“No,” said Teo. “Not yet. Not now. The abbot…”
But there were no more breaths.
The silence that followed was so dense and thick that it filled Teo’s ears completely and blotted everything else out. It buzzed in his ears and threatened to steal his breaths, too, until somehow he snapped back to himself and heard the songs of Compline drifting from the chapel in the hot stillness of the night.
He sat for a moment, staring at the corner where Brother Sandro had been pointing, then he noticed that the cracks in the plaster were deeper than they appeared at first glance.
Teo got up to look. Instinct told him that what he was doing was somehow indecent, a feeling reinforced when he brought the rushlight close to the wall and saw the crack led down to a hole at the bottom of the wall. The hole was mostly concealed by the leg of a heavy table, but as soon as he saw it Teo’s heart began to race faster.
They were still singing in the chapel. Teo wished he was with them, with nothing on his mind but God and the next line of Latin. His curiosity burned as fierce as Eve’s, and not even a backwards glance at the dead man on the bed would make it subject to the laws of human decency. Bracing his entire weight against it, Teo shoved the table back far enough for him to see.
He knelt, light in hand, and peered into the hole. It was too dark. He couldn’t see a thing, so – squeamish about the prospect of mice – he gritted his teeth and slipped a hand inside. He touched cloth and his first thought was of the wrappings that Brother Sandro wore about his hands and feet. And at once he had a sinking feeling what he was about to find.
Put it back. Put the table back. Leave it for someone else to discover. It’s not your business. It’s between him and God now.
But he didn’t. He tugged and pulled the bundle free of the hole. The cloth was bloodstained, and he smelled something familiar. Lye. There was a small jar of it, barely any left in there, but enough to incriminate. Enough to make people look twice at the burned edges of Brother Sandro’s wounds and conclude that they hadn’t been made by some heavenly force.
As if that wasn’t damning enough, there was also a knife, old, rusted and clotted with blood.
Teo stuffed the things back into place. The singing had stopped and he heard footsteps outside. When he pushed the table back into place its feet seemed to roar against the stone floor, and a small sob escaped his lips, a panicked sound of pure fear that everyone would know what he’d been doing.
He hurried to the door just as Brother Armando – a young man close to his own age – was passing. “Call the abbot. I think Brother Sandro has died.”
Teo knelt to pray beside the body, the way he should have been in the first place. A moment later the abbot came in, touched Brother Sandro’s cold wrist and sighed. He spoke the benediction and drew the sheet over the old man’s face.
“How long?” he said.
“I don’t know exactly,” said Teo. “His breaths were so far apart towards the end.”
“Thank you, Brother Teo. Go and get some rest now.”
Shaking, Teo got to his feet. He felt sick and heavy, and he knew that if he kept this burden to himself he wouldn’t sleep tonight. Or maybe ever again. “Father,” he said, trying to think of the right words to use. The corpse was barely cold, after all. “I must…there’s something you should know.”
Was it just a flicker of the rushlight, or did the abbot frown a little too deeply, as though he’d been expecting something like this?
“There is a hole,” said Teo, speaking very quickly and quietly. “In the bottom of the wall, behind the leg of that table. In it you will find a knife and a number of stained cloth wrappings. I’m not saying that it’s…evidence of anything, but Brother Sandro pointed it out to me before he died. And I believe he wanted me to get rid of those things.”
The abbot nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”
“What should we do?”
“The Lord sees everything, Brother Teo.”
“I know, Father.”
“The Lord will bring to light what needs to be brought to light,” said the abbot, and Teo’s heart sank. He’d come to look upon the abbot as a father, a far better one than the one whose lust had given him life in the first place, but now he saw – for the first time – that even good fathers shut out their sons when the situation called for it.
“Do you want me to take care of it?” Teo said. “I can—”
“—no.” The abbot spoke too sharply, and when he did so again his voice was soft, but sure. “The man has just died. A little respect, please.”
“I’m sorry. Of course. I’m sorry.”
*
On his way to San Bendetto, Nicci had rehearsed all the things he needed to say. And as he’d done so he’d imagined the ways he was going to wipe the smile off Teo’s face. He pictured those large, dark blue eyes gone dull, the soft, thick brows brought down with sorrow, and every time it brought him pain, but he’d made up his mind.
He’d been so sure that he’d be the one to hurt Teo that when he arrived at the monastery he was surprised to find the boy already hurt, or at least suffering from some form of disquiet.
They were in the lean-to where they’d first met, Teo tending plants that were much larger now. At first glance Nicci could see that there was something wrong, because Teo – who had always been far too young and lively to emulate the proper bowed-head shuffle of a monk – held his head as though the weight of the world had settled between his shoulder blades.
“Listen, I need to talk to you,” Nicci said, deciding to come right out with it.
Teo nodded, pressing his lips together to conceal a wry, sad smile. “Oh dear,” he said. “What did my father do to you this time?”
“Funny you should ask that.”
“So he did do something? What happened?”
Nicci leaned against the wall. “I…drew something,” he said. “Not a pig. You inspired me.”
“I did?” Teo immediately lightened, and something inside of Nicci swelled, ached and burst. Oh no.
“I drew your vision,” said Nicci. “The Annunciation. I thought it would be the thing that persuaded your father to hire me as an artist. So I rolled up the drawing and I took it to Prato to show him, but…” He shook his head. “He only wants one thing from me. And that’s you. For me to persuade you to leave the monastery.”
“I know that. And you know I’ll never leave. Why can’t we just keep stringing him along?”
