by Rice, Anne
I turned around and saw a tall, well-muscled and dark-haired figure, clothed in the black robes of a monk. His face was white and he did nothing to disguise it. Around his neck he wore a glittering golden crucifix upside down.
“Marius!” he whispered.
“Damn you,” I said in answer. Yea gods, how could he know my name! “Whoever you are. Leave me. Get away from me. I warn you. Don’t remain in my presence if you want to live.”
“Marius!” he said again and he came towards me. “I have no fear of you. I come to you because we need you. You know who we are.”
“Worshipers of Satan!” I said in disgust. “Look at that fool ornament around your neck. If the Christ exists, do you think He pays any attention to you? So you still have your foolish little gatherings. You have your lies.”
“Foolish?” he said calmly. “We have never been foolish. We do the work of God as we serve Satan. Without Satan, how could there have been the Christ?”
I made a dismissive gesture.
“Get away from me,” I said. “I want no part of you.” In my heart was locked the secret of Those Who Must Be Kept. I thought of the paintings in the Sistine Chapel. Oh, those lovely figures, those colors …
“But don’t you see?” he replied. “If one so old and powerful as you were to become our leader, we could be a legion in the catacombs of this city! As it is, we are a dreadful few.”
His large black eyes were full of the inevitable zeal. And his rich black hair shimmered in the dim light. He was a comely creature, even coated with dust and dirt as he was. I could smell the catacombs on his garments. I could smell death on him as though he had lain down with mortal remains. But he was handsome, fine of build and proportion as Avicus had been, not unlike Avicus at all.
“You want to be a legion?” I asked him. “You talk nonsense! I was alive when no one spoke of Satan and no one spoke of a Christ. You’re merely blood drinkers, and you make up stories for yourselves. How could you believe that I would come to you and lead you?”
He drew closer so that I could all the better see his face. He was full of exuberance and honesty. He held his head proudly.
“Come to us in our catacomb,” he said, “come and see us and be a part of our ritual. Sing with us tomorrow night before we go out to hunt.” He was passionate and he waited in silence for my reply. He was not a stupid creature by any means, and he did not seem callow like the other followers of Satan whom I had glimpsed in centuries past.
I shook my head. But he pressed on.
“My name is Santino,” he said. “I have heard of you for a hundred years. I have dreamt of the moment when we would come upon each other. Satan has brought us together. You must lead us. Only to you would I give up my leadership. Come see my lair with its hundreds of skulls.” His voice was refined, well modulated. He spoke a beautiful Italian. “Come see my followers who worship the Beast with all their hearts. It’s the wish of the Beast that you should lead us. It’s the wish of God.”
How disgusted I was, how much I deplored him and his followers. And I could see the intellect in him. I could see the cleverness and the hope of understanding and wit.
Would that Avicus and Mael were here to put an end to him and all his kith and kin.
“Your lair with its hundreds of skulls?” I repeated. “You think I wish to rule there? Tonight I’ve seen paintings of such beauty I can’t describe them to you. Magnificent works rich in color and brilliance. This city surrounds me with its beautiful allurements.”
“Where did you see such paintings?” he asked.
“In the Pope’s chapel,” I declared.
“But how did you dare to go there?”
“It was nothing for me to do such a thing. I can teach you how to use your powers—.”
“But we are creatures of the dark,” he said in all simplicity. “We must never go into places of light. God has cursed us to the shadows.”
“What god?” I asked. “I go wherever I will. I drink the blood of those who are evil. And the world belongs to me. And you ask me to come down into the earth with you? Into a catacomb full of skulls? You ask me to rule blood drinkers in the name of a demon? You’re too clever for your creed, my friend. Forsake it.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head and stepping backwards. “Ours is a Satanic purity!” he said. “You can’t tempt me from it, not with all your power and your tricks, and I give my welcome to you.”
I had sparked something in him. I could see it in his black eyes. He was drawn to me, drawn to my words, but he couldn’t admit it.
“You’ll never be a legion,” I said. “The world will never allow it. You’re nothing. Give up your trappings. Don’t make other blood drinkers to join this foolish crusade.”
He drew closer again, as if I were a light and he wanted to be in it. He looked into my eyes, trying no doubt to read my thoughts of which he could get nothing except what I had said in words.
“We are so gifted,” I said. “There is so much to be observed, to be learnt. Let me take you back with me into the Pope’s chapel to see the paintings I have described.”
He drew even closer and something changed in his face.
“Those Who Must Be Kept,” he said, “what are they?”
It was like a harsh blow—that once again another knew the secret, a secret I had guarded so well for a thousand years.
“You will never know,” I responded.
“No, listen to me,” he said. “Are they something profane? Or are they holy?”
I clenched my teeth. I reached out for him, but with a swiftness that surprised me, he escaped me.
I went after him, caught him, and spinning him around, I dragged him to the head of the narrow stone stairs that went down the hill.
