Emboldened by the encounter and feeling more confident in their direction, Ossian and Cesare picked up their pace and soldiered on in the direction of Bologna.
8
Bologna, Italy had once been a site of world-class architecture, featuring seemingly limitless rows of shaded arcades and towering halls. A perennial tourist hotspot and home to many churches of great size and opulence, to visit it was to be awed. No sections of the city were more distinguishing of this tendency towards beauty and greatness than the Piazza Maggiore, a square whose appearance was reflective of 15th century sensibilities. It was like stepping into a time machine.
None of this pretty talk was much relevant to the city in its current state, however.
Bologna and its famous Piazza Maggiore were a goddamn mess.
The way into Bologna had been a difficult one. Once they'd been reunited with the main road, an old highway, they'd managed to make the hike in nearly two days' time, as Gunther had said. Spending the night in an old Fiat 500, they'd enjoyed a quick snack and continued on, arriving within the desolate city limits in the afternoon. Their happiness at having made it to the city was quickly dampened as they started into their tour, however.
There was no one there. Signs of death and violence abounded, and the city's historic buildings had been defaced en masse in petty acts of vandalism. Statues had been left broken, buildings spray painted with all manner of vulgar and blasphemous slogans, and the dead left to rot away in the streets. The living, though, proved elusive. Ossian hoped that the situation might improve, but the longer they walked the more his hope waned. When finally they stumbled into the Piazza Maggiore, the ruination was such that the priest almost didn't recognize his surroundings. It was hard to believe that the city of Bologna had once boasted a population more than a million strong.
“The people can't all be dead, can they? This place is just as quiet as my village.” said Cesare, straightening his ball cap. “There's no one around here. I thought we'd find other people...”
The Piazza Maggiore was home to Bologna's largest church, the Basilica of San Petronio, and at the sight of it the priest crossed himself. It was in relatively good order judging from the state of its exterior, and sat with dimly-lit windows above its main door, amidst the crumbling piazzos. Was it possible that there were people inside? Might some of the clergy have survived the event and taken refuge in the gorgeous old building? He tried not to get his hopes up, but his sore feet led him towards the church in double-quick time.
Something caught the priest's attention as they drew closer. Unless his ears were playing tricks on him, he thought he could hear the sounds of an ancient pipe organ issuing from the inside. “Cesare, the church has survived! Do you hear it? The sounds of music? There are still people in this city, and they've joined together for Mass! There's hope in this world yet, my boy. Come, let's join them.”
The boy dragged his feet, the walk having tired him awfully. “I don't really want to go to church,” he said. “If it's all right with you, I'd prefer to wait outside and rest for a minute.”
Taking his ward by the arm, Ossian dragged him up to the front door of the basilica, the sounds of an organ and of a muffled sermon reaching him through the dense oaken door. Above the entrance were ornate sculptures of the saints; that these works of art had survived the disaster and all its subsequent violence made his heart soar. God has looked after His house, thought the priest, pushing open the door.
Entering the nave, which was lit by a mass of candles suspended in an ancient wrought iron chandelier, Ossian and the boy paused, looking towards the altar and at the scarce congregation that filled in the pews. As he'd expected, the church had been well-preserved despite the calamity of the day, though something about it struck him as off the moment he walked in the door. When entering a church, a place of worship, there tends to exist in it a certain air of peacefulness, however for Ossian this aura of warmth was strangely absent, and had been replaced with something of a cold solemnity.
It was the first time in his life he'd ever entered a church as a man of the collar and felt profoundly unwelcome.
The congregants did not turn to look at them as they wandered in, nor did their preacher, who stood behind the altar giving Mass in the traditional Latin. He was a pale man, thin, with greasy black hair of shoulder-length and a pair of thick glasses. While preparing Communion, he kept looking back at another figure, who was seated upon a high throne, a cathedra, at the very rear of the nave, and whose presence alerted Ossian to the possibility that this Mass was not in keeping with traditional Catholic rites.
