Italian Time Travel 01 - The Other Side of Heaven

by Morgan O'Neill

  One of the men scratched his crotch. His hand, with its dirt-encrusted nails, lingered much longer than necessary.

  Gwen’s instincts flared and she drew the hood over her head. Holding her breath, she waited for them to pass.

  When the last echoes of the troop faded, Gwen checked the path. They were gone. She suddenly recalled how badly her head hurt the night before. At least she felt better now. She touched the bump on her scalp, grimaced, and then glanced around. She had no idea where she was or the direction back to Santa Lucia. Was that where those guys were headed?

  “I can’t follow them,” she muttered.

  No shit. Smiling despite her unease, Gwen picked up her sack and warily stepped out. Determined to avoid any contact with the smelly men, she set off in the opposite direction. She walked for a time, seeing no one. The forest gradually opened up, the pines spaced more widely apart with less undergrowth. The fog had lifted with the night, the sun bright and nearly overhead.

  Hungry and thirsty, Gwen felt relieved when she spotted a small bridge arching over a gurgling stream. She left the dirt road and knelt beside the water. After splashing her face, she patted it dry with the edge of the cowl and then breathed in the soft, warm, piney air.

  Grabbing the sack, she sat down and started pulling things out. She was pleasantly surprised by what she found: some bread, a hunk of cheese, a water skein, and a clean linen shift. She chewed the coarse bread, and then tried the cheese, but found it too sharp for her taste. She took a drink, choking when she realized it was wine instead of water.

  Clearing her throat, she studied the skein and smiled. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “I must’ve misjudged you, though it’s too bad this isn’t a martini.” She took a gulp. This time, she enjoyed the sensation of fruity warmth playing across her tongue, but caution prevailed. She couldn’t drink too much, not if she wanted to figure out what had happened.

  Gwen shoved the remaining food and wine in her sack, moved out from under the bridge, and gazed up at the bright, empty sky. No planes. No jet trails. Nothing. She hadn’t known such stillness since the period of grounded flights in the days following 9/11. What was going on?

  Suddenly, her attention was drawn to something a little farther on, just off the edge of the path, something glinting in the sun. Garbage? Or was it… something… familiar? Her mouth dropped open when she saw it was Stefano’s name badge. My God, you’re all the way out here, too?

  Retrieving the badge, she hurried forward, hoping he was still close by, then halted when she realized her fingers were sticky. She turned the badge over. A dark smear of blood covered the underside.

  Her heart pounded. How badly was he injured? Where had he gone?

  Gwen forced aside her own fears, determined to help Stefano. She spent the next few hours walking the path, hoping to find him, until fatigue took hold. She moved on in a blur of wandering, but found no further trace of him.

  The sun was getting lower, the path beneath her feet fading into weeds and rocks. She clenched her fists. Where are you, Stefano? Where the hell am I? Why hadn’t she kept her phone in her pocket? She could have called for help, Googled a map, anything. Hearing her mom’s voice would’ve been so great right now. And her dad could have walked her out of here, no problem.

  A twig snapped, then another. She looked back at the woods, but saw nothing.

  “Stefano?”

  Another snap and the hair on the back of her neck rose. “Stefano?” she repeated weakly.

  Nothing.

  Struggling against renewed fears, Gwen drew the hood over her head and pressed on.

  Chapter 3

  March, A.D. 951, In the Eastern Apennine Foothills

  Alberto Uzzo, lord of Canossa, shifted in his saddle. Removing his helmet, he dipped his head slightly toward the citizens who bowed and doffed their caps. His retinue of twenty well-armed horsemen passed through a hamlet of little importance.

  Suddenly, a small girl, her pretty face ringed with dark curls, ran toward him. His warhorse shied nervously, and several of his men made a move to block the child’s path, but he waved them off and spoke quietly to his mount, “Easy, Heracles.”

  “Hello, my lord,” she piped. “My mother says you must be very powerful, but my big sister says you are certainly more handsome than powerful, however powerful that may be.”

