by David Perry
Suddenly, it came to Lee in a flash. He knew where else he had seen Grigori before—and very possibly smelled him.
CHAPTER XLI
Sanctuary
Friday, December 20, 2013, early morning, Orvieto
It wasn’t difficult to pick the lock. The apartment had been unoccupied for over a year now and the idea of alarms in Orvieto was just that. An idea. The only danger was being heard by a neighbor, but that too was unlikely. The walls were thick and this was an outside unit. He had waited for over an hour until the lights went out in the building’s one occupied residence before he quietly jimmied the lock and accessed the abandoned flat. Well, not abandoned really. Shut-up. Another one of Orvieto’s former Renaissance palazzos that had been subdivided and subjugated to the whims of a modern world. Libraries turned into living rooms; grand salons hacked up into closets and bathrooms; bedrooms cut up into a warren of smaller sleeping areas, but all with the occasional sixteenth-century domestic fresco popping into view behind a peeling bit of wallpaper or a carved coat of arms peering out from inside a closet. A TV was mounted over an incongruously intricate marble mantel topping a neutered fireplace of immense proportions, now housing a gas-fed space heater.
Please still be on, Dawud prayed. Heat. That was the main reason for this illegal incursion. And secrecy. No one would think to look here for his sister. Plus, it would be days before they knew that she was missing. But, after that, the men would come looking. He had meant to be long gone by now, on the road deeper into Europe, out of Italy. But that was before he saw his sister. Before he saw her condition.
His sister whimpered, bundled up in the tiny twin bed pushed against the corner. It would not be long now. The baby would come soon. There would be no travel for his sister this night, not for several nights.
He was used to the winter chill of Orvieto by now, but his sister, Maryam, had been through too much to give birth in the frigid squalor of his hovel. The stony streets were slippery with ice, a transparent hazard with none of the romance of snow. The clock on the pharmacy behind Sant’Andrea proclaimed this morning’s temperature: minus six degrees Celsius.
Dawud reached for the knob that controlled the flow of gas and turned. A quiet hiss escaped. A brief spark exhumed the flat from darkness as he lit a match, the cross on the wall, the draped-over door to the patio overlooking the Duomo, the computer on his desk, and a black cassock still poised on its hanger waiting for the next day’s sunrise that never came for its wearer. Dawud touched the flame to the pilot and the heater roared into life.
Praise Allah! It works. They had not cut off the gas. Everything was as it had been left a year ago when its tenant walked out the door for the last time. No one had touched it. No one had dared.
He silently offered a prayer of thanks and asked pardon of the owner for violating his sanctuary. He offered another prayer for what he was about to do. For the price of this sanctuary, and that of his sister. Archbishop Arnaud was a stern man. Evidently, so was the power behind the Archbishop.
Many times over the last year, Dawud had made trips for the Bishop. He had been a courier of prayers. A messenger of spiritual intentions. The Bishop was offering him salvation, was offering him hope, was offering him a home. No one in his home country had done as much. True, this Church of Rome was not the faith of his fathers, but his father, all of his family, were dead. A dead man’s religion serves no one. Yes, he had been faithful to Archbishop Arnaud, as he had been faithful to Deacon Andrea and Bishop Sancarlo—both such good men. Neither Andrea nor the kind bishop who always smiled ever asked anything of Dawud. They just welcomed him. Well, now they were gone, but Dawud had heard their lessons well. The Bishop represented the Church, and in Orvieto, now, Arnaud was the Church.
Dawud served Arnaud now.
He reached over and stroked his sister’s hair. She was sleeping, exhausted from her odyssey. The heater glowed softly and Dawud could feel its warmth reaching out like a comforting hand.
“We must always live in the moment,” Andrea had taught him. “For the moment, we have breath, we have life. We should be grateful in every moment. God, Allah, asks no more.”
For the moment, Dawud and Maryam were safe. For the moment, the siblings were not running for their lives. For the moment, no one knew where Maryam was. For the moment, the baby in her womb was safe, but after that, they would find her.
No. Dawud would not allow it. Maryam would not end up a slave, a slave on the roads of Umbria. He would not allow the men who had been waiting for his sister to find her and turn her into… No! Here in this apartment, no one would dare to enter. For now, they were safe. Tonight, they would rest.
