Secrets
Page 9
Camillus had found his fight.
Dario swallowed, forcing the uncomfortable memory away. Thankfully, no blood had been shed between them. At least not that time. That came later. Antoni, as usual, had defused the situation. Some lighthearted joke, a slap on the back, a pacifying goblet shoved into Camillus’s hands.
What raked Dario’s conscience on his deathbed was his own sickening self-righteousness. Who would’ve believed that he, who’d posed as such an outstanding Catholic, would someday commit the same treachery himself? Yep, times had gotten hard and money had run out. In desperation Dario had hired his blade to the same Sultan served by De Lellis and his son. In the end, Dario turned as wicked as they. Even more, for his hypocrisy.
And he would pay the price. By tomorrow morning, at the latest, he’d be burning in the fires of Hell. A shudder ran through him. Fear clamped his lungs.
“Look at you shiver, boy. I’ll try to rustle up a blanket.”
Huh? Dario opened his eyes. Bernadino leaned over him, his ancient face creased with worry.
“I move slower’n a snail, but if you’ll be patient, I’ll fetch a—”
“I already brought some.” Curzio appeared at the foot of the bed and dumped an armload of blankets where Dario’s legs should be. “Are you feeling sleepy yet? That laudanum should kick in soon.”
Dario nodded, drowsiness overcoming him.
Curzio tucked the blankets around his shivering torso. He must’ve spotted the fear in Dario’s eyes because he stopped and said, “Are you alright? Would it help to talk?”
Bernadino leaned in. “We’re here for you, son. We’re here.”
Dario’s eyes misted. These two strangers really cared. Yet . . . what could he say to them? How could he unburden his sins to anyone but a priest? How would these two even understand his terror of Hell? Curzio looked pure as an angel. And Bernadino may have strayed from the straight-and-narrow in his past, but probably not in ninety years.
No, Dario couldn’t tell them he was damned, couldn’t let them know the abhorrence of what he’d done. If they knew he’d sided with the enemy, even briefly, they’d . . . they’d be repulsed. They’d walk away. Leave him to die alone.
“We’re here, lad.” Bernadino laid a skeletal hand on Dario’s arm.
Dario ached to confide in them, to pour out his contrition. But they would never relate to his fear. Only another soldier could. Another mercenary who’d known hunger and temptation and despair and had crucified Christ to fill his belly. A soldier would understand. But not these two.
Dario shook his head and closed his eyes, burying himself in agonized silence. If only it had been merely siding with the enemy for a few weeks. Then perhaps God could forgive him that one terrible crime. But no, Dario had offended his gentle Savior more than once. Even before he’d hired himself to the Turks, there had been that first mortal sin. A great big whopping mortal sin. The night he’d gotten drunk.
“Oh no,” Dario groaned the instant he saw Camillus seated at the outside table. What was he doing here? Over a thousand men in this army, and they’d have to invite the one soldier who grated Dario’s nerves raw. Ending up together in the same troop had been bad enough, but finding Camillus dealing the cards was beyond endurance. Someone should have known not to allow Camillus here when Dario was planning to play. Antoni should have been onto it. Or Jacopo, or Ty.
Wait, no. Forget Ty. He was already plastered beyond plastered, and the evening had hardly begun. Couldn’t even locate the deck of cards on the table in front of him, let alone recognize the players. All Ty could focus on, as usual, was the cup in his hand. He was doing an outstanding job just remaining propped in a chair without toppling into the campfire.
But the others. They weren’t all drunk. Not yet anyhow. Close, yessss—Dario included—but surely at least Antoni knew how Dario felt about Camillus. So why’d they invite the rat to join them in the first place?
Somehow, he’d managed to ignore Camillus for the first hour or two of cards. Now they were at the eighth hand. Or . . . was it the eighth game? Dario frowned at his cards, trying to remember. His head was getting fuzzy. Maybe it was the eighth cask of wine he was thinking of. Things were colliding together in his brain at the moment. But one thing he knew with crystal clarity: Camillus, that swine, had won every round.
Every.
Single.
Round.
All night long.
And there was only one humanly possible way to do that.
