"I'll take a nap and then recite my breviary when I wake up. There will be a lot to do today." Ossian stood up and joined Cesare near the hearth. "Goodnight, Elio."
Hobbling, Elio waved and started into the hallway, disappearing into the darkened bedroom.
13
The scream came from afar.
Mattea had been the first one up that morning, and had set out to fetch the day's water at the spring. She went about it like an automaton, all joy sapped from her by the events of the previous day, and any who saw that grey, unsmiling face of hers would have been of the mind that happiness would never again grace her features. When she was some minutes gone, Elio arose, tending to the gathering of firewood. During this early hour, as he did every morning, the priest was absorbed in his breviary, praying while Cesare still slept.
The sun had fully risen, the day's tinder had been gathered and still Mattea had not returned to the house with water. Baffled by this, Elio had gone to the spring to look for her.
That was when the screaming started.
Leaving the sleeping youth behind, Ossian went running full-tilt for the spring, arriving in time to find Elio seated in the grass, screams tumbling from his lips and body thrashing as though in terrible pain. "What is it? What's happened, Elio? Are you all right?" asked the priest, arriving at his side.
Elio could only point to the spring, to the shallow stream that sprang from it, and at the shattered body that painted the water red.
It was Mattea.
Soundlessly, Ossian approached the spring and took in the sight of his hostess, or what remained of her, face-down in the water. Overtaken by nausea, he balled his fists in his pockets and stared down at the woman. She had been savaged so completely as to be unrecognizable. Broken bones jutted out from pockets of lacerated flesh, and bits of hamburger-fine tissue had been scattered about the water and grass as though she'd been struck by a cannon blast. "Christ on His throne," muttered the priest, slowly crossing himself. "What happened?"
He asked the question aloud, though already he had a firm working theory. The battered state of the body had its counterpart in the remains of young Aristide who'd been laid to rest the day before. Mattea, then, had been the most recent victim of that cloaked thing.
"Bishop Carnivale," uttered the priest.
Elio's dark eyes were wide, and they surged with tears. Minutes passed and still he remained twitching in the grass, his mouth opening only to release another labored scream.
"Elio," began Ossian, kneeling down in the grass, "did you see what happened? Did you see who did this? Was it..."
It was all too clear that he'd glean nothing from the man. His powerful frame was going slack with shock and his wide eyes were growing glazed. Elio was on the verge of fainting. The priest tried his best to lift him, to bring him to his senses during this critical moment, but did not succeed in either aim.
The terrible commotion had apparently attracted the attentions of a pale wanderer, a man of the same hostile cast which Ossian and Cesare had encountered near the basilica. Sidling up to the stream with all the attentiveness of a buzzard eyeing carrion, the pale man folded his arms and looked over the human wreckage, shaking his head. "What has happened?" He looked up at the priest, frowning. "What has happened to this woman?"
Ossian stood, the sword on his hip capturing the stranger's attention immediately. "She was attacked early this morning when she came out for water."
The stranger considered this, running a hand through his matted grey hair. "Are you affiliated with the Basilica of San Petronio, father? I don't recognize you." When Ossian shook his head, the man continued. "I thought as much." He motioned to the body, looking away from it with disgust. "She looks like she was viciously attacked. Who could possibly be responsible for such savagery as this? Certainly no one in this city."
The priest knew what he was driving at and moved to put a stop to the stranger's suspicions at once. "I was alerted to the presence of this crime by her husband's screams. I had no part in this, if that's what you're implying."
Hands stuffed into the pockets of his ratty brown slacks, the stranger shrugged. "So you say." His eyes returned repeatedly to the Grand Inquisitor. "Though you're the only one here with a weapon. A blade of that kind could surely do this, no? Show me the blade. If it is clean, then perhaps what you say is true."
Incensed, Ossian pulled the sword from its scabbard, putting the clean sword on full display. "Look here, not a drop. I am a man of God. I would never think to spill this innocent woman's blood."
