The Medici Letters: The Secret Origins of the Renaissance

by Taylor Buck

  “What’s wrong, Cullen?” Valente’s sinister voice echoed inside the room. The light above suddenly seemed to grow blindingly bright. A horrifyingly familiar sensation began to take a hold as Jack stared back at his enemy.

  “Amico mio… You don’t look good,” Valente said chuckling. “You should sit down.” He grabbed a nearby wooden chest and dragged it over to the middle of the room.

  Jack tasted bile rising in his throat—the familiar bitter tang returning. He felt as if he was losing his balance… his equilibrium was off, like a severe case of vertigo. He had experienced this same feeling before. In Siena. He knew he had been drugged. It was only a matter of seconds before he would be completely disoriented. Not again, he thought. Not now. If there was ever a time where he needed to think clearly… it was right now. He fought hard to keep his vision steady, but the cloaked assassin began multiplying. First he was doubled…then tripled. Jack couldn’t keep him in focus. He swung his head around and focused on the doorway. Mustering all his focus, he stumbled forward and leapt for the opening. He got within a few feet of the bronze door when he felt a sharp pain in his ankles as his feet were swept out from beneath him. Next came a moment of weightlessness. Centrifugal motion. He saw the room turn sideways and then halt abruptly as his skull smacked hard against the cold floor. The pain was surprisingly brief—momentary. Almost nonexistent. He rolled over onto his back and realized he was actually numb to his senses, as if he was heavily intoxicated. His pain threshold had lowered to almost nothing. Then he realized why. Valente had dulled his peripheral nervous system intentionally. He was going to keep him alive while he “inflicted his retribution.”

  Jack felt sick. He wanted to vomit, but even his gag reflex was paralyzed. He lay there staring up at the ceiling hearing Valente shuffling around the room. A moment later, Jack felt his body being lifted from the floor and positioned harshly upright with his butt on an old chest and his back against the far wall. Valente hastily fastened his feet and wrists together with long strips of fabric he tore from his cloak. Then he stepped away from Jack and began unbuttoning his hood as if he was about to disrobe. Then, to Jack’s surprise, he proceeded to do exactly that. First he removed his large coat, then he removed the heavy vest beneath, fitted with various sharp weapons and gadgets. Finally he removed a white tunic that looked to Jack like something a pirate would wear, complete with tassels down the front and frilly sleeves around his wrists. He carefully folded each item of clothing and placed them delicately on top of the broken table. Valente was facing Jack as he moved. The light from the lamp above curved over his shoulders and bare chest exposing a bulging physique and powerful frame. His muscles rippled in unison as he began moving around the objects on the table. Jack noticed something else, like a shadow pattern across his back, almost as if the light of the lamp was passing through a grated filter of sorts. As he looked closer, he realized the pattern was actually part of his skin. Valente’s entire back appeared to be covered in small protuberances that looked like amphibious scales.

  My god… What has he done to himself?

  “I’m offering a gift to you, Jack,” Valente said as he continued arranging a few metallic objects and a small mirror on the table. “Before your punishment, you will be witness to my completion. My… finale.”

  Jack saw Valente press a lever on what looked like a small, handheld butane torch. It flickered and ignited. The low whooshing sound of the butane reminded Jack of a camp stove. Valente hovered the flame beneath a curved piece of metal. Holding the torch in one hand and clamping the curved metal with a pair of pliers, Valente remained unmoving for what seemed like hours. The routine was well rehearsed—clearly a habitual regimen.

  “Now you know,” Valente said as he peered over his shoulder at Jack slumped in the corner. “Now you see why they call me Il Drago.” He arched his back and flexed his latissimus dorsi muscles. It seemed to widen his body, opening it up like the hood of a venomous viper. It was an impressive spectacle, worthy of a sideshow act in a circus. This is all an illusion, Jack told himself. His eyes were playing tricks on him, just like the giraffe in the alley at Siena. This couldn’t be real. Who would go to such extreme measures to transform their body? Feeling the nausea set in, he closed his eyes to focus. The buzzing noise returned again.

