by Baen Books
“No, Muller no!” I yelled. I was done killing my men. I didn't know how I would restrain him, but I was not going to shoot another Guardsman. Not even if it cost me my life.
His eyes began to grow wild and he turned and blew through the outer door, back the way we'd entered initially. I followed, bumping into the Camerlengo and a quartet of Swiss Guard. Outside, the aroused mob of infected below the parapet sounded like heavy surf beating against our walls in a terrible, unending storm. Occasional keening wails added a terrible counterpoint to the guttural moans and growls. The sound reverberated from the stone buildings that surrounded the Vatican, so that it seemed like the entire burning city was howling in madness.
Korporal Muller stood at the edge of the parapet, at the very edge of the tempest. He was frantically scratching his arm. I approached him cautiously.
“Helmut, let me help you,” I said. “Please.”
“There's only one way to help me, sir,” he rasped. I could see what the effort to stay in control was costing him. If we could tie him up, perhaps give the antibodies time to defeat the infection, maybe I could save him.
“No, not that way, just lay down and let me secure you long enough—”
“If you won't do it sir, I will,” Muller answered simply.
And he stepped off the wall.
###
There is a gap in my memory. I don't know how long.
I didn't pass out.
I simply chose not to remember the next few moments.
The same way I chose not to listen to the sounds below the parapet.
I did focus one on thing.
Atherton-Clive.
I stalked back to the foyer. The Camerlengo's Guardsmen, all from Second, had collected the vice-regent. The surgeon and his assistant were working on my wounded. A pounding noise came from inside, but a glance confirmed that it was another pair of Guardsmen pounding wedges around the door to the stairway, reinforcing it.
Absently, I leaned over and collected a halberd. It had been Muller's and the haft was tacky with congealed blood. I walked back to where Atherton-Clive was held by a hallebardier, hands zip-tied behind his back. His hair was standing up in all directions and a deep scratch marred his white skin, oozing blood.
It dripped onto his cassock front, staining the gold silk. Cardinal Crivetto watched me approach, his faced lined with concern. Before he could speak, I lowered the polearm from the vertical, and twisting my wrists, I casually whipped the ferrule around in a tight circle, striking Atherton-Clive across the abdomen.
The impact doubled him over, driving most of the air from his lungs.
“Hauptman Gagliardi!” the Camerlengo reproved me, angrily. “He has surrendered.”
“Yes,” I answered.
With practiced, nearly automatic skill, I reversed my grip, and wound the halberd through another twisting move, moving it so rapidly that the blade whistled faintly, causing vice-regent's guard to hop back in concern.
This time the ferrule struck the prelate behind the knees, dropping him entirely to the sod, where he lay wheezing, the pain of my blow muted by his shock. I might have broken one of his legs. It didn't matter. I let the weight of the halberd blade carry the weapon upwards, and rotated to absorb the inertia. I stopped, poised with blade cocked over my shoulder, both hands gripping the shaft a few inches apart.
“Straighten him,” I ordered the hallebardier.
With a look at my blood-stained face, he kicked Atherton-Clive into a more or less straight line, face down. No one moved to interfere, but the Camerlengo spoke up, urgently.
“Matteo, you will not strike him!” Cardinal Crivetto began to understand what I intended. “You must not take God's justice into your own hands! He has surrendered to the will of God! He'll spend all his days in silence, contemplating his sins.”
“Yes, yes,” Atherton-Clive said, coughing. “Prayer, con—”
He coughed more and turned his head sideways, craning his neck to look at me.
I regarded him, looking directly into his eyes and shared my torment with him.
“Contemplation,” he said. “I will remain silent for the rest of my life! The Camerlengo has ordered it!”
I answered him.
“We are sworn to obey His Holiness or his successor.”
Then I unwound the strike with all my force in my soul, and brought the blade down across his neck, severing his head from body, and his life from our world.
Finished, I dropped the halberd to the reddened sod.
###
Your Holiness,
The foregoing was transcribed from an audio diary discovered among the records retrieved during our evacuation of the Holy See. All of the Pontifical Swiss Guard work in Italian, but also speak German and French as well—this officer used all three so my translation may be a little choppy thereby. I believe that you worked closely with Maggiore Gagliardi, and anticipate that you would appreciate the opportunity to read how he and his men kept the faith during the darkest hours of our Mother Church.
After the Purge, the maggiore could not continue in charge. He swore an oath of silence and daily toils in the gardens, speaking to none, commanding none. Yet we need his strength, his faith and his proven fidelity. More than that, I believe that we owe him the opportunity for redemption—not to redeem himself in our eyes, but in his own.
I beg you, Holy Father, to consider visiting him again, that he might hear your words, that you might yet help him mend his wounded soul, that he might lead the Army of the Faithful. The world must be raised from the shadows. It has been some time since the Church fought for its life, but we do so now. Men like Gagliardi are needed in God's service again.
Yours in Christ,
Monsignor Hector Gallierez
Prefect
—Excerpted from a letter addressed to His Holiness, John Paul III from the Prefect to the Papal Household.