The Kingdom

by Bryan M. Litfin

  Yes! Thank you, Deu!

  Relief coursed through Teo as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The shamans had made an unbelievably foolish error. They had left behind a clue that announced in no uncertain terms the identity of their home port: Napoly, the only city where the yellow liqueur called limoncello was consumed.

  Napoly was a dirty metropolis of thieves and racketeers controlled by the Clan. Its reputation for human trafficking was well known. Now the abduction made perfect sense. There could be no better place than Napoly to turn a cargo of innocent young women into lifetime prostitutes. With deep revulsion, Teo considered what the Exterminati had planned for Ana, Vanita, and the holy virgins of Deu. An endless cycle of disgusting encounters with dirty men was the fate that awaited the Christiani sisters.

  Unless good men intervened.

  The Iron Shield’s black caravel dropped anchor off the coast of Sessalay near the city of Eastport. The fast ship had made the run from Roma to Sessalay in two days. Normally this wouldn’t have been possible, but the Iron Shield had trained his crew to do what other sailors feared: to leave sight of shore and strike out across the ocean. Lacking good navigational skills, most seamen wanted to stay close to their own harbors. A few long-distance merchants were willing to hop up and down the coast to ports spaced a day apart. But everyone, even the pirates, feared the open seas. Yet the Iron Shield did not. The indwelling gods gave his men courage that mere mortals did not possess.

  A rowboat was lowered, and the Iron Shield was ferried into Eastport’s harbor. The customs officials waved him past, for his deal with the Clan Boss meant that all the right people had been paid their bribes.

  As the Iron Shield walked to the warehouse he had rented, he considered the recent raid on the Christiani convents. Everything had gone according to plan. The scouts had done their reconnaissance well. Except for one unfortunate incident, they had prowled the convents by night without being discovered. The women had been taken completely by surprise. The Iron Shield scowled as he recalled the insolent Anastasia with her haughty eyes and proud chin, boldly cursing him in the name of the enemy god. How I would like to break her spirit! Yet he did not dare. The woman now belonged to Mulciber, or Vulkain as he was known in Chiveis. The Iron Shield smiled at that thought. We shall see if Anastasia remains so spirited when faced with molten fire!

  The dark warrior reached the warehouse’s rear door and rapped three times. A panel opened. When the supervisor saw his master, he opened the door immediately.

  “Welcome, my lord,” he said, ushering the Iron Shield inside. Large crates and wooden casks were piled around the room. The odor of rotten eggs hung in the air.

  The Iron Shield frowned. “There should be more by now.”

  “We are doing our best, master. The boys are working as fast as humanly possible.”

  Turning toward the supervisor, the Iron Shield gave him a cold stare. “You might be surprised to learn what is humanly possible when the right incentives are applied. Perhaps I should show you what I mean.”

  “N-n-no need for that,” the supervisor said, waving his palms. “I believe you.”

  “What seems to be the holdup then?”

  “The boys keep dying.”

  The Iron Shield tsked and flicked his hand. “There are always more.”

  “Yes, my lord, so it would seem. And for a time that was the case. But eventually we used up our supply in the nearby villages. Now there is a shortage.”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, the Iron Shield stared into the distance as he considered the arrangements he had made last fall to mine the brimstone of Sessalay. The triangle-shaped island was ruled from the city of Westport near the Clan Boss’s estate. The eastern side of the island had a harbor too, known as Eastport. Yet the dominant feature of Sessalay’s east was not its harbor but the massive volcano that raised its head into the clouds. In wintertime the peak became rimmed with snow that clung to it well into spring. For more than a year now, Fire Mountain had been putting on a dreadful spectacle. An immense column of steam and ash rose from the summit, while lava flowed down the mountain’s flanks in torpid rivers that turned the night sky orange. Mulciber is angry, the Iron Shield mused. He must be placated . . . very soon.