  A shriek came from the crowd, and Alberto lifted his gaze to search for the source of the commotion. Many laughed at the child’s bold words, but he focused on an older woman, who was trying unsuccessfully to coax the little girl back to her side.

  “See, my lord?” the child continued, pointing. “Behind Mama. Isn’t my sister beautiful?”

  Alberto spotted a young woman, raven-haired and shapely, obviously nearing an age to wed. She was desperately searching for a hiding place.

  He raised his hand, quieting the crowd. Leaning as far as he was able, he spoke to the child, “You were very brave to run before my horse. Mayhap even foolish?”

  The girl bowed her head. “Yes, Sire.”

  “You must return to your mother and apologize for disobeying and causing her worry.”

  Her chin dropped even lower. “Yes, my lord,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  He could see she was about to cry. “And tell your lovely sister…” Alberto paused, trying to think of something kind to say that would bring an end to the encounter.

  “My lord?” The child looked up, smiling hopefully.

  “Tell her I hope she admires the strength of a man’s character more than his trappings. And tell her when the time is right, I hope she may find a man with much of both qualities.”

  Puzzled, the girl stared at him.

  Striving for a gallant smile, Alberto tipped his head, and when the girl backed away, he urged his warhorse to a trot.

  Once out of the hamlet, Father Warinus, the Pope’s emissary, brought his mare alongside Alberto’s horse. Smiling broadly, he said, “Well done, O Sage.”

  “If you were other than a valued friend, I would have your head for mocking me.” Alberto allowed a smile to play across his lips. “Father, the girl took me completely by surprise, running out like that, and then her words – to be so openly admired – and in front of my men.”

  “I’m sure every woman there will hold you in her heart and prayers until the day she dies. Few men are so favored, my lord, and women are helpless in your presence. May their husbands forgive you.”

  “My men will not soon forget this embarrassment,” Alberto grumbled. “You will see. They shall call me King of Hearts or some such, for days to come.”

  Alberto couldn’t help glancing back. His soldiers were grinning.

  “Humor will do them good,” Father Warinus agreed. “God alone knows what the season shall bring. Have you decided what you will do?”

  “My scouts bring in constant reports. For now, Pavia, Canossa, the whole region is quiet. Berengar,” Alberto leaned over and spat into the dust, as he had a tendency to do when pronouncing the bastard’s name, “has returned to his castle on Lake Garda and gathers his forces. He prepares for battle, of that you may be sure, and he will not wait long. I do not, however, believe he can muster the numbers needed before midsummer, because so many still seethe over his murder of the king.”

  Father Warinus solemnly crossed himself. “May he rest in peace. Do not forget the Holy Father would have you parley. He does not want further bloodshed. And we cannot be certain the king’s death was of Berengar’s causing.”

  Frustrated, Alberto rubbed his hand across his forehead and then into his hair, pushing it away from his face. “To my mind, there can be no doubt. And I well remember the Holy Father’s words. Pope Agapetus may be a man of peace, but he must also be practical. It has gone beyond words.”

  At the Pope’s behest, King Lothaire had called Berengar to his table to parley. And Berengar used the opportunity to poison Lothaire in his own home. Alberto had seen the king’s skin, his blackened nails, and the spee
d with which the lethal dose took hold. The man had suffered a very painful and undeserving death, and Alberto was determined to inflict the same on Berengar.

  Alberto frowned. “That murdering bastard is destined for hell by his actions, Father, and I fully intend to expedite his passage!”

  The two men rode in silence for a time, the heat of the day pressing in on them. When, after an hour, they came across a bridge and stream, Alberto signaled for his men to stop, water their horses, and take their ease.

  After a short meal of bread, hard cheese, and a draught of wine, Alberto lounged in the shade of a great outcropping of rock. Stretching his legs toward the water, he wished there was time to strip and dive into its clear depths.

  Hot and uncomfortable, he wiped the sweat from his brow and stared out. A light breeze rose and caressed his face, like the sweet breath of a woman. His mind played back to happier times, when he still felt young and glad of life, but the deep green of the pool cruelly tugged at his memory, for it was the same color as Hildegarde’s eyes.

  Hilde. How he tried to forget the suffering he’d seen in those eyes!

