by Allen Werner
Gherardus Fabbro sat quietly at his desk, scrawling words on the very bottom of a long parchment with a nib pen. His youngest son, Talento, stood over his shoulder, stooped and nearly breathing on him. The twenty-nine-year-old was wearing a gown of red and gold, bright and colorful.
Sinibaldus deplored the young man’s showy choice of dress. There was a cockiness in his attire that rubbed the magician the wrong way.
To save himself the shock of unannounced appearances, Gherardus Fabbro had learned long ago not to be astonished by Sinibaldus’ cunning. He concluded that wherever he was, even in his own room or private study, the mysterious creature was also; lurking noiselessly in some small darkened shadow. It was a strange opinion to maintain concerning a giant but Sinibaldus was no common giant. The old commander simply preferred to embrace a sense of security rather than dread.
Talento Fabbro, however, was taken aback by the magician’s slyness. When first he noticed Sinibaldus approaching, he was startled. He rose and cursed beneath his breath, a minor tremor still going through him. Talento didn’t appreciate anyone coming up secretly on him.
Before Sinibaldus’ undisclosed elevation to the High Court, inquisitor and torturer without name, Talento Fabbro was the chief operative in the clandestine spy network operating in and around Parthenope. He had covert agents everywhere, men and women who ate, slept and breathed in the darkest shadows. He still did. But as time passed, it became evident that Talento’s agents were not the only ones in those shadows and occasionally they were crossing paths with the albino magician. It was never proven but from time to time, an agent would turn up dead, their throat slit or a knife twisted deep in the back. The assaults always came from behind.
Talento knew his agents, knew them well. They were all specialists in their arts, trained to go completely unnoticed. If anyone managed to slither up behind them and take advantage of them, then that snake would have to be superiorly trained, perhaps employing magic.
Talento Fabbro took notice and began to feel that these deaths were a message, a message from the murderer to him. ‘I own the shadows, not you.’
Talento frowned as he examined the magician’s black robes for evidence of life. His eyes had difficulty meeting up with those of the white-faced demon. The giant was cloaked and hooded, never revealing more about himself than he wanted too.
Talento Fabbro found nothing more untrustworthy than a person he could not spy on. Sinibaldus was the worst. None of Talento’s operatives or agents could infiltrate Sin Circus’ tent city. The antics, habits and past of the proud magician all remained a mystery. He didn’t seem real.
Talento believed that knowledge was power and he had nothing on Sinibaldus. But that was not completely true. Talento did manage to piece together a fractured portrait of the magician from dozens upon dozens of shadowy rumors, random reports and accounts placing the old giant in France long before his circus made permanent camp near Herculaneum. Talento continued to expand his efforts, sending communications and agents into nearly every city, town and village in southern France and western Italy. He gathered data from any venue that had admitted to engaging these itinerant entertainers. There were also some suspect links made between Sinibaldus and the enigmatic killer in a haunting children’s tale told around campfires. They spoke of a lanky, powerful, sprit man, wild and crazed in the eyes, hunting and eating humans, Christians especially, raiding various French villages and torturing unsuspecting travelers; Blanc Fantôme, White Ghost.
“Is he dead?” Gherardus stopped writing long enough to wait for a response, his tired eyes still fixed on the parchment on the desk.
Sinibaldus bowed his hood slightly, diminishing his appearance even more. He lied. “The deed is done.”
Gherardus Fabbro breathed an obvious sigh of relief as he raised his head and dropped the pen back in the ink well. He put his hands above his head and reclined back in the chair. “Share with us the victory.”
Talento Fabbro’s countenance changed immediately. He did not restrain his frustration with his father’s decision. He was impatient and pedantic and there were important matters at hand that required immediate attention, one of them being this long parchment, a slave trade accord with contractors in Venice. The value of silver dirhams was of great interest to Talento and there was absolutely no reason to dawdle and ruminate on events already completed. ‘Pero’s dead, for Christ’s sake. Who gives a fuck how it happened?’
Obviously, Talento’s father did.
