Black Madonna

by Carl Sargent

  “Get rid of this drunk.” he said loudly and with a fair semblance of disgust. “At this time of day and at the door of a house of God. What a disgrace!”

  Tutting rose among the crowd. The two advancing figures halted, unsure of what to do. A moment before they’d been ready to blow the elf away. and their hesitation was fatal. The paramedics were within a dozen paces now. One of the men gave the other a look, then both turned tail and headed quietly away. Streak exhaled with relief. His Italian suffered a little as he thanked the paramedics just a bit too profusely.

  The elves piled into the back of the ambulance and began to ask whether there was a paramedics’ retirement fund to which they could make a serious contribution.

  * * *

  Michael’s face was drained of blood by the time the three of them returned from the hospital, where the doctors were stunned by Kristen’s miraculously swift recovery. A little implausible nonsense about witch-doctors and curses had soon persuaded them they were probably dealing with nothing more serious than a case of hysterical fainting . . . Kristen hadn’t found Serrin’s impromptu story terribly amusing, but all that was forgotten as Streak managed to gabble out what he’d seen.

  They were excited as they rushed upstairs back at the villa, but the sight of their two white-faced and obviously exhausted companions immediately told them something was wrong.

  “We didn’t exactly blow it, but it was pretty bloody close.” Geraint told them. A cigarette hung from his fingers, the smoke spiraling upward. “Mitsuhama wasn’t a problem, they don’t have much. But Fuchi–Fuchi’s got something, and they’re not letting anyone get close. Not even Michael could cope with the ice, and that means it’s thicker than the walls of the Tower of London. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Metasculpture.” Michael muttered. “Sculpted system with covert implant viruses. Very neat, a constant assault and nonresponsive to anything I’ve currently got. It’s going to cost me a lot of money to buy cover against that drek.”

  “We’re only three days away from meltdown.” Serrin observed. No one seemed to care.

  “So tell us, how was your day?” Geraint asked eventually, stubbing out the cigarette. Gray circles were beginning to form under his eyes after days of strain, irregular sleeping habits, and constant adrenaline rushes.

  “The NOJ were out as a welcoming committee.” Streak him.

  “Fragging great.” Geraint moaned. “How’d they get on to us so quickly?”

  “Maybe they didn’t.” Serrin suggested. “They may have followed leads of their own and simply arrived in same place. Interesting that they had goons around the Baptistery. Though.”

  “Michael, could you crack their system?”

  “Who knows? I have no idea where it is. It’ll be a PLTG for starters.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “A private local system. Just finding the bugger will be bad enough. I’ve got to admit I don’t exactly feel up to right now. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen ice sculpted as a tank when it wasn’t just a macho gesture. It wasn’t kidding.”

  “We’ve got to get into something, somewhere, that belongs to someone who knows more than we do.” Serrin said.

  “I’d just like to talk to Blondie.” Streak said pointedly. “That vanishing act was something else, real smooth.”

  Michael blinked wearily. “What are you talking about?”

  Serrin looked at Streak, who proceeded to fill them in.

  “It was that rakking gun.” he said in conclusion. “The weirdest bloody thing I’ve ever seen. Straight up. It didn’t fire bullets and it had about a dozen barrels, like I said, I mean, that’s impossible. I’ve only seen things like that in museums, and then the barrels were all together, not spread out in an arc. There’s a few in the Royal Armories, right?”

  Geraint nodded. Among the exhibits at the Royal Armories at the Tower of London were some of the first German multi-barrel pistols and rifles, ungainly and unwieldy things. They hadn’t been a notable landmark in the history of gun design.

  Serrin’s eyes gleamed and he suddenly left the room, apparently with some strong purpose. He was only gone a moment, returning with a book open at an early page.

  “Did the weapon look anything like this?” he asked Streak, pushing the book out in front of his face. The other elf pushed it back so that he could focus his eyes properly on the illustration. His cybereyes could have compensated, but the reflex was ingrained.

