In the Arms of Immortals

by Ginger Garrett

  If this girl died, only Lazarro would be safe. Lazarro they would believe if he said it was a fast death. If Gio lost a patient, alone, without last rites, the family would be enraged. If people died without confession and Communion, their hand at rest on their heart, sealing up that wellspring of sin, then they would wander forever in Limbo, condemned with Virgil and so many others. The families would want revenge.

  “Lazarro!” Gio screamed. “If anyone can hear me, bring Lazarro here at once!”

  The baker was upstairs in a few heavy steps. He looked with horror at his naked wife, laughing as she pushed a child out and black boils burst.

  “I’ll not have a man, even a priest, see my wife like this!” he said to Gio.

  The woman turned her head and saw her husband. He squinted, peering at the dark stains around her neck and body.

  “Come closer, lover. You won’t be mad. Look what I have given you!”

  Gio freed the baby at the last push, dragging the child and cord away from the girl. She worked with terror’s speed, washing the baby with the bowl of wine left on a nightstand, severing the cord with a knife left from the evening’s dinner on that same stand. She took the woman’s shawl from the floor and wrapped the baby in it.

  The girl was standing on the bed, still naked, her arms spread out like a bird.

  The baker made a loud swallowing sound. “Is this how it’s usually done?” he asked Gio.

  “Oh, darling husband, I have outwitted you! For I will leave you now and see things you have yet only imagined. You must want to kiss me before I depart.” She coughed, staggering on the bed. Grey fluid, speckled with pink flesh, flew from her mouth.

  The girl jumped down and ran toward the baker. The baker fled, knocking over the mute woman who was standing behind him in the doorway, tears running down her face. The girl saw her and stopped, transfixed. Sweat poured out of the girl’s body, and the room took on a wet, rancid, sweet smell. It was the smell of death.

  The mute woman held the girl’s hands and led her back to the bed. The girl obeyed without question, becoming as meek as a dove.

  “How do you know me?” the girl asked in a child’s voice. “Who is this you have brought with you?”

  The mute woman did not answer.

  “Let us name her after my mother,” the girl cried to Gio, “after all the lost mothers! I go to find them.”

  “We must find Lazarro,” Gio said to the mute woman. “She needs Last Unction. Now.”

  The mute woman shook her head no.

  The girl, her eyes swelling closed, took Gio’s hands in her own. “You pray for me, sister.”

  “I cannot,” Gio said. “I am but a woman, like you.”

  “I will die in my sins!”

  The Old Woman placed a finger over the girl’s lips and spoke.

  Gio gathered the baby and handed it to the mute woman. “Can you hold her?”

  The mute woman nodded, taking the baby.

  Gio ran down the steps, bringing up a leather sieve for cooking and a crock of sweetened goat’s milk that had been warming near the fire. It should have been poured over bread for the couple’s breakfast.

  She layered a piece of bread into the sieve and poured milk into it. Opening the baby’s mouth, Gio dripped the warm milk down, and the baby swallowed.

  The silent woman shook her head as if she had never seen a baby eat before.

  “The baker has fled,” Gio said to her. “Take the baby downstairs and wait for Lazarro. When he arrives, send him up here. Do you understand?” Gio asked, pushing her out the door.

  The girl was raising her arms. Her body moved off the bed as if it were being pulled up. She screamed in joy, and the body collapsed back onto the bed, the head flopping to one side.

  The baker was at the door, a crowd behind him.

  “There she is!” he yelled.

  She needed Armando.

  Panthea cursed herself for going too far last night, in every way, letting that foul stranger get so close. She had teased her share of men and servants, but never had one gotten the better of her. She was shamed.

  Armando had seen more of the world; he must have known she was insincere in those pursuits. That’s why he humoured her. But he did not humour her last night. She felt dirty.

  She spurred Fidato on to move faster. He did not need it. Fidato surely smelled terror clinging to her bones. What she had seen in that room, she would not acknowledge. Not until Armando was there to carry her.

  “It is not as it seems,” she whispered to herself.

  Ugly thoughts were coming fast. She could not remember how to shut her mind to them.

  Armando was the only one who could take her father’s place. If he was gone, anyone could rise and take the castle. If they did not want Panthea, which was unthinkable, where would she go? She could not work, and she was too pretty to beg. Some ogre would force himself in, proclaim himself the owner, and she would die of despair from rubbing stinking fat feet and wishing she had been kinder to Armando.

  “I will not lose the castle,” she said, kicking Fidato too hard.

  Panthea took no comfort in the morning light. She was cold. Yesterday morning all she wanted was to keep Armando from being named the successor of her father and joined to her in marriage; now she was riding out to bring him back.

  “Madness,” she said.

  Fidato picked his familiar way through the lanes, where the peasants slept off the festival’s wine, the merchants’ wives emptied chamber pots into the streets and nursed along breakfast porridges hanging inside above their fires. A few wise, eager ones waved to her. A pleasant exchange could convince her father, Dario, to lower interest rates or give larger loans.

