with the collection box. Meanwhile, the other fighter collected the weapons and then joined Beppe and his assistant, who were still applauding.

“Spartacus, the swordsman of the Colosseum!”

He took off his helmet, and looking at his face, he resembled one of the Cimbri whom Marius defeated and brought as slaves to Rome. However, that impression cracked the moment he spoke, revealing his distinct Tarantine accent.

“No, no way, not a swordsman. I’m a mirmillo, it’s traditional!”

“And the sambuca at Mauretto’s, is that traditional or not?” - Chiattoni interjected. - “We’ll all be there tonight if you want to drop by.”

“Well, I’m not in the mood tonight, got to go to the Shaolin monks’ gym, then I’ll be tired. But if I can make it later, I will. By the way, that Giordano Bruno statue, the newspaper says they removed it to clean it and put up that mess in the meantime. But many say it’s not true and that they’ve seen with their own eyes that it melted. What do you guys know?”

“Yes, we’ll open our archives for you and even send you daily copies of our reports. Come on, Spartacus...”

At that point, Beppe Dosi casually threw out the bait.

“Also, because it’s not clear how a piece of bronze could just melt on its own...”

“Ask the Shamaness then. I heard she was talking about it last night. She’s probably going around bookstores now.”

Carlotta de Martiis, distantly related to the Bourbons, was a well-known figure to all frequenters of antique bookstores and a great expert in shamanism. Beppe knew the significance that Giordano Bruno held for esoteric enthusiasts and suspected that it wasn’t a coincidence that the events had occurred in Campo dei Fiori. That’s why he had turned to Spartacus, who was well-versed in the scene.

Esotericists generally had a lot of time to spare, mingling and gossiping among themselves. Although they acted as if they guarded some profound secrets, in reality, they were thrilled when they found someone willing to listen to their stories. Beppe was certain that by stirring the pot in that circle, sooner or later the afro-haired guy would surface.

After evading Spartacus’s interrogation, they spent the rest of the day visiting various bookstores. Finally, they found her at “Testa di Ferro” just before closing time. She welcomed them with a smile. She was almost as tall as Beppe, with wavy brown hair gathered at the back of her head, dressed in a classic style with no concessions to the emo trend in vogue at the time.

“Oh, you’re here. Prospero told me earlier that you had come looking for me. I even paid a visit to Gebe’s, considering you’re always there. Are you out and about because of what happened yesterday in Campo dei Fiori?”

While she spoke, she continued to touch the books, flipping through them, turning them over, and Beppe did the same. Marshal Chiattoni patiently listened, waiting for the store clerk to finally nudge those geeks toward the door to close up shop.

“What makes you think we’re here for that?”

“I was there, at Fahrenheit books yesterday. I saw how things went down, and I’m certain that the official version you provided is false. It’s logical that you’re investigating.”

“But I didn’t see you on the list of witnesses...”

“Of course, as soon as I saw how things were unfolding, I left. I didn’t want to spend the whole day being interrogated.”

“How about a dinner invitation instead ? Would that bother you too much ?”

“That’s fine. Where are we going?”

“Kosher fast food ?”

“ So that the two of you can leer at the Falascià waitress ? Do you know there’s nothing ruder than inviting a lady to dinner and then having your eyes glued to those passing by?”

“Ah... The brother-in-law has spoken, huh?... How about a vegetarian place then?”

“Yes, he spoke indeed, but you should also know that I’m not a vegetarian...”

“Ah, right, then let’s go to Steccàus, come on!”

Leaving the bookstore, they passed through Via Cavour and then Via della Curia, between the Roman Forum and the Capitoline Hill, heading to Testaccio. A new steakhouse had opened halfway down Via Marmorata, and they ended up in a small room with walls covered in vintage record covers.

Between placing orders and sipping beer, they listened to her account of what she had seen, mostly nothing that hadn’t already been gathered from other witnesses.

“They said you might have an idea about how the metal could have melted...?”

“It’s not something I can explain right away. But in the meantime, when they bring the dishes, can you ask if they can bring us another fork?”