The figure on the high throne was clad in all black. From head to toe, they were draped in a midnight-colored garb, leaving only a pair of white, chubby hands visible. Completing the ensemble and adding to the mystery was a veil, which blocked even the individual's eyes from view. The figure sat solemnly, seldom stirred, and seemed to communicate to the nervous priest his approval or disapproval of the rites through non-verbal methods.
But what struck Ossian most as he looked on was the thing which sat upon the floor, directly in front of the cathedra.
A large, wooden crucifix featuring a porcelain sculpture of Christ sat upon the dirty floor, at the cloaked individual's feet. Where usually such a thing would be suspended from the ceiling or mounted high up on a wall, it had been removed from its usual place, set down on the floor to gather dust. What this change sought to convey was clear: This was no longer Christ's house. Something―or someone―else was being honored here.
It was, in a word, blasphemous.
Even from across the church Ossian felt a wave of revulsion at the sight of this cloaked individual. The cathedra was evidently a new addition; a tacky construction plated in metal. That any man, clergy or otherwise, would dare to position himself so boldly above an effigy of Christ, struck him as profane, and only further driving this feeling was the fact that the church had been in many cases scrubbed of the usual Christian iconography. The murals in the rear of the nave, where the makeshift throne was now stationed, had been covered with a vast black cloth. There were no hymnals in the pews, either.
In a break from established tradition, the priest at the altar raised the chalice and Eucharist in the air and then called out to his congregation, ordering them to kneel. Without exception, the congregants did just that, as though it were second nature to them, and they looked up at their reverend with longing, hands outstretched and murmurs on their lips. He spoke: “Very soon now, we will enjoy the gifts of our Lord and Master. On the night of our feast―the Feast of the Twisted Nail―we will know His power. We will drink from His cup. And we will be sated.”
It became clear rather quickly that the congregants were not being ordered to kneel in reverence of the body and blood of Christ. Rather, the priest had commanded them to kneel in worship of the figure in black, seated on the cathedra. His next command was given with a nervous look to the garbed figure, and delivered in a nasally Latin. “Genuflecte.”
Ossian gripped the scabbard of his sword and backed up against the door as the congregation took to worshipping the figure in black like a king. They wailed, raised their hands towards him, wept, while lowering themselves against the floor.
“What's the matter?” whispered the boy. “Aren't we going to go up there and get one of those wafers? I'm pretty hungry--”
The priest at the altar, when he'd gotten the go-ahead from his superior in black, began doling out the Eucharist to the rabid congregants. They fought with one another till they fell into a single file line, and when offered the body of Christ they snatched it from the priest's hand and devoured it.
Stepping out of the church and into the dusk, Ossian spit on the ground, dragging the boy behind him.
“Hey, let go! You're hurting my arm!”
Ossian let go of the youth and started back across the piazza, fuming. “There is heresy in this place. Such a Mass as that, with a figure in black being worshipped in place of Christ... it's utterly
blasphemous. The holy men in this city are preying on their hungry flock, but they've crossed a line in doing so.”
“Yeah, so what?” said the boy. “I'd stand in line for a bite of that bread. They probably don't have anything else to eat.”
Tugging on Cesare's arm, the priest frowned. “You've missed the point completely. What they're doing is a denigration of the faith. I cannot allow it to stand.”
Cesare gulped. “W-well, what are you planning on doing, then? You're not just going to go in there and cut 'em all up, right?”
The priest didn't rule it out. “Come, it's getting late. We're going to seek out shelter for the night. Tomorrow I will have a talk with the local priest and his friend in black and observe first-hand the depth of heresy in this city. For now, we must rest and surveil.”
They built some distance from the basilica and took up occupancy in the lobby of an empty hotel. Save for a few broken windows, the space appeared largely intact and was as comfortable an accommodation as the city could offer them. Taking a brisk walk around the premises and discovering no signs of its being recently lived in, the priest deemed it safe and the two allowed themselves to relax on the shabby, carpeted floor.
