“The Lord has illuminated the exit for us.” Tarcisio went first through the opening.
Carlo climbed a slight incline, grabbing the earth for purchase. He stuck his boots into the rich soil to make footholds and pull up out of the four foot hole in the ground.
Tarcisio was on his knees in wet waist-high grass mumbling what sounded like thanksgiving for their safety.
They stood in a thicket, which had lain untouched by a plow for many years and concealed the unnatural opening of the tunnel in the landscape.
Judging from the sludge covering his boots, the nearby river overflowed this entrance to the catacombs, hence the puddles they had walked through to their escape.
Pale moonlight fell across them, a reminder of the brown robes they wore.
They stripped off the offending garments in their haste to return to the familiar, safe haven of a society firmly anchored in Christianity.
“We are on Paolo Ignacio’s land. The river borders his fields just south of my family’s inn.” Tarcisio turned to him. “We have traveled just two miles in the catacombs.”
Carlo shook his head. “It feels like we’ve taken a journey out of the Dark Ages.”
They started across the untended fields in silence.
As they put distance between themselves and the dreadful La Verità, Tarcisio prayed for the souls lost tonight, his words stilted and devoid of emotion.
Carlo walked beside Tarcisio, silent and grateful the Lord had spared them. He listened to Tarcisio’s low intonations with gravity, and the murders of Umberto and the two white-robed men played over in his mind.
Once they came upon a tract of dirt road that led into the town proper, it was not long before they arrived at the Inn of San Mercuriale.
“I should have hidden them away. Here. I have failed them.” Tarcisio’s prayer became a confession as they walked into the Inn of San Mercuriale. He stopped abruptly on the threshold and turned. “I am sorry.”
Carlo was in Tarcisio’s face. “How long has this been going on?”
Tarcisio had to take a step back to turn around. It took some time for him to light a lamp on a writing desk in the hall with his hand shaking the entire time. He led the way through a wood-paneled corridor to a dark library and gestured to a wing chair.
Carlo sighed and waited for Tarcisio to light the wicks of the two crystal lamps on the desk. Although he was exhausted from the constant state of fear that had kept him going for hours through the catacombs, it was with some effort that he sat back in the chair. He would never be at ease again.
Signor Ventiglia’s looking glass still lay on the escritoire on top of a pile of old books. Tarcisio had left his grandfather’s library untouched. It seemed the old man had just left and would walk in any minute.
Tarcisio went to the glass-front press cabinet behind the huge antique desk. He took out the first bottle his hand met and two silver chalices, no doubt Signor Ventiglia’s supply. The chalices looked like heirlooms.
The fiery liquid in the cup Tarcisio handed him shot through Carlo’s veins like lightning.
It was only after Tarcisio drank half of his whiskey that he sat behind the desk in an armchair.
“Oberto and Savino were born into il Dragone. Their family has been members of the cult for centuries. It was the elder Savino who began to have doubts about the teachings first. He confided in his brother, without knowing whether Oberto would expose him or not. Fortunately, Oberto felt the same, but followed il Dragone for fear of family censure. When the brothers came to me, they spoke of Signor Baldoni’s plans and begged the aid of Duke Amadeo. That is when I wrote to your father, and in so doing, I brought this fate upon them.”
“What happened to Oberto and Savino is not your fault. And Umberto … eventually, La Verità’s secrets would have come to light.”
Tarcisio lowered his head in grief. “They would not stay with me, but wanted to go back and save more misguided followers from an eternity in Hell. I am certain their families were watching the ceremony.”
“Why have your people kept this terrible secret all these centuries?”
“I did not know. I think this is what my grandfather was trying to tell me before he fell ill. He left the inn one night and the next morning, we found him lying in the field, clutching his bible. It was his heart. Confined to his bed, he never regained speech. But that was the night I found this.” Tarcisio opened the desk drawer. He lifted out a bit of cloth and passed it to Carlo. “It was in his bible.”
