The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  Guzzo pointed a finger at the sleeping pontiff. “Many have long suspected he sold his soul to win the papacy.”

  “That is nonsense,” Corneto scorned him. “You should know better.”

  “Yes,” Vicenza agreed. “He may have bribed his way to office, but he did not need to sell his soul.”

  “It does not mean he did not do it,” Guzzo said, continuing to argue the point.

  “It is wrong to speak ill of the dead,” Soderini said.

  Vicenza glared at him. “The Holy Father is not dead.”

  “He soon should be.”

  Soderini turned to leave, and Guzzo with him. He delivered one more parting shot. “The sooner that is, the better it should be for one and all.”

  Corneto looked to Vicenza. “Has the Bishop of Culm arrived?”

  “Yes, Adriano. I believe he is here.”

  “Then I beg you go and bring him to us. The Holy Father does not have long. The Bishop needs to administer Extreme Unction before it is too late.”

  Chapter 38

  ROME PROVINCE. THE VILLA OF CARDINAL

  ADRIANO CORNETO OUTSIDE ROME.

  THE NIGHT OF AUGUST 18, 1503.

  Ilona waited for her husband to return. It did not take long for him to make the change back to his natural form. He felt a little jaded. Still, as he had only changed for a short time, the effects would soon wear off. “Is he dead yet?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes fixed on the villa.

  “Good.”

  “Can we leave? The smell of consecrated blood is turning my stomach.”

  He took her hand in his. “Come then, my love. Let us return home.”

  The Bishop of Culm had performed the ceremony to cleanse the pope before death. Corneto left them alone. Still, the cardinals played cards in the hall.

  Corneto flew into a rage and knocked the table onto its side. The cards and a good deal of coin flew into the air before crashing to the floor. A half a dozen pairs of eyes glared up at him. “You disgust me!” he fumed. “Get on your knees and pray! Can you not afford a dying man some respect? Even your pope!”

  The bishop emerged from the room, his expression grim. Corneto walked up to him. “How is he?”

  “He is gone,” the bishop said, his voice solemn.

  When Corneto turned around, they all dropped their heads in prayer. “I had best go and inform his son,” he said.

  He found Cesare sat up in bed. It was the first time the men had met since the morning Cesare fell sick. The younger Borgia had endured an agonising few days where his whole body had shed its skin. Although he remained in much pain, he was now over the worst. De Corella remained at his side. Ponti was busy giving orders to the ducal troops that had just arrived from the city.

  Cesare wondered what had brought his host in to see him. Their ill feeling had not gone away, so he thought maybe the arrival of his troops had spooked Corneto. Perhaps he had come to plead for his life. “What brings you to me, Adriano?”

  Corneto looked at him. He has the audacity to call me Adriano?

  “Speak up, man,” de Corella said in his customary gruff tone.

  “You are in my house,” Corneto reminded him. “Kindly afford me that respect.”

  “Cesare asked you a question.”

  Corneto ignored him, and returned his gaze to Cesare. “I am the bearer of bad news.”

  “Is it my father?”

  “Yes,” Corneto said. He looked genuinely sad. “He has passed on.”

  Right away, the two men made the Sign of the Cross.

  “Would you like to join me in prayer?” he asked them.

  Cesare’s mind was on other things. “No, I have other more pressing business.”

  “Would you like me to send news to Rome?”

  Cesare sat forward. “No! You say nothing!”

  Corneto realised it a good time to leave. “Very well,” he said. “I pray you are feeling better soon.”

  “Damned gutter rat!” Cesare cursed him, once he had left.

  “What would you have me do?” de Corella asked.

  “News of my father’s death must not reach Rome; not yet.”

  “Why does it worry you so?”

  “The vultures shall plunder his apartments.”

  “Do you want me to go there?”

  “Yes, and have the troops keep a strong guard. I want no one anywhere near there.”

  “Casanova has your father’s keys.”

  “Yes, I know this. You must get them from him.”

  “It shall not be so easy.”

  “Do what you need to do. You must get those keys!”

  “What of the here and now? They shall all want to return to Rome at once.”

  “You ensure no one leaves the villa. Leave Ponti in command here when you go. If anyone tries to leave, tell him to kill them.”

  De Corella left for Rome at once. As soon as he arrived, he had his troops strangle the Vatican palace. They allowed nobody in or out. At the same time, his men searched for Casanova, the cardinal who held the pope’s keys. When they found him, they brought him to de Corella.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Casanova demanded to know, not hiding his anger at their treatment of him.

  De Corella did not answer at once. He lashed out with his fist and knocked the cardinal down. The blow left Casanova looking up in shock and fear, blood trickling from a cut lip.

  “I want Alexander’s keys.”

  “You know I cannot give them to you.”

  “His son orders it.”

  “I do not answer to Cesare Borgia.”

  De Corella kicked him hard in the groin. “You do from this day forward.”

  Casanova choked and gagged. He clutched at his privates with both hands, fearful of what this fiend might do to him.

  De Corella paced about him. He looked down to see the cardinal’s face turn a dark red.

  Finally, Casanova found the strength to speak. “What do you mean?”