  Sessalay’s turbulent geology meant brimstone was available for mining in the interior. Yet little attention had been paid to the mines in recent years because the work was dangerous and the payoff small. Clothing bleachers had some use for brimstone, and it prevented fungus on crops, so the yellow rock was traded on a small scale. But when the Iron Shield arrived in Sessalay last fall everything changed. He had recruited boys from rural villages to work the mines, since only persons of small stature could crawl into the tortuous tunnels. Once the boys were at the mines they learned the true meaning of toil. Seven days a week they crept deep below the earth to dig, haul, and dig some more. When the boys finally died from overwork or poisonous fumes, their parents were paid enough hush money to keep them quiet. And if that didn’t work, the Exterminati knew how to make the more vocal complainers disappear.

  The Iron Shield’s thoughts drifted to Chiveis. In his mind’s eye he pictured barges loaded with precious brimstone floating down the Farm River and across the Tooner Sea to arrive at the town of Entrelac. The High Priestess would ride out from her Citadel, robed in splendor, a delighted smile on her sensuous black lips. “Well done, my faithful servant,” she would say. “You have pleased me.” Saliva gathered in the Iron Shield’s mouth as he considered how the priestess might display her pleasure. He turned to the warehouse supervisor. “Production must double over the next four weeks,” he said.

  “But . . . my lord, without more workers that is impossible!”

  “Is it?” With deliberate steps the Iron Shield approached the trembling supervisor. “I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

  The supervisor bowed his head and stared at his feet, afraid to say a word. The Iron Shield drew his knife from its sheath. The metallic scraping was the only sound in the quiet warehouse. He touched the man’s chin with the flat of the blade. Lifting his servant’s face, the Iron Shield examined him with his one good eye. A bead of sweat trickled down the man’s forehead. The Iron Shield leaned close so that his mouth was almost in the supervisor’s ear.

  “Get a wagon,” he whispered.

  “Wh . . . wh . . . what?”

  “I said, get a wagon. A big one.”

  “From where?”

  “Just do it!” the Iron Shield roared as he shoved the supervisor across the room. The man stumbled to the ground, then scrambled up and dashed through the door. The Iron Shield waited with his hands on his hips until his rage had cooled.

  At last the dark warrior walked outside and surveyed the docks. Barrel-chested stevedores went about their work, but they were of no interest to him. Then his eyes fell upon what he desired.

  He turned into an alley. A lone boy was playing knucklebones. The Iron Shield curled his finger, beckoning him closer.

  Tentatively, the boy stood up and approached. The Iron Shield smiled at him. “Hello, son,” he said. “I come to you as your savior.”

  The timid boy did not answer, so the Iron Shield reached into his pocket and produced a one-scudi coin. It was a week’s wages for a working man. The boy’s eyes widened as the Iron Shield held it in his palm.

  “Take it,” he said.

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes, go on. It’s for you. Take it.”

  The boy snatched the coin, then glanced up at his benefactor. The dark warrior gave him another smile.

  “Now listen to me, son,” he said. “I want you to spread the word among all your friends. I have some job openings in the countryside for hard-working boys like you. Nothing too difficult, of course. Just light farm labor—but it pays very well. I’ll even provide your transportation.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” the boy said breathlessly. “My father will be pleased.”

  “I am your father now,” replied
the Iron Shield.

  The island of Sessalay always awakened from its winter sleep in the third month of the year. That was when the heavy rains started to slacken. The chilly temperatures became more moderate. Days of sunshine began to replace the winter squalls. Even so, the Clan Boss took his drinks hot until after the spring equinox.

  The villa’s butler arrived from the kitchen and served his master a glass of mulled wine flavored with spices and lemon zest. While the boss sipped the warming drink, the butler unrolled a map of eastern Sessalay. He placed four paperweights on the map’s corners as he spread it on the desk.

  The boss leaned close. “How recent are these?” He pointed to the red lines inked onto the map.

  “Up-to-date as of yesterday,” the butler answered.

  The Clan Boss considered the red lines. They radiated from certain points on Fire Mountain’s flanks, indicating the areas of lava flow. One long tendril extended toward Eastport. Though the lava was unlikely to reach the city, a few peasant villages on the mountainside had already been engulfed.