  It was nearly two years since his young wife had died in childbed, since her last, tortured moments of life. Alberto tried to remember her before the agony. Dark hair. Gentle smile. The top of her head barely reaching his chest. And slender, too slender to easily carry a child, let alone twins. The match between Alberto and Hildegarde had been arranged, their union perfunctory; nevertheless, he had grown to care for her and mourned her passing.

  Alberto sighed and moved to get up. They needed to be on their way. Dusting off his breeches, he mentally quashed another recurring sorrow, borne alone after Hilde died. He called for his men to gather their belongings and mount up. Once settled in his saddle, he focused on leading his horse up the short bank and back onto the road.

  But the sorrow returned, unbidden. My son, my heir. Alberto held the babe only a few moments before he followed his mother to heaven. It seemed small compensation his twin sister had survived. Given over to a wet nurse, the girl thrived, he knew, although he had scarcely seen her since the day of her birth.

  He frowned. The emptiness in his heart was still there. His son would have turned two at the onset of summer.

  *

  Gwen had felt a semblance of bravery when she’d found Stefano’s name badge, when the sun was high, but as dusk approached, she desperately wanted to find a hiding spot. The pine forest had given way to woods of oak and beech, and she now passed through a meadow swathed in the deep blues and purples of blooming cornflower and iris. The spot looked lovely, but too open for a secure sleeping place. Up ahead lay a boulder-strewn rise. She hoped she would find some kind of shelter there.

  She walked in silence, the sun setting to her left. After leaving the forest, she’d consoled herself with one little triumph; she knew where the path led. “North. I’m heading north,” she muttered. “Great. At least I’ve figured out that much. Too bad there’s nobody to tell.”

  Gwen shivered. Her family must be going out of their minds. So many hours since the quake, and they had no idea if she was alive or dead. She needed to find a phone and tell them she was okay—lonely and freaked out, but okay.

  She remembered feeling this alone only once before, on her uncle’s ranch. She had taken a winter ride, combing the backcountry, and saw no one for hours, experiencing complete solitude. The stillness of the place felt palpable; she could hear nothing but the breathing of her horse and the faint rush of her own blood. It was the only time in her life she’d felt truly alone. Until now.

  Reaching the boulders, Gwen climbed up and sat, looking out. Sunset’s pink glow had given way to purplish gloom, the land rolling off toward a river basin. She narrowed her eyes, but beyond the little path winding down the slope, she could see no sign of human presence, no clue as to where she actually was, or if any town was nearby. Where could she go from here? Italy shouldn’t be this empty. Something must have happened, but what?

  She shook her head, trying to dispel the idea that this was all a dream. What else could it be?

  Unless… have I gone nuts?

  Gwen felt her guts twist, then mentally ticked off what she knew: earthquake, Santa Lucia had changed, Stefano was out here, too, and hurt maybe, and Italy was empty, silent. Oh, yeah, and I’m heading north. To where?

  Her shoulders slumped. She didn’t get this at all.

  Suddenly, Gwen spotted some movement among the boulders not very far away. People? Hikers?

  “Yes!” She jumped up and started to wave, then pulled back. Wait – these guys weren’t hikers. They had the same look as the reeky bunch.

  One of them pointed at her and shouted. The rest, maybe ten in all, stood and stared, then started to race up the slope.

  Oh, God! She scrambled off the boulder and bolted back across the meadow, trying not to trip over her monk’s robe, frantic. Guttural shouts erupted behind her, close, closer. Someone snatched at her robe, but she ran on. Another grab. Tangled feet. She screamed and fell, hitting the ground hard. Stunned and fighting for air, she flinched at the badly scarred face next to her and struggled to free herself.

  Laughing, the others pulled him away. Gwen shook at the way they looked at her, as if she were prey.

  “Monachus.” A small man with dark features studied her.

  “Of course,” Gwen choked the words out, “I’m… I’m a monk. Don’t mess with me!”

  They glanced at each other, shrugging.

  She got to her knees, her thoughts racing, crazed. What can I do? What? Think! Think, Gwen! Condemn them to fiery hell! Speak Italian!