Carlo studied the worn cloth. The faded markings on it looked like a crude map. The short, hurried strokes resembled a spider’s web. As he recognized the map of the death tunnels beneath La Verità, he sat back. To have escaped such a maze was a miracle.
“You have an opportunity now to remove the taint of this obscene cult from your midst. If you want my father’s help, you must tell me all. How do we kill that thing?”
Tarcisio leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. His whisper was mournful, apologetic. “You cannot kill death.”
Carlo slammed the desk with his fist. “Have you ever tried?”
Tarcisio folded his hands in his lap. For the first time since Carlo had met him, he looked to be a man older than his years. “This is an ancient evil, older than recorded history.”
“You are speaking of the Devil?”
“Perhaps. Whatever it is has survived our pitiful attempts over the centuries to banish it.”
“Then we will kill its followers,” Carlo shouted.
“Will you kill them all? And who are they all?” Tarcisio paused as if waiting for his questions to sink in. Carlo felt like the boy-man now. “The ancestors of il Dragone were persecuted in the time of Saint Mercurialis. Executed. But many others lived to transform their faith into this pagan form of worship.”
“That would be difficult in these times,” Carlo said. “They would have to live in secret.”
“Difficult, but not impossible, as you have seen tonight.” With that, Tarcisio put a stop to the ridiculous hope Carlo held onto.
Hope born of a love affair with a dead woman, and his ties to another he did not love, but for whom he felt responsible.
“Do they ever let anyone in?” he heard himself ask. “I mean outsiders. Do they initiate new members in the ceremonies?”
“No. Anyone they expose themselves to would have to stay. Now we know why. They would most certainly be sacrificed to il Dragone.” Tarcisio was staring at him. His brown eyes held a warning similar to one a father might impart to a child when revealing the dreadful news that monsters were indeed real and walked the earth.
“The il Dragone believe their protector will one day rule the land that was taken from it centuries ago. Their mission is to preserve a place in the world for the Master, the dragon, the Fiend!”
Tarcisio took a calming breath and then a draught from the cup he clenched before continuing. “How do you change the hearts of families that grow their numbers with inbreeding and ritualistic ceremonies?”
They sat in silence as Tarcisio poured more whiskey into the chalice. “I am the wrong man for this. Oberto and Savino’s murders and that of your man have made me question my faith in the people of Forlì.”
Carlo leaned forward to catch Tarcisio’s eye. “You took a step in the right direction when you wrote to my father. In fact, under the circumstances it was your only recourse. Someone has to stop the cult before it takes over the entire town. Your grandfather chose you because he knew you could do it. And you will have all of my father’s resources at your disposal.”
Tarcisio remained quiet, but there was a light in his eyes now. “We must act quickly. Signor Baldoni grows impatient.”
“He has already started a process against you. Baldoni visited my father just a few days ago requesting governance of the Inn of San Mercuriale. He will only disparage your actions if we … disappear and are unable to stop him.”
Tarcisio nodded gravely. “I fear he has already started. He and sev
eral of his followers interrupted my grandfather’s funeral where he insisted upon making a speech of thinly veiled threats.”
Carlo felt nauseous. He feared for their lives, but it was more than that. It was disgust. He wanted to kill Baldoni. I should go back now, through those stygian tunnels and kill the man. He trembled with the need, and then shook his head.
His suicide mission would help no one. This town would still need help when his bones were ashes in the devil dragon’s pit. “I must dispatch a message to my father.”
Tarcisio reached for the bottle of whiskey, but Carlo picked it up and set it down out of reach.
“My father will have King Vittorio’s soldiers here within days. In the end I assure you, Forlì will be a place of peace.”
A place of peace.
Would there ever be such a place again?
The next time Tarcisio reached for the bottle, Carlo did not stop him.
The people of Forlì lay sleeping while he and Tarcisio sat together in the library, composing a detailed letter to his father.
