Blood Ties

by C. C. Humphreys

  His wolves obeyed, dragging the moaning man, the whimpering girl, the pleading servant, taking them to the side of the house. The rain on the tiled roof, increasing in frenzy, swallowed all other sounds, leaving only the ragged breathing of the man before him. Gianni put his hand into the man’s bony chest, pushed him gently back into the seat he’d risen from not a minute before. Setting up the other chair, Gianni sat too, arms folded, leaning on the back of it.

  In the street the man’s hood had been up, but the cloak was discarded now, his head bare, save for the little leather cap that clung to the crown. Thick hair radiated downward from it, streaked with grey, glossy with some rich oil, to fall onto the large lace collar. The hair and cap were his only distinguishing features. The Jew’s doublet was plain but well-made, the apron such as would be worn by any artisan. Boots came halfway up the leg, meeting the thick wool leggings there.

  No, Gianni thought, aside from the head, they really don’t look much different from us.

  He studied the face, the trace of greying stubble, the dark eyes under heavy brows now flicking around the room, seeking Gianni’s, seeking to avoid them as well, to not antagonize with a stare. Gianni let them move around, making his own neutral, keeping them fixed on those circling before him, until, like a butterfly finally settling on a flower, the Jew was staring back at him. His lips started to move, a hum coming into his throat; finally a sound escaped.

  ‘What …?’ He broke off, remembering what that word had produced before.

  ‘Please …’ He tried again, stopping when Gianni tipped his head to the side, smiled, a parody of attention.

  ‘No, go on. I’d like to hear what you have to say.’

  ‘Dear sir, young master’ – the words came out in a rush now, as if too long stoppered – ‘I am sure we can settle this … this problem between us. There’s no need … no need for anyone else to be hurt. My people will pay, they will give you anything you want, however much you want, you only need ask, you only …’

  Gianni’s hand raised slowly, politely. ‘You believe we are thieves? That we want the jewels you carry?’

  The Jew cleared his throat. ‘Well, I know how it is. Debts, life so expensive for a young man. If you owe anything to any of my people, if the interest is too high, I … I feel sure we could …’

  The hand rose again. ‘Debts are owed. But not in gold. Repayment demanded. But not of interest.’

  ‘Then what, sir? What debt do I owe? I will pay it, I assure you. I will pay.’

  ‘Oh, I know you will.’ Gianni was slowly rising from his seat. ‘You will pay everything you have, for the greatest debt in the world. For did you not murder Our Lord?’

  The change in the man’s demeanour was not the one Gianni had expected. Instead of growing terror, a veil seemed to draw across his face.

  ‘Ah.’ The old Jew sighed.

  ‘“Ah?” Is that all you can say? Can you deny it, Jew?’

  ‘Would it help me if I did? Has it ever helped my people before? If we admit it, you kill us. If we deny it, you kill us. Death is the only thing we get from you.’

  ‘Your people?’ Gianni brought his face close. ‘Shall I tell you something about your people? Shall I tell you a secret?’ His voice dropped to a whisper and he pressed his mouth close to the other’s ear. ‘My mother was one of you.’

  He pulled back, so he could see the reaction, the little hope that would spring up there. It was always the same. He liked it when men died with a little hope. It made it harder for them.

  The hope was there, in the hand raised toward him, clutching at his doublet, in the eyes.

  ‘Your mother’s blood is your blood. Her faith is your faith. Inside here … here’ – his fingers tapped at Gianni’s chest – ‘you are one of us.’

  Gianni waited, savoured. When he spoke his voice was gentle.

  ‘If you can show me where the Jew within me lives – be it in my spleen, in my liver, in my very heart – I would take this knife and I would cut it out, though I die as I cut. But I don’t need to do that, because I have been saved by Christ’s love. All I need do is return that love to him every day.’

  In the man’s eyes, the hope was replaced by something else. The younger man sensed what it was, even as the wrinkled hand dropped and grasped the handle of Gianni’s knife at his belt, even as Gianni’s hand closed over his. The Jew was old, but his wrists were strong and he had courage. He had pulled the knife up and out, lunged high, the point nipping Gianni’s ear before he could force it up and away, bending him back over the table, using his weight, his height, his youth. He rested there with just enough pressure to hold against the old man pushing up.