  “The pope is dead,” de Corella advised him. “He died in the night.”

  The cardinal breathed in a deep gulp of air. “At Adriano’s villa? I have not heard it announced yet.”

  “And you shall not, you fool! Not before his fortune is safe.”

  “And that is why you want the keys?”

  De Corella gazed down at him, slanting his eyes to hint he would exact further punishment if he had to. “Give them to me.”

  “I cannot. I have no proof that you are speaking the truth.”

  He gave a nod to two of his men. They hoisted Casanova up and pushed him against a window. De Corella then drew the knife he kept strapped to his thigh. When his men opened the window, he grabbed ahold of the cardinal.

  De Corella put the knife to his throat. Feeling the blade against the underside of his chin, Casanova got to his feet. The captain pushed him against the ledge and held him there. The cardinal gasped in fear. It was a long way down.

  “You can give me the keys,” de Corella snarled. “Or I shall throw you through this window and then take them from you.”

  He felt Casanova shake all over. A trickle of urine ran down the poor man’s leg. Casanova pushed with both hands against the windowpane, but his strength could not match that of Cesare’s captain. De Corella grabbed the back of his collar, and dangled him over the edge with the blade still pressed against his throat. “Well?” he asked the cardinal, one last time.

  “Very well,” Casanova cried. “Pull me in, and I shall give them to you.”

  De Corella dragged him back inside, and threw the terrified man down to the floor. With his blade still in hand, he watched Casanova reach inside his robes.

  The cardinal knew this man placed no value at all on his life. The wretch would kill him without a second thought. He fumbled in his robes until he found the set of keys. “These are what you want,” he said, still shaking.

  De Corella snatched them from his hand. “I knew you would do the right thing.”

>   “You have what you want. Leave me in peace, you scoundrel.”

  De Corella grinned. He threw the keys to a lieutenant nearby. “You know what to do.” He then looked down at the cardinal. “If you interfere once in my master’s affairs, I shall kill you. You do not speak of this, or of anything I have said to you. Do you understand?”

  Casanova waited until he was alone. Then he broke down and cried.

  Cesare’s men relieved the treasury of two hundred thousand ducats in jewels and other precious gems. They also raided the coffers of another hundred thousand in gold, sending the booty to Cesare’s estate to put under lock and key. When they left, the servants plundered the pope’s apartment. All that remained were a few chairs and cushions, and the tapestries on the walls.

  The news of the pope’s death reached Rome. The bells rang out from the Vatican to announce the news to the people. Cesare allowed the cardinals to take the body of his dead father to St. Peter’s. They dressed it in his finest robes and laid him out on a catafalque. The clergy chanted the Libera me, Domine around his corpse.

  Bruchard exhibited the body to the people the next day. By this time, it had reached a shocking state of decomposition. The face had turned dark, and bruises covered much of the skin. The nose and tongue had swelled to an alarming size. The tongue doubled over in the mouth and pushed the lips out. They, in turn, had also swelled up to twice their usual size.

  The mouth foamed, and gases inside the body bloated it to grotesque proportions. It appeared as wide as it was long. Sulphurous gases leaked from the face and the anal area that left the most acrid odour in the room. The people who viewed the body were so shocked that, they left at once.

  Cesare’s men stormed into the area that same day. Word had reached them of the state of the body, and they wanted everyone out. The clergy ran for the shelter of the sacristy. The chanting ended, and the body left virtually alone.

  The next day Bruchard had it moved to the Chapel of Santa Maria delle Febbre. The six bearers laughed and joked about its state. The face had now turned black, and was a most gruesome sight to behold.

  Two carpenters waited in the chapel with a coffin. To Bruchard’s alarm, they could not fit the corpse inside. “You made it too narrow!” he cried.

  They looked at each other. “No, Eminence. It is the size we were instructed to make it.”

  “Well, it is too small. You shall have to assist me with the body.”

  The three of them forced the body inside. They jammed it down, but even then, it still would not fit. Bruchard climbed on top of the coffin and pushed it down with all his might. He sighed with relief when, finally, it went. The stench was near unbearable, and he pulled away. One of the workers tried to wedge the mitre inside, but there was no room for it. Bruchard had to remove it and cover the corpse with a piece of old carpet lying nearby.

  At first, the priests of St. Peter’s Basilica refused to accept the body for burial. They did so only when the papal staff forced the issue. Only four prelates attended the Requiem Mass.

  Lucifer smiled to himself, knowing the pope could no longer pose a threat to him. His secret could rot with him in his grave. He just needed to speak now with Piccolomini. The cardinal had to remove Andrei from the vault and burn his body.

  Chapter 39

  ROME PROVINCE. THE HOME OF GINA ORSINI

  IN THE RIONE BORGO.

  AUGUST 23, 1503.

  Lucifer watched Piccolomini enter the home of his young lover. He had much to discuss with the cardinal, so he stole his way inside the plush residence. No one could see him in the dark corner where he lurked. He watched the elderly man kiss the young woman in the hall.

  “You are late,” she said.

  “I have had much to do,” he replied, in his defence. “The pope is dead.”

  “Yes, it is the talk of the city.”