“Never come near me again, do you hear?” I said to him. He struggled desperately against me. “I can kill you by fire with my mind if I choose it,” I said. “And why don’t I choose it? Why don’t I choose to slaughter you all, you miserable vermin? Why don’t I do it? Because I loathe the violence of it and the cruelty, even though you’re more evil than the mortal whom I killed for my thirst tonight.”
He was frantically trying to get loose from me, but of course he had not the slightest chance.
Why didn’t I destroy him? Was my mind too filled with the beautiful paintings? Was my mind too attuned to the mortal world to be dragged back into this abysmal filth?
I don’t know.
What I know is that I threw him down the stone stairway so that he tumbled over and over again, clumsily, miserably, until he finally scrambled to his feet below.
He glared at me, his face full of hatred.
“I curse you, Marius!” he said with remarkable courage. “I curse you and your secret of Those Who Must Be Kept.”
I was taken aback by his defiance.
“I warn you, stay away from me, Santino!” I said as I looked down at him. “Be wanderers through time,” I said. “Be witnesses of all splendid and beautiful things human. Be true immortals. Not worshipers of Satan! Not servants of a god who will put you in a Christian Hell. But whatever you do, stay clear of me for your own sake.”
He was planted there, looking up at me in his fury.
And then it occurred to me to give him a small warning, if only I could do it. And I meant to try.
I brought up the Fire Gift inside of me, feeling it grow powerful and I quelled it ever so carefully and I sent it down towards him, and willed it to kindle only the edge of his black monkish robes.
At once the cloth around his feet began to smoke and he stepped back in horror.
I stopped the power.
He turned round and round in panic and tore the scorched robes off himself, standing there in a long white tunic staring at the smoking cloth that lay on the ground.
Once again he looked at me, fearless as before, but enraged in his helplessness.
“Know what I could do to you,” I said, “and never come near to me again.”
And then I turned my back on him. And off I went.
I shivered even to think of him and his followers. I shivered to think that I should have to use the Fire Gift again after all these years. I shivered remembering the slaughter of Eudoxia’s slaves.
It wasn’t even midnight.
I wanted the bright new world of Italy. I wanted the clever scholars and artists of these times. I wanted the huge palazzi of the Cardinals and the other powerful inhabitants of the Eternal City which had risen after all the long miserable years.
Putting the creature named Santino out of my mind I went near to one of the new palazzi in which there was a feast in progress, a masquerade with much dancing and tables laden with food.
It was no problem to me to gain entry. I had equipped myself with the fine velvet clothes of this period, and once inside among the guests, I was welcomed as was everyone else.
I had no mask, only my white face which seemed like one, and my customary red velvet hooded cloak which set me apart from the guests and yet made me one of them at the same time.
The music was intoxicating. The walls were ablaze with fine paintings, though none as magical as what I had seen in the Sistine Chapel, and the crowd was huge and sumptuously dressed.
Quickly, I fell into conversation with the young scholars, the ones who were talking hotly of painting as well as poetry and I asked my dumb question: Who had done the magnificent frescoes in the Sistine Chapel which I had just beheld?
“You’ve seen these paintings?” said one of the crowd to me. “I don’t believe it. We haven’t been allowed in to see them. Describe to me again what you saw.”
I laid out everything, very simply as though I were a schoolboy.
“The figures are supremely delicate,” I said, “with sensitive faces, and each being, though rendered with great naturalness, is ever so slightly too long.”
The company around me laughed good naturedly.
“Ever so slightly too long,” repeated one of the elders.
“Who did the paintings?” I said, imploringly. “I must meet this man.”
“You’ll have to go to Florence to meet him,” said the elder scholar. “You’re talking about Botticelli, and he’s already gone home.”
“Botticelli,” I whispered. It was a strange almost ridiculous name. In Italian it translates to “little tub.” But to me it meant magnificence.
“You’re certain it was Botticelli,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” said the elder scholar. The others with us were also nodding. “Everyone’s marveling at what he can do. That’s why the Pope sent for him. He was here two years working on the Sistine Chapel. Everyone knows Botticelli. And now he’s no doubt as busy in Florence as he was here.”
“I only want to see him with my own eyes,” I said.
“Who are you?” asked one of the scholars.
“No one,” I whispered. “No one at all.”
There was general laughter. It seemed to blend rather bewitchingly with the music around us, and the glare of so many candles.
I felt drunk on the smell of mortals, and with dreams of Botticelli.
“I have to find Botticelli,” I whispered. And bidding them all farewell I went out into the night.
But what was I going to do when I found Botticelli, that was the question. What was driving me? What did I want?
To see all of his works, yes, that much was certain, but what more did my soul require?
My loneliness seemed as great as my age and it frightened me.
I returned to the Sistine Chapel.
I spent the remainder of the night perusing the frescoes once more.
Before dawn a guard came upon me. I allowed it to happen. With the Spell Gift I gently convinced him that I belonged where I was.
“Who is the figure here in these paintings?” I asked, “the elder with the beard and the gold light streaming from his head?”
“Moses,” said the guard, “you know, Moses the prophet. It all has to do with Moses, and the other painting has to do with Christ.” He pointed. “Don’t you see the inscription?”
