by A Werner
Turstin whimpered. “How do we explain Avenel’s disappearance?”
Gherardus continued to stare at Avenel as he thought on this question. “We will tell them that Avenel died as well. We’ll have to go down to the morgue and get two more bodies, a man for Avenel and a woman for Ma. There will be no viewings - of course. Pa will be buried alongside a beggar and a whore.”
“We can’t do this alone,” Turstin nearly cried. “It is all too much. Others must be brought in to help us.”
Gherardus was frustrated. He realized this was true. He was going to have to lie some more and buy some people off. It was going to get expensive and confusing. “I will deal with that. I will find the right people; people we can trust.”
Turstin had no heart for all this lying. He wasn’t sure he could bear any of it. He thought about his wife Druda and the urge to cry grew stronger. There was a flood building up inside his head.
Avenel put Turstin’s troubled mind at ease. “It’s okay, brother, this is my quest. Gherardus is right. You must stay here. Parthenope is your home. Stay and help your brother.” Avenel turned to face Gherardus, his arms still clutching his mother’s body tight to his chest. “I will do as you command. I will leave the city tonight with whatever coin I have.”
Gherardus warmed for a moment. “With whatever coin we have.”
Avenel smiled small. He lowered his eyes on Meliore’s solemn face. “I accept the burden the Lord has placed on my soul. It is a weight I invited into my life and now I must carry it away from Parthenope.”
Gherardus Fabbro didn’t care about sins. He had seen the brutality of war. People were always getting hurt, innocent people dying. It was unfortunate. But still, the strong must go on. “I will lead the guards to the tower and toss the place. Turstin, you start going through Pa’s records and come up with names we can use.”
The sons of Meliore and Tancred Fabbro suddenly stared at one another in silence as they realized that this was the last time the whole family would be in one room together. Avenel felt pity. Turstin felt scared. Gherardus felt ambitious.
“The fates have decided the matter,” Gherardus announced. “We must pull our heads out of the past if we intend to live. We have new lives to pursue, new journeys to undertake. I have a kingdom to govern. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this and I’m not going to waste any more time standing here thinking about the dead. Bury them both and be done with it.”
Gherardus marched to the door and threw it open.
Without speaking another word, Avenel carried Meliore away.
“What are you waiting for, brother?” Gherardus commanded Turstin. “Get to it. I need names.” Gherardus slammed the door, his booming voice already ordering the guards to the tower.
Turstin Fabbro stood alone in the study. He stared at his father’s corpse on the floor, all white and bent. An icy shiver shot through his bones. ‘My brother needs names. Gherardus is in charge now. We are not equals. If he thinks I’m not doing my job, he will kill me.’
Turstin was missing Avenel already.
Turstin sat down at Tancred’s wide desk and started thumbing through the papers for names. It was his responsibility to choose the scapegoats.
When the room grew quiet, the green lizard hiding under the dresser poked its little head out. It had seen and heard everything. With its little legs fully charged and rested, it scampered across the study, stole a peak of the fallen commander on the floor, and exited by way of the patio where it was soon joined by several other tiny common lizards like itself. They all scampered off down the walls of the palace together.
DAY ONE
Friday
13 August, 1198
Matthew 5:45
He maketh the sun to rise on the evil and the good,
and sendeth rain on the just and the unjust.
Chapter 3 – Betrayal
Alone, during the loneliest hour of the night, sixty-eight-year-old Gherardus Fabbro walked beneath the Castel dell Ovo in Parthenope. Anxiously, he played with a band of gold on the index finger of his right hand. The trinket was a gift from Celestine III, a former pope and childhood friend who had come to his rescue after he had assassinated his parents twenty-eight years ago. Now Gherardus was indebted to the Church. He was not a Christian but it mattered not. They knew his darkest secret and forced him to do many things he did not want to do. The ring was there on his finger to remind him of that enslavement.
