The Fourth Nail: An Historical Novel

by Paul Argentini

  It did not, however. In a short time, Roberto again reached to support himself against the wall. He called to Diura who stopped Father Oscar. Roberto was perplexed. He may have been ill, but nothing like this had ever happened before. He was embarrassed down to his core. Not that any illness needed an apology, but in this case, Roberto felt it had just “descended” upon him out of the blue. He never had any indication of such a weakness in him even up to the point of the discoveries moments ago. He was trying to be logical about it. There had to be an explanation. It was too sudden, too quick. Something just didn’t seem right. The worst part was, he couldn’t figure it out.

  The priest decided the best and safest course was to find a resting spot for Roberto and Diura, and for him to retrieve her purse and bring it to them.

  It would not work, Diura told him. “I find it necessary to go with you.”

  Father Oscar started to protest, then it dawned on him she needed a bathroom break. “Of course,” he said. He motioned finality with his hand and continued to lead the way.

  They had gone no more than twenty yards on the convoluted path when Father Oscar turned into a darkened niche. It was no larger than five feet square with a small open arched door entrance through which could be seen a large cross bearing a life-size Jesus. Barely visible against one wall was a statue totally wrapped in canvas. There were less than a half dozen votive candles, all of them burned away. A single bench was pushed against the wall opposite the statue, just by the doorway. “Here! Dr. Donadio! Firmati! Rest here. It will not be too difficult to find you. We will be back ten minutes at the most. Perhaps also fifteen minutes,” Father Oscar said.

  The priest waved to Diura to follow him.

  IX

  Dawn was barely breaking when Marius awoke to the sting of the dowel as it rapped the sole of his foot. He forced himself to sit up quickly.

  “Clean forge! Make fire! Get work!” Horace grunted.

  Standing before the forge, Marius found he could not open his hands. The popped blisters had hardened and clamped his hands into claws. When he tried to open them he pulled the blisters open again. He broke out in a sweat. His burns itched, the muscles in his shoulders and neck ached, and the dowel strikes left many tender spots. He closed his eyes and fought the urge to groan. He focused instead on the anger, first on his own stupid behavior, and winced as he thought of the girl with burning oil on her body. What must she feel when the scars twisted her skin into grotesque shapes? How would he ever be able to make it up to her? It pushed all other thoughts from his mind. He knew it was wisest to embrace his fate...with wanton prejudice.

  In the lifting dawn, the whack on his rump took him to his knees. The pain rose as a gurgle in his throat. He looked over his shoulder. A scowling Horace glared at Marius through slits.

  “You sick, son-of-a-bitch! Give me a dowel, too!”

  “You no make fire!”

  “I don’t know how!”

  “Mule need dowel like this!” The dowel dug into the muscle at Marius’s neck. “I show you how to do fire one time!” He jerked his thumb upwards. Marius got to his feet. Horace took some straw from a small box at the side of the forge. He wrapped it around his fingers to form a small nest. He cut a small piece of rough spun wool cloth, which he put in the center of the nest. He moved the coals aside in the center of the forge, just above the grated air hole. He took kindling, small branches and sticks, and laid them carefully in the forge and surrounded it with coals. “Angelus to fill these boxes, now you do!” He reached for the steel hanging on the post close to the forge. He placed the steel, open on one side, so it wrapped around his four fingers just below the second joints. He shook the steel before Marius. “Steel, dura, very hard! I show you how to make. Use old sword. Make fire to hot white, then drop in cold water.” From a small box on the post, Horace removed a palm-sized stone. “Stone, dura, very hard, too, but no make, must find.”

  Holding the stone in his right hand, wearing the steel on his left, Horace made a big show, as if he were a magician, to hold them up to Marius. Then, with a flair, brought the stone across the steel to bring down a line of sparks.

  Horace held up his index finger indicating that Marius should pay attention. He struck the steel again and again trying to direct the sparks emitted toward the bit of cloth. Several sparks would land on it, but immediately die out.

  “Putana! Putana!” Horace cried out. He continued to strike the steel with the stone, but few landed on the cloth.