Sinibaldus nodded and began the tale, his hood still up, his powder blue eyes cloaked. “It was night, my Lord. The Spaniard rode through Eagles Pass as ordered. I watched him for a spell, watched him sweat in the cold air, jump at every sound. It was a small party, three men. Major rushed up from behind and ravaged one. Minor dispatched the rider at the head. There was a furious chase after that. Pero’s palfrey proved to be a spirited animal. Most impressive. Even in the black, the creature managed to outdistance the bears. It could not, however, do the same to the wolves. They came at it from all sides, nipping at its legs, biting its haunches, emaciating it as it ran. Slowly we bled it until the beast tumbled over in a hedge, tangling itself in the brush, throwing its rider ten yards ahead.”
Gherardus leaned forward, his eyes wide with anticipation now.
Talento yawned.
“The wolves disemboweled the horse, its screams and whinnies reverberating through the forest for miles, terrorizing the Spaniard’s soul. I could feel it. Pero was horrified, teeming with dread. When I stepped up to him with Major, my fangs snarling, my dark eyes burrowing deep inside his godless soul, he cried. As a child forsaken and alone, the Spaniard cried. He begged for mercy. I offered him none. I opened my jowls and clamped down hard on the top of his head. His skull cracked between my serrated teeth as blood and brain splattered everywhere. I lifted the bastard high in the air, tugged his body back and forth several times before dropping him. I tasted the desperateness coursing through his veins as he still clung onto life, terror emanating from his bowels. With one fierce thrust of a massive claw, his chest was slashed open. Pero screamed as I bore down on him and continued to work him, tearing him into bitter little pieces, leaving nothing for the wolves or other predators to feast upon. The Spaniard has been removed from history.”
Convinced, satisfied, believing Sinibaldus would have no reason to lie to him, Gherardus Fabbro tossed his irritable son an ‘I told you so’ expression before favoring the giant with a smile.
“You have done well, my friend. The keep at Capua is ruined and Pero has been silenced for all eternity.” Gherardus suddenly felt a rare stitch of regret. There was a reason his youngest son was the one standing over him right now, hashing out the details of this contract. For eight long and lucrative seasons, the man customarily standing over his shoulder had been Guidus Salvatore. Guidus was the man who made sure all the details were in order. In fact, until now, Gherardus and Guidus had never dealt with Venice or the slave trade, caring nothing about silver dirhams. ‘Poor Guidus,’ Gherardus thought, ‘sacrificed for the greater good. He never suspected a thing when I sent him off with that writ.’
Talento Fabbro had demanded compensation, a just promotion for engineering the assault on Capua and bringing all the interested parties together in an alliance. He desired the title of Provost.
All three men in the study were fully aware of the rewards that needed to be doled out to all the participants of this successful campaign.
Sinibaldus was eager to receive his, a bevy of slaves and rare animals from this deal Talento was embarking on with Venice. It was just one of many details listed on the parchment Gherardus Fabbro had lying on his desk and would soon sign and ratify.
“If my Lord has no more uses for me,” Sinibaldus politely stated, his black hood bowing once again, “I will be retiring for a few days. I leave immediately for Capri. A boat awaits me in the harbor.”
Talento scoffed. “Capri? What pleasures could you possibly hope to elicit from a pla
ce filled with sun worshippers? I thought you had a condition.”
Sinibaldus did not turn to face Talento and his frank conceit. “My Lord is kind to concern himself with my - condition. It gives me great joy to know that I’m in my Lord’s mind.”
Talento’s countenance darkened. He could feel the intimidating inflection, the threat and condescension contained in those choice words. Talento knew all about the magician’s magic crystal and his ability to enter people’s minds and destroy them. They were at war with one another for the very soul of the shadows. This repertoire was another stabbing and Talento felt wounded.
“I assure you,” Sinibaldus continued, “I will take proper precautions to protect myself on Capri.” His head shifted and for the first time since entering the room, their gazes finally met. “I always do.”