Dressed in a purple gown with shortened sleeves, a gold chain twisted neatly around his waist, Gherardus Fabbro removed the golden ring and read the inscription etched inside; ‘Meliore.’ Meliore Fabbro died in this very building in a room that was now his study, an assassin’s arrow, his arrow, through the heart. He kissed the gold ring and placed it back on his finger. He was ready to do what needed to be done.
Gherardus shoved his way into a miserable little antechamber near the bottom of the world. The haunting hollow was humid and cool, low and wide, lit poorly by a dozen flickering torches in beckets on the walls. The sound of trickling seawater could be heard echoing somewhere in the distance, the saltiness filling the air. Several common lizards, green and shiny, scampered in and out of the shadowy spaces, their tiny webbed feet propelling them across the floor - up and down the walls. Several men, conspirators, stood united in silence.
Gherardus made his way past all the shadows, assuming his rightful place on a tall and slender chair made of oak, a chair his grandfather had originally presented to his father on the day of his wedding. Sulking, Gherardus placed his elbows on the armrests that were fashioned to resemble snarling dragons. He opened his hands and lowered his long face into their awaiting pity. He did not speak.
Talento Fabbro, the ambassador of Parthenope who had arranged this unofficial meeting, materialized quickly like a spirit from out of the dark behind the high back throne. Slender and clean-shaven, Talento was a secretive man. He had a proud but weak pose, his wiry frame confidently sporting a patched gown of many colors. Extending his cold fingers like the wiry legs of a spider, Talento gently touched the left shoulder of the Grand Duke. “Father,” Talento murmured in Gherardus’ ear, “we must begin. Bishop Anselm has come from Rome. He represents Pope innocent. We must not keep him waiting. Time is wasting.”
“Ah,” Gherardus sneered. “Time is wasting? How many times have I heard those words before? Too many times. Headstrong fools. Mark my words, son, all the evil done in this world has been done by fools like this one.” Gherardus narrowed his eyes and tried to see the shadowy church official standing off in the black. “No, the devil wants time. It is the key to life and he knows he doesn’t have much of it. Why can’t men be more patient and wait upon the gods? They have no faith in their talents.” He scoffed. “I’m tired of plots. I’m not immortal and neither are any of you.” He waved his hand over the room. “Deceased. Dead men gathered to conspire. An elite body of tricksters pretending to represent God.”
Gherardus raised an accusing finger. “Who are you to ask me to do more evil? Have I not done enough? Is my seat in hell not paid for? I know these insects well.” The former Bishop of Parthenope had recently taken ill and the man standing before him was a stranger. “Perhaps I should swat him, squish him. Would my disobedience resonate in heaven? Will God come down and talk to me? Just once I want to be like Moses and stand before a burning bush. I’m tired of his messengers. They are not even men. They are mean-spirited, greedy creatures who can only repeat the words of the great mosquito. How bad could it be if I refused to feed the stomach which is never full?”
Talento Fabbro was anxious to finish this meeting and had no time for philosophy or religion. He didn’t care to hear any more of his father’s ravings. He had heard them all before. Gherardus Fabbro was a wicked old man who kept sinning to save his skin. Such dishonesty and bluster for redemption deserved no real respect.
Talento asked Bishop Anselm to approach the throne.
Bishop Anselm was tall and awkward with noticeable liv
er spots on both his cheeks, stains which many superstitious minds misread as plague or worse – a curse. And because of his frightful appearance, he couldn’t preach to common men and issue the sacraments. No one would have accepted it from his hand. It was only through hard work and a few unfortunate deaths, Anselm became a bishop before turning forty.
Anselm approached the throne in a demeaning and rapid manner. His face said it all. “Senor, I must say, your lecture concerns me. Are you insinuating that we are insects and mosquitoes?”
Gherardus snapped back, “I insinuate nothing and condemn everything!”
Bishop Anselm rolled his eyes and puffed his liver spots. “The Latin Church cannot be judged by you. Rome is God’s strong right hand. We find truth wherever it may be and sometimes purification comes at a cost. This cannot be helped. I encourage you to remember that and bind yourself once again to the truths of the universal Church without question. Our most Holy Father in Rome, the honorable Pope Innocent, prays for you.”