"And yet you carry a fearsome sword like that one with you," mused the man. He stroked his chin contemplatively, taking a few steps away from the stream. "I will have no choice but to alert the monsignor about this incident. It is not for me to judge, but in this lawless age the men of the church should know about it."
Ossian returned the sword to its sheath and shrugged. "So be it."
Starting across the field, the stranger put on a smug smile. "Your peers can be the judge. It is not my place to determine your innocence in this matter. Good day, father." He made haste in the direction of town, leaving Ossian standing beside the gibbering Elio.
"Elio, stand," said the priest, stooping and attempting to haul the man to his feet. It took some doing, and even when he stood, he did so only by supporting his weight on the priest. His tears hadn't dried, continued to flow without surcease, and his vacant gaze settled on the corpse in the stream till Ossian forcibly pulled him away and led him back to the house. "It will do no good to stay here, my friend. There is great evil afoot in this city. Something has taken your son and wife, and I am sorry for it, but now is not the tie to grieve. We must--"
Suddenly, Elio came to his senses, and rather than lean on the priest, the towering man grasped his white collar and pulled Ossian into the air. Shaking him like a rag doll, tears still spilling down his ruddy cheeks, he barked, "There is something evil in this city, and you've brought it upon us! It followed you here, bastard! Until you showed up, nothing like this happened to us. Now that you're here... Look! Look at what you've brought!" He thrust Ossian out towards the stream so that he could take in, once more, the sight of the corpse. "It's your fault!"
Ossian allowed the man his grief, took his belligerence without complaint, but when Elio reached out and pulled the Grand Inquisitor from its scabbard, he firmed up. "Elio, unhand that sword. Now."
Raising the blade so that its tip was pressed uncomfortably against the priest's chest, Elio loosed a sob. "This is your fault. You brought the devil to Bologna with you, father. Give me one reason why I shouldn't plunge this sword into your heart, you prick."
Ossian looked up at him with a gaze of granite and placed a few fingers upon the sword's chill blade. "Killing me will fix nothing, Elio. Your wife and son are dead, and there can be no bringing them back. Ending my life will not bring their murderer to justice." He pushed the blade away slowly, pinching it between his fingers. "Lower the weapon. The devil has always been here, in Bologna, and I've been sent to unseat him, Elio. If we work together, we can put a stop to his reign of wickedness. I suspect the devil responsible for this barbarity is the so-called bishop in charge of the Basilica of San Petronio. If I'm correct, then he should be the target of your vengeance. That passerby is sure to alert the men of the church of this incident, and when he does, I expect they'll come looking for me. Come, let's return to the house."
Elio lowered the sword and then dropped it. The Grand Inquisitor landed in the grass with a dull thud and Elio began to sob once more. "I'm sorry... I... I will come with you, father. If what you say is true, I'll topple that church, destroy it brick by brick till justice is done, and bludgeon anyone who stands in our way."
Reclaiming his weapon, Ossian gave Elio's shoulder a squeeze. "My friend, we'll get to the bottom of this, and so long as I draw breath I'll dedicate myself to putting an end to this evil. Now, we must prepare. The forces of darkness are moving against us even as we speak. It's best not to do
anything brash."
Ossian and Elio returned to the stream an hour later with a groggy Cesare in tow to provide Mattea with a proper burial. Upon their return they were greeted by a number of crows who picked over the bloodied remains and had to be scared off. A hole was dug, the rites were delivered solemnly and the trio stood for a long while at the site, heads bowed in reverence.
The body was not ten minutes in the ground and the funerary rites barely spoken when the sound of men approaching on horseback reached their ears.
14
There were three horses in total, and on one of them came riding the familiar figure of Monsignor Weber. He brought his horse to a halt and donned a thin smile while his fellows, two plain-clothed ruffians with handguns on their hips, rode up to the assembled trio and positioned themselves to their right and left. "Good day, father," said the monsignor, hands on the reins.