  “Bring me a pen,” the boss said.

  The butler fetched the quill and ink while the boss hunched over the map. The largest stream of lava flowed through a ravine. At one point a dotted line indicated a trail that ran past the ravine to a high village. Red ink now obscured the village—a place of human habitation no more. The Clan Boss dipped his quill and marked an X where the track came closest to the ravine. Then he removed a piece of parchment from his desk and began to write.

  To Tancred, son of my mother, brother of my own blood, trusted warrior, loyal Clansman—greetings in the name of Mulciber.

  Plans proceed apace. Antonio of Roma has secured the brides, and his ships now rendezvous at Napoly for resupply. Arrival on our island is expected shortly. It is time to initiate the matter we discussed.

  The woman Anastasia is among the captives. Antonio has left a trail for the other man to follow. As you know, the knowledge these foreigners possess is of the greatest interest to us. I do not believe Mulciber

  Lifting his quill, the Clan Boss hesitated. Religious matters always made him nervous. One never knew how the capricious gods would respond to a particular human action. The gods became offended at any supposed slight—even things a human might consider trivial. To complicate matters, the ancient Pact of Beaumont bound the Clan and the Exterminati in inscrutable ways. It was hard to predict how the gods might react to a perceived betrayal of that centuries-old blood oath.

  The boss turned to his butler. “You’re a religious man, aren’t you?”

  The butler nodded. “I try to be.”

  “Let us suppose a man threw a feast for an honored guest. At this feast was every sort of delicacy. The table overflowed with veal marsala, swordfish, cassata, and marzipan fruits.”

  “It would be a feast worthy of a king,” the butler said.

  “Indeed. And let us imagine that at this feast the host spotted a fig that pleased him. Two figs, as a matter of fact. So he reached out and took them and ate them. Do you suppose the guest of honor would be offended?”

  “On the contrary, the recipient of such a bounteous feast would want his host to enjoy himself as well.”

  “Are the gods any different?”

  The butler narrowed his eyes as he considered his answer. “The gods are like men,” he concluded at last, “though far more powerful. Such absolute power makes them fickle. Yet I would guess that if holy Mulciber received a great gift, he would not begrudge the giver a small portion for himself.”

  “That is what I thought as well. Go get my signet. And bring wax.”

  Turning his attention to the page again, the Clan Boss picked up where he left off:

  will begrudge one of his brides being substituted. In any case, it is a risk we must take. We must possess the magic powder. My sources inside the Christiani basilica tell me the lore-book has been locked away. Now we must obtain the secret of the powder’s composition directly from the foreigners’ mouths.

  My orders are these: Ready the interrogation chamber. We shall torture the woman to break the man. Furthermore, have engineers construct the device we discussed at the spot I have indicated on the accompanying map. Hide your troops among the rocks nearby, out of the Exterminati’s sight. Be ready to act upon my signal on the appointed day.

  This year’s festival shall be like none in recent memory. The all-glorious Mulciber shall once again have the flesh he craves. I bid thee success.

  The Clan Boss was inscribing his personal mark at the end of the letter when the butler returned with a wax stick and a lit candle. After folding the parchment into thirds, the boss melted the wax and allowed a dollop to fall on the letter’s overlapped edges. Then he pressed his signet into the warm red seal.

  As he was about to hand the letter to the butler, he found his heart beating rapidly. Could this action be construed as a betrayal of the Pact? The gods took great interest in such agreements among mortals. They handed out their blessings—or their retribution—accordingly.

  “My lord?” The butler had reached to take the letter but now dropped his hand to his side as he saw his master’s hesitation.

  “Surely Mulciber will be happy with sixty-six brides. It does not matter who they are, right? Only Antonio cares about their specific identity.”

  “I know nothing of such affairs, lord.”

  “And Mulciber has no concern whatsoever for Teofil of Chiveis,” the boss added, trying to convince himself. “That too is Antonio’s personal obsession.”

  “The warrior is evil. He scares me.”

  The boss glanced up. “Do you believe the Clan is unequal to his power?”