Camillus took a swig from his tankard, tossed everyone a sickening smile, then chucked his cards face up on the table. Everyone groaned. Another perfect win.
Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was all the money Dario had lost, or maybe it was just that burning grudge, but something inside him snapped. He slammed his fist on the table so hard the planks jumped. He pierced Camillus with a look spilling straight from the hatred in his heart.
“Alright, De Lellis. Enough is enough. What’s your game?”
Camillus barely spared him a glance. Sweeping the pile of money towards himself, he didn’t deign to reply. He calmly took another sip of his drink.
Dario exploded. “You’ve won every hand we’ve played. Are the extras up your sleeve or down your boot?”
Camillus looked up. His face darkened.
An uncomfortable hush fell around the table. Worried glances flew left and right. Dario’s muscles tensed, but he wasn’t going to back down. Camillus was cheating, and it was as obvious as the nose on his face.
All the players seemed to hold their breath. Everyone except Ty, who was scrutinizing a lone card in his hand as if it had dropped from the moon. By the bewildered expression on his face, he had no idea what the thing was or how it’d materialized in his grip.
Camillus clenched one of his giant fists. His jaw twitched as he visibly struggled for self-control. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, and quiet . . . and oh so deadly.
“Take that back, Tellini.”
Dario felt, rather than saw, the pleading eyes of his comrades boring into him. They were silently begging him to retract his accusation. Antoni cleared his throat, doubtless about to intervene, when Camillus gave Dario a second chance.
“I said: Take. That. Back.”
Dario should. Not because he changed his mind about Camillus cheating, but because Camillus was nearly seven feet tall with muscles of concrete. Never mind that he walked with a severe limp from some old wound. He was still a giant. And not just any ol’ giant, but a drunken one. He could crush Dario’s skull with his bare hands. Dario didn’t even have his sword. If anything happened, it would be a hand-to-hand fight.
The instinct for survival should have pounced into action. But right now, compliments of those eight empty casks, Dario was just as drunk as Camillus. Life versus death didn’t cross his mind. The only thing that crossed it was how much he despised Camillus de-Spicable Lellis.
Laughter rose in Dario’s throat. Laughter spawned from hatred. “Take it back? Take it back from the crippled son of a traitorous pig father?”
Camillus rocketed from his chair, rather like a cannonball launching. “What?!”
“You heard me, you useless crip—”
The table up-ended, slamming straight into Dario’s face with the force of a battering ram. He crashed to the ground, his head exploding in pain, the table smashing on top of him. Wine splashed onto his lap, cups and coins slid, and cards fluttered everywhere.
Dazed, Dario tried to scramble from the wreckage. He wasn’t quick enough. The giant heaved the table aside and landed on top of him. Fists pummeled his face. Bones cracked. Blood spurted. Shouts deafened his ears.
“Take it easy, Camillus!”
“Let him go! You'll kill him!”
Soldiers were grabbing Camillus, yelling and swearing.
It took three of them to haul the brute off. But that wasn't the end of it. The following morning came Dario's next mortal sin.
He and Camillus fought a duel.
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br /> He flinched at the memory, and realized he was clutching the blankets tightly in his fists. Bernadino wrung out a cloth and dabbed it to his forehead, stroking Dario's hair with his paper-thin hands. Suddenly Dario wanted him and Curzio to leave. They shouldn't be near him. These two orderlies were too good, too pure, to be tending a demon.
Getting drunk was bad enough. But what would Curzio and Bernadino think if they knew he'd fought a duel the next morning? Dueling was a mortal sin, forbidden by the Church. And Dario couldn't even blame the wine anymore. When he unsheathed his sword against Camillus, he'd been stone cold sober.
And had full intent to kill.
The two blades clashed and clanged with ferocious violence and frightening speed. Dario might not be a match for Camillus in hand-to-hand combat, but he could hold his own with a sword. In fact, after the first few slashes, Camillus's cockiness withered and vanished, and a look of worry sparked in his eyes. Seeing his growing fear bloated Dario with delight.
Parry. Fade. Parry again.
Pass forward.