Ossian did not return the monsignor's greeting except to grunt. His hands were feeling twitchy; as he looked to the three riders he wondered how quickly he might be able to dispatch them if push came to shove. He knew it foolish to bring a sword to a gunfight, but if forced to the wall he was not going to simply surrender his life and the lives of his companions. "To what do I owe the honor?" He finally said, hand shifting subtly to his waist.
The motion did not go unnoticed. The gunmen, too, placed their palms on their guns and prepared to unholster their weapons. They needed only the say-so of the monsignor. Leaning forward on his horse, the pale clergyman sniffed the spring breeze and looked down at the stream, still tinged in red for the leakage of Mattea's corpse. "I understand that there was an incident here this morning. We received word from a concerned citizen that a particularly brutal murder took place, and that you were at the scene, father. Is that correct?" His wan gaze shifted to the mound of freshly-dug earth. "I see that it is. Though he stopped short of accusing you, the man did mention that sword of yours and I must admit some concern. Ours is a very peaceful city, you understand, and so the arrival of an armed priest from Rome, who is openly hostile to the ways of Avignon, raises some eyebrows."
Before Ossian could speak up, Elio stepped forth. "You're the snakes who did this, aren't you? That was my wife, I'll have you know. And yesterday, my son. Father McGregor has told me all about how your church is led by the devil!" He spit on the ground. "You have some nerve riding here to accuse this good man of any wrongdoing."
The monsignor chuckled. "I've accused him of nothing, sir. I merely suggested that the timing of his arrival and the timing of this violent incident make for a curious coincidence." He licked his lips and turned his sunken eyes to Ossian. "Incidentally, Bishop Carnivale wishes to meet with you. Please, come with us peaceably. It is a great honor to have gained an audience with our respected bishop."
Ossian smirked. "Oh? And why the change of heart? When you warned me away from the basilica I was under the impression that he wasn't much in a talking mood." The priest cracked his knuckles. "At any rate, I should be overjoyed to meet with him and share my very strong opinions on what's become of this parish."
Monsignor Weber was unamused, and looked down upon the priest with unveiled disgust. "You've the face of a pugilist, you know that? If you are not a man who has engaged in a lifetime of violence then I would be much surprised. You look quite capable of murder."
Ossian shook his head. "Merely a servant of God. I go where He tells me."
"Yes, how virtuous," replied the monsignor with a roll of his eyes. "That will be quite enough of your preaching, father. If you'll come with us, the bishop will see you immediately."
Cesare tugged on Ossian's sleeve. "Y-you're not really going to go with them, are you?" he asked in a tremulous whisper. "Something about this stinks, Ossian. They aren't going to let you leave if you go with them."
Despite any reservations, the priest could think of no other way to get close to the bishop who was seemingly behind the treachery that plagued Bologna. Moreover, if he refused it was likely he would complicate things for his two companions. In the event of his resistance, Elio and Cesare would be caught in the fray, and wishing to spare them, he acquiesced. "I will go."
"Happy to hear it," replied the monsignor, smoothing out his slicked-back mop. He motioned to his fellows, one of whom reached out towards the priest. "Your weapon, father."
Elio protested. "Hold on a damn second, we're not going anywhere. And he's definitely not handing his sword over. If you think--"
"This matter doesn't concern you," spat the monsignor. "You aren't invited. I suggest you and the child leave this place. Go about your lives." Returning to Ossian, he repeated, with more force, "The sword."
It was with no little reticence that Ossian handed over the Grand Inquisitor to one of the armed men. The rough was surprised at the weight of the sword, giving it a little shake before loading it into a saddlebag. God will protect me, he thought. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...
"Hey, don't go with them!" continued Elio. "They're going to kill you, father! Are you insane? What about revenge? What about avenging my wife and son?" He reached out and pushed Cesare to his rear, approaching the monsignor with a raised fist. "If you hurt even a hair on his head, I'll--"
"You'll what?" shot back the clergyman, signaling to his men, who readied their guns. When Elio stepped back, Monsignor Weber laughed. "That's what I thought, you miserable cripple." Pointing to the priest, he started in the direction of town. "Come. You will walk between us, on foot."