  Marius held his hand up before Horace’s face. He understood what technique was needed, and knew he could do it. He remembered the mornings he would enter the cooking room on the way to the baths and find the cook preparing to make a fire. He did not dwell on it then, but he remembered the scene now: the metal, the stone, the striking, the gentle blowing, then! A-Ha! the flame! He took from Horace the steel and the stone. Tilting his head, he raised his eyebrows. Rapidly he struck the steel with the stone sending a shower of sparks onto the cloth. Several caught and glowed. Marius bent down and blew gently.

  The cloth began to glow. Marius blew harder, directing the hot embers toward the straw. A flame leaped from the edge. Soon the kindling was afire. Marius glanced quickly at Horace. He handed him the steel and the stone, and motioned toward the gentle fire with both hands, palms upraised, indicating Horace should take over. Horace, not aware this was the extent of Marius’s expertise, moved the coals closer to the fire. He pumped the forge bellows to send a gentle breeze to the fire. As the blaze grew hotter and larger, Horace kept mounding the coals until a good portion of the forge was ablaze. He tapped Marius, a smug cut to his face. “Now you know how make fire!”

  Marius watched him heat a rod in the forge, pour himself a cup of thin wine, added bits of bread, then mulled it, and drank it all in three gulps. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He pointed the cup toward the bucket of salted water. “Put hands. Work after.”

  Angelus, who was nearby, jabbed Marius. “Son of a bitch is trying to imitate a human being!”

  It was in the silence that Marius was most alert. Horace relished the surprise of a vanquishing blow. With Angelus, a miserable wretch, Marius took double his share. Marius wondered the reason Herold and Jerrold were never touched. Then, he learned one night when he awoke in the middle of the night. Horace gasped too loudly from sexual spasms as one of the two men gave him a blowjob. Marius found Horace in the dark of night also was not above bringing them to their knees.

  Horace wielded the dowel mercilessly as he recognized the new-found revulsion Marius had for him.

  As the days pressed on, Marius told Angelus he was grateful he was able to physically endure the extreme hardship of his new life. With the saltwater treatments his hands developed calluses. The muscle spasms diminished. He learned to rest during the brief breaks in the work. He explained that he had found the rhythm to Horace’s style and was able to keep up with and then to anticipate his calls. That did not stop the whacks with the dowel. Marius knew he was dealing with a true, infected individual in Horace who enjoyed delivering pain and hearing the dowel’s thump! and smash! as it pummeled living flesh. Marius saw it gave Horace erotic pleasure, making no effort to hide his erections. Marius saw Horace waited for the cry of pain when he struck. At those moments, Marius bit his tongue and blew through his nose. It infuriated Horace, so he turned to thumping Angelus who cried out without restraint.

  Just past the fourth week since their arrival, Horace warned Marius and Angelus about wandering away from the forge for any reason. He noted Angelus took longer and longer and roamed further and further to gather dried grasses and sticks for kindling. He seemed to have read Angelus’s mind.

  “I must get out or become sick. I am not one for Madam Five-fingers. I would rather cut it off before I would beg for the finocchios’ attention.” He pointed to the forge’s lovers. “How much can Captain Morgana do?” Angelus asked Marius, “Make me stay another month? Eh?”

  Marius stuck his finger in
his face. “You are dealing with cruel bestie where obedience is everything. Eh? Nothing will be worth the price they will make you pay for disobedience.”

  Angelus shrugged off the warning. He waited for nightfall and slipped away from the forge. Back home, left to his own devices especially with no youngsters his own age with which to play, he eventually found he could entertain himself by himself. He discovered his pepino. What was first a phenonema, soon was something he could bring up anytime he wished. Then, pleasurable sensations could be extended. Then, they could be extended to a wonderful and invigorating conclusion, prickly skin and all. Angelus thought this was a wonderful retreat up to four, five times a day. It was a glorious miracle. But, not as much a glorious miracle, he discovered, as when the gods in their lands delivered to him just as inquisitive a girl. She had discovered a button that could exhaust her senseless at any time of day and night. Then, to their mutual amazement, the joys could be multiplied manifold if they enjoyed them together. What magnificence! What pleasure! Then, together, they learned the name of this irresistible activity. It was called fricare. This rubbing together brought indescribable delights. Surely the gods who gave it to them would want them to do it as often as they could possibly find time. Angelus firmly believed it should never be denied any male or female of any station anyplace in the world as they knew it. In his mind he listened again to the words of caution from his friend, Marius, but shook his head and agreed with himself that he should not be denied.