  Panthea smiled and acknowledged them, surprised that the fake reaction was so quick. She never had a desire to meddle in her father’s complicated dealings; she did not know how books worked and what interest to charge. But the merchants, especially those with good fabrics and perfumes, were worth acknowledging.

  Panthea passed the church. The strange woman was huddled in the door of the church, feeding a newborn through a sieve. Panthea slowed Fidato to look closer. Who would give this wretch a child? The woman met Panthea’s stare with tears, as if Panthea were the one who was a wretch.

  Panthea wanted to hit her.

  “You know nothing,” she said to her.

  Armando was not near the church or in the piazza; Fidato would have smelled Armando’s horse, Nero, by now. She turned Fidato toward the sea, keeping him moving.

  Damiano had done something awful in her father’s chamber, some cruel magic or blood illusion. The troubadour’s body was gone, as was Damiano’s. These were the first things she needed to tell him. Later she would have time to make other sins right with him. She would have time later.

  Panthea passed the lane that led to the baker’s and miller’s homes, which were close to the butcher Del Grasso. They could sweep their refuse into the sea, and if the great stone ovens set the baker’s house on fire, there was water nearby. She recognized the sharp tone to men’s voices and the shrill cries of women egging them on. Probably a peasant had stolen a pastry. It was the baker’s fault for displaying them so lavishly in the case, where all could see but few could have. She hated that quality in him, that condescending pride. Of course, she had always had enough money to shame him in return, so it was only a fleeting annoyance.

  She glanced down that lane as she passed it. A rough-looking boy, too young to have wasted his night in wine, crept into the baker’s home.

  Panthea slowed Fidato. The boy emerged, carrying something metal flashing in the morning light. He was stealing. Panthea could not see well from her perch, but judging from the flash and swing of the piece, he had stolen jewelry. How could that be? The wife never took it off. What would make a thief so
bold as to steal at first light?

  The world was going mad, Panthea thought. The boy wiped something wet on his shirt, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Panthea understood. The sun was warming fast; she was sweating by now too. The boy’s mouth left a dark stain on his shirt, but Panthea spurred Fidato on before she could consider it.

  Her mind tried to show her again what she had seen in the upstairs chamber of her father. She would not see it. She had the power to turn this thought away. That was something.

  The truth looked for a new way in. What had she loosed? It was all connected to her nightmare, the violent dream of a man Armando had killed, one who rose from the dead in the garden, catching her and kissing her with slick, spoiled lips.

  Panthea shook her head with such a sharp twist that Fidato stopped and strained to look back at her. Panthea realized what she was doing; letting those awful thoughts find their way back in. Gritting her teeth, she determined to try harder and keep them out.

  Armando was standing at the far edge of the lane, near the water’s edge. Panthea got down from Fidato, running to him. Her legs were not moving fast enough.

  All the strange sights, dead men, but Panthea wanted to talk of herself first. It mattered more.

  He spoke. Panthea pinched her lips together and tried to listen. Armando was wrong about her; she would show him. She could even let him talk first, although nothing he said was important.

  “Do you remember the story of the Red Sea?” he asked. His tone was even, without deep feeling. “The Israelites were fleeing the Egyptian warriors, the land of their captivity. God reached down and parted the Red Sea. The Israelites fled along the path and God closed it behind them, drowning the warriors of Egypt. Egypt was no more to trouble them.”

  Blessed Mary, help me, she thought. She wanted to shut him up about this story. She had her own.

  “Do you think the Israelite warriors were disappointed?” he asked. “They were told to run.”

  “There were women and children among them,” Panthea said, using a final tone. His question should wait.

  “Greater glory, then, for the men to fight. When a man cannot fight for a woman, when God alone claims that right, this is hard for a man,” Armando said. He did not look at her.

  “Why do men fight at all, Armando? Solve that mystery before you question God about His,” she said. No wonder she had provoked him to silence so often.

  “We are made in His image,” Armando said.

  Panthea was looking at her slipper, pulling away her skirt to one side so she could see it well. There was a spot of blood on it. She looked around to see where she might dip her foot and wash it away. She looked up to see Armando watching her.

  He sighed. “I think I will return to the Holy Land and see how I may assist your father’s cause there. I am thought of fondest when I am farthest away. And I do not feel this pain.”

  Panthea had a vague sense this was all directed at her.

  “Good-bye, Panthea.” He walked toward Nero.

  “Armando! You stop!” she yelled.

  He stopped and turned. The look on his face embarrassed her. He was expecting something else from her.

  She pretended she could not read his expression. “Armando, there may be cause for you to stay.…” She could not finish. She wiped her hand over her brow, surprised to be sweating this much so early in the day. “Something has happened to my father.”

  Armando came closer to her, his expression changing.

  “I dwelled on sinful thoughts. My mind is corrupted. I saw a vision in my father’s chamber. Come with me. Come and see. I will not give you more trouble.”

  “What has happened to your father?”

  Panthea began to shake. Armando reached out and caught her by the arms.

  “No, it was just a vision. I imagined it.” She pushed against him, trying to stand on her own. “We should be married, Armando. At once.”

