The Father’s grip on Basquez’s cotton sleeve loosened a little and the Bishop pulled it clear, the crimson flush of emotion slowly fading from his neck.
“I am busy,” Basquez announced, workmanlike, choosing not to look in the pale eyes of the Priest. “It is not in my nature to squander what little time we’ve been given by God in talking of inconsequential issues or sharing lectures. I must go and attend to my duties.”
“Then you won’t mind me accompanying you for a little way, will you?” asked Strettavario, falling in alongside the Bishop as he strode from the courtyard. He saw the Bishop scowl and allowed himself a smile.
“I know what you’re up to,” said the Father.
“And what is that?” replied Basquez, passing under the archway at the far end of the walled square and into the stone cloisters which ran to the main complex of St Peter’s Bascilica buildings.
“Tacit.”
“What about him?”
“What you’re doing to him in Toulouse Prison.”
“And why should it concern you, Father Strettavario, what punishments we are inflicting upon the fallen and corrupt within one of our inquisitional prisons?”
“I have known Tacit for a long time. Longer than most. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
“And that is why we are experimenting with him. To find out if what they say about him is true, if there is more to him than meets the eye.”
“So that is what this is then? An experiment?”
“Among other things, yes,” replied Basquez swiftly.
“Who’s bidding are you acting upon?” asked Strettavaio, the question bringing the Bishop to a halt. “Who are you working for?”
They had plunged from the cloisters into a covered wooden walkway along which hung portraits of long dead Fathers. Strettavario wondered if one day after his death his painting would be hung in public or left to moulder in one of the lower chambers of the Vatican.
“Unfortunately some actions of the Holy See, and those behind them, need to remain secret.” Basquez smiled, and made to leave, but drew back. “Perhaps like others you too share a certain fondness for this Tacit?” he said, resting a mocking hand of false concern on Strettavario’s wrist. “Think of past Saints and the sacrifices they have made in order to ensure the improvement and continuation of our faith. Think of Tacit’s fate as being similar to theirs. Their sacrifice to benefit us all. That way I’m sure you’ll find it more palatable. Not nearly so unfair, nor so unjust. This war, Strettavario,” said Basquez, looking down on the squat Father like an officer on one of his juniors, “this suicide of Europe as Pope Benedict calls it, it demands that we must all make sacrifices in order to overcome. And make unpleasant choices in order to persevere. That is what we are doing.”
But Strettavario shook his head and drew his lips into a tight knot of thought. “You misunderstand. It’s just a warning for you, Basquez,” said the Father, his pale eyes hardening once more, “that what you’re doing doesn’t blow up in your face and come visiting you sometime, in the middle of the night.”
SIXTEEN
THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.
The ghost of electricity crackled through the dead air around Vatican City. Those still awake could feel it, in their hair, at the tips of their fingers, could smell the charged metallic odour of the atmosphere that always comes just before a storm. Working servants threw open shuttered windows to peer at the growing storm and then drew them back on seeing the sky, while Priests holding private midnight services crossed themselves and muttered liturgies on silent tongues.
Along the top of St Peter’s Basilica, recently arrived crows squawked angrily from the statues of Christ and Saint John the Baptist as the Inquisitor, dressed all in black but for the notch of white at his neck, stepped out across the slowly emptying square far below. He marched swiftly and with purpose towards the red granite obelisk standing tall in the very centre of the darkened square and the solitary figure hunched on one of the benches facing it. The Inquisitor strode with his head down, his body hurrying with every stride, as if the message he was bringing could not afford to be delayed further.
Behind him crows savagely harried doves from their roosts around the clay-tiled roofs, while above dramatic clouds gathered in the pitch-black sky, flecked with reds and purples.
Without a word, the Inquisitor chose a place next to the hooded figure and drew the corners of his cape about him to offer a little more protection against the gathering cool of midnight. For several moments the pair sat in silence, their eyes drawn to the obelisk as if in silent communion.
