by Tal Bauer
When he looked up, Cristoph was staring at him, frowning. “What happened to your face?” One shaking hand reached for his swollen black eye, his bloody face, his torn lip.
Alain intercepted his hand, rubbing his thumb over Cristoph’s palm. “I brawled with a ghoul,” he whispered, smiling sadly. “You have no idea how much I wish I had been with you.”
“A what?”
“Get some rest.” He finished drawing a rune for sleep in the center of Cristoph’s palm just before Cristoph’s eyelids slid shut.
Alain dragged a chair close to his bed and collapsed into it. His bones ached where Lotario’s spell had knit together his shattered ribs, his punctured lung. Blood still oozed down his face. Exhaustion pulled on his soul.
“I will watch over you,” he said to Cristoph’s sleeping form. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
* * *
When Cristoph woke, sunlight spiked through his skull, bright enough to make his brain bleed. Groaning, he rolled away and buried his face in the pillow.
In the pillow that smelled exactly like Alain: moss tinged with iron, wet leaves on concrete, and ancient dust mixed with musk. He pulled back, his eyes darting right and left, taking in Alain’s rumpled bed, Alain’s bedroom, and the aches in his body. He froze.
Outside the bedroom, raised voices filtered through the closed door. He recognized Major Bader’s voice first.
“And you didn’t do anything to warn the man? Didn’t say anything to him?”
“You didn’t either, Luca!” Alain’s voice, uncharacteristically loud. Shouting. “You didn’t say anything to them in training!”
“I’m not his mentor,” Bader hissed.
“Did you warn Gruber?” Silence. “Or Braun?” Alain sighed, and floorboards creaked. “I’m sick of this. I’m sick of seeing our new recruits waiting like flowers to be plucked by old men inside this Vatican hothouse.”
“Some of the guards enjoy the extra income.” Bader’s voice was quiet. “You know we’ve had guards who seek out these kinds of arrangements.”
“There’s a big difference between prostitution and getting drugged and attacked.”
More silence. Bader’s voice was gruff when he finally spoke. “Is he all right?”
“He needs to go to hospital. I need you to take him there this morning. Stay with him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re in charge of the men, Luca.”
“You are his mentor! His friend. His…” Bader trailed off.
“I’m his mentor and that is all,” Alain growled. “He’s been traumatized. You need to stop being an ass for a day and take care of this man.”
“Fine,” Bader hissed. “Since you’re too busy to take care of him yourself.”
“Sometimes, Luca… Sometimes, I just want to—”
“Do it. Please.” Bader’s voice dripped with condescension. A long moment. “Your apartment is a fucking mess. What’s with all these boxes? Twelve years and you can’t unpack?”
Footsteps marched down the hallway. Cristoph cringed, pushing himself up. He’d recognize the major’s stride anywhere.
The door flew open, hitting the wall with a thud. Major Bader stood in the doorway, his glower fixed on his face. He glared at Cristoph, sitting on the edge of Alain’s bed. “It’s time to go to hospital. I’m taking you. On your feet!”
As Cristoph limped out of Alain’s apartment, he searched for Alain, but the man had vanished. All he could see were empty bookshelves, piles of boxes, and a stained coffee pot still warming on a hot plate.
* * *
Vatican Health Services, like everything in the Vatican, existed in a stratified, bifurcated world. Surely all were equal before the kingdom of heaven, as the scriptures taught. But some were more equal than others. To enter the clinic and seek treatment, there were two doors. One for bishops, and one for everyone else.
Cristoph had already heard the jokes. American priests living in the Vatican would fly home to their own doctors rather than risk a trip to the Vatican health clinic. There was no regular staff. The clinic was run by volunteers who worked shifts on their off days from their day jobs in Rome and was supplemented by nuns and priests of the various orders living on the grounds.
It was only fifty years ago, Cristoph heard in recruit training, that Pius XII was prescribed an injection of monkey brains to increase his lifespan. And make sure you never need surgery from the Vatican quacks. Paul VI’s prostate was removed in his private library.