  Valente carefully handled the burning metal by gripping the pliers steadily. “The pursuit of that which drives one to perfection is more valuable than achieving it… Do you believe that, Jack?” He looked from the flame to Jack, then back at the flame. “Plato certainly did. In a moment I will know whether or not he was right. I am about to experience it for myself…” he whispered slowly.

  “Perficio.”

  Jack started laughing. Irrepressible, guttural gasps. He couldn’t help it, like an uncontrollable defense mechanism taking over. It seemed a natural reaction given his dire situation. He soon found himself heaving over laughing uncontrollably. Slowly he gathered himself and focused his thoughts—this was the strange effect of the dimethyltryptamine… even while riding horseback through the streets of Siena he recalled being able to think clearly—in waves. His thoughts now were lucid. He could process his situation despite the drugs. It helped if he closed his eyes. The worst part was the hallucinations; but if he shut his eyes and focused, he could think perfectly clearly… in fact, he almost felt as if his mind expanded—naturally enhanced by the foreign substance he ingested.

  “Perfection,” Jack said, fighting the chemical impulses. “Your basis of perfection is contrived by a dead philosopher, but you act as if it’s ontological. Perfection isn’t based on the pursuit of any one thing; it is an unattainable existence that requires humans to push themselves to become more like God, but doing so unfailingly delineates the gap between us and Him. It’s called the divine precipice. The ‘pursuit’ is what opens up our ability to explore what human beings are capable of, but it also defines the boundaries that God intended us to understand. Why do you think that the further we come to determining our own existence we only succeed in discovering more questions about that which we don’t know?”

  Valente let out a grumbling sigh. He began passing the torch flame in small circles underneath the curved metal. “Faithful devotion exposes the most righteous of men. Our gods may be different, but the principle remains the same. Perfection is attainable.” He looked up at Jack sullenly. “Based on your writings, I’m surprised to hear your opposition to man’s ability to become God. You said it yourself that we were once one and the same.”

  “Don’t twist my reasoning,” said Jack. “I simply proposed that some humans did once exist as a hybrid of demigods, but they were far from what you are referring to as perfect creations. It’s written in the ages. Demigods were recorded in nearly every civilization in our earth’s history. The Bible referred to them as Nephalim—sons and daughters of fallen angels. The Greeks, in their mythological tales, describe them through the stories of legends—Hercules and Apollo. The Egyptians cunningly found a way to domesticate these superhuman half-deities and utilize their strength and wisdom to build architectural marvels. However, regardless of the society they dwelled in, they were outcasts, neither accepted by humans or gods. In fact, they were so imperfect and out of place that they succeeded in destroying every civilization they were a part of before they themselves were destroyed.”

  Valente continued heating the metal. Jack stayed slumped against the wall. He felt weak… his limbs weary. The only thing he could do was keep Valente talking while he formulated an exit strategy.

  “So tell me Valente,” Jack said, “do you still believe that our purpose is to reach perfection?”

  Valente let his finger off the torch trigger and placed the heating unit on the table. Carefully, he switched the pliers into his other hand and looked up at Jack. “Is it not apparent by looking at me? I am the supreme personification of physical perfection.”

  Jack’s eyes drifted over the burns along Valente’s back. “Is that what the scars are for?”<
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  Valente sneered and turned to Jack. “Have you heard of the Dragon Men?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “The Sepik River tribe,” Valente said as he again grabbed the butane torch and continued heating the metal in his hands, apparently not satisfied with the temperature of the steel. “I was beckoned in a vision from God to visit this tribe in Papua New Guinea. It was only when I arrived that I knew why I had been delivered to them. In the east of Sepik province, men to this day continue a ritual that connects them with their ancestors and transforms them into gods. The process is beautiful… truly artistic.”

  He ran his fingers along the small of his back, feeling the bulbous ridges of skin.

  “Using deep incisions, they modify their bodies to resemble that of a crocodile. It’s an agonizing and gratifying experience that makes them one with the beast and recognizes their pursuit of becoming a supreme warrior.”

