"Bo!"
Impatiently, Prosper dragged him along through the throngs of people, waiting eagerly at the entrance to the huge church, to see the gilded walls and ceilings.
"They're angry," said Bo, looking back.
"Who are?"
"The golden horses."
"Angry?" Prosper frowned as he dragged him along. "About what?"
"Because someone stole them and carried them off here," Bo whispered. "Hornet told me." He held on tight to Prosper's hand so he wouldn't lose his big brother in the crowd as they circled the Basilica. Back in the narrow alleys he wasn't usually afraid, but it was different here on the wide-open square. Bo called it the Lion Square. He knew that it had a proper name really, but he called it that anyway. During the day every cobblestone here belonged to the pigeons and the tourists. But at night when the pigeons slept on the roofs and the people lay in their hotel beds, the square belonged to the horses and the winged lion that stood among the stars. Bo was certain about that.
"It is a thousand, or even a hundred years ago that they brought them here," Bo said.
"Who?" Prosper pushed his brother past a bride and groom who were having their picture taken in front of the Basilica.
"The horses!" Bo turned around again but he couldn't see them anymore.
Scipio and the others were already standing by the lion fountain at the side entrance of the Basilica, waiting for them. Scipio had taken off his mask and was fiddling with it anxiously.
"At last!" Scipio said when Bo sat down next to him on the edge of the fountain. "Were you looking at the horses again?"
Embarrassed, Bo stared at his feet. Hornet had bought him a new pair of shoes. They were quite big but they were really nice -- and warm.
"Listen!" Scipio waved the others toward him and lowered his voice, as if he was afraid that one of the bystanders could overhear what he was about to say. "I don't want to turn up at this meeting with my whole entourage, so this is how we are going to do it: Prosper and Mosca are coming inside with me. The others will wait here by the fountain."
Bo and Riccio exchanged disappointed looks.
"But I don't want to wait here!" Bo's bottom lip began to tremble dangerously. Hornet stroked his hair comfortingly, but Bo pulled his head away.
"Bo's right!" Riccio called out. "Why can't we all go? Why only Prosper and Mosca?"
Hornet answered before Scipio could say anything, "Because we three are not good enough to be in the Thief Lord's crew! Bo is too small, you look hardly any older than eight, and I'm a girl, which simply isn't good enough! No, we three would make you look foolish, wouldn't we, oh Thief Lord?"
Scipio pressed his lips together. Without another word he stalked off down the steps leading away from the fountain. "Come," he said to Mosca and Prosper. The two boys, however, hesitated. Only when Hornet said, "Oh, go on," did they follow him.
Riccio just stood there, trying to swallow tears of disappointment as he stared after the others. But Bo started sobbing so violently that Prosper came running back to him in spite of Scipio's angry glare. "But you don't even like the Basilica!" he whispered to Bo. "It's scary in there so don't be silly. You stay here at the fountain and look after Hornet. And don't move."
"But that's boring," Bo gulped, stroking the paw of one of the fountain's lions.
"Come on now, Prosper!" Scipio called angrily from the side entrance.
"See you later," Prosper said, and then he followed Mosca and the Thief Lord into the big church.
When Prosper first took him there, Bo had called the Basilica "The Golden Cave." The gilded mosaics of angels, kings, and saints, which decorated the walls and ceilings, only shined at certain times when the sunlight fell through the church windows. Right now everything was dark.
The three boys moved hesitantly down the wide center aisle, their steps ringing out on the flagstone floor. The golden domes that arched above their heads kept their splendor hidden in the gloom, and in between the tall marble pillars that supported them the boys felt as small as insects. Instinctively, they moved closer together.
"Where are the confessionals?" Mosca whispered, looking uneasily around him. "I haven't been in here very often. I don't like churches. They're creepy."
"I know where they are," Scipio replied. He pushed the mask back onto his face and led the way as purposefully as one of the Basilica's tourist guides. The confessionals were tucked away in one of the side aisles. The first one on the left looked no different from the others. It was a tall box made from black wood, draped with dark red curtains and with a door in the middle, which the priest used for slipping into the tiny space behind. Inside, he would sit down on a narrow bench, put his ear to a small window, and listen to all who wanted to tell him their sins and clear their conscience.
Of course there was also a curtain on the side of the confessional to protect the sinners from curious eyes. Scipio now pushed this curtain aside, adjusting his mask one last time and clearing his throat nervously. The Thief Lord tried very hard to pretend that he was coolness itself, but Prosper and Mosca, as they followed him behind the curtain, sensed that his heart was beating just as fast as theirs.
Scipio hesitated as his eye fell on the low bench half hidden in the darkness, but then he kneeled down on it. The small window was now level with his eyes and he could be seen by whoever sat on the other side. Prosper and Mosca stood behind him like bodyguards. Scipio just knelt there, waiting.
"Perhaps he's not here yet. Should we have a look?" Mosca whispered cautiously.
But just then someone pulled back the curtain of the small window. Two eyes, round and bright, seemingly with no pupils, gleamed through the darkness of the confessional. Prosper shuddered and only after another look did he realize that they were glasses, reflecting the sparse light.
"One shouldn't wear a mask in a church, any more than a hat." The uneven voice sounded like a very old man.
"One also shouldn't talk about a theft in a confessional," Scipio answered, "and that's what we're here for, isn't it?"
Prosper thought he could hear a small laugh. "So you really are the Thief Lord," the stranger said quietly. "Well, keep your mask on if you don't want to show your face, but I can still see that you're very young."
Scipio knelt bolt upright. "Indeed. And you are very old, judging by your voice. Does age matter in this transaction?"
Prosper and Mosca exchanged a quick glance. Scipio might have had the body of a child, but he could express himself like an adult, with a confidence that they couldn't help admiring.
"Not in the least," the old man answered. "You must forgive my surprise at your age. I must admit that when Barbarossa told me about the Thief Lord I did not imagine a boy of, say, twelve or thirteen years of age. But I do agree, age is of no consequence in this case. I myself had to work like an adult from the age of eight, although I was small and weak. Nobody cared about that."
"In my line of business a small body may be an advantage, Conte," Scipio replied. "If that is how I should address you."
"You may, yes." The man in the confessional cleared his throat. "As Barbarossa has told you, I am looking for someone who can retrieve something for me, something I have been trying to find for many years, and which I have now finally discovered. Sadly, the item is at the moment in the possession of a stranger." The old man cleared his throat again. His glasses now moved so close to the window that Prosper thought he could just about see the outline of a face. "Since you call yourself Thief Lord I assume you have already entered some of the noble houses of this city without ever being caught. Am I right?"