If that’s how popes were treated, what would a lowly Swiss Guard receive?
He’d find out eventually. Maybe. If he didn’t die of old age before being seen. His gaze kept dragging to the bishop’s private entrance. Was Battistini still in there? Was he getting the best treatment, the all hands on deck attention that bishops commanded? Even after what he did?
Had he done that before?
Cristoph shifted. The bag of ice Major Bader had brought him after they arrived in the clinic was a melted mess of lukewarm water, dripping slowly onto the tiled floor. A puddle stretched for his heel. Beside Cristoph, Major Bader sat, back ramrod straight, eyes facing front, glaring at the closed doors leading to the treatment room.
At least Bader had let him change out of his sweat-stained and wine-splattered football shorts and jersey top before he limped across the Vatican. When the major had marched into his shared barracks dormitory, his roommates—drinking espresso, lounging as they traded bullshit and gossip while getting ready for their shifts—had fled in seconds, barreling out of the dorm as Bader escorted Cristoph in.
That bit of gossip would be running around the Guard in no time flat. Being escorted into his dorm by the major, bruised, bloody, and limping, would certainly put him squarely on the outs again.
Why hadn’t Alain seen him before he left? Where had he gone? He’d heard him talking before the major had barged into Alain’s bedroom. Surely he was there. Why wasn’t Alain sitting by his side in the clinic instead of the stone-faced major who hated his guts?
Bader stood, each of his movements as purposeful as if he were marching to war, and strode toward the main desk. His clipped words growled back across the waiting room. Cristoph sagged forward, his back bowing as he buried his face in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. The nurse, an ancient nun in a habit who might have treated St. Peter as he came down from his crucifixion, frowned, but she nodded to Bader.
After three hours of waiting, they were escorted into an exam room.
Major Bader stood by the exam door, arms crossed, legs spread, like he was waiting for a command inspection. He said nothing as Cristoph fumbled and flubbed his way through his lies, saying he’d slipped and tumbled down the stairs “in the barracks” instead of “while drugged and escaping a sexual assault”.
When the nurse asked for a urine sample, Cristoph blanched.
“Is that really necessary?” Major Bader drawled. “The man can hardly hobble to the toilet and I don’t have time to wait for him to figure it out.”
“We don’t have an updated physical,” the nurse protested. “Mr. Hasse’s records are from his initial entry into recruit training. Since he’s here, we can collect what we can.”
“Another time,” the major ordered curtly. “He needs his ankle tended to. I need him back on duty. I don’t have time to waste with his out-of-date physical. I’m not here to make things easier for him.” Bader glared at Cristoph. “You’ll have to come back on your own to take care of that, Halberdier.”
Cristoph nodded. As the nurse turned away, sighing at Bader, he sent the major a shaky smile behind her back. God only knew what Battistini had drugged him with. He didn’t want any of that in his medical record.
Bader nodded once and looked away.
When the physician came in with plaster and wrappings for his leg and ankle, Bader slipped out. Through the thin walls, Cristoph heard his deep rumble ask about other patients, specifically about Bishop Battistini. Whatever the nurse’s response was, Cristoph
didn’t hear, but Bader returned moments later.
He was bandaged, splinted, and given a pair of crutches, and then they were escorted out with a bottle of paracetamol and a warning to be careful going down the stairs. They walked away in silence, Cristoph hobbling next to Major Bader across the back of the Vatican, away from the crowds.
“The bishop has been sent to San Giovanni Addolorata hospital. He is being transferred to the Archbasilica of St. John Lateran after he’s discharged. The hospital will be able to better care for his broken hip with him near. But, with him being so old, they don’t think he’ll ever leave the Archbasilica,” Major Bader said quietly.