  He was gone for five days. Horace pointed his hammer across the courtyard. Marius saw Captain Morgana and two guardsmen escort Angelus back to the forge. He was not in chains. Marius detected a smirk on Angelus’s face. He looked at Marius and shrugged. Captain Morgana told Horace, “The whores in town adored him like a pasha. They kept him hidden. He’s never to trouble us that way again. Take care of it!” The tone in the captain’s voice made Horace grunt ominously.

  Marius caught the implication. “Captain Morgana, respectfully I will guarantee Angelus will not leave the forge again. I will be responsible and take any punishment to be meted out. I will work doubly hard.”

  The captain turned to stare at Marius. “You will, will you? Horace! If this worker is willing to work doubly hard then you are not now working him hard enough! You should know, Marius, a hard-on has no conscience, and responds to nothing and no one when boiling blood calls. Watch your own temptations. Better yet, watch now what happens to the transgressor.”

  Horace shoved Angelus into the shed. He looked at Theron and Jerrold. “You hear?” Both of them nodded. This was not an initiation for them. It was for Angelus.

  Horace narrowed his eyes. A smirk crossed his face. He said, “We do!”

  The two men, in swift moves each grabbed Angelus by one wrist and one ankle, the leg bending at the knee back under him. They raised him until his backside rested on the anvil. Horace, an evil cloud across his face, exposed Angelus’s privates. Angelus immediately understood what was about to happen to him. He screamed as loud as he was able.

  “For bulls!” Horace said holding up brutal-looking animal castration crushing pliers.

  “For God’s sakes!” Marius shouted, “Stop! He doesn’t deserve that! He could die!”

  “You next?” Horace asked.

  Angelus stopped screaming long enough to watch, unbelievably, as Horace adjusted the crushing pliers to his testicles. “No do long time,” Horace explained, “but still know how do!” A leer creased his face.

  Horace stared into Angelus’s fear-filled eyes for a long moment.

  Angelus whimpered.

  The brute jerked the pliers closed.

  The sound from Angelus’s throat that rent the air almost made Marius pass out. “You imbecilic whore’s slime!” Marius shouted, wild-eyed as he picked up the sledge.

  Horace knocked him out with one blow of the crushing pliers.

  When Marius came to, he was laying on the straw next to Angelus who was unconscious. He put his aching head to his chest and heard Angelus’s heart beating. Marius got a pail of water and a compress and applied it to his groin.

  Horace walked in. “He no die. I make easy.” He turned to Marius and jabbed him in the ribs with the dowel. “You do work for him.” Marius looked up to stare into his eyes. “You be careful,” Horace said his finger pointing from one eyeball to the other, “or Horace piss out the fire I see in these!”

  It was more than a week before Angelus could get around. “Marius,” his voice hoarse, his eyes dulled. He moved like an old, slow man, “These are animals.”

  “Think only of us getting to Rome,” Marius said.

  “Before I kill myself,” Angelus said slowly with determination, “I want to kill my brother and Horace, but Horace first. Eh?”

  Marius nodded. Some things were just meant to be.

  10

  As Diura and the priest walked away, in the dark niche, Roberto reached down to find the edge of the seat. He sat heavily. He took a moment to breathe deeply, then stretched out. The bench was not quite long enough for him. He had to bend his knees. He rested his head on his curved arm and found he had to poke his hand through the arm supports to be comfortable. Within a matter of moments, he fell sound asleep. He began to dream. A young man in a toga appeared. He beckoned to Roberto. He was to follow him. Roberto shook his head. He was not sure. The situation was too strange to him. He broke out in a cold sweat. He held up a hand to signal he had to stop. The other figure motioned to him that he was to return. Roberto looked around the room. Windows were high up. He searched for a door. He tapped at the walls and floor. They were all solid. He was in a room with no exit. He could only get out by following the young man in the toga. Roberto had no choice in the matter. He fell asleep again.