  “Shee-it! That’s it.” he said wonderingly. “Well, I mean, it’s as close as makes no difference. I didn’t have very long to see it, don’t forget. But, yeah, it did look just like that. Bugger me. What the frag is it?”

  “Leonardo da Vinci’s design for the scoppietti.” Serrin told him, “I guess someone’s really starting to play serious games with us now. It’s begun.”

  “What’s begun?” Geraint asked.

  Serrin gave him the beatific smile of someone who thinks he’s noticed something of major importance that has passed everyone else by.

  * * *

  “A game is being played out here.” Serrin said. drawing up a chair and swinging his good leg over to sit on it straddled, his elbows draped over the chair-back. “Our target has a real fixation with Leonardo, right? The Shroud icon, The date of the Matrix meltdown. This weapon, whatever it actually was. And more as well.”

  “We knew that already.” Michael reminded him.

  “Okay, right. Now, Leonardo was the Grand Master of the Priory of Sion, and the current Priory has an interest in our quarry. Leonardo faked the Shroud of Turin at the behest of Pope Innocent–I forget which one.”

  “The eighth.” Michael completed.

  “Right. Thanks. And the hardline Jesuits out there serve the Vatican and they’re certainly stirred up about what’s happening. And there’s an extra layer of depth to this. Leonardo may or may not have been gay, but the androgyne recurs again and again in his work. Mona Lisa is Leonardo as a woman, okay? His painting of John the Baptist is extraordinarily feminine–our man Streak here actually took the face for a girl’s. There’s more too. Verocchio’s Baptism of Christ has an angel painted by Leonardo. and it’s another androgyne–the figure is male but has a very, very feminine face. I looked at that after we’d seen the statue downstairs.”

  “Blondie was an interesting looker.” Streak said.

  “Wasn’t he? Put him in a cocktail dress and a wig and he’d make an excellent petite jeune fille.” Serrin said wryly.

  “Are we even sure he was a bloke?” Sneak suddenly asked.

  “Yes, he was.” Kristen put in firmly. “His voice was too deep for a woman’s. Just. And his posture was a man’s. That can’t be faked.”

  “You haven’t been to San Fran.” Serrin told her. “Yes, It can.”

  “We have cross-dressers in Cape Town too, dear.” she countered icily.

  “Whatever. Anyway, look at the Matrix icon. It’s the Shroud, with the face of a woman. It’s Leonardo’s androgyne all over again, in a more shocking form.”

  “So?” Michael demanded.

  “So I think that’s at the root of it.” Serrin said. “It recurs too often. And there’s something about this we haven’t worked out yet: why is the woman in the icon black?”

  “Tell us.” Michael said.

  “I don’t know.” Serrin replied. “I’ve tried some digging but there’s so much bulldrek about this kind of thing that without expert advice I couldn’t begin to sort out the wheat from the chaff. I mean, we’ve both been through the How do you know ‘God isn’t a woman’ drek and that kind of thing enough times.”

  Kristen looked pointedly at him.

  “Sorry, lover. It’s just that the people who make that argument are ninety-nine point nine per cent screaming flakes.” Serrin said impatiently. ‘You spend a couple of days reading nothing but and you’ll agree, trust me.

  “There has to be something more than our decker merely adopting Leonardo’s persona and having a Leonard
o fixation. Otherwise, the Priory and the NOJ wouldn’t be involved.”

  “I’ll buy that.” Michael said.

  Serrin shrugged. “We can’t know that. But I wonder. The official line on the Priory is that they serve to protect the bloodline of Christ, right? The old myth that Christ wasn’t crucified but came to Europe, maybe with Joseph of Arimathea, had children and some still survive? The Gnostic gospels have stuff on this and there are almost as many files suggesting conspiracies along those lines hogging the Matrix as there are on Trekker drek. But even by the standards of flake theories, it’s weak. I’m not buying into it as the Big Reason behind all of this. But they’re protecting something. I just wondered if–”

  “If this is a descendant of Leonardo?” Michael said doubtfully.