Cristoph swallowed. His crutches rang out on the cobbled walkways, a slow rhythm and clank. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“Don’t,” Bader barked. His eyes burned as stopped Cristoph. “Don’t apologize. Don’t ever.” He exhaled, his nostrils flaring wide. Bader stared over Cristoph’s shoulder, into some middle distance. “Report to Sergeant Autenburg when you return to the barracks. You’re unfit for guard duty. You’ll perform garrison duties instead, from zero eight hundred until sixteen hundred every day. Sergeant Autenburg will assign those duties.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Bader stayed at Cristoph’s side for the rest of the trek back to the barracks. When they returned, Bader held open the door for Cristoph, then disappeared into his office, slamming the door behind him. Cristoph hobbled down the hallway to Alain’s cramped closet, squeezing through the narrow passage and gritting his teeth as he banged his casted foot. He stopped at the doorway. “Hey.”
Alain looked up, one eye swollen shut, ringed in deep bruises, the other bloodshot. One cheek was scratched, butterfly bandages closing the cut. His hands shook, and the four empty cups of coffee scattered on Alain’s desk were probably to blame.
“What happened to you?” Cristoph slumped against the doorframe. “I thought I had a bad night.”
“You did have a bad night. You had a terrible night.” Alain’s hands clenched into fists. “I’m so sorry—”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should have warned you—”
“That there’s crap in the world? Yeah, I already knew that.” Cristoph shrugged, picking at the hem of his shirt. “You told me about the other guards, like my roommate. I knew some stuff happened. I just didn’t think… he would…” Battistini, after Alain, had been the kindest person to him in the Vatican. He was a man who did good in the world.
His memories shifted, scratched like a vinyl record being destroyed. Flashes of the night before, colors bleeding from the lights, naked angels, hands fondling him—
Cristoph shook his head.
Alain exhaled. “Yes, some of the guards have sold their services to some members of the curia. It’s way to make more money. The Swiss Guards aren’t paid that much. Most of the time, it’s not sex. Just strip shows, maybe some petting. Some of the priests are very careful about their celibacy. They skirt the lines as much as they can.” Alain closed his eyes. “A long time ago, I was approached. I was asked to—” He shook his head. Looked down. “I’ve never seen a guard attacked. Until now,” he breathed.
The hem of Cristoph’s shirt frayed beneath his hands, strings pulling free. “He was kind to me. Always nice, even when I was angry. When I didn’t want to be here. Before—” His lips clamped shut. Before you helped me. Before I wanted to make you proud.
“I’m sorry,” Alain repeated. He cleared his throat. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Cristoph felt the physical push of Alain’s distancing like a shove to his chest. It made his skin pucker on the inside, made his muscles go tight. “Major Bader sent me here. Said I was going to perform garrison duties every day until I recovered and that you should assign them to me.”
“Me?” Alain groaned, shaking his head and burying his face in his hands. “Luca…”
Was he truly this unwanted? Had he read Alain completely wrong? All those moments laughing and talking, spending time together when he could have been alone during his punishment details. Running in the gardens, working out side by side. Sparring. He stared back at their history, the time they had known each other.
He was a thousand different kinds of fool.
There wasn’t anything there. Nothing more than a sergeant who had made the most out of his unwanted mentee and a man with delusions that someone cared for him. His stomach churned, a mix of painkillers swallowed dry on a drugged stomach and the swirling dregs of his self-hatred rearing again. Was it only yesterday he’d tried to convince himself everything was going to be all right?
He knew better than that.
He shifted, looking away. His heart thudded in his chest. Alain could probably hear it.
“Well, come in,” Alain sighed. He winced as he stood, grabbing files and piling them on the floor out of sight behind his desk. Whole stacks disappeared, the desk suddenly bare, the chairs emptied, everything hidden away. He pulled a small clump of folders off the top of the computer monitor, coated in a layer of dust, and brushed them off with his jacket sleeve before sliding them across the desk to Cristoph.
“What’s this?” Cristoph caught them before they slid off the edge, gingerly sitting down in one of the creaking metal folding chairs.
“Crime reports from the gendarmerie for the past five years. Interviews they took from people they detained who threatened the Holy Father.” Alain’s pinched expression stayed fixed on the folders, refusing to meet Cristoph’s gaze. “Most of them are crazy. Religious nuts. They don’t have the means to pull off any kind of attack. Or any kind of anything, really. Most of the time, their motives are based in conspiracy theory and madness. A lot of these people are homeless.”