  ‘Pay the debt,’ Gianni said and, twisting, he pushed the dagger home.

  The old man cried out then, something Hebrew, a curse, a prayer perhaps. Then the blood rushed to his throat, choking further words.

  Gianni slumped back into the chair, staring at the twitching body on the table, while the sound of the rain on the roof filled the room. It had found some crack above, because drops were beginning to fall, spattering off the table, bouncing off the body’s forehead, off the bright little leather cap. Yarmulke, his grandfather had called it. His had been frayed, dull, barely clinging to the wisps of hair there, always slipping off as his grandfather pulled and twisted it, babbling his nonsense. His mother said he’d been a brilliant scientist in his day, more, an alchemist, a seeker for the Philosopher’s Stone. There had been no trace of the philosopher in the drooling child Gianni had known.

  There was a cry from outside, fear strong enough to pierce the pounding rain, a woman’s terror. Gianni was at the door, through it, in a moment. The deluge was still so intense it took his eyes a moment to adjust. He saw the knife man first, feet hovering over the ground, swinging by his neck from one of the olive trees. Next, through the falling sheets, a huddle of bodies. Wilhelm was crouched between the writhing legs of the girl, slowly folding the skirt up. Two others held her arms, while the rest of the Cubs were scattered around, looking or not, fascinated, disgusted.

  Gianni crossed the space in three strides, his hand making a fist, catching the German on his ear in a sharp blow. The men clutching the girl let her go and she scrabbled to pull down her skirts, a cornered animal, backing up against the wall.

  ‘But, Gianni,’ Wilhelm said plaintively, ‘she’s only a heathen whore.’

  Gianni remembered when he’d scouted the house, the girl giving him some water to drink, the darkness of her eyes reminding him for a moment of his sister’s, though set in a face as dull as Anne Rombaud’s was lively.

  ‘Have you forgotten your vows, Wilhelm? Do you not all know the sin that lust is?’

  Wilhelm rubbed at his ear. His voice was petulant. ‘I haven’t taken my final vows.’

  Gianni smiled. It seemed so absurd, the German sitting and sulking in the mud, in a rainstorm, the body of a man he’d killed dangling ten paces away. Smile turned to a laugh and he said, ‘But Willie, look at her – she’s not even Jewish.’

  Then everyone was laughing, except for the German and the girl, the sudden welcome release of it, laughing as fat droplets bounced off their soaked, grey cloaks. Boys again, laughing in the rain.

  Something made Gianni turn. He saw the figure, standing with his back to the gate, which was still barred and locked, as if the figure had just passed through its solidity. The hood of a cloak was thrown back, a shaven head bare to the rain. The moment Gianni looked at him, the figure slowly raised a finger, crooked it twice towards himself.

  Over his shoulder, Gianni said, ‘Throw the bodies into the house. Burn it.’

  He had taken three steps away when Piccolo called, ‘What about the girl, Gianni? She has seen us.’

  She had. But if the shaven man’s summons meant what Gianni thought it did, then this would be the last time he hunted with his pack. They had never left witnesses before; but if no one lived to speak of what they had done, what terror would there be for their enemies? Wou
ld not the heathens sleep untroubled by the howling of wolves in the night?

  He turned back, looked at each of the boys in turn. In a way, he would miss them. Even Wilhelm.

  ‘Tell her the name we hunt by, then release her. Let the Jews of Rome remember the Grey Wolves. Let them live with that name in fear.’

  When he approached the figure at the gate, the man with the shaven head bowed once in greeting.

  ‘He has summoned me?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Then take me to him.’

  The man unbarred the gate, stepped aside to let Gianni precede him. As he stepped through, Gianni glanced back at the house, saw the first tongue of fire lick at one of the windows. The rain, fierce a moment before, suddenly slackened and, in the next instant, died. God’s blessing on God’s cleansing flames, he thought, and then he remembered the old Jew’s secret, the jewels he was probably carrying. Yet the thought didn’t even cause him to break step. That was part of an old life, dissolving now in smoke and fire. This mute, shaven man was leading him to a new one. Leading him to his destiny.