  “That possibility has occurred to me.” Serrin admitted “But it doesn’t feel right either. I still think there has to be some link to the real Leonardo. This isn’t just a flake doing impersonations”

  “Whoever pulled that stunt with the gun Blondie had was no flake, that’s for bloody sure.” Streak said. “I have no idea what took that guy out, but trust me, I’d give up all the dosh I’ve got stashed to be able to buy one, If someone can invent something like that, we’re not dealing with an idiot.”

  “Not to mention the minor matter of crashing the entire fragging Matrix.” Michael reminded them.

  Serrin smiled weakly. “We almost forgot about that for a moment, didn’t we?”

  “What we desperately need to do.” he went on, “is somehow get one step ahead. So far, we’ve been following leads and there always seems to be someone waiting for us around the corner. We have to find some way, just one thing, for moving ahead of the game. And this is a game, albeit a game with seriously high stakes.”

  Serrin hesitated. The pause told Geraint there was something he wasn’t revealing.

  “Come on, Serrin, what is it? It’s Hessler, isn’t it? He told you something you don’t want to tell us. I guess I understand why, but–”

  “No, it isn’t Hessler. It’s Merlin.” Serrin said, gently and sadly. The change in his voice was obvious. They all fell silent and looked at him.

  “Merlin is a better ‘human being’ than most people are, I think.” he said. “Well, elf, human, what the frag. He’s a spirit of people, I think. I don’t know much about his history, he hasn’t told me about it. But he genuinely likes people and he’s troubled. He knows who we’re after, and can’t tell because he’d be destroyed once people figured it out that we got it from him”

  “Then Hessler must know.” Michael pointed out.

  “Yes, I think he must.” Serrin agreed. “He’s obviously a member of some powerful hermetic order. His command of metamagic is something else, I can tell you. He can snap his fingers and do things I’d need a week of preparation to even risk attempting. He’s impressive. And he’s especially impressive because he doesn’t make a show out of it, and he doesn’t do things in ways other than are absolutely necessary. I’ll never be anywhere near that good.” He shook his head, but not sadly. “He’s simply in another league. Whatever that is. I think there’s some kind of game afoot among them. And our target is part of that game.”

  “So what’s the point of the game?”

  “Our target wants the money.” Serrin said. “I do know that. He genuinely wants the money, though I don’t know what for.”

  “You could buy a fair-sized country with it.” Geraint observed. “So he could want almost anything. With that much, you could do almost anything, let’s face it.”

  “Look at it from the other side.” Michael said. “What could you want to do that needs that much money?”

  “Settle Mars?” Streak said, shrugging his shoulders. “Frag it, you’re talking that kind of scale.”

  “What would you want to do if you were Leonardo?” Kristen asked. They turned and looked at her. “Sorry, was I being stupid?” she said meekly.

  “On the contrary.” Michael said. “Serrin, can I borrow your wife for a while? Would you mind, Kristen? You have more common sense than I do and I think I have a lot of data you ought to be looking through.

  “If this is deeper than just a Leonardo-fixation, then we should test the idea out. What would Leonardo have done next? What did he leave as an unfulfilled ambition? At least if we work on this theory we could do something. Something that could be a signal to that someone, out here, who’s playing this deadly game. And we might just get a response.”

  “You’ll have to continue this discussion without me.” Geraint told them. “I have to go and bathe and change. Luncheon awaits.”

  “We won’t expect you back too soon.” Michael said sweetly.

  “Frag off.” Geraint said tartly.

  “Actually. Geraint.” Michael said as seriously as he could muster, “if the drek hits the fan and you go broke, the Countess has a lot of property holdings. She’s a very rich window indeed. And a marriage to a de Medici too. It would be so utterly, utterly romantic.” He gave a horribly sweet grin and then his face broke into a playful smirk.

  “Welsh-Italian children. Imagine the tantrums they could throw!”

  Geraint decided, on balance, not to throw the marble ashtray at him, but it was close for a time. He stalked out of the room.

  “Kristen, my dear, you just made more sense in one line than we’ve managed in several days.” Michael said with relish. “Now let’s see what we can do on the basis of it.”