“Are the wheels in motion?” the hooded figure began, his tone grave and solemn. The Inquisitor didn’t look across at him, but instead kept his eyes firmly on the summit of the needle of stone, the tip almost lost in the black of night. “The Priests,” he replied in a hushed tone. “They have reached the foothills of the Carso. The descendant of Gath is with them and has been delivered safely into the hands of the unit. All is in hand.”
“Excellent. This war, this carefully orchestrated conflict, it is a testament to what we have become, how far our power has spread, how much control we can command. Already most of Europe is in flames. The English, French and Germans have ground themselves into an impasse on the western front. The same can be said on the eastern front, the Russians pouring themselves into the fire of the German and Austro-Hungarian cannons for little gain. Now a third front has been opened, a third side to close the triangle and to lock in the horrors, the killing. The magicks.”
He smirked grimly with an anticipation he could barely contain. “Three fronts to mirror the three cardinal sins of man. Three cardinal sins to wake them from their chained slumber. A fertile ground drenched ready to accept them.”
He exhaled and shook his head, pushing back his hood to reveal his weathered, hard features. His muscular jaw was square and shadowed with dark growth of several days. “It seems like a lifetime for us to have finally reached this moment. For me I suppose it has been a lifetime.”
The man looked down into his lap, as if touched by sudden emotion at recalling his past. “I died for them, you know,” he said, rubbing his calloused hands gently over each other, “when the time came, when the call was made to leave the faith and join them. I pretended I had been defeated. Murdered. It has been a weight I have carried ever since, the pretence that I was weak, so weak that I would die in the line of duty.”
He looked and stared across the square, any sorrow now replaced with rage. “It is the Catholic faith that is weak!” he spat. “What power do they wield that can possibly compete with that of the lord of darkness? When I served in the Inquisition, every day brought news of yet more deaths of our fellow Inquisitors until only Poldek Tacit and I remained from the year of our intake. I knew then that they were failed by a faith which could not face its enemies with any hope of victory. Only one could assure me of dominance. He has shown and given me so much.”
“Georgi, the signs of their returning are already everywhere,” spoke the Priest. “Visions of their legacy manifest within the cities and the towns all across the region. Across the world! Talk of possessions and devilish occurrences. The Inquisition is barely able to cope. Those of us who have seen the light, we are doing all we can to propagate the fear and fan the flames of hell’s brood.”
Georgi nodded. “Good. This time things will proceed as planned. There can be no chance of failure. Not this time. We have invested so much, sacrificed all in their name.”
“The rituals of the sins?” asked the Priest.
“I will begin them at once.”
The Priest smiled, as if satisfied. “Sister Isabella,” he said, after a long pause, his eyes still not leaving the pillar of rock, as if he spoke more to himself than to Georgi beside him. He noticed that the man did not move, save for the lines around his eyes which seemed to deepen, as if the name was known to him. “She killed three Inquisitors.”
Georgi unfolded his arms, knotting
his fingers together in his lap and looking down at them with quiet resignation. “The woman has spirit. And a talent few of us realised when she was first chosen to accompany Poldek Tacit in Arras. It was a surprise to me when I discovered she had witnessed Cincenzo’s execution.”
“And you’re sure it was her?”
“The cloak I retrieved, discarded at Sisto Bridge. It was hers. I could smell her scent upon it. Someone helped her escape.”
Almost at once, lightning appeared to flash in the heart of the gathering clouds and a rumble of thunder rolled across the city moments later.
“Who?”
“We don’t know. We never got a look at them. We can only suppose it was one of the group to which Inquisitor Cincenzo was affiliated.”
“They are proving to be troublesome.”
“We will continue to hunt them. They will not affect your work.”
“They had better not. Our masters would be displeased if anything were to derail what has so far been achieved. Have you identified your targets?”