When his father read of Umberto’s death, the town of Forlì would change forever. There was nothing to do but let the townsfolk go about their routine as if it were just another hot, arid summer in the Emilia-Romagna region. Let them toil in the fields of olive and fig trees bowing under produce. It would keep their minds off the witch hunt coming to their quiet village, one that would pit neighbor against neighbor. Human against inhuman.
It was nearly dawn.
Carlo put the quill down and sanded the words that spelled Baldoni’s fate. He pressed the Falco insignia into the sealing wax on the folded parchment.
At five in the morning, when the caretaker Dagio Regiotto found an empty common room, he knocked on the library door. Within the hour, Dagio was on his way to Lazio to deliver the missive to the duke.
Chapter Seven
“I am afraid something terrible has happened. The people of France revolt against the aristocracy.” His father placed a hand on his shoulder. “They riot through towns, torching homes…”
Carlo made as if to rise from his chair, but his father’s hand pressed down on his shoulder.
“Carlo … Asnieres-Sur-Seine.”
“No…”
“Your betrothed has perished in the fire, the Count, the entire family.”
Carlo got up from the chair, knocking his father’s hand away. “There must be some mistake. Margaux prepares to vacation in England. We are traveling there ourselves this summer to meet them…”
“They did not get out of France, my son.”
He stared at his father, trying to make sense of his words and finally saw the truth in those determined eyes.
“The commoners raided Chateau de Vaujours, razed it to the ground, trapping the Comte d’ Avril and his family inside.” His father shook his head. “I give you leave to see the truth for yourself. I know it is the only way you will believe what you must.”
Margaux’s piano solo woke him. It was one of her favorites. A concerti grossi by Arcangelo Corelli.
Carlo kept his eyes closed. The joyous notes were a soothing blanket over his battered heart. He lay still, holding on to the vision of her cradled against him in her mother’s gardens at the Chateau de Vaujours.
Margaux… His lips curled at her attempt to pacify him in this dark time with cherished scenes of their love.
The music stopped. The vision slowly faded.
Carlo opened his eyes.
He was in the small room that smelled of lemons at the Villa Merona. Moonlight latticed the wood floor through the slatted shutters. Crossing the floor, he opened the window to stare out at the sleeping village of Forlì.
A year ago, he’d left the family compound, on that terrible voyage to Asnieres-Sur-Seine. He’d walked among the ruins for a time, looking for he knew not what, perhaps some proof that Margaux had escaped the fire.
When he sat on the grassy banks of the Seine to watch the quietly churning waters, he had imagined Margaux riding up to him on Tatiana, her Arabian. The horse’s gold bells tinkled in the breeze as Margaux jumped into his arms and he took her away… But as the sun waned on the banks and she had not come to him, he knew she’d perished in the blaze just two weeks after their engagement.
He’d sat there until the blue sky turned purple, and then finally rose in darkness to make the difficult journey to Versailles.
It was a trip Carlo had loathed making. He’d needed to see the French king and hear it from him, that Margaux was gone. He blamed King Louis for what had happened to Margaux. The disorder in which the excessive sovereign kept his country would be his undoing.
The king had offered him another match, timid fifteen year-old Camille Bucheron. It was all he could do to turn from the king’s presence and not break the man’s neck with his bare hands. Such suicidal thoughts plagued him still.
His eyes roamed the horizon outside the bedroom window in memory. He focused on a light in the distance bobbing through the trees, towards the Villa Merona.
The town was in darkness; everyone must be abed. Except the person who walked with a lamp on the roadway in the middle of the night.
Carlo put on his breeches and pushed into his boots, keeping sight of the lamp as it wound its way towards the incline leading up to the courtyard. With the murders of Umberto, Oberto and Savino just two nights ago fresh in his mind, new nightmares in the making, he retrieved his gun from beneath the pillow. Whether it would help against whom or what approached was not something he wished to dwell upon. The light was closer now, on the main road, glowing through the trees.