Gherardus Fabbro was not impressed. “Enough, Bishop Anselm. I lived the beginning. I was there when the pope paid his way to the top. I never wanted his prayers back then and I sure as heck do not want them now.”
The Roman official puffed again. He was good at puffing.
“Easy.” Gherardus waved his hand as if surrendering. “You’ve just been promoted and have much to learn. No matter how bright, common people don’t always feel the Pope’s warmth.” Gherardus could not help himself as he leaned forward and muttered for everyone to hear, “Your stewards of God have had their butts saved by my kind, many times.”
Bishop Anselm was turning red. It was apparent he was getting ready to leave before the real issues could be discussed.
Gherardus Fabbro could not let that happen. He looked at the gold ring on his finger and wilted. “I apologize signore Anselm. The great mosquitoes must have blood. We are not here to resist him. We will give him blood.”
Bishop Anselm took a deep breath and pretended they had not argued at all. “Lord Gherardus, as you are already aware, the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry VI, died nearly a year ago[1]. His son, Frederick, is only three years of age and cannot yet rule. Europe needs a new King.”
Gherardus nodded for he already knew this.
“Today we are faced with the misguided election of Henry’s brother Philip. We cannot allow another Hohenstaufen to take the throne. The continuation of that line would be ruinous for all of Europe and an abomination before God!”
Gherardus smirked. “Come now signore, do you really think God cares who the emperor is? Maybe it’s just the Church who has a problem with Philip of Swabia?”
Anselm was livid. “The Church and God are one in the same. Someone in your place should realize this truth and honor it. You swore a holy oath!”
That was enough. The old commander leapt to his feet. “Do not lecture me, Senor! I know the oath I took and I know too whom I took it! Celestine was a fine man and my loyalty towards him was well deserved. I pledged my allegiance to a good friend who in turn bound me to a fool’s notion.” Gherardus made sure everyone saw the gold ring on his finger. “It is only out of respect for the wishes of the dead that I entertain your pope now.” Before he could continue, a surprising wind somehow managed to enter the room and agitate the fire on the torches. Everyone was chilled by its sudden and unexpected presence. Gherardus warmed his arms with his hands before tenderly kissing the ring. He turned to his throne and found it occupied by a tiny green lizard. He brushed it away and sat back down.
“If I may continue,” Bishop Anselm coughed, “Philip of Swabia wants to revisit the investiture controversy and undermine apostolic succession.”
Gherardus sighed. “The Concordat of Worms decided that issue once and for all.”
“My Lord Gherardus, laws aren’t worth the paper they are written on. Commandments need roots. Men must be willing to take up arms and fight for those words. They must protect Italy.”
“Protect Italy?” Gherardus struck his fist sharply against the dragon-faced armrest. “Do not speak to me about protecting Italy! I’ve been defending Italy my whole life! I’ve bled for it! I’ve killed for it! You’ve never done such a thing. You’ve never even swung a sword at another man.” The aged commander felt short of breath. “War, for whatever purposes we have imagined, is all around us. Friends are betraying friends.”
Chapter 4 – Derogated
Talento Fabbro festered in the dark behind the throne. He was not pleased with the pointless debate between these two stubborn men he had brought together. He placed his thin fingers on his father’s shoulders again. “My Lord, the Archbishop of Cologne has elected Otto of Brunswick, the nephew of Richard the Lionheart, to be emperor.” Talento lowered his head and withdrew to the shadows.
Bishop Anselm added to Talento’s timely words. “Otto of Brunswick supports the Church. The Holy See is sponsoring Otto’s election. We expect that you will support this decision and suppress any factions supporting Philip of Swabia.”
They had turned a corner and Gherardus could go no further. He couldn’t even speak.
Talento Fabbro stepped forward again, this time to utter the treachery for him. “Inform the Holy Father that we in Parthenope are ready to do our part. We have identified a troublemaker, a disloyal Spaniard in Capua. He is Pero de Alava, a knight of Penafiel and traitor to the Church. He claims to support Philip.”