Georgi threw a barbed look in the Priest’s direction. “Of course I have! I have prepared long for this moment. My training has been endless, the application of my study unyielding. I know what I must do and against whom. The one with the power of ‘sight’ and the one with the power of the ‘flesh’ shall commence the ritual. Just make sure I am allowed to work unmolested.”
“We shall.”
He looked across at the Priest. “Sister Isabella. She will play her part yet, for ours, and his, gain. It is time now to complete the work and prepare the world to welcome their return. When the third and final act must be done, I will hunt Isabella down and ensure that Tacit does what has long been required of him.”
PART TWO
“Children, it is the last hour, and as you have heard that Antichrist is coming, so now many Antichrists have come. Therefore we know that it is the last hour.”
1 John 2:18
SEVENTEEN
THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.
Monsignor Benigni had never in his life expected to be involved in a murder case.
He knew he shouldn’t be here. The usual business of the Sodalitium Pianum was to weed out attempts to modernise the timeless fundamental values of the Catholic faith, a far cry from dangerous inquisitional work. But no matter the task, Benigni knew that if the work brought him closer to God, then he would be happy. After all, he was a devoutly God-fearing man. Anything he could do to gain favour from his Lord would be comforting to him.
When he had established the Sodalitium Pianum in 1907, he had done so to help root out and censor the teaching and distribution of condemned doctrine within the faith, to stamp out the threat of modernist thinking within the sound traditional values of the Church.
However, he had accepted the request by the Holy See to investigate the murder without hesitation. The Inquisition, more adept and experienced at handling such a case, was stretched, its ranks overwhelmed and strained by recent events within the city and further afield. The Devil’s grip upon the earth seemed to be tightening, and Monsignor Benigni knew that his work here might perhaps not only help in some small way to loosen his scaly-taloned hold, but would undoubtedly win him greater admiration and respect from many within the upper echelons of power. And, with this admiration, Benigni knew he would be enabled to further expand the remit of the Sodalitium Pianum’s work.
Monsignor was a simple, earnest man, but he had big plans for his own secret organisation.
An overweight bear-like figure, dressed in stern starched black save for the square of white at his neck, he stood at the apex of the bridge and looked down into the Tiber. They’d found Inquisitor Cincenzo’s body nearly a mile down river from here, snagged on rocks where the river bed rose and the waters ran quicker. He’d been shot, clean through the head. Death would have been instantaneous.
Benigni turned his notes in his short stumpy fingers and pushed his glasses back up his nose, absently humming a tune he had recently heard. It was a waltz by an American arranger called Frederic Knight Logan, a most offensive tune, and Benigni forcibly caught hold of himself and shook his head to remove the song, dragging a hand across his forehead to mop his sweating brow. Clearly he needed rest. He seemed overworked and weak, susceptible he supposed to the Devil’s temptations.
Refocusing his mind on his case notes, he considered what he knew. The round which had been used was a .455 and had come from a Webley revolver, standard issue for Inquisitors. Inquisitor Cincenzo, the individual who had been killed, was young, eager, had achieved good grades during his acolyte years and showed a penchant for learning, perhaps too much. Perhaps it was that which got him into trouble eventually, speaking to the wrong people, asking too many of the wrong questions?
Benigni looked back across the bridge and the marks in the dirt where the pack had surrounded Cincenzo and hemmed him in. The grip marks proved they were regulation inquisitional boots. Everything pointed to an internal killing.
Everything except the sulphur.
There was a smell of sulphur which seemed to linger around the spot where Cincenzo had been shot. That was hard to explain.
“Monsignor Benigni!” called one his team of the Sodalitium Pianum, approaching with urgency.
“What is it?”
“Something we have found scrawled on Inquisitor Cincenzo’s wall in his residence.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“Simply three words. Eyes. Flesh. Life.”
“Whatever does that mean?” Benigni mumbled, more to himself than his fellow Priest.