Sidestep. Feint and . . . Lunge!
Yes! Dario's blade ripped across Camillus's shoulder and a jagged red line seeped through his sleeve. Staggering, Camillus almost went down and fumbled to keep his sword.
Dario slashed again, victory welling, feeding his lust for Camillus's blood.
The group of soldiers surrounding them yelled, cheered, swore.
Camillus retreated a few paces, then regained his footing and passed forward. He lashed out. A bolt of pain tore Dario's face, followed by a warm rush of blood. Fury filled him. He flew at Camillus, hating him, wanting nothing but to rip his heart out and send him to Hell.
Another sickening jolt of metal sliced his flesh. Agony. Dario's vision blurred. He parried, then blindly whipped his sword through the air.
Missed.
Camillus managed a clumsy strike. With a yelp of pain, Dario lost his grip on his sword's slippery hilt. The weapon flew from his hand and thudded into the dirt a few feet away. In a heartbeat, Camillus crashed into him, slamming him to the ground, and shoved his blade to Dario's throat. Icy steel pressed against his neck.
This was it. Dario was going to die. And for what? A few coins lost in a card game.
He squeezed his eyes closed as beads of sweat dripped down his brow. Any second now Camillus would slit his throat and—
Camillus dropped the sword.
BANG! A deafening gunshot blasted the air.
Startled, Dario's eyes shot open. A few feet away a horse stamped and snorted. Upon its back sat their commanding officer. Rage blazed in his eyes. Smoke still floated from the barrel of the pistol he'd shot into the air.
Camillus scrambled to his feet.
Something niggled at Dario. Hadn't that happened in the wrong order? The shot should have sounded first, making Camillus drop his sword. Yet he'd released Dario an instant before the pistol went off.
Had . . . had Camillus spared him willingly? He must have.
Bewildered, Dario staggered to his wobbly legs. He was alive. He should be dead, but he wasn't.
Dario sucked in a ragged breath, sleepiness overwhelming him. The laudanum must’ve been working. Bernadino dipped the cloth in the water again, squeezed it out, and pressed it to his forehead. Curzio changed the blood-drenched bandage on his chest, looking sad. Guess they'd given up on him talking to them.
Dario should say something. They wanted to offer him comfort in his last hours. But he couldn't bring himself to speak of his past, his fears. If he'd died the day of the duel, he would have gone straight to Hell. But God had spared him.
Camillus had spared him.
Why? Their commander hadn't stopped him from slitting Dario's throat. The officer appeared after Camillus tossed aside his sword. Which could only mean Camillus was unwilling to kill him. Dario couldn't fathom why. After all, Camillus was the one who'd proposed their duel in the first place. It made no sense.
Their commander had been blazing mad. Kicked Camillus out of the army, right then and there. Ty, too, for his drunkenness. Camillus had stormed away through the trees, Ty lurching after him, with nothing but their weapons, the clothes on their backs, and Ty's half-empty flask. Dario had never seen either of them again.
His eyelids drooped. His breathing slowed. The drug was taking effect.
Within seconds, sleep wrapped him in its folds.
Dario didn’t know how long he’d been in that pain-filled slumber, but it must have been awhile. When he opened his eyes, the ward was dark. Most patients were quiet. Asleep. Maybe even dead. Who would care? A few candles flickered here and there in the room.
Someone squeezed his hand. “You’re awake.”
Curzio?
Dario slowly turned his head. No, not Curzio. The wavering candlelight revealed a stranger in the chair beside his bed. It was too dark to make out his features, but he sounded young. Dario’s age perhaps. It was hard to tell, because the man’s voice seemed strained, as if he were unwell and struggling to hide it. Another patient?
“The pain must be killing you. I’ve got laudanum right here.” The man plucked a spoon and a bottle of medicine from his lap. So, not a patient. A worker. The fellow must’ve been waiting all along to give the drug to Dario, as if anxious to take away the agony the very moment he stirred. Dario was touched by his kindness. Still, he wished it were one of the other two. At least they were familiar faces in this terrifying place.
The man scooted his chair closer to the bed. The movement must have hurt him, because he winced. Then he measured medicine into the spoon.