  The metal was glowing white now. He held it up to inspect it closely.

  “You see, they have battled the mighty reptilian beast throughout their tribe’s history, losing many tribesmen to vicious attacks. But in order to defend themselves against it, they chose instead to become it. The act itself is honorable and deeply symbolic. Never before had I seen anything so emblematic and… selflessly dedicated,” he said, as his eyes wandered upward.

  “So you adopted the ritual for yourself?” Jack asked. “And devoted yourself to it?”

  Valente’s eyes fell upon Jack. “Can you think of anything more symbolic of perfection than to dedicate your entire physique to a divine ambition.”

  Jack could think of many things that could accomplish greatness without requiring even the thought of bodily modifications, but he chose instead to remain silent considering his situation.

  “Mr. Cullen. Like a fallen deity, I, too, have neither been accepted by god or man. I, too, have committed violent acts. I have also lived a life of secrecy. Like my ancestors before me, I was forced to live life as an outcast, hiding in the shadows until this very moment.” He released the butane torch and placed it on the table. Then he turned around and positioned his scaly back towards Jack. “Solomon’s Knowledge,” he whispered. “The secret to man’s true perfection—my ancestor’s lost treasure… has now returned. My lifelong quest is complete. The Dragon Order has been fulfilled.”

  Dragon Order? Jack thought. Man, this guy is delusional.

  Using the small mirror which rested on the table, Valente guided the scalding hot metal toward the one patch of flesh on his back that was untouched. Jack watched as Valente jerked his arms back and popped his shoulders grotesquely in an unnatural display of contortionism, then he continued to slowly guide the glowing hot metal to the skin.

  “Perficio,” he whispered and breathed out through clenched teeth just before the white hot metal came in contact with the skin. The burning flesh popped and crackled like Rice Krispies as a thin wisp of smoke lifted from the area of contact. Jack immediately smelled the putrid odor of roasting flesh. Valente held the fiery metal in place while he breathed rhythmically in and out like a horrific Lamaze exercise. Jack heard another POP as the epidermis burst and hissed, succumbing to the blistering heat. After a few agonizing seconds, Valente removed the metal and placed it on the table. He then stood and groaned loudly in an act of joyous release with both arms stretched out to his sides while he stared up at the ceiling breathing in deep gasps of air. His body seemed to tremble as the rush of endorphins entered his body and pain gave way to adrenaline.

  “Yes!” he cried through excited breaths. “It is finished. I am complete now… perficio.” He looked over at Jack sitting against the wall and grimaced sinisterly. Then his eyes slowly drifted back to the hot metal on the table. He stared at his tools, breathing slowly and heavily.

  Jack watched on in horror. He had never seen a mutilation like that before. What bothered him most wasn’t the act itself. It was Valente’s perverted enjoyment of it. It was almost like—He’s staring at me.

  Jack locked eyes with Valente, noticing a crazed look suddenly spread across the lunatic’s face. His eyes seemed to flash crimson red. He appeared quite evil, possessed even. Suddenly, a forked tongue began flickering in and out of his mouth—black like the night and dripping wet with venom.

  Snap out of it Jack! You’re hallucinating again.

  Valente retrieved the pliers and held the metal once again in his hand. “Si!” he exclaimed. “My final parting gift to you for getting me here. It will unite us before you die.”

  Valente once again ran the butane flame beneath the metal until it glowed hot white. Then he limped across the room and kneeled in front of Jack. He held the glowing metal close to Jack’s face as he stared wild-eyed at him and ran his finger over the scar on his cheek. “You see this? Sin... The moon god who illuminates our path. It was my very first declaration of commitment to physical transformation. The pain is momentary, but the bliss is infinite.”

  Jack watched on, terrified. He stared with paralyzing fear at the curved metal in front of him when a similar shape came into view directly behind it. On Valente’s left cheek, the crescent moon-shaped scar lined up perfectly with the metal he was now holding. He realized what Valente was intending to do.