As the dishes arrived, the conversation took a strange turn. The Shamaness spoke without pause, leaving her two companions bewildered, while carefully avoiding answering their questions. She used the second fork to dip into the sauce some raw meat cubes she had ordered, while the first fork and her left hand remained hidden beneath the table’s edge.

Dosi and Chiattoni exchanged silent glances, unsure of what to do to steer the conversation back to their interests, overwhelmed by the flood of chatter.

Desserts and coffee were ordered as well. As the waiter walked away to fulfill their orders, Beppe gathered his thoughts to speak, determined to regain control of the conversation. Once again he was preempted by their guest.

“Here we are now,” she said, pulling out the other fork from under the table. “I apologize for keeping you waiting, but for these matters, it’s crucial to focus on something else and not think about what you’re actually doing.”

Her words hung in the air, a cryptic statement that seemed to have multiple layers of meaning. Beppe and Chiattoni exchanged puzzled glances, waiting for her to continue.

Without further explanation, she balanced the fork on the extended index finger of her left hand. The fork remained still for a moment, then flopped down like a loose shoelace. After picking it up again, she rolled it up just like a shoelace and then handed it to Beppe, who was left in awe.

“Now try to put it back in its original state,” she instructed.

He took the fork and attempted to straighten it, but it was impossible to move. It was as rigid and solid as one would expect from a piece of metal. The handle’s shape and decorations were identical to the other utensils used in the restaurant.

There were alloys that lost their strength when heated, a technique often used by magicians to perform such tricks. However, in this case, Carlotta would have needed to know in advance that they would be dining there and acquire an identical fork made from that special alloy, which was implausible.

“Neat trick. How did you do it?”

“ There’s a form of energy that has yet to be identified, but it does exist and has certain characteristics. It’s closely related to all living things, so the human body can receive it like an antenna and channel it. Furthermore, it has the ability to loosen atomic bonds in metals, making them soft, but as you saw, once the energy supply stops, they revert to their normal properties.”

“ Yes, but here we’re talking about a monument, not a fork. Could the same thing be done even with much larger mass?”

“ In reality, there is a limit to how much of this energy can pass through a single person’s body. However, some believe it might be possible to create something called an orgone accumulator. It would be a bulky object, made of alternating layers of organic and inorganic material. It would probably require at least a small truck to transport.”

“ Well, a small truck... on market day, who would pay attention? But what about a zeppelin? It could have carried this generator above the statue without making any noise!”

“ Well, now “ – said Chiattoni - “ if a zeppelin had flown over Campo dei Fiori, all of Rome would know about it. We would have seen it too as we were going about. “

“ Yeah, well then, if it’s not good enough, you can do the investigation yourself, huh? I’ll be in the office reading the newspaper, waiting to see what you come up with. There’s always someone who wants to be the one who knows it all...”

***

The Gulliver pub, or simply Mauretto’s, is located by the second lamppost on Via Settevene, on the outskirts. In front, there’s a space enclosed by plant pots, with long wooden tables painted green. The pub is a low building, with the door on the right side, and an external staircase diagonally cutting across the facade leading to another door on the first floor. The base of the staircase is gated, and no one knows what’s on the upper floor, and many legends circulate among the regulars.

Il Picciò had just arrived riding his Mechanical Insect, with his blond brother, the Danish, on the back seat. As he chained up the Vespa, he saw that the TNT group was already gathered almost in full, enjoying the fresh air in front of the pub. Only Mr. Ciliegini, the banker, had gone inside to retrieve the customized mugs that Mauretto kept for them.

Outside, leaning against the wall, Fausto Beccaccia the hunter took drags from a cigarette while telling a story to Gebedia, who as usual gazed at the stars and didn’t seem to listen. Chiattoni’s girlfriend sat on the bench next to the door, accompanied by Cri, a grown-up version of Pippi Longstocking, who hopped around in front of her speaking like a radio.

Gigantiello and Sanfone Plinsky, both with their Ceres beers, approached. Even though the former’s name implied a giant, he was short in stature, and the latter was a lanky figure with a chin beard and a suit with small tie, an eye-catching pair.

“Hey guys, is everyone here ?”

“Beppe and Chiatta, the bailers, went to have dinner on their own somewhere else. They called to say they’ll come later.”