“Are . . . are you a doctor?” Hope squeezed Dario’s chest.
The other shook his head, and Dario’s hope deflated.
“No. I’m sorry. I wish I were.”
“Where’s Curzio? And Bernadino?”
“I sent them to get some sleep. If I didn’t order them to, they’d never quit.” The man drew in a sharp breath, as if some pain had just stabbed him. “I’m the Superintendent. Curzio asked me to come down here. Now let me help you sit up so I can give you this horrible stuff.”
This man was in charge of the hospital? Seriously? Dario was stunned. Not only was the fellow obviously hurt himself, but he sounded so young. Only someone incredibly trustworthy and competent could land such a high position at a young age.
The stranger carefully raised Dario’s head to give him the drug. As Dario gagged down the pungent liquid, a thought struck. If this man truly was the Superintendent, he could get the priest to return and hear Dario’s confession. It was the middle of the night, yes, but surely the head of the hospital could do anything.
“I need a priest. Please.”
Without getting up, the Superintendent placed the bottle of medicine on the floor by his chair. “A priest already came. Curzio told me.” He squeezed Dario’s hand again. “You’re lucky. I mean, not with your legs gone and all, but your soul. You’re going straight to Heaven, Dario. God is so good.”
“No, you . . . don’t understand. I need to make my confession.” He had to convince the Superintendent to fetch a priest! There was only one way to do that in the middle of the night. Dario cringed and strained out the words. “I . . . I’m in mortal sin.” He lowered his eyes, shame burning through him. “I’m going to Hell. I . . .” He swallowed. “I once fought for the Turks.”
Dead silence.
Dario didn’t dare look up. Heat flared across his cheeks. Shame and remorse seared through him. The Superintendent must be staring at him, shocked. Repulsed. Who could blame the man?
The chair creaked as the other shifted. Dario winced. Was he leaving in disgust?
The Superintendent finally spoke. His words were quiet, gentle. “So did I.”
Dario blinked. His gaze shot to the man, but the darkness obscured him.
“You heard me right, Dario. I hired my sword to the enemy, too. But God forgave me. His mercy is infinite. I did a lot of terrible things. Things much, much worse than you did.”
“Used to be.” The Superintendent rubbed his leg. “Until this stopped me.” He paused, then corrected himself. “No, I take that back. My crippled leg didn’t stop me. God’s mercy did. I should have been in Hell so many times.” He sighed, as if shaking off the sadness, and his tone changed to one of hope. “But instead of being in Hell, I’m here, trying to figure out a way to fix this rotten hospital. And you’re here, too, getting ready to fly to Heaven. God’s mercy is staggering.”
His grip tightened around Dario’s hand and he leaned closer, his eyes blazing in the candlelight with an almost heavenly glow. Despite the darkness in the room, he seemed bathed in celestial light. A strange sensation pricked Dario’s skin and something stirred in his heart. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was in the presence of a living saint.
The Superintendent continued. “Everything else is dust. Nothing means anything, but to make it to Heaven. And you’re going to make it!”
“But . . . confession. I still want a priest. Please.”
“I’ll get one. Don’t worry. Father Neri won’t mind if I wake him up. Then after that . . .” The man faltered, a heavy sigh escaping him. “You can go home. And, to be honest, I’m jealous of you, going home to Our Lord so soon.”
Home. The way he said it, a supernatural joy started to burn in Dario’s soul, making him suddenly yearn for Heaven. What was it about this man that his words, so simple, could inflame Dario with such peace? Happiness, even? It was like an enormous weight was finally being lifted. And suddenly Dario Tellini felt ready to go to God. Make his confession, then head . . . home.
“You’ll . . . you’ll really wake a priest up for me?”
“Of course I will.”
Peace and gratitude flooded Dario’s soul. God had sent him a saint to help him in his last hours. How good God was!
Wait. Dario realized something with shock. The Superintendent had called him by his name. More than once. How could he know his name? Dario hadn’t told him. Hadn’t told Curzio or Bernadino either. No one in this hospital had any way of knowing.