  Thomas Lawley leaned against the oak panelling of the antechamber, desperately trying to stay awake. A chair had suddenly become vacant five paces from him, but he knew as soon as he sat down he would be gone. He had not slept at all for two nights, and in the previous three weeks had barely mustered half a dozen decent rests. Wind and tide had been against him at Dover and he had been forced to spend three days on the water, to land in Hamburg. The Jesuit system of transit was, of necessity, less developed in the Northern and Protestant German states. He’d made up for the lost time from Catholic Bavaria on, pushing each horse hard, abandoning them at the way stations, snatching both sleep and food in short bites. But time had been lost, Renard had expected him to have reached Rome a week before, to be already starting on his return, bearing the weapon of coercion.

  And now he’d been standing for six hours outside Cardinal Carafa’s door. It was well-known how the man inside hated the Jesuits, but he also must have known the importance of Thomas’s mission. It took all of his training, meditations and prayers muttered under his breath, to calm his anger, as he watched courtier, pilgrim and priest precede him into the audience chamber. At least those around him gave him space to lean, stretch his limbs, relieve his aching knee. They would not want their exquisite robes to brush against his muddy cloak and boots.

  His eyes flickered shut – and opened to the sound of the outer door, another supplicant admitted. This one was different, much younger than most of the fat prelates and courtiers gathered to pay court to the man everyone thought would be the next Pope. This youth was dressed in plain contrast to the gaudiness on display, a grey cloak over a simple black doublet, his dark hair cut short, the wisps of a young man’s beard on his chin. His pale face was finely boned and, Thomas noticed, streaked with blood, probably from the scab at his ear. More blood stained his doublet and he made the occasional attempt to blend it into the dark material.

  He had been abandoned by his guide, a bald-headed man who seemed to have some special privilege there, for he had swept into the audience chamber and the person who had been lately admitted, a corpulent, red-coated bishop, had been ejected, protesting vigorously. He looked like a fat and squawking pigeon, all ruffled feathers, and Thomas found himself smiling, an unaccustomed sensation in recent years. He looked at the youth to see if the amusement was shared. He found the boy staring at him, but there was no humour in his eyes.

  Thomas had the sudden sensation he had seen the young man before. He looked intelligent and Thomas had taught many in Jesuit schools before his true mission began. Taking a chance now, while the other looked at him, he raised his hands to his chest, the left sheltering the right from all but a direct view. Pinching his thumb and forefinger together, he described a tiny cross in the air, the upright first, the crossbar carrying on into the curves of an ‘S’. He watched the young man’s eyes, saw them dart away, come back. Then saw them harden before he looked down, returning to the task of scraping the blood from his shirt front.

  He recognizes me. And he rejects me, Thomas thought. Why?

  The inner doors opened and the shaven man stood there. As the assembled company rose, to primp and prepare for their audience, the man beckoned the youth who stiffened, then strode forward. The door closed, swallowing both men, outrage and ruffled feathers returning to this side of it. Within the hubbub, Thomas made his mind still.

  What, he pondered, did the man who would be Pope want with someone so young? A boy with blood on his hands?

  Gianni knew what he wanted from Cardinal Carafa – a mission. Killing Jews was good training, but it was old sport. Besides, evil though they were, the Holy Church faced greater enemies now, greater threats, both within and without. The man he had finally got to see understood this, had led the fight against the heretic, the witch and the sinner from the very beginning. This man had founded the Inquisition in Rome, rooting out dissent wherever he discovered it, purging with flame and sword the length of Italy. Now he was preparing to take that fight to the enemy beyond, to the lands where Luther, Calvin and their ilk held sway. Even beyond them, to the new worlds opening up across the great oceans, where savages worshipped idols in the darkness of sin, in ignorance of the True Church’s holy light. The Jesuits had begun such work. But even though Gianni had been educated by them, he knew them as weak, unwilling to do all that must be done. They had tried to teach him to cure with the power of love. He knew, in his own experience, how much more effective was the power of hate.

  As this man knew. Gianni gazed now at the shrunken figure, swathed in red on his red throne. Carafa! Even the name made his knees go weak, so he was grateful when, before the raised dais, he was able to prostrate himself, lie spreadeagled as he had lain before the crucifix in that rough chapel earlier, while above him the shaven man showed he was not mute, leaning in to whisper secrets into the old man’s ear. Secrets that had brought Gianni here.