  “Panthea, what did you see?”

  “What did you do in that room?”

  Gio was being pinched and shoved in all directions.

  “I did nothing!” Gio cried. “It is some new illness, one I have never seen!”

  “One you caused!” he yelled. “Did you think I would pay you more if you saved her at the last minute? Saved her from a new death? I am too wise for you!”

  “Drown her!” someone screamed. “It is too long in coming!”

  Lazarro appeared in the doorway of the church. “What goes on here, friends?”

  The baker grabbed Gio by the arm, dragging her up the steps to Lazarro, shoving her to her knees before him.

  “My wife was giving birth, and I could not find you. I called for help, and Gio came running, eager to earn a fee. You know how she haunts these streets in the dark hours, searching for the desperate. She gave something to my wife, or did some magic craft, because my wife went mad and died—all in the matter of minutes!”

  “Rosetta is dead?” Lazarro asked. He looked alarmed, Gio thought, but not shocked. He glanced back into the church. “Tell me of this, Gio.”

  She kept her head bowed, not looking him in the eye. He still saw her as the liar who cursed him.

  Gio told him what she had witnessed. She could feel the crowd tensing and pushing nearer, eager to hear details of the death. The certain evil thrilled them.

  “She did not receive Last Unction?” Lazarro asked.

  “No, there was no one to hear her confession or pray with her,” Gio said.

  “She is in Limbo now?” the baker asked. He covered his face with his hands.

  Gio’s heart was seared by the thought. The girl had been so innocent. She would wander among the lost, where there was no colour, until all on earth were dead and Christ returned to the underworld to save them.

  “How much will I have to pay for her ascension?” the baker yelled, moving his hands to reveal his agony. He turned to Gio. “You will receive no fee for your work, wretch. You will pay Lazarro for her salvation.” He grimaced, talking more to himself now. “It took me two years to make her a proper wife.”

  Someone kicked Gio in the calf and she cried out.

  Lazarro held up a hand. “The miller has died this morning in much the same manner. Gio did not see him or visit his house. Good Christians they were. They did not believe in her medicines. I do not think this is her work.”

  Silence fell upon the crowd. The people worked the matter to its conclusion in their minds. Gio could see them glancing at each other, chewing their lips.

  “My wife saw the miller,” the baker said. “This morning. She bought flour before dawn. She thought I wouldn’t notice if she slipped out of bed so early.”

  Gio’s mind was spinning, trying to weave this new information together with what she had seen, trying to find the pattern in it.

  Lazarro counted the sequence on his fingers. He did not speak loud enough for the crowd to hear, but Gio understood his words. “Rosetta went into the miller’s house before dawn. The miller died at first light. Rosetta died an hour or so beyond that.”

  “Gio,” he called. “Tell us more of this death. How did it come upon her with such speed?”

  “I do not know, my lord,” she answered. She had none of the usual boldness in her voice. The hairs on her arms were still standing, goose bumps pricking her flesh. As long as these people moved as a crowd, anything could happen to her.

  “What have you to do with the miller?” Lazarro asked.

  “I know nothing of the miller,” Gio said.

  “Send for the miller’s wife,” Lazarro called.

  A woman at the back of the crowd screamed. All turned her direction and began pulling away, stumbling backward. As they parted, Gio saw a boy with black boils covering his neck, his face pale and waxen. He coughed, and a violent spray of blood
splattered the crowd in all directions. The boy was trying to reach the church.

  Lazarro pushed through the crowd, catching him as he collapsed. The boy reached into his pocket, pushing a necklace into Lazarro’s hand.

  “I am sorry, Father,” he said.

  Lazarro began rushing through the words of Last Unction.

  “Bring me the Host and wine!” Lazarro screamed.

  No one moved. The boy’s head hung to one side; a thin black river stinking of decay ran from his mouth. Lazarro put the boy’s hand across his heart, to cover the root of all sin. As he pushed the hand into place, more black fluid poured out.

  Gio could not breathe. The air stank. The boy was melting, all his humours and blood pouring out together.

  Lazarro released the boy, dead, to the ground and stood facing the crowd, staring at the necklace in his hand. It was stained in blood, speckled with pink flesh.

  “That is my wife’s.” The baker snatched the necklace from Lazarro, wiping it clean on his own shirt, tucking it into a pouch on his belt.

  Everyone in the crowd was silent, looking around the piazza, straining for sounds or movements.

  “Death is here,” a woman whispered.

  Gio looked at the upper edge of the piazza, up toward where the fields began and the peasants walked through rows of vineyards back to their homes. The fires to keep the wolves away had burned out during the festival and no one had thought to relight them.

  “We must light the fires!” someone called.

  A young boy ran to relight them, his older brother not far behind, carrying a knife held out in case wolves had already breached the firelines.

  “Father, tell us what to do!” a woman carrying her child called.

  “I do not know this evil,” Lazarro said. “I do not know if it comes by food or air. We must pray. I must pray.”

  Gio had never seen him unsteady.

  “Damiano.” It was Del Grasso speaking.