The bishop anticipated an end to this meeting approaching. “Signore, what do you intend to do with this traitor?”
Gherardus was uncomfortable hearing Pero’s good name derogated. Guardedly, Gherardus believed the Spaniard was a brilliant administrator and the exact opposite of everything the people in this room were accusing him of being. The loss of such devotion and talent seemed almost immoral, almost.
“Rugerius!”
Rugerius Fabbro, the Castellan of Parthenope and Gherardus’ eldest son, approached the throne. The knight sported a rough and ruddy beard, deliberate facial hair covering a recent injury, a broken jaw. With or without the beard, he had become difficult to look on.
“Have you amassed your troops?” Gherardus questioned his son, already knowing the answer.
A shorter but equally threatening knight without a beard stepped up next to Rugerius without saying a word. “Bergus and I have mustered the men. All our preparations are complete. There will be no foul-ups. Capua will burn.”
Gherardus Fabbro could not recall his eldest son ever being young or pleasant. Rugerius had always been quarrelsome and defiant. “Then on your way, my son,” Gherardus commanded softly.
Ringing and rattling, the two knights about-faced and marched down the aisle, scaring a dozen lizards in the process. They vacated the room through the double doors Gherardus had entered.
Bishop Anselm turned his attention back to the throne. “Am I to understand that Sir Pero’s heresy will be severely dealt with, an example and warning to others who might want to support Philip?”
Exhausted, Gherardus answered as quietly as he could. “Yes, Pero’s punishment will be severe.”
“Good. My duty is complete and I will travel back to Rome with the news. May the Lord in heaven keep you safe and exalt you beyond measure.” Before all the words of this blessing dripped down from his lying mouth, Anselm nodded at Talento.
Talento understood the bishop and stepped out from behind the throne. He disrespected Gherardus with a feeble bow. “Father, the walkways leading out of this chamber can be thorny to pilot for those unfamiliar with them. I will see the bishop safely to his transport.”
Gherardus waved this son away also. His sons were criminals of the highest order and neither possessed the characteristics necessary to rule well one day. But what other choice did Gherardus have? What other choice did the kingdom have? Believing the cella empty, Gherardus sighed aloud, “What an awful father I have been.”
“Awful does not do you justice, my Lord.”
Gherardus raised his head, unmoved by the
interruption. A large figure appeared from a hidden recess far across the room. He was a giant, the golden hem of his black shroud gently dusting the floor as he silently advanced on the throne. “You were quiet today, Sinibaldus. You have nothing to add?”
Seven and one-half-feet tall, almost four-hundred pounds, Sinibaldus lowered the hood of the cape. His head was small and hairless, his face incurably white. Sapphire blue skin around his beady dark eyes made him look sick to death.
“My Lord, you know my dabblings with the dark arts has made me an enemy of the Catholics. I must avoid contact with them. If they discovered my whereabouts, they might force you to surrender me. I have no desire to be tortured by priests.”
Gherardus laughed. “Oh, good man, I rule Parthenope and no church official is going to come in here and tell me otherwise.”
Sinibaldus replied, “Indeed good man, I think you fear Rome more than you approve of me. I just watched you bow to the wishes of the Church yet again. I believe it is wise, at this time, to question your loyalty.”
“How dare you!” Gherardus shouted. “Who do you think you are to question my devotion?”
Sinibaldus was the most agreeable creature in Gherardus’ court. He did not hesitate to lower his towering stature immediately, the exaggerated display of humility almost touching the floor. “My Lord, forgive me. Your affection is appreciated. I thank you for your mercy.” Maintaining the pose, Sinibaldus added, “Perhaps I will learn more about this faithfulness of yours from Sir Pero’s dead body.”
Gherardus wobbled his head back and forth on his shoulders. He knew he could not afford to challenge this unusual and important man anymore. There were just too many deceptions they shared. He needed Sinibaldus’ help again and ordered the white-faced monster to stand at ease.