Tomorrow, it might be different.
Tomorrow, he had one final job to do, but not the job he had been asked to do. Arnaud would not be happy about that.
CHAPTER XLII
Solstice
Saturday, December 21, 2013, the first day of winter, Civita di Bagnoregio
“How many gorgeous hilltop towns are there in Italy?”
Adriano and Lee stood at the edge of the cliffside town of Lubriano staring across the valley toward their destination, Civita di Bagnoregio, Andrea’s hometown. Having successfully helped Don Bello as pinch hitters at the Presepe two days ago, the couple now found themselves at the place of the young deacon’s nativity.
“It’s like you shrunk Orvieto, put it in a crystal Christmas tree ornament, and hung it from the sky.”
“My.” Adriano gave polite applause through gloved hands to his husband. “You are waxing poetic today.”
“Well,” said Lee with a wave of his hand toward the mist-shrouded hamlet a kilometer distant. “Scenery doesn’t get more poetic than that.”
Like a stage set cued for dramatic effect, the remote and surreal acropolis of Civita di Bagnoregio awaited the sunset. Already the stark canyons surrounding the summit were swathed in shadow, and the few occupied homes inside were beginning to show candlelight. A Brigadoon-like mist nibbled at the rocky base of the town.
“Three fifteen p.m.” Lee tapped his iPhone. “Solstice sundown is four forty-two p.m. We have just over an hour. We should get to the B and B in time for a drink and a killer view. What a perfect way to celebrate the official start to winter and the shortest day of the year.”
“And a shower.” Adriano hefted the backpack higher onto his shoulders. “Let’s go. According to this map, the path winds down this way, then up to the town.”
Always one for ceremony (and organization), Lee had timed their own personal hijra from the front of Floriano’s altar, Chiesa del Crocifisso del Tufo Orvieto. They had set off at precisely 10:00 a.m. yesterday with the clang of the bell from the Tower of the Moor echoing across the Etruscan Tombs. Adriano, as resident mapper, had laid out a walking tour along the Via Francigena—The Franciscan Way—taken by pilgrims, priests, paupers, and penitents for over a thousand years. Last night, they had arrived in Bolsena, an Italian tourist mecca perched on the shores of a volcanic lake—Europe’s largest—of the same name. The hike had been long but unchallenging, except for some minor blisters that only made them feel like they had really accomplished something. They had stopped for drinks and a smoke at a surprisingly welcoming blue-collar bar. Everyone had been gathered around a TV watching coverage of the latest terrorist attack, this time somewhere in Turkey. Same story, different language on the television scroll. Also, an Italian TV station was covering a boatload of refugees washing ashore south of Naples. Both stories competed for space on the bar’s tiny wall-mounted TV, two sides of the same painful present currently being inflicted upon the Mediterranean, upon the earth.
After drinks, they had spent a pleasant evening checking out the Basilica of Santa Cristina, site of the Miracle of Bolsena. The altar upon which the doubtful padre Peter of Prague had celebrated Mass in 1263 before the communion host started bleeding was still there, preserved and off-limits to touch. A few years ago, the town had taken the profile of the altar as Bolsena’s new tourism
logo. It popped up everywhere, including on a sign at the entrance to the town proclaiming “Bolsena—Town of the Eucharistic Miracle.” Encased in glass and gold was a piece of marble, supposedly bearing the sanguine-tinged masonry. Take that, Orvieto! You have a bloody cloth, but we have the floor! Reliquary tourist traps were requisite and profitable in Italy. As they were leaving the church, Lee had been almost giddy to find out from a brochure in the nave that it had been restored during the fifteenth century by none other than Cardinal Giulio de Medici.
“That was the illegitimate son of Lorenzo Magnifico’s brother, Giuliano! Lorenzo adopted him after the Pazzi conspiracy and Giulio went on to become Pope Clement the Seventh, the one who fled to Orvieto after the Sack of Rome!” Lee beamed.
“Fascinating,” Adriano smiled, a patient and loving Spock.
“Cynic.” Lee made a kissy-face.
As Lee would later recall, the worst was yet to come.