I had not seen it but I saw it now. The Temptation of Moses, Bearer of the Written Law.
I sighed. “I wish I knew their stories better,” I said. “But the paintings are so exquisite that the story doesn’t matter.”
The guard only shrugged.
“Did you know Botticelli when he painted here?” I asked.
Once again, the man only shrugged.
“But don’t you think the paintings are incomparably beautiful?” I asked him.
He looked at me somewhat stupidly.
I realized how lonely I was that I was speaking to this poor creature, trying to elicit from him some understanding of what I felt.
“Beautiful paintings are everywhere now,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “yes, I know they are. But they don’t look like this.”
I gave him a few gold coins, and left the chapel.
I had only time enough to reach the vault of Those Who Must Be Kept before dawn.
As I lay down to sleep I dreamt of Botticelli, but it was the voice of Santino that haunted me. And I wished that I had destroyed him, which, all things considered, was a very unusual wish for me.
15
The following night I went to the city of Florence. It was of course splendid to see it quite recovered from the ravages of the Black Death, and indeed a city of greater prosperity and greater ingenuity and energy than Rome.
I soon learnt what I had suspected—that having grown up around commerce, the city had not suffered the ruin of a classical era, but had rather grown progressively strong over the centuries, as its ruling family, the Medici, maintained power by means of a great international bank.
Everywhere about me there were elements of the place—its growing architectural monuments, its interior paintings, its clever scholars—that drew me fiercely, but nothing really could keep me away from discovering the identity of Botticelli, and seeing for myself not only his works, but the man.
Nevertheless, I tormented myself slightly. I took rooms in a palazzo near the main piazza of the city, hired a bumbling and remarkably gullible servant to lay in lots of costly clothes for me, all made in the color red as I preferred it, and still do to any other, and I went at once to a bookseller’s and knocked and knocked until the man opened his doors for me, took my gold, and gave me the latest books which “everyone was reading” on poetry, art, philosophy and the like.
Then retiring to my rooms, I sat down by the light of one lamp and devoured what I could of my century’s thinking, and at last I lay flat upon the floor, staring at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the vigor of the return to the classical, by the passionate enthusiasm for the old Greek and Roman poets, and by the faith in sensuality which this age seemed to hold.
Let me note here that some of these books were printed books, thanks to the miraculous invention of the printing press, and I was quite amazed by these though I preferred the beauty of the old handwritten codexes, as did many men of the time. In fact, it is an irony that even after the printing press was very well established, people still boasted of having handwritten libraries, but I digress.
I was talking of the return to the old Greek and Roman poets, of the infatuation of the era with the times of my birth.
The Roman church was overwhelmingly powerful as I have suggested.
But this was an age of fusion, as well as inconceivable expansion—and it was fusion which I had seen in the painting of Botticelli—so full of loveliness and natural beauty though created for the interior of the Pope’s own chapel in Rome.
Perhaps near to midnight, I stumbled out of my quarters, finding the city under curfew, with the taverns which defied it and the inevitable ruffians roaming about.
I was dazed as I made my way into a huge tavern full of gleeful young drunkards where a rosy-cheeked boy sang as he played the lute. I sat in the corner thinking to control my overwrought enthusiasms, my crazed passions, yet
I had to find the home of Botticelli. I had to. I had to see more of his work.
What stopped me from it? What did I fear? What was going on in my mind? Surely the gods knew I was a creature of iron control. Had I not proven it a thousand times?
For the keeping of a Divine Secret had I not turned my back on Zenobia? And did I not suffer routinely and justly for having abandoned my incomparable Pandora whom I might never find again?
At last I could endure my confused thoughts no longer. I came close to one of the older men in the tavern who was not singing with the younger ones.
“I’ve come here to find a great painter,” I told him.
He shrugged and took a drink of his wine.
“I used to be a great painter,” he said, “but no more. All I do is drink.”
I laughed. I called for the tavern maid to serve him another cup. He gave a nod of thanks to me.
“The man I’m looking for—he’s called Botticelli, or so I’m told.”
Now it was his turn to laugh.
“You’re seeking the greatest painter in Florence,” he said. “You won’t have any trouble finding him. He’s always busy, no matter how many idlers hang about in his workshop. He may be painting now.”
“Where is the workshop?” I asked.
“He lives in the Via Nuova, right before the Via Paolino.”
“But tell me—.” I hesitated. “What sort of man is he? I mean to you?”
Again, the man shrugged. “Not bad, not good, though he has a sense of humor. Not one to make an imprint on your mind except through his painting. You’ll see when you meet him. But don’t expect to hire him. He has much work already to do.”
I thanked the man, laid down money for more wine if he wanted it, and slipped out of the tavern.
With a few questions I found the way to the Via Nuova. A night watchman gave me the way to the home of Botticelli, pointing to a sizable house, but not a great palazzo, where the painter lived with his brother and his brother’s family.
I stood before this simple house as if it were a shrine. I could see where the workshop most certainly was by its large doors to the street which were inevitably open by day, and I could see that all the rooms both on the main floor and above it were dark.