Talento Fabbro cursed under his breath again, another minor tremor shaking him to his core. It seemed the giant was always at his back, waiting.
Day Three
Sunday
15 August, 1198
Jude 1:11 ‘Woe unto them for they have gone in the way of Cain,
and ran greedily after the error of Balaam for reward,
and perished in the gainsaying of Core.’
Chapter 13 – The Contrary Wind
‘Bread.’ The heartening suggestion of freshly baked bread found its way into Pero de Alava’s nostrils, inducing his stomach to petulant groans even before he could pry open his shuttered eyes. He felt as though he had slept a week, and hadn’t eaten in all that time either. His head weighed a ton. Nothing felt as it should.
The Spaniard sat up, the muscles throughout his entire body atrophied. He was surprised that the series of bruises and scratches he received escaping Eagles Pass did not burn, especially the deep gash in his right arm. The curatives must have worked or were working.
Blurry, his sight slowly recovered as a storm of memory quickly filled in all the blanks. At first he thought to wake at peace in his warm bed at Capua, the recent events nothing more than an apparition, an epic nightmare of tragedy and illusion. Being in Capua, however, was the dream. He was in Ithaca, in an unfamiliar residence deep in the Eagles Forest.
The odor of straw overwhelmed the scent of bread. He was covered from head to toe in rushes, his clothing and his hair. He exercised his tongue whilst his fingers clumsily fought a futile war to remove the bits of hay, lifting them one by one and tossing them away. Another peculiar odor emerged. He had soiled himself. ‘How embarrassing.’
“Ready to eat.”
The room was bright. It took Pero another moment to readjust to the brilliance and find focus. He located Druda Fabbro standing across the room near her prep counter in a modest gown of green.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she added. “You were exhausted. You might have risen sooner and in better spirits had you not been so foolish and ripped that bandage from your arm. I warned you, reckless man. It got infected as I predicted. You had a fever and we could not wake you.”
Pero touched the fresh clean gauze on the wound on his right forearm. ‘She must have freshened it while I lay unconscious.’
“How long was I asleep?”
“A full day.”
“A full day?” Pero scoffed. ‘A full day wasted.’
Accustomed to putting on his riding boots, he turned to retrieve them but noticed he had been outfitted with a comfortable pair of house shoes. He had noticed previously that the woman of the house fashioned these herself and must have gifted him a pair.
Using the wall to support himself, the lightheaded Spaniard managed to get back on his feet and reexamine the room. It stopped spinning. It was the same as he had remembered it, the only difference being the three windows were now thrown open allowing the hot August sun to fill the entire space with light.
“It is day?”
“Yes. It is well past sunrise but not yet the noon hour.”
Druda Fabbro placed a bowl of fresh grapes on the common table. “Come. Eat something to regain your strength. Then you can wash up outside. On account of your arrival, I’m preparing a king’s ransom for this evening’s meal; lamb shank stew.”
Pero deliberated on the wonderful scent of bread that had originally greeted him. “I would really like some of that bread you baked. It smells delightful.”
“Then bread you shall have.”
Pero’s stomach convulsed and protested all the way to the table. He sat on the bench in the same place he had always sat. It had become familiar and provided, he believed, an advantageous view of his surroundings. He had no cause, but for reasons he could not fathom, he still did not feel completely safe. He had never been so paranoid. These people had every opportunity to murder him in his sleep but they did not.
Druda returned with bread.
“I try to bake at least one fresh loaf every day. This loaf contains black olives with a hint of Swiss chard. Tell me what you think.”
Pero took the loaf in hand. The outer crust was hard but warm.
Druda stood before him casually dabbing her hands on her apron, waiting for him to taste it. Pero stared at the apron and felt himself strangely drawn to the floral design, a tint of golden light blooming and snaking ever so thinly through the leafy pattern. As he leaned towards it, a faint whisper grabbed hold of the sensation instantly, restraining it, forcing it to retreat. A voice echoed through Pero’s head. “It is too soon. He is not ready.”
The impression was brief and Pero knew he spoke his next words too hastily, before he was sure if what he had seen and heard was real.