  An ugly man smiled, revealing crooked, stained teeth. He turned and murmured something to the rest. Gwen caught, “Abbatia… oro.” Abbey… gold.

  While the others grunted and grinned, he pawed through her sack and then tossed it aside. He tried to haul Gwen to her feet, but she twisted out of his grip. Her hood fell away, and he pulled her hair, wrenching her head backward.

  Burning pain shot through Gwen’s neck, immobilizing her, as rough hands poked and tugged. Someone seized her from behind and held her arms as Ugly patted her down. He sucked in hard when he found her breasts beneath the heavy robe. He stared into her eyes, mouth agape, and then groped lower, to make sure.

  “Get your hands off me, you shit!” Gwen wrenched an arm free and then struck out, flailing at his head, his jaw, her knuckles splitting on teeth in a blaze of pain. But Ugly wasn’t intimidated. Instead, he laughed and waved a knife in her face – and she went still. Chest heaving, her gaze flicked back and forth, looking for a way out, terrified.

  He took hold of her jaw and moved in. His breath was foul, smelling of rotten fish.

  Gwen recoiled.

  With a chuckle, Ugly told the others, “Not a monk… wench.” His hand dropped toward the fold of his tunic.

  The next moments were a chaotic blur as Gwen struggled – kicking, clawing, screaming – with the one holding her. She was flung to the ground, the men falling upon her, grabbing her legs and arms, pulling the hem of her robe up, up.

  The ground suddenly thundered beneath her and several of her attackers cried out.

  Another earthquake? Uncomprehending, Gwen watched as Ugly and his men let go and raced away.

  Pounding hooves. Gurgling screams. Blood, spraying everywhere, drenching the ground. Mute with fear, Gwen backed away as fast as she could, staring at horsemen with swords hacking. Her mind went blank, her understanding gone.

  It was a killing field.

  Chapter 4

  Unable to look away, Gwen stood frozen as Ugly’s severed head bumped into her sack. The mouth was open, moving, as if he were still conscious and trying to say something.

  She gagged and fell to her knees. “Don’t faint, don’t faint.”

  A man’s deep baritone called out in Latin, “Laudatio Deus… praise God you were not slain, Brother. Brother?”

  Pulling her hood over her head, she squeezed her eyes shut
and whispered, “Go away.”

  “Brother?”

  Trembling, Gwen looked out from her cowl. He’s wearing chain mail. God no, no. An iron helmet… a bloody sword. She swayed slightly and then caught herself.

  “Good Brother,” he said, “you might give thanks instead, for there is no further need to pray. Their souls have already flown to hell, and there shall be no retrieving them now.”

  Walking through the gore, checking the dead, he led the biggest horse she’d ever seen. He wore a sleeveless tunic over his chain mail, sewn with a coat of arms depicting a greyhound, its bared teeth gripping a bone. The other horsemen had the same emblem over their–– She started and stared. Chain mail? And why was he speaking Latin? He wasn’t a priest.

  The cloying smell of blood, mixed with the stink of offal from opened abdomens, insinuated itself into Gwen’s nose, her throat, and pushed her senses into overload. She lurched sideways, wanting to scream, but threw up instead, over and over until she felt faint.

  Wiping at her mouth, trying to regain some control, Gwen focused on his leather boots sporting intricately shaped spurs with a greyhound crest. She cried out. Would he attack her next?

  Her stomach convulsed again.

  “Good Brother,” the same baritone addressed her, more gently this time, as he casually retrieved the head and tossed it aside.

  Stunned by his nonchalance, she tried to focus on his words. He didn’t sound cruel, but after what he just did…

  “Brother?”

  He thinks I’m a monk. The disguise would keep her safe, as long as nobody touched her. She mustn’t blow her cover.

  “Ita.” Nodding, Gwen rose and then spoke slowly, trying to sound like a man, using the deepest tone she could manage. “Laudatio Deus,” she mumbled in response, and then switched to Italian. “Per favore… let me use your phone. I need to call home. Please tell me you have a phone. I need to call and tell them I’m here.”