They joined the others, and Gigi Naso was there too, dealing with his girlfriend from Vicenza who had come to visit him in Rome.

“GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!! You know that Davide is coming tonight too, and you always tease him, and you have to stop because he gets offended. And listen when I’m talking to you, dummy. This time I want to see you act like a normal person, you greet him, stay calm, and don’t make idiotic jokes. And I’ll break up with you if you make a fool of yourself as usual.”

David Luthor, the Tiber surfer, guitarist of a Rockabilly-Surf band and a Johnny Cash cover band, was Gigi Naso’s eternal target for pranks. Good boy Gigi disapproved of his flamboyant style. However, that night Gigi was determined to make his girlfriend happy and show everyone that he could behave when he wanted to. He was confident in his ability to control himself.

His confidence lasted until the moment he found himself face to face with David. He had arrived with a smile, a sporty stride, a cigarette in his mouth, a fake shark tooth necklace bought in Ostia hanging around his neck, the yellow and green surfer’s button down, white checked trousers, and finally, fluorescent yellow sneakers that looked like they were highlighted with a marker.

Gigi Naso stared at him wide-eyed, his big potato-shaped nose turning into a red light bulb and the veins in his neck bulging.

“But.. But then.. YOU ARE A REAL FAG !”

The evening was off to a good start, just beginning and already a scene destined to go down in history. Il Picciò and the Danish entered to get the beers, greeted by the music of Afterhours barely distinguishable amidst the crowd’s chatter. In front of them were three tables arranged around a square column, and one of those games where you guide a ball on a movable surface dotted with holes, a piece of antiquity.

To the left, a passage between the counter and three wooden booths led to a larger space with tables filled with people, and the restroom door around the corner. Ciliegini was leaning at the end of the counter, chatting with Mauretto, who was as usual stationed behind the cash register. Between them sat a round tray with the personalized beer mugs.

They approached to greet them and retrieve their two mugs, ordered beers, and quickly occupied one of the booths just vacated by a couple of girls. It wasn’t a table but rather a wooden shelf along the three enclosed sides with tall straw-seated stools. In the following hours, the TNT group shuttled between the courtyard, the bar counter, and the booths, renewing their supply of weissbier with each round.

Dosi and Chiattoni returned from their important mission, and Mauretto finally announced that a sufficiently large table had become available for all of them, where they could engage in the tribal ritual of the Sambuca.

Meanwhile, Gigi Naso was entering the restroom, not that he had an urgent need; he had only had six beers, and there was still time. However, he had seen David go in earlier and it seemed that he hadn’t come out yet. The restroom was single occupancy for both men and women, with a sink and mirror at the back and the toilet door on the left, closed.

“ Fag, are you in there? How long are you taking?”

No response. Gigi persisted, getting increasingly annoying.

“Are you doing exercises to make it longer? It’s useless!”

Silence. He tried the door, which was locked from the inside.

“Are you rubbing your varicose veins on the toilet seat! Come out of there... Recia!!... Mona!! Stop brushing your shoes with the restroom scrubbing brush!”

Finally, the door opened, and a face that definitely wasn’t David Luthor’s appeared. The terrified eyes of a trapped prey stared at Gigi from behind a pair of glasses.

Gigi Naso was taken aback, wondering if it was some kind of hallucination. The guy slipped out of the door, backed against the wall, walking sideways like a crab toward the exit, still staring at him with wide-open eyes.

Neither of them said anything; the guy reached the door and made a run for it, while Gigi went to use the toilet, bewildered. Shortly after, he found David Luthor sitting calmly at the counter, chatting with a young skinhead girl.

“Hey, weren’t you at the bathroom?”

“Not me, why?”

“Oh, nothing, sorry...”

***

Beppe Dosi was about to light up his original Tuscan cigar to go with the sambuca when his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Before answering, he checked the caller ID: Spartacus.

“Hello, Sparta, are you on your way? We’re all here.”

“No, I’m with some other friends of mine at a new gelato parlor in EUR.”

“The one by the small lakes that serves soy ice cream? Got it.”