After leaving Bolsena earlier this morning, it had taken them just over five hours to reach their current location, Lubriano, the penultimate stop before the final drive to the summit of Civita di Bagnoregio. On a stone wall next to a field full of sheep, they had stopped en route for a respectfully decadent lunch, the leftovers that La Donna Volsini and Marco had packed for them yesterday morning. As they picnicked on porcheta, hard pecorino cheese, day-old bread, pastries, and a leather flask of Orvieto Classico, Lee’s thoughts turned to the mystery of Andrea.
“So, what do you think?”
“About what?” Adriano purposefully wasn’t biting as he offered Lee the flask.
“Andrea.”
“What about him?”
“Come on, honey. You know it’s all very mysterious.”
“What’s mysterious?” Adriano sighed, polishing off the wine in a gulp. “A devout, ideological young man succumbed to the empty promises of the Church. The Church betrayed him. The young man killed himself in useless despair. No mystery there.”
Lee didn’t answer, but he started biting his lips. He knew there was something more than a spontaneous suicide of a brokenhearted seminarian. The inscription on Reverend Vicky’s pectoral cross—January 3, 1983—the same date on the photo in the rectory of St. Paul’s Inside the Walls. The socially uncomfortable but nonetheless perfectly groomed young doctor, Luke. Hovering in the background, Archbishop Arnaud, La Donna Volsini, and even the kindly but seemingly all-knowing Don Bello. Perhaps on the quietude of a dirt path through the Italian countryside, he could figure out the mysterious miasma surrounding Andrea Bernardone. He could feel it. He could smell it, actually, for he was convinced that the hunky Grigori and his nauseatingly enticing cinnamon cologne were part of the mystery.
He hadn’t yet shared his idea with his husband. Adriano hadn’t said anything. He didn’t need to. After ten years together, one didn’t need words. Lee knew that Adriano thought he was becoming a bit unhealthily obsessed with the puzzle of Andrea Bernardone. His husband’s silence spoke tomes. Unsaid, even to himself, Lee agreed.
Adriano heaved the backpack onto this shoulder. Lee was grateful for his partner’s duty as Sherpa. His load was heavy enough with thoughts of what they might—or might not—find in Civita.
Having proven an exceptionally pleasant day, they had opted for the slightly longer, more atmospheric route from Bolsena en route to Civita, purposefully eschewing the road more traveled that led directly to the parking lot and modern pedestrian bridge. They were pilgrims, after all!
Having now arrived at the rim of the canyon between Lubriano and Civita Bagnoregio, they soon came to regret their decision.
What should have been a straightforward, half-hour hike to the connection linking Civita di Bagnoregio with the rest of the world, quickly collapsed into an hour-long slouching slog. Lee felt like David Niven in The Guns of Navarone—everywhere another cliff. Suddenly, everything that was charming from a distance was impossible up close. The vale between Lubriano and Civita offered up improbable challenges of fallen trees, washed-out roadways, and even a small river in flood that threatened hygiene, patience, and safety. There had been no sign at the beginning of the downward berm in Lubriano warning of such obstacles.
“Maybe the passage is closed in winter,” said Lee as he pulled up his hood against a sudden assault of sleet from the skies.
“How typically Italian,” huffed Adriano, as the chilly, wind-driven rain destroyed all semblance of comfort or desiccation in their clothes. “Even Spain, which isn’t the most organized of countries, would have had a warning poster across the entrance to the path. Drowning rats would be less miserable. I told you we should have taken the shorter route.”
Lee ignored the comment, knowing this was the beginning of one of Adriano’s notorious foul moods. He had noted the “I told you” comment, even though the decision to take the longer route had been reached in concert. Plus, his husband must be grumpy indeed even to mention the word “rat.” They forged ahead, wet, tired, and sore from sharing a backpack that seemed heavier with every step. Finally, they found themselves at the base of their decrepitly picturesque destination, Civita di Bagnoregio. They were actually touching the citadel, but the entrance to the foot bridge was at the other end of a rain-washed gully.
“I’m not going back into that valley just to crawl up a hill to cross a bridge,” growled Adriano. “This isn’t too steep. We can climb straight up.”
“You’re kidding.” Lee was petrified. Where was David Niven when you needed him?