  “There’s just one final thing.” Serrin said hesitantly. “About the bloodline angle. And the androgyne.”

  “Mmmm?”

  “I wondered, just wondered, if it might not be a woman, you know. Putting her face on Shroudman. Doing what her great-great-as-many-greats-as-you-can-count great-grandfather did when he painted Mona Lisa. Wouldn’t it fit?”

  Most chains of reasoning break down somewhere. Serrin’s just had. But as Geraint toweled himself dry after his shower and mentally checked the list of purchases he wanted to make on the way, and as the others discussed their options, it was a woman, somewhere, who looked down on all this and smiled.

  But she was smiling upon someone else, and he was in another city.

  21

  She’d changed little. There were a few, just a very few white and gray hairs scattered among the thatch of black, but her blue eyes were as liquid bright and ocean deep as ever they had been. Geraint hadn’t thought that eyes so dark blue could be found outside of Tír Na nÓg, but he’d been mistaken. And he’d looked into them long enough to be sure, those many years ago.

  “It’s been a long time, Geraint.” Cecilia said in her soft voice.

  “I needed the time.” he said simply.

  Geraint took her hand and led her down the marbled corridor, into the conservatory garden. He knew every inch of the house, and it hadn’t changed much in all this time. Some of the trees had grown more than he might have expected; the freak olive, with its cinnamon-edged leaves, had flourished and stood double his height now. He sat down with her at the bronze-topped iron table and presented her with his gift.

  She opened the packaging, pushing back the layers of silky, pearl-colored tissue paper, and took out the dress. It was the simple, classic, small black dress that has always flattered the woman slim and small enough to wear it well. She was about to compliment him on it when her hand found the jewel box underneath it. Her eyes darted a glance at him, then dipped again as she flipped it open and took out the pearls inside. She smiled at him.

  “These are truly beautiful.” Cecilia said quietly. “You flatter me.”

  “Impossible.” he said, returning her smile. He was indescribably relieved to find that he could gaze steadily at her and not feel as if his heart was about to burst. “Flattery is an untruth. They suit you. Nothing less would have done.”

  She put her elbows on the table and cupped her face in her hands. If her eyes had not quite cut him to the quick, the small, upturned nose, at least, gave him a pang that reached back th
rough the years for his heart.

  “You always were the perfect gentleman.” she said, the same quiet smile playing about her face. “Ah, it is good to see you. You look well. But a little tired. What have you been up to?”

  “Ah, well, Contessa, that is a long story.” He grinned, lighting a cigarette for her.

  “And like so many of your long stories, not one I’m going to be told.” she chided him. “You British are always so.”

  He looked away with a rueful expression. “I’m not so sure of that, but in this case it’s purely business.”

  “You are not married.” she observed.

  “You neither.” he replied, wanting to get the ball out his court swiftly.

  “I said you were the perfect gentleman.” she told him, “Men here, they want sex, or money, or a name, for reputation and wealth. And if they love me, it is swiftly over. I am no longer of such an age that I can summon that emotion so easily in a man’s heart, nor keep it fixed there.”

  “I doubt that.” he replied with feeling. Cecilia de Medici had not changed so very much after all. But he stiffened just a little as she poured a second glass of wine for herself, not more than a few minutes after the first, which had been waiting for her when she arrived. He had only sipped his. That had been the reason why he could not, after her husband Bernardo died in one of Italy’s staggering tally of road accidents, come back to her. It was her fatal weakness, and if her face and body did not show the ravages as yet, it would not be so very long before they did. Not that that had worried him; it had been the effect on her emotions, the terrible black depression that settled on her when she was drunk, then remained with her for days stretching into weeks, further fueled by the endless drinking.

  When she was like that, and she had been so very often, she drained emotion and life from all around her. Geraint hadn’t wanted to end up floating down the river, as others had before him. Lovers died because of this woman. She’d told him once, when he’d found the bruises on her and was ready to rip Bernardo apart with his bare hands, that sometimes she deserved them. Geraint had been young then, and uncomprehending but over the coming months had grown older and wiser very swiftly.