“Yeah, but listen, the person you’re looking for is here! He is sitting at a table a couple down from me.”

“... Sparta, how do you know who we’re looking for and what they look like? Should I arrest you for unauthorized information access ?”

“Come on, give me a break, everyone has their portrait out there, and why would I be involved in this now...”

“Tomorrow you better come by the flower shop because you need to explain this to me properly. But for now, we don’t know who this person is or what they’re capable of, so even if they get up, don’t follow them, understood? Actually, don’t even look at them. Just stay put; we’ll be there shortly.”

He got up, leaving his cigar and glass on the table, rushed outside, and called the Command to dispatch units to the indicated location. Then he joined Chiattoni, who was enjoying the breeze and listening to Fausto Beccaccia’s tales of his hunting dog Flintlock’s exploits.

“Count Oliver, drop everything, we need to go quickly. Agent Otto Grunf has found the afro guy !”

The marshal followed him to their service car, a Fiat Stilo.

“Otto Grunf who? Spartacus? But what does Spartacus have to do with this?”

“I don’t know that yet, but for now, start the engine.”

Chiattoni took the driver’s seat and fastened his seatbelt.

Beppe was busy securing the siren to the roof, because it usually fell off at the first jolt and ended up hanging from the window. Meanwhile, a small crowd had gathered near the entrance to watch the scene.

“Hey, everyone is watching us, do the Bo and Luke take-off !”

“Yeah, let’s do the Hazard take-off now. We’re going to end up in the ditch here.”

“No, no, when do we ever get another chance like this? Do the Bo and Luke take-offf ! “

Chiattoni was persuaded and took off with a screech of tires, spraying gravel on all the spectators, followed by a ninety-degree skid with a near miss of the ditch on the other side of the road. They plunged into the night with the siren blaring, leaving behind a two-centimeter strip of tire rubber as a memento on the asphalt.

***

In Via Dino Bertani, at the edge of the EUR district, there’s a small open area with benches. Every night from 10 PM to 5 AM, a streetfood van is parked there, selling coffee and amazing doughnuts, to the delight of the few who know of its existence.

For Piazza and Drughini, police officers, it was an essential stop during their night shifts. Even that time, at around 2 AM, they were leaning against the back of the van, with a doughnut in one hand and a little coffee cup in the other. The coffee was even better when free, and the barista always offered knowing that their presence would keep away any troublemakers.

They heard sirens; a Carabinieri car was passing by on the Ostiense Way

.” It’s already the third,” said the Droog, “ But what are they up to? The Central’s not saying anything. Is the radio on?”

Piazza rested the paper cup and absentmindedly checked the radio. “It’s working, but as if the Carambas would bother informing us about their doings.”

A few more moments passed as they peacefully dipped their bomboloni in coffee.

“Oh, what do you think? Could they be looking for the one from this morning’s identikit?”

“I don’t know. What makes you think that?”

“Maybe the fact that he’s passing right in front of us now? He’s on the sidewalk across.”

The Droog looked up from his cup. “Damn, it’s him, all right. Imagine the Carambas putting in so much effort, and then we show up... Sorry, is he the one you were looking for? Because we just took him to our station.”

“Damn, if we do this, we’ll become heroes of the department.”

“Then let’s go for it!”

They discarded the food into the bin and separated, walking briskly but not running to avoid alarming him. The afro guy seemed to be heading towards the center.

The Droog crossed the street to intercept him, while Piazza approached from behind. The street was deserted, and they were both in uniform. He must have realized they were after him, yet he continued walking innocently, as if nothing were amiss.

They knew nothing about him, not even what he had done. If all of Rome was looking for him, he could be dangerous. But they were prepared and armed as well. The Droog positioned himself in front of him and signaled for him to stop.

“Police! Stop and show us your documents!”

The afro guy halted, appearing neither surprised nor frightened. He responded calmly, “I’m sorry, officer, but I don’t have any documents.”

Piazza was behind him, and escape was no longer an option.

“Wrong answer. We need to take you to the station for identification. Pià, for safety, put handcuffs on him and let’s take him to the car.”