  Roberto awoke to the sound of voices. His body felt stiff, and he had the sensation of his hands being cold. Thoughts of his mortality flooded his mind. He sat up. Then, he felt his face. His hands were icy cold. He decided he had cut off their circulation. With a little massage, his hands were back to normal, and he decided to walk to the voices. He stretched then started down the passageway.

  He passed several niches before he stopped to listen. He picked up the sound of steps, then of Father Oscar’s voice urging Diura to hurry, “Subitto! Subitto! Signorina,” he said.

  Stepping around the curved passageway they came face to face.

  A surprised Diura asked, “Roberto! Che fai? What are you doing? How are you?” She held out a plastic vial with his medications and a bottle of water.

  “I took a power nap, heard your voices, and here I am. Now with the meds, I should be perfectly fine,” he said. He gulped the medicine.

  “Veramente? Really?” Father Oscar asked. “But that’s just wonderful! You would continue the tour?”

  “I think we’re not going to push it, Father Oscar,” Diura said. “We really appreciate your kind offer. We’ll call to reschedule?”

  “Whatever is best, of course! I enjoyed more than you. I hope you are sincere about coming back,” Father Oscar said.

  Roberto said, “I feel Diura is absolutely correct. Perhaps a leisurely lunch al fresco, some wine, and some wonderful Italian sun would be nice.” Father Oscar was about to speak when Roberto held up two fingers. “One of the reasons I accepted your kind offer, Father Oscar, was so that perhaps away from the library I could ask you about the names of any researchers who have access to the secret Vatican files...just as a point of interest, of course. At the moment, my research is as dead as dust.”

  “Of course, as a point of interest,” Father Oscar said, turning to stare at Diura. “You understand, the Vatican is where I work. I am a priest. At this moment I can be of no help.”

  “No matter. Join us for lunch?” Roberto said.

  Father Oscar shrugged. “It would be enjoyable. I must decline. It would cause some hell in heaven,” he said tossing his head and jerking his thumb upwards.

  XI

  It was shortly after the Angelus brutality
that Captain Morgana approached Horace. He told the forge master that he needed Marius on the training field one day a week. Horace started to protest. The captain shut him off. “I run this post! See that Marius reports for training! He is to be our Battuto.”

  When Marius reported to Sergeant Bastoni, a barrel of a warrior, he was inspected from head to foot. The sergeant made him sprint, roll on the ground, and leap from one foot to the other.

  “You do for Battuto,” the sergeant said. “You know what is to be our Battuto?”

  Marius shook his head. “It mean the beaten one. The soldiers use you for practice. That mean you are only useful to get beaten upon.”

  “I have never done this before,” Marius said.

  “What you not know, you learn!” He laughed.

  He told Marius to have the master at arms fit him out with leather protection.

  Marius strapped on heavy leather plates front and back. His arms were covered in heavy leather straps. He was given a leather helmet. Unprotected were his shoulders, lower back and rump, and his legs.

  When he reported back, Bastoni said, “You be used for training soldier. You will train with short, wood dowels instead of short, Roman sword. See circle in sand? You must stay in circle. You must be fast! Make quick moves fast! That way soldier learn like you. If you not move like chamois, more they will strike you before you strike them! Capisce? Or you will be a badly beaten Battuto! You understand?” He bent backwards with laughter.

  Marius stood in the circle. A soldier approached. He stepped into the circle. They nodded to each other.

  The soldier made a few test parries. Marius blocked them. It made him stand slightly taller. The soldier feinted a blow to the head. Marius raised his arm to block it. To his surprise he found his buttocks stinging from the shot. The sergeant, watching, laughed uproariously.