  Fingers prodded him and he looked up to meet the gaze of his hero. Long, thin fingers beckoned him forward, one with a huge emerald upon it, thrust out. Falling again to his knees, almost sighing with ecstasy, Gianni kissed it again and again.

  ‘Enough.’ The voice was soft, set at a high pitch, a quaver in it, a voice that did not need to strain to be obeyed. Instantly, Gianni laid the hand down, stepped back, knelt again at the foot of the throne.

  ‘You have been about work for the greater glory of God, I hear.’

  ‘Ad Majoram Dei Gloriam.’ The Jesuits had taught him Latin with rigour, they were good for that at least. Effortlessly, Gianni slipped into the ancient tongue. ‘If your Holiness deigns to think so. I do what little I can.’

  There came a rasp from above, which Gianni realized was a laugh. ‘And it is much. Sometimes, with all these new enemies we forget our original ones.’ He paused. ‘Look at me, my son.’

  Gianni raised his eyes, almost expecting to be blinded. But the man who sat there was just a man, an old one, near eighty it was said, not unlike the old Jew, the same sallow skin hanging in folds down a lined face, a stray wisp of white hair peeking from beneath a cap. Under tufted white brows though, there was nothing old in the keenness of his eyes.

  ‘And I hear you desire to be of more service. To the Faith. To me.’

  His heart began to beat even faster. ‘If you consider me worthy, Holy Father. If you let me, I would happily die for you.’

  That rasp again. ‘I am not your Holy Father yet, my son. If all goes well, I may well be Pope, within weeks. Then let my enemies fear. Let the heretic quake in his false worship, the witch cower in her coven. I will root them out, cast them into the flames, redeem their souls by the flaying of their flesh.’ The voice rose in pitch, in power. ‘And you would join in that crusade, my son? You would die for that?’

  ‘Try me, Most Holy. Let me prove worthy of your trust.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’

  Carafa raised a hand and the shaven man placed a parc
hment into it. Squinting in the light, he read for a moment, then spoke again.

  ‘Do you know Fra Lepidus?’

  It was a name from his past, a name he tried never to recall, for it conjured a vision of a cold cell floor, of a rope biting into flesh, a falling stick.

  Blinking, Gianni stuttered, ‘A holy man, your eminence. The Abbot at Montecatini Alto.’

  ‘Indeed? I know little of him. Save this …’ He waved the paper. ‘It was found by someone I trust among his papers, along with certain … implements. I dislike the indiscriminate use of pain, do you not agree? Anyway, they are irrelevant, this’ – the paper again – ‘is relevant. Very much so.’ He paused, squinting at the parchment. ‘Is it true, then, what is written here. Is it true you are the son of Anne Boleyn’s executioner?’

  If he had lived a thousand years, it was the last thing he expected from this man, in this place. It was all his nightmares condensed into one phrase, the yoke of shame his father had placed on him, the family sin he’d fled. No one knew this ghastly secret, no one except those who had taken part in that witch’s quest. No one …

  Then the vision he struggled so hard never to see, that still woke him most nights, came back to him now, and he was there, no more than a child, at the monastery where his parents had reluctantly sent him after months of begging leave to study Christ’s words. He was lying on the floor, ropes biting into his skin, a switch rising and falling, leaving horrible weals, drawing blood, Fra Lepidus, with his mad eyes, wielding it, demanding the full panoply of his sins. And an eleven-year-old boy had nothing left to confess. Nothing save one family secret, bound in a vow of silence. And he broke that vow to stop the pain, told the man with the mad eyes everything. Told him of Jean Rombaud and Anne Boleyn’s six-fingered hand.

  ‘Ah! So it is true then.’

  That voice brought him back from the horror of memory, to the room where his life had just turned awry. To the wrinkled face that now smiled down on him.

  ‘This … relic. It could be useful. The Imperial Ambassador in England thinks so. They are struggling to return the land to the One Church, under their good and pious Queen Mary. Her sister, daughter of that witch queen, may need … influencing to continue the good work.’ He laid gnarled fingers on Gianni’s shoulder. ‘Can you bring us this witch’s hand?’