They anticipated a violent reaction and were ready to immobilize him. However, he extended his wrists without needing to be told, making the Droog begin to think he might have overreacted. In the end, he seemed like just another harmless freak. But he was wearing a high-quality suit, not the usual eccentric attire.

The handcuffs clicked into place. Piazza, feeling relaxed, reached for the radio to inform the station. However, with a sound of a broken spring, the handcuffs snapped off the guy’s wrists and fell to the ground.

The two police officers were momentarily stunned. The guy hadn’t said a word and still stood there with his arms outstretched. The Droog moved to the side to avoid a possible kick as he bent down, picked up the handcuffs, and put them back on, ensuring this time that they were securely fastened.

“See how is done? They won’t come off now.”

As if they had a mind of their own, the handcuffs defied him once again, opening up and falling to the ground. The Droog was getting furious. He had the sensation that the stranger was somehow making a fool of them. He wanted to twist his ear and drag him to the car in that manner.

But it was just an imagination. In reality he hadn’t moved. He decided it was not wise to stay there bewildered. He tried to change his position, but his arms and legs refused to move. The situation was so unexpected that, for the moment, he couldn’t even feel scared. He was awake, breathing, standing, able to move his eyes, but otherwise, he was paralyzed.

Frozen in place, Piazza was also moving only his eyes. They looked at each other and understood they were in trouble. Meanwhile, the stranger had resumed his walk.

“Well, nice to have met you, but now I have things to do and I must leave you. Goodnight.”

What was it, hypnosis ? His footsteps were fading away. Maybe everything would return to normal once he was gone. Piazza had widened his eyes and was trying to communicate something with his eyebrows.

The footsteps were now approaching again as if the guy had changed his mind. The Droog was now starting to feel fear. The odd guy came back into his field of vision and placed a hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes as if he were genuinely concerned for him.

“Pino, your wife’s name is Elvira, right?..”

Fear was turning into panic. How did he know his own name? And his wife’s name? What did he want? He spoke as if he were a friend, but even mafiosi had that attitude when making an offer you couldn’t refuse.

“..She has a mole under her left arm, you know. Well, you should have it checked by a doctor. But not later, understand? Right away! Tomorrow, as soon as possible, take her and see your doctor.”

He patted his shoulder once more and walked away. Drughini was now experiencing strong shivers like electric shocks, starting from his feet and traveling up to his head. He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t even know how long it lasted, maybe a minute or two. But when they subsided, he could move again. Piazza was also recovering. They looked at each other once more.

“And now what do we write on the report?”

“Nothing. Let’s keep quiet so we don’t look like fools. We didn’t encounter anyone tonight. But did you hear what he was saying? He knows my name and my wife’s name!”

“I heard... Also the part about the doctor. But what do you plan to do now?”

“Do I have to take my wife to the doctor just because the first guy who passes by tells me to?”

“I don’t know, maybe for safety... But by the way, how long has it been since your wife had a check-up?”

The Droog didn’t answer. Piazza felt that the moment of ultimate sacrifice had come. “Listen, tomorrow we have office work. I’ll cover for you! Yeah... It’s not hard... Maybe I’ll skip the coffee break... You can stay home and do what needs to be done.”

The next morning, Police Officer Pino Drughini and his wife were in the doctor’s office. The doctor examined the suspicious mole with a magnifying glass, his face grew increasingly serious, and Mr. Pino was sweating. Finally, without saying a word, the doctor gestured for them to wait and dialed a number on the phone.

“Hello, Giorgio here. Are you at the clinic?... Yeah... Everything’s fine... Listen, I have a patient here that you really should see. You’re the expert dermatologist... But I’m not sure we can wait for the usual appointment times and all that. Is there any way to sneak her in somehow? Ah... The medical guard... What are you doing with the medical guard?... Baroni set you up again, huh... No, listen Ezio, you can’t keep going on like this... Yeah, okay, tomorrow. Anyway, you are at the guard tonight... From 21 onwards... Sure, I’ll send her there, her name’s Drughini... Yeah, thanks. You just remember, bye.”

The doctor hung up the phone, let out a sigh, and then turned to his patients with a half-smile.

“You see, many times we don’t believe it, but Providence exists...”