Or, at least, the boy did.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, sword sitting on the carpet before him, Ossian was not inclined to rest. Rather, his thoughts returned time and again to the basilica and to the queer rites being carried out there. The mention of the "Feast of the Twisted Nail” sat heavily on his mind. What could the clergy in this city be getting up to? Are they not Christians? I smell sacrilege, but it's too early to make a move. If I'd run in there and broken up their little revelry, I'd have been mobbed by heretics. The time has not yet come for me to act. I need to learn more. Who is that figure in black?
Cesare stuck a hand in the priest's leather satchel and picked out a couple of mushrooms. He held one out to Ossian, who was too deep in thought to notice. The dust-encrusted windows of the lobby admitted a fair about of moonlight. Through them one could admire the nearby arcades and palazzos without noticing the degradation that daylight had made so clear. "Come on, you've gotta eat something," said the boy, stuffing another mushroom into his mouth. "What are you so angry about? So the people in this church do things a bit differently, so what? Not every church is run the same way."
Snatching the proffered mushroom from the boy's palm, the priest gave a low laugh and took a bite. "Is that what you think? That this is merely some other denomination? No... That priest in there, he was performing the Catholic rites, but there was something off about them. He made mention of a supposed holy feast that doesn't exist, and then there was that figure dressed in black, seated above the statue of Christ. There's something happening in this city. Rome may well be correct in saying that the members of the rival church have been compromised by the Dark One."
"Well, what can you do?" asked Cesare, taking a gulp from the canteen.
"Right now, the only prudent thing to do is investigate. I'll speak to the priest in the morning and get to the bottom of things. Until then, we rest." This was the priest's way of asking the boy to shut his mouth.
Cesare leaned against the side of an old receptionist's desk and closed his eyes.
Even as the boy's breathing became slow and even, Ossian did not sleep.
His eyes scanned the dark lobby relentlessly. The interior of the hotel had been ransacked, but judging by the density of the undisturbed dust on all of the nearby surfaces no one had been inside for quite a while. If he didn't look so closely, the space almost seemed normal, in that the fixtures were all still there. Anything that couldn't be eaten or used by the looters had been left behind in a disarray. Terra cotta pots once used for ferns sat near the windows, draped in withered stalks. Desks and chairs where people once sat and worked were strewn about. The scene outside was quiet and calm, and even in the far-off arcades he could discern no signs of movement. Nevertheless, he kept his wits about him till the sun came up, dozing very lightly.
When he did, the dreams came back to him.
He dreamt of a young girl's face, warped into a wince, cheeks dripping in tears. Then came forth a smile, a forked tongue. He was back in that bedroom in Rome, praying over the bodies of a brother and sister who would soon succumb to his barbarous methods. He felt his heart tremble as he fought for their eternal souls, uttering prayer after prayer to no effect.
The girl, he remembered all too well, had told him something. The voice that had reached out to him from within her body had been deep. A demon's voice. To hear it even in memory was enough to fray one's nerves. On nights like this one, when his mind was restless, Ossian often recalled the demon's message, delivered unto him by the lips of the young girl. He'd thought nothing of it then; demons spout all kinds of awful talk when locked in a spiritual battle. But in recent days he'd been forced to look at it as a sort of prophetic warning. The demon had known something, had known that things were soon to change.
In the course of the days-long exorcism, the demon had made a prediction.
“The church will fall to pieces. And soon thereafter, the world will be on its knees. The time of man is over, priest. The sun is rapidly setting, don't you see? A new age, an age of darkness, is soon to rise.”
In those rare moments when he was not assailed by images of the dead siblings, his mind conjured up thoughts of the Basilica of San Petronio in its former glory. He could imagine a happy and healthy congregation packing the pews, the statue of the Christ in its proper place and the nave filled with voices raised in song.