“I have no idea. He’d scrawled it on his wall beside his bed, along with a name. Tacit.”
“Poldek Tacit?” muttered Benigni, adding Tacit’s name to the three words in his notes. “Why should Cincenzo ever name him?”
EIGHTEEN
ROME. ITALY.
“I’m surprised,” said Isabella, pulling her still damp clinging clothes away from her skin, “you dealing with Inquisitors? The soldiers of the Catholic Church? I thought the Church was your enemy?”
“Have you listened to nothing we’ve said?” Sandrine shouted, propelling herself forward to lean over Isabella. Her reaction was so extreme that Isabella, thinking the woman was about to lash out at her, cowered away in fear. “Everything has changed. Old feuds have ended, concessions have been made. They’ve had to be, especially now in these dark days. This Inquisitor? He was an ally.”
“And how many of you are there?”
“Not enough,” Sandrine sighed, turning away. “The Darkest Hand, they have corrupted too many minds, enslaved too many hearts. Where there is fear in a person, there is an open harbour within which to moor the seeds of hate and darkness. And we are even fewer now.” She looked across at Henry, who nodded.
“There were four other Inquisitors who had joined us but we lost contact with them three days ago,” he said.
“Where?”
“In the city. There were rumours of demons in south Rome. They went to investigate and sent a message, something about a seer.”
“A seer? Who’s that?”
“We don’t know. And they’ve not been heard from since.”
“But we are a start,” insisted Sandrine, her jaw squared by her gritted teeth. “A beginning. Soldiers, Priests, Inquisitors. We are all fighting for the same reasons against the same enemy.”
“For many months now we’ve infiltrated the Vatican,” said Henry. “Found allies.”
“We’ve had to,” said Sandrine, anticipating Isabella’s next question. “For it is there that the Darkest Hand first took root, perhaps even before 1877. We have learnt that much. From that black seed it has spread far, throughout the faith, enslaving many within the Inquisition and the Priesthood, slithered into industry, politics, royalty, the military, wherever there is the opportunity to gain favour and an initiative against others presumed to be weaker. The lure of the Devil is strong. And we must work together to fight him.”
“And who exactly are you?” Isabella asked.
“We are what comes after the Mass for Peace,” said Sandrine.
“The Mass for Peace failed.”
“And that is why we exist today. This world war, we think it is part of their plan, the precursor to his returning, the preparing of a land fit for one of his wickedness and ruin, for when he returns.”
“And who is he?” asked Isabella, but she feared she already knew his name.
Sandrine’s voice had fallen to a low murmur. “The Antichrist.”
Isabella hesitated, attempting to speak, but the words failed her. She shook her head, letting out her breath, looking between the pair of them disbelievingly, their hard glares burning into her.
“I … I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Don’t, or can’t?” asked Henry.
“Both! The Antichrist? Just because events are mirroring what happened in 1877, that doesn’t mean anything.” She could feel her face flush with shock. “It doesn’t mean he is involved!”
“The famine? The possessions? The demonic births?” said Sandrine, raising an eyebrow.
“Do you think he has returned already?”
“No. He is biding his time, waiting for his moment to grasp power and drag the world into an apocalypse from which it might never recover. But he cannot do that yet. Not until all is ready for him.”
“But I still don’t understand!” exclaimed Isabella. “How do you know it is him? I have seen the wickedness of man with my own eyes, what he is capable of. It does not mean that the Devil guides his hands or his actions.”
“You talk of evil,” replied Sandrine. “You cannot begin to imagine the depths of its corruption.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to, not unless you had witnessed it first hand, and even then you would doubt what you had witnessed. This evil is hidden deep, buried within the very roots of the Vatican, and now commands the highest echelons of power through persuasion, fear and black magicks. This is why we cannot trust anyone else to fight it. The Holy See, the Inquisition, the governments of the world, they are all polluted by the Darkest Hand’s influence.”
The Fallen Page 8