  This psychopath wants to brand my face!

  “No! Jack screamed in terror. “No! No! No!” Valente reached out and wrapped his strong fingers around Jack’s face, holding him still. His grip was incredibly powerful. Jack started kicking wildly trying to free himself from the restraints around his wrists and ankles. As the metal came closer it seemed to grow in size. The bright crescent moon looked massive now, as if it would engulf his whole face. Jack writhed in protest and flailed around, managing to kick his feet into Valente’s knees. Valente groaned and shuffled backward in pain, nearly dropping the burning metal to the ground. He fell against the center table and sliced his hands on loose shards of glass. At that moment, the wooden table cracked and splintered apart sending the ancient scrolls tumbling onto the ground. He watched as the ancient papyrus manuscripts broke apart and disintegrated. “NO!” Valente bellowed, his face revealing a series of emotions ranging from severe agony to intense rage. He bent over and grabbed his knee with his free hand, then he swatted the trunk that Jack was sitting on, sending him toppling to the ground. Jack heard his cell phone dash to pieces on the ground below. He continued to writhe in protest until his face was delivered a hard blow from Valente’s left boot.

  Then he saw stars...

  They were all around him. He was suddenly floating in space surrounded by the most spectacular array of stars and constellations he’d ever seen. He stared into the black vastness, wondering how something so infinite could have been fashioned or even thought up. The moon came into view—a large white crescent shape descending upon him. It was growing ever larger as it came closer and closer. The heat grew fiercer.

  The heat. “Stop!” Jack screamed as Valente came into view once again. His eyes were fiery red. The reptilian beast was standing over him with the white hot metal just inches from his face. Valente was past the point of no return and Jack lay helpless, screaming obscenities in his face. He could feel the hot metal nearly singeing the small hairs across his cheek. It was so close now. The flesh began to grow pink.

  “Stop!” Jack cried out. “Stop!”

  CRACK!

  A piercing report rang out. The pliers went clanging to the ground. Valente jerked forward and then stumbled back a few steps. He straightened up and swung around to face the door.

  CRACK!

  Another loud blast. The noise was deafening in the small room. Valente flew backward this time and fell onto Jack like an oversized ragdoll, awkwardly tumbling across him and abruptly slamming against the ground. His forehead hit the wooden hutch and bounced slightly as his body came to a rest right beside Jack. Watching from his position on the ground, Jack stared wide-eyed at the lifeless face of Ignazio Valente as the blood poured from a gaping bullet hole above his right eye.
The wound was fatal.

  The Dragon had been destroyed.

  CHAPTER 54

  LUCERNE, KLINIK ST. ANNA

  SEPTEMBER 10

  KATHLEEN SPRINTED DOWN THE hallway passing the empty rooms on both sides. The cold linoleum on her bare feet felt like running on a frozen lakebed. She heard the yelling behind her—cries and pleas for her to stop… but she kept running. Moving instinctively. Something wasn’t right. The strange young nurse… the smiling doctor…

  It had taken only seconds to escape the room. After she had wrestled her phone away from the nurse she bee-lined to the doorway. She remembered Porto looking utterly stunned as she flew past him. Now she was halfway down the hall, dialing numbers as she ran. As she pressed the last digit, it occurred to her that she may actually have a chance to save him. If she could get someone there in time… Jack might actually survive.

  He has no idea how dangerous they are.

  She pressed the numbers. The phone rang. Voicemail kicked in.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Jack Cullen…”

  Kathleen turned the corner at the end of the hallway and opened a doorway. A staircase wound down through the floors below. She began descending as quickly as weak legs would carry her. She tried calling her husband again but he didn’t pick up. After a third attempt, she changed plans. She needed to find help for him as quickly as possible. That meant pulling some strings.

  “There she is!” cried a voice from behind.

  Kat looked up and saw the doctor pointing down from the floor above. Porto was already running down the steps clumsily, his large frame occasionally getting pinned in the narrow stairwell. He unleashed a string of Italian curses at each turn.