“What do you want me to do with this?”
“I need a threat assessment done on each individual. Analyze their background. Their threats, their motive, and their means.”
Cristoph stared at Alain. “You just said they were all meaningless.”
“That’s one interpretation—”
“They were collecting dust on your monitor! You can’t be serious!”
“I need to give you something to do. And that’s all I have for you.”
“I know this isn’t what you do all day long. This isn’t what got you that black eye!”
“I told you before, there are things I cannot share with you.” A desperate plea burned from Alain’s gaze. “Please. Don’t push this.”
“What’s so secret? Why do you get to know everything about me but I know nothing about you?” Cristoph tossed the folders on the desk. “Why does everyone around here treat you like you’re some kind of Devil-worshipping madman?” His voice rose until he was shouting at Alain. “Why are you pushing me away? I thought you—” He clamped his jaw shut.
Silence.
“Dammit, commandant,” Alain whispered. “God damn you.”
Footsteps rang down the hallway. Cristoph twisted, staring at the door. The lean, older priest appeared, eyes blown wide, cell phone pressed to his ear. His thin lips pressed together, face twisted into a grimace, and he barely paid Cristoph any attention as he fixed a panicked glare on Alain.
Cristoph could just make out someone talking fast and frantic over the line.
Alain jumped up. “What is it?”
“It’s Angelo. The girl. It’s… bad.” The priest’s eyes darted once to Cristoph, then away. “We have to go. Now.”
“Shit.” Alain winced as he rounded his desk, one hand over his ribs. Cristoph watched as he grabbed a shoulder bag by the door. “Cristoph…” he said, sighing. “Go back to your dorm. You can’t be here.” He licked his lips. Looked away. “And don’t come back.”
The priest waved for Alain to hurry. He jogged off, heading for the back door to the garrison. Alain followed slower, one hand still pressed over his side. They disappeared out to the car park in a flurry of frantic energy, leaving Cristoph alone in the dusty, dark office.
* * *
Lotario’s beater Bug smoked and snorted and ground its way across Rome, veering in and out of the capital’s afternoon traffic of Vespas and cabbies and crowds of tourists. Lotario leaned on the horn as he sucked down a cigarette, careening into every space he could squeeze his shitty car, flipping off the other drivers and leaning out his window, cursing.
Alain clutched the duct-taped door handle and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on the grimy window. He tried not to feel anything at all. Tried desperately to erase the image of Cristoph’s betrayed, shattered expression. Don’t come back.
Why had he deluded himself into thinking he could have something for himself. Hadn’t he learned his lesson twelve years ago? Why had the commandant gone and encouraged him, encouraged them?
He’d passed the point of worry about the state of his soul long ago, but even so, he blanched at how quickly he’d rocketed through all seven deadly sins. Didn’t he have better control than this? Desire had grown, oh so fast. Envy. Greed. Pride. Gluttony for more. More of Cristoph, more of the hope he’d sheltered, hidden from his soul in the deepest recesses of his being, let out when he’d steal moments with Cristoph. Gaze at his smile. Bask in his laughter.
There was nothing so dangerous as to give a condemned man hope. Nothing in the world.
Unending wrath against himself for what he’d done. How he’d let Cristoph down. Of course he wouldn’t have been able to see Cristoph’s football game. Why had he thought that the universe would let him? He’d known, even from the beginning, it would end like this.
He was cursed. He’d made his vow—never again—for a reason.
But worst of all, sloth. Laziness. The complete capture of his mind, the shift in focus. Had this fascination distracted him from his duties? Had he missed something critical? Had his mind been on Cristoph when it should have been on his job, his purpose? There was no room for distractions. Not in this life.
The night before, just as he’d been about to head to Cristoph’s game, Angelo had called. A woman’s shrieking in the flats off the Campo, in the rundown tenements behind the bars and head shops and clubs, had lit up the switchboards in the Roman polizia. The callers thought she was being murdered.