  “I believe all mortals are unequal to his power. The underworld strengthens him.”

  The butler’s statement annoyed the Clan Boss, though his anger was directed more at the reputation of the Exterminati than at the butler himself. Rising from his desk, he pounded his fist on its surface. “Antonio might want those foreigners dead,” he burst out, “but the last time I checked, it was the Clan that ruled Sessalay!”

  The butler blanched and stepped back. “My lord, I intended no offense—”

  “Those foreigners are no use to me dead,” the boss continued, ignoring his frightened servant. “I want something from them!”

  “Of course! And I am certain you will obtain it!”

  “Indeed I shall,” the boss replied. “The Clan always gets what it wants.”

  The Papa stood in the Christiani basilica under an immense altar canopy. Its spiral columns of bronze rested on marble plinths, rising six stories from the floor. Directly beneath the gilded canopy was a plain wooden table. No doubt the Ancients had placed a more ornate altar on the dais, but the Papa was content with something simple. A table like this is especially fitting now that I know Iesus was a humble carpenter, he thought.

  Out in the nave the faithful had gathered for the weekly service. In times past they were relatively few: just a handful of tradesmen and shopkeepers from the surrounding neighborhoods. But ever since the Christiani’s victory over the Exterminati last summer, the laws against proselytizing had been abandoned. Now many people flocked to the basilica to hear the word of Deus.

  Today was the first day of the week, the day on which Iesus had risen from his tomb. When the Papa learned this truth from the New Testament preserved in Liber’s memory, he decreed that services on this day should always include the Sacred Meal. Only those Christiani who had committed themselves to Deus through the waters of the Washing were allowed to partake of the bread and wine. Several local peasants who believed in Iesus had asked to be washed today. They were now undergoing the holy rite in one of the basilica’s side chapels. Next week they too could share in the Sacred Meal.

  Standing before the wooden altar, the Papa bowed his head and gave thanks over the cup and the loaf, just as Iesus had done at his last meal with his twelve followers. After breaking the bread, the Papa offered fragments to the penitents who approac
hed. They received the morsels gladly, then sipped the blessed wine. While they ate and drank in communion with Iesus, the Papa sang the triumphant hymn that he remembered from his boyhood. “Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, O Dominus Deus Sabaoth!” he proclaimed. “Hosanna in excelsis!”

  After the service concluded and the faithful began to disperse, papal assistants came to clear the table. The Papa smoothed his white robe and descended from the dais. The hour after the Meal was the time he customarily entertained visitors with various petitions. He walked to the apse of the basilica, where his chair was located beneath a glorious window depicting a dove in flight. For a long time that image had been misunderstood. Everyone had supposed it to be a dove of Israël’s sacrifices, or perhaps the dove that brought Noé a branch when the floodwaters began to recede. But the four biographies of Iesus in the New Testament had revealed the actual truth. The dove represented the spiritual presence of Deus—a mysterious concept that often confounded the Papa.

  As he settled into his cathedra, one of the doorkeepers approached. “The emissaries have returned from the convent,” he said.

  “Yes, of course, send them to me right away.”

  Three men proceeded up the nave, though the Papa recognized only two of them. The Overseer was tall, with a snow-white beard and piercing blue eyes. Sol was shorter and had a more wizened appearance. The third man was middle-aged. His build was stocky, and his clothing was unusual. The Papa’s curiosity was aroused.

  “Greetings, Holy Father,” the Overseer said as the group came near. “We bear tragic news this day.”

  “May Deus bring good from the evil. What has happened?”

  “Kidnapping! Murder!” Sol blurted out.

  The Papa leaned forward in his chair, shocked at the announcement. “This is tragic news indeed! Quickly now—tell me your story.”

  The Overseer related the horrific account. He described how he and Sol had arrived at the convent to give the Secunda to Anastasia, only to be confronted by armed men. After determining them to be under the command of Teofil of Chiveis, the emissaries discovered the convent burned to the ground. The housemother had been slain, and all the women were carried away upon the sea. Teofil possessed evidence that the evil deed was the work of the Exterminati.