He would do whatever necessary to return that house of God to its former hallowed state. He'd do it even if it meant striking down the members of its heretical congregation till the aisles ran red with their sinful blood.
The sun was barely risen when Ossian awoke the boy. "Come," he said, stretching. "We're going to go back to the church and have a chat with its resident priest."
9
The Piazza Maggiore was once again desolate, save for the presence of three or four disheveled townspeople shuffling through. It was the first time they'd had a chance to examine the residents of Bologna up-close, and while impressions of the citizenry as a whole might've been premature, both the priest and his ward noticed something as they crossed paths with the pitiable-looking folk.
The first detail the priest noted was a marked pallor of the skin that seemed to afflict the local passersby; a paleness Ossian had only ever known in the infirm. Were they ill? Did they not spend enough time in the sun? The dearth of citizens in this main square might've been due to a low population of survivors, or else it might've been indicative of a habit amongst the people of Bologna to go about living nocturnally. Whatever the case, it was the second common quality amongst them that most caught their attention as they started for the church.
Hostility.
Passing each of the pale denizens, Ossian was struck by the intensity of the hostility in their gazes. Without exception, the pedestrians that passed the two of them by did so with a marked hatred in their eyes. It was reflected in their body language, in the sudden quickness of their stride. Ossian and Cesare were avoided like lepers. "Why do these people look like they want to spit in our faces?" asked the boy under his breath. He'd turned his red ball cap around on his head, and several thin wisps of black hair protruded from the opening, drooping down onto his brow.
Narrowing his gaze, Ossian shut out his surroundings and focused on the basilica. Bathed in sunlight, it looked normal and inviting enough by day. Approaching the front door, he gave it a push and was admitted into the nave, where a pleasant warmth came through the high windows and painted the walls and pews in the colors of day. Not a soul dwelt in the rows of wooden seats, though towards the front of the church, behind the altar, Ossian detected furtive movement.
There had been a change since his last visit the day previous. The towering cathedra in the rear had been vacated, and the figure cloaked in black was nowhere in sight. The crucifi
x, with its statue of Christ, was also missing, no longer on the floor. The black pall still covered the murals in the rear of the church, and it was near this cloth facade that Ossian spied the resident priest milling about.
Clearing his throat loudly, Ossian drew the gaze of the parish priest. "Yes, how can I help you?" asked the man, bypassing the altar and starting down the aisle to meet him. His pale face took up a smile as he noted the collar and cassock that Ossian wore, but faded promptly upon discovering the Grand Inquisitor at his side. His glasses slid down the bridge of his sweat-dampened nose as he stopped at the center of the main aisle, resting one hand on the edge of a pew. He looked as if he'd go no further.
Even so, from this distance Ossian got his first good look at the man. The strain of paleness ran in this Bolognan specimen, though the look of sharp hatred had been replaced with a fidgeting curiosity bordering on nervousness. His hair was long, black and greasy, and he wore it combed back so as to keep it out of his gaunt face. His eyes were dark, sunken things, and he was clean-shaven. The cassock he wore was not unlike Ossian's, but was a more traditional style that stretched lower to the ground like a gown.
Ossian bobbed his head. "Are you the pastor of this church?"
The pale man gave a weak wave of the hand. "That is correct. I am Monsignor Bertolt Weber. And you are?"
Nudging Cesare to take a seat in the pews, Ossian introduced himself. "Father Ossian McGregor of Rome." His gaze was hard, searching, and though the monsignor shied away from it he didn't let up. With the ferocity expected of a church inquisitor, he started deeper into the church, till he'd closed the gap between them considerably, and dove straight into a pointed line of questioning. "Your service last night. For what reason have you defiled the traditional Catholic rites? It seemed to me that you and your congregation were engaged in an act of heresy." He nodded to the rear of the church, where the cathedra had been, and where works of religious art remained obscured by cloth. "That individual in the black garb was the object of your reverence. Or was I mistaken in my assessment?"
The Conqueror Worm Page 6