Sparing Cesare and Elio a final look, Ossian rummaged up a reassuring smile. "It's all right. Take care of yourselves. I'll be with you again before you know it."
Cesare watched as the horsemen corralled the priest and led him away, across the stream, the way they'd come. "What are they going to do to him?"
Elio shook his head. "There's no telling."
Keeping his chin up, Ossian walked between the horses with pride. "Your bishop will be very disappointed," he said, when they'd built a bit of distance from Elio and the boy. "I've nothing to hide."
"We shall see about that," replied the monsignor, taking the lead position. "You will answer to the bishop and confess your sins. He will be your judge, priest."
Ossian arched a brow. "So, is that how things work now?" He motioned to the armed men. "The church has come to replace the court system? You and your men are judge, jury and executioner? Somehow, that doesn't feel very humanitarian."
The monsignor did not reply.
"You've made one miscalculation, however," continued the priest.
"And what is that?" asked Weber.
"Only God is my judge."
The party continued on in silence, walking through open fields before starting onto a proper street. This street they followed for more than thirty minutes until they approached the familiar scenery of the Piazza Maggiore. At the sight of the Basilica of San Petronio, Ossian's stomach dropped. He recalled the heresy he'd witnessed there, the way the desperate congregants had been forced to worship the man in black in exchange for the Eucharist.
They arrived at the front entrance of the basilica and the three men dismounted. Then, without warning, one of the armed men dug his gun into the priest's side. The other produced a pair of handcuffs from a saddlebag and at the monsignor's urging, secured Ossian's wrists. At once, all pretense of peacefulness was waived and Ossian was driven to the door of the church with a kick to the ass.
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the priest.
Monsignor Weber held the door open, revealing the dim nave of the church, and motioned towards the center aisle. "March."
Ossian was led through the church, which sat empty and ponderously silent, and to the back, where two hallways flanked the rear of the altar. Forced down the hallway to the right, the priest was herded down a flight of ancient stone stairs that seemed to go on for ages. As he walked, he felt himself a character in a Greek myth, descending into the underworld never to resurface. The dusky passage, lit sparingly by c
andles in ancient sconces, emptied them into a subterrane hall lined in thick, wooden doors older than any living man. Ossian was pushed down this stretch till the monsignor threw open the door at the end and waved him inside.
The chamber they now entered was brighter than the rest, but not by much. There were a number of people inside, lining the walls and basking largely in shadow. They wore black cloaks with long hoods, which kept their faces obscured, and did not so much as look up at the priest as he entered. At the room's center, below a simple chandelier heavy with half-burnt candles, was a sturdy oaken chair with metal clasps on its armrests just large enough to accommodate human wrists.
If it was not clear to him before, the true nature of Ossian's summoning was now made plain.
He thought to protest, but was wrestled into submission by a number of cloaked individuals and threatened further with guns. Once seated, the handcuffs were removed and Ossian was secured to the chair by his wrists and ankles. Even in the low light, he could see that the chair was thoroughly stained about the armrests, where previous sitters had been bled long ago.
Secured to the chair and advised not to speak unless spoken to by the grinning monsignor, Ossian surveyed the room. It was larger than he'd initially thought, spanning another forty or fifty feet ahead of him. The light of the chandelier did not much elucidate the furthest reaches of this chamber, though in the shadows before him he became aware of movement. From some deeper chamber whose entrance was demarcated by a doorway hewn crudely into the stone, emerged a tall figure with pale hands.
A figure dressed completely in black.
The veiled figure settled into a chair of his own in the shadows and looked out from behind his black garb at the captive priest.
Gritting his teeth, Ossian growled, "So, you're the bishop, then?"
The Conqueror Worm Page 9