  He removed his hat and coat. “Of course, he was the pope, after all.”

  She flung her arms around him and kissed him deeper on the mouth. “So you must be pleased?”

  “Why would I be pleased?” he asked, when they broke from their kiss.

  “You wish to be pope, do you not?”

  “Yes, that is true,” he admitted, a little reluctant.

  “Well, perhaps after this day you shall be,” she said, offering a smile that hinted it was what she wanted for him.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “And what would become of me, if you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Would you still have the time for me?”

  “My dear Gina,” he said, “I shall always have the time for you.”

  “Would we make love all over the Vatican palace?”

  “We might. Let me first attain the office, and then you can have your sport after.”

  She smiled, giving him a look that hinted she had mischief in mind. “I have something special planned for you this night.”

  “Oh?” he said. “Is not every occasion I spend with you a special one?”

  “Of course, my dear Franc. You know what I mean when I say such things.”

  Lucifer stepped out from the shadows and caught his eye.

  “Why not take a bath, my love, and prepare?” he said to her.

  “I have already bathed.”

  “Then have another. I want you to smell sweeter than roses this night.”

  She looked a little dismayed. “Very well, I shall see you shortly.”

  He waited until she had gone. A servant walked into the hall, but he sent her on her way. He then turned to Lucifer. “I wondered when you might come.”

  “The pope is dead.”

  “Yes, quite. So to the business of the new election.”

  “And of the moving of Andrei from the vault. Everything rests on that. Most of all, it should determine your fate.”

  “Not quite. First, I am to be pope. When I am, then I shall do as you ask.”

  Lucifer glared at him. “Very well. You had best not dare let me down.”

  It took a lot to convince Cesare Borgia to leave Rome. Only when he had could the conclave function without bias to elect the new pope. In truth, it allowed Lucifer a free role to manipulate those he had his claws into. On September 22, the conclave elected Piccolomini as pope. He took the name of Pius III.

  His first action was to have Cesare Borgia arrested. He wanted to secure a firm grip on the reins of power, and, to do this, he needed Cesare gone. His men arrested and detained him.

  Cesare brooded inside his prison cell. His captors allowed him contact with no one. It took bribes for him to even get a message to de Corella. He sat on his bed and waited. If it were the last thing he ever did, he would see Pius dead.

  Pius did not attend to the matter of Andrei at once. He cared only to establish his power base in the Vatican, and to see his lover. Lucifer sent him a warning.

  He took it on board. Two days later, he was at the door of the vault. He stood and gazed at it, a dozen of his Swiss Guards standing there with him.

  “Shall I open the door, Holy Father?” the captain asked.

  “No,” he said. “I shall do it.”

  “The handle is not easy to turn.”

  “I am sure I can manage it.”

  The captain stepped to one side as Pius approached the door. Andrei lay in his crypt as he had done for a year and a half. The energy that had lived within him remained there still. It sensed the black aura of the new pope the moment he stood outside the vault. Right away, it knew a disciple of the Devil was close by.

  The energy came to life, and a faint blue spark appeared within the corpse of Andrei. In only a few moments, it lit up his entire body. The glow changed into the form of a solid light and grew until it filled the inside of the crypt.

  Pius touched the handle, not expecting to encounter any kind of a problem. The blue light forced its way through the stone that formed the outer edge of Andrei’s tomb. Once it had done so, it filled the vault. Pius gripped the metal in both hands. The li
ght drew on its own power until it reached a blinding intensity.

  A sharp pain hit him behind his eyes. He paused for a moment to let his head clear. The words of Lucifer ran over and over in his mind. He knew he had to see this through. If he did not, the consequences could prove dire for him.

  He gritted his teeth to muster the courage to try a second time. At his age, he did not possess the same strength as in years gone by. It might have been better to allow one of the guards to do this for him. But, in light of the fact Lucifer had secured his election, he felt he had to do it by himself.

  Pius gripped the handle again. He took a deep breath and prepared to turn it. The light glowed harder still. An even more acute pain seared through his head. For a moment, a black wave passed before his eyes. He gasped at the shock of it.

  Andrei opened his eyes, aware of the presence nearby, though his body did not move. The tomb had preserved him to the extent that he looked the same as the day they had put him there. His muscles, though, had shrunk so much they could never function again, not without an intervention from above. But he was awake. His dried lungs took a first laboured breath since death. He focused on the one who had come to desecrate him and closed his eyes again. His impenetrable will added to the power of the energy within the vault.

  A jet of blood shot from both of Pius’s nostrils, and hit the door. Spots of it splattered off the metal and hit his face and body. He continued to grip the handle in both hands. When his nose ejected a second stream, he let go.

  The guards nearest to him looked on in shock. Pius froze to the spot. He felt all the strength sucked out of his limbs, before his body lolled slowly backwards. Like a felled tree, he went down. The captain rushed forward, managing to throw his arms around the pope and catch him just before he hit the floor.

  Blood continued to flow steadily from his nose, and coated the fingers of the officer. Pius lost all sense of place. His hands thudded against the floor as he groaned in pain. A crimson blanket soaked his robes.

  “Assist me!” the captain shouted to his men.