“No, look, it’s not too bad.” Adriano was already reaching up for handholds. “There used to be some sort of stairway or path here. If we just haul ourselves up, we’ll save at least another forty-five minutes.”
Lee frowned. A rare clap of winter thunder spurred his decision. “OK, let’s go.”
Eight minutes later, they hauled themselves over a broken piece of masonry and stood on the summit. Civita di Bagnoregio. Forget the Town That Dies. This was the town that had almost killed them in the attempt.
“We made it!” Lee said, pulling himself over the ultimate obstacle, a wall half connected to the town, half hanging over the abyss.
“Hmmm.” Adriano just raised an eyebrow.
“Brian would have loved this. It’s like an Italian Camino de Santiago.”
“That’s exactly what it was,” said Adriano, softening his mood. “Even my grandfather, who hated everything about the Church, wanted to walk it. One day we’ll have to take a month and do it.”
“I promise,” Lee said, kissing his husband on the cheek, grateful for a reprieve since the expedition had been his idea. “Add it to the bucket list.”
“For later.” Adriano smiled, good humor fully restored. “Right now, I don’t want to plan any more hikes.”
“Don’t forget. We have one more day ahead of us. The return to Orvieto,” Lee reminded.
“Yes, I know. But first, I just want to wash off this one. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER XLIII
The Longest Night
Saturday, December 21, 2013, sunset, Orvieto
Archbishop Arnaud opened the drawer to his desk and took it out.
Outside, earth’s tired star was covering itself in blankets of its shortest day. Soon it would be dark, completely dark, and the sun would rest for its longest night, and then, begin again.
Rest. That’s what I need, he thought, placing the instrument of his death in front of him. Rest.
A thousand years ago, upon this rock, Etruscan clans would have been preparing for the solstice. In Egypt, Horus would be born. The Mesopotamians unleashed the God Marduk to tame the demons of Chaos. The Babylonian feast of Sacaea reversed the order of life for the day—as in heaven so on earth, and slaves became masters, and masters submitted to slaves. Arnaud smirked. That, clearly, was a cult forgotten and not to be born again. I am a slave forever. We all are. The emperor Aurelian the Saturnalia’s debauchery and the virgin birth of Mithra, the undying Sun God, combined to make way for that greatest of all copycat religio
ns, Christianity. A little bit country, a little bit rock and Rome.
He picked it up and held it close to his face.
Soon, he will come soon, Arnaud thought. He looked hard at the instrument of his death—all of their deaths. It had been thirty years now, waiting, but never forgotten. Oh, he had taken it out before. Every now and then. On anniversaries, birthdays. Drunken nights when he was doubting his faith. No, that was wrong. It was only on nights plied with drink that he didn’t doubt his faith. You had to get really drunk to believe that shit. How could anyone who was sober believe in a loving God who granted forgiveness to someone like him?
Like a gun pointed at his heart, it shot him again and again and again, a trinity of bullets preserved forever in the crinkled paper of that photo from three decades ago. He turned it over to see the date—“01.03.83”—and next to it, a scrawled inscription from Gio and Vicky: “Amici per sempre! Su questa roccia e più tardi in Cielo! I Magi.”
“Friends forever! Upon this rock, and later in heaven! The Magi!”
Vicky had added a smiley face as the dot beneath the exclamation point.
My God, Arnaud thought, how young we all were. How impossibly young. Yes—impossibly.
He put it back in his desk. He didn’t need a picture to remember. He would never forget that day, the happiest day of his life, and the beginning of all the saddest.
Vicky. Gio. Andrea.
I have killed you all.
CHAPTER XLIV
Dead Man Walking
Saturday, December 21, 2013, sunset, Civita di Bagnoregio
In summer, Civita di Bagnoregio was awash in tourists. On a wet, rainy day in December, not so much. Semi-abandoned for decades, and with no easy access until a new walking span had been built in the sixties, the town had languished until an American journalist happened upon it and delivered a manna of televised publicity via a series of unctuous, if upbeat, documentaries. His picture, website, and endless stream of DVD promotions peeked from inside winter-closed shop windows as Adriano and Lee entered the village proper beneath its medieval gate, La Porta Santa Maria. A weatherworn statue of Our Lady peered down in warning. Immediately the attack began.