He made his way down the stairs and through the main hall without encountering a soul. He heard the night wanderer out in the courtyard.
No, there are more than one set of footsteps. He slid into the kitchens just as the front door of the Villa Merona opened.
Behind the swinging double doors, he had a clear view of the entrance. Before him were two brown-robed figures.
Carlo backed further into the shadows as the smaller of the two men hung the lamp on a hook by the door. They walked into the main hall.
The big brown robe carried a burden.
Carlo couldn’t see what it was because the man’s back was turned. A broad back, shoulder-length hair. This was the one that had spotted them at il Dragone’s ceremony, the gravelly-voiced Luciano.
Luciano turned in silhouette. Carlo saw the dark waterfall of the female’s hair spilling from a brown hood and nearly reaching the floor.
“We cannot just leave her here,” Luciano whispered. “She saw what happened.”
“She deserves no less,” the old man hissed back in disgust. “To act in such a way at her coming out ceremony…”
“She was frightened,” Luciano said, running a hand through the female’s hair. The hand covered the woman’s skull.
“Of you, you ape!” The old man came around the hulking Luciano, his close cap of silver hair lowered as he peered into the female’s face. “She has fled into her mind at the sight of your nakedness.”
“She will see reason. It is the only way.”
“See that she does, or strangle her and silence her forever.”
“You cannot mean that.” There was childlike hurt in Luciano’s voice.
Is he a half-wit?
“She is unwilling, and therefore, a risk. Have you forgotten what happened with the last one?”
“No, Senior, I have not forgotten.”
“You are going soft, Luciano. What is so difficult? You are very skilled with your hands.”
“I heap curses upon Signor Ventiglia’s cadaver! I never thought the old bag of bones would shed his earthly coil. He hung on to that last breath as if he might bribe the devil himself for his life,” Luciano complained.
The old man chuckled.
Carlo leaned against the kitchen wall.
Tarcisio had written to the duke that his grandfather had succumbed to malaria in this, one of the hottest, driest summers Forlì had s
een in years. But that was not so. Il Dragone had taken matters into their own hands.
“Go. And do not touch her. Spoil her before the next ceremony and she will be of no use to us. I will be forced to kill her even before her father can manage it.”
“Not her. Please, not her,” Luciano begged. “She is so beautiful, and she will stay with me.”
The old man turned and started back through the main hall towards the entrance. “Take her upstairs,” he said. “Make certain she is at the ceremony tomorrow night.”
“Sì, Senior,” Luciano whined in relief. He took the unconscious female up the stairs.
Carlo wanted to go after them, and see who this female was, but the old man waited in the main room. If he were discovered now, all the plans he and Tarcisio had made together would be for naught.
Whoever the female was, she was unhurt and would remain so. Her ceremony had not taken place. It would never take place. King Vittorio’s army would see to that.
When Luciano came downstairs, he and the old man left the villa.
Carlo leaned his head against the kitchen wall, exhausted by what he had overheard, and what events had already transpired.
The world had changed, nightmares were reality, and Forlì was not what he had expected.
No one had inquired of his supposed assistant’s whereabouts. Umberto Dell’Acqua’s belongings lay neatly folded in the pine drawers of the armoire as if he were still a guest at the Villa Merona.
Even though the groomsman determinedly tended the Friesians as if they were his own, Arturo and Rafi seemed ready to bolt. They must sense that there are more things in the world than one would have thought possible.
A part of him knew it was insane to stay in Forlì in this strange villa after all that had happened. Another part of him knew death would bring him closer to his beloved Margaux.
He could not leave Forlì. For Umberto’s sake, he had to see this through to the end, whatever that might be.
Carlo waited until the lamplight faded in the courtyard. He returned to his room upstairs, wondering what the murder tally was over the centuries in a town where the devil feasted on human flesh.
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