“Too soon for what?”
“I don’t know,” answered Druda. “Do you think your stomach is ready for bread?”
Pero stared at the hard bread in his hand and then at Druda’s face. He realized she had not heard the whisper, nor had she spoken it. It had been a man’s voice if it had been a voice at all. ‘Perhaps I’m hallucinating again.’ Pero drew a breath. “No, it is not too soon – for bread.” He smiled. “May I have some wine?” He touched his throat. “I’m parched.”
Druda nodded and walked away. “Will sweet wine do? It’s all I have in the house right now.”
“Yes.”
Pero broke the bread loaf in half fearing for the worst. It had been his experience that peasant bread was never good, almost always black with hard grains and seeds.
Despite the summer heat, a cloud of steam rose from the crust’s softy innards. The aroma intensified and attacked his senses. He tore a bite size chunk off one of the halves and placed it in his mouth. All but the crust melted. “Esto es delicioso.”
Druda didn’t comprehend Spanish but the way Pero spoke, she knew he was pleased. “Thank you,” she answered, turning her head over her shoulder to see him. “But remember your condition. You’ve not eaten for a long time and been ill. If you consume the whole loaf, you’ll cramp.”
Pero wished she hadn’t warned him of that because he wanted to be reckless again and consume the whole loaf. But she was right. He broke off another small piece and savored it.
A few chunks later, Druda returned to the table. She placed a purple dragon stein full of wine in front of him. ‘Sarcinus,’ he thought, detesting the image on the vessel and all it represented. ‘I vowed to kill every Fabbro I crossed.’ A hint of murderous rage began to fire back up in his eyes. He turned his head toward Druda Fabbro, prepared to destroy her pleasantness with his angry glare. ‘She is a Fabbro after all.’ He was met by her wholesome countenance and it melted his resolve like soft bread touching his tongue. He lost his fire before she even knew he had it.
Druda’s blue eyes sparkled, the warm brown in her combed hair wavy and relaxed. Everything about her appeared to be pleasant and kind, familiar.
‘I feel as though I know her. But no, I cannot. And yet, I know someone like her.’ And then he remembered who it was. ‘Lady Marisol.’
Lady Marisol was one of his father’s many mistresses, a young, corpulent, dark-haired beauty who resided at Cielo Diama
ntes when Pero was very young. Marisol was given charge of Pero for several summer months. He couldn’t be sure of the counting. ‘She was tall,’ he recalled fondly. ‘Tall, shapely, enormous breasts and broad hips, a great deal heartier and robust than mother.’
Druda paced away from the table and Pero set himself to remembering Lady Marisol, gnawing happily on a hunk of crust, sipping a little wine. ‘I remember her on my bed at night, a warm breeze passing through the breezeway doors, the sounds of the forest in the distance. I feigned fear of the wild things back then and she consoled me, coddled me; pulled me tight to her chest, singing. I was young and infatuated, too young perhaps to know what it was I pined for.’ Gisele’s young teats suddenly popped to mind and he grinned precociously. ‘I know now.’
A sense of melancholy set in. Before Pero turned a teen, Lady Marisol developed a powerful strain of colic, or at least that was what they told him. In a letter to Pero’s mother one winter, Blassilo Velez informed Pero that Lady Marisol had been retired to a nunnery or sanitarium for health reasons. He never saw her again.
Pero placed a warm bit of bread in his mouth and it disintegrated instantly. ‘Bread,’ he mused. Lady Marisol did not bake the bread, but she was the one who always brought him fresh baked slices at first light. That luxury ended when she left. None of his latter caretakers at Cielo Diamantes were ever so kind, ever so beautiful. Lady Marisol was special.
The door busted open as if a great gust of wind had caught hold of it. The chubby youngster, Dato, still without a shirt, dirty hair falling around his head, entered with his brown eyes all a wonder, full of spunk and eagerness. He made eye contact suddenly with Pero and froze. He seemed to turn white, his countenance blank as he pretended to be invisible.