“Because,” said Nicci. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Teo. I can’t do this anymore. I thought I could live with it, but now I see I can’t. That work made me feel alive in a way I never thought I’d feel again. I can’t continue to take his money, and by doing so let him insult me, as a waste, a drunk, a gambler.” Teo’s eyes were too bright, but Nicci knew now he had no choice. “Nobody in Florence takes me seriously. I have to…I have to go elsewhere.”
Teo set down his trowel. He swallowed. There was a smudge of earth on his forehead and Nicci wanted nothing more in the world than to brush it away. “Where? Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Rome. Milan. Venice, maybe. I haven’t thought that far—”
“—don’t leave me.”
The words burst from Teo’s lips as though he had nothing to do with them. Indeed, he looked surprised to have even uttered them.
“I’m sorry,” Nicci said, knowing he was already lost.
“Please…”
“Teo, I…”
“Please,” said Teo, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Please. I’m so lonely.”
Nicci drew close and touched the back of Teo’s hand, just a light brush to let him know he was there. In response, Teo grabbed Nicci’s hand and squeezed, crushing tight enough to hurt. His other hand was over his mouth, his eyes averted. His distress was so sudden, so ugly and profound that Nicci recognised it immediately. He’d seen it so many times before, in young men shrinking from their own natures. And now…
He’d done what Alban
i wanted. He’d destroyed the boy. He’d torn down Teo’s faith, and yet some monstrous part of him still exulted.
“It’s not that bad,” Nicci said. “It’s really not.”
Teo released his hand and wiped his eyes with his wide black sleeve. “It is. It’s so much more complicated than you can imagine. This is my home, and yet…”
“And yet? Tell me, Teo. If nothing else I’d like to think you can confide in me.”
Teo swallowed and struggled to compose himself. “My faith,” he said. “It’s not…it’s not as strong as it should be.”
Nicci could feel his pulse throbbing in his temple. He reached out again, brushing the back of Teo’s hand, but this time Teo made no attempt to clasp back. It was very quiet. The only sounds were birdsong and the soft chk of a hoe meeting soil somewhere in the gardens.
“Listen to me,” he said, in a low voice. “I have to ask you a question. You don’t have to answer. Just nod your head if the answer is yes.”
Teo nodded, frowning slightly. His eyes were blue fire, his cheeks smudged with dirt and tears. He was little more than a child, really, kept stunted by holiness, but under that robe he was still a man. A young and beautiful man who had no idea how the sacred and the sordid could mingle so sweetly in the arms of a lover. A ripe peach hanging on a bough so far beyond Nicci’s reach that it may as well have been hanging from the branch of a tree that grew on the moon, and yet Nicci’s very nature forced him to stretch.
“Your faith,” Nicci said. “Is it…that is to say…”
This was hard. And any minute that damnable bell was going to interrupt. He felt sure of it.
“Is it me?” Nicci said, meeting Teo’s eyes with some difficulty. “Don’t say anything. Just nod, if I’m the one who’s making you feel this way.”
Teo shook his head. “No.”
Oh.
“It’s not you,” said Teo, oblivious to Nicci’s horror at having so grievously misread the situation. “It’s Brother Sandro.”
“Brother…?”
“Sandro. The stigmatic. Remember I told you about him?”
“Yes.” Nicci leaned on the edge of the table. In truth he couldn’t give a shit. He was too busy trying to understand out why it felt as though someone had punched his heart out of his chest. What had he expected to happen, exactly? The boy was a monk, on top of everything else.
Teo lowered his voice and leaned close. “He was a fraud. I found out. He’d been making the wounds himself with a knife and a pot of lye.”
“That’s…” Terrible. Pointless. Nothing to do with me. Oh God, this was a disaster.
“I know. I know. I told the abbot, and he…he more or less told me to say nothing. Can you believe it?”
“No,” said Nicci. Now he understood why they called it falling, because when Teo had said no to his question he had found himself plunging back to earth like a shot duck.
“My faith has been shaken,” said Teo. “But not by you, Nicci. Not by you.”
*
He was naked in the sunlight.
The bees were buzzing in the clover, the sky blue and cloudless and perfect. Teo, tied to the trunk of a tree, arched his throat up towards the sun. He had no idea what he was doing here, but his whole body was ablaze with a fierce want, wicked and expectant. He couldn’t touch himself, but he could move his hips a little from side to side, swaying the weight of his cock as it tugged at the muscles in his groin. It brought just enough relief to make him moan but not nearly enough to satisfy.
Through the thin fog of sleep he knew what had to happen to make this stop. He needed release, but his arms were tied. He was so, so hard, all the lusts of Hell boiling away in his balls.
He heard footsteps and panic swarmed over him, shame flooding his senses. If someone saw him like this…
And then Nicci was there.
He wore a thin shirt and no doublet. Through the fine linen Teo could make out the dark circles of his nipples and see the fine fur of black hair that grew over his heart. And then he knew he was damned, because his poor, shameful naked body strained at its bonds, wanting to be close to Nicci. Wanting to be touched.
“Please,” Teo heard himself say. “Please. I need…”
Nicci’s gaze flickered over his skin like the lightest of caresses. Teo arched his body outwards, his cock now a blazing thick wand of shameless need.
“Yes, I see the problem,” Nicci said, and reached out. For a thrilling moment Teo hung there, stretching towards him, waiting for Nicci to touch him, but then he felt a sudden pain somewhere above his navel. He looked down and cried out, because there was an arrow sticking out of him.
It had gone deep. Thick streams of blood ran down his side. Nicci held the shaft and twirled it gently between his fingers. The pain bloomed like a hideous red flower inside of Teo, but it still couldn’t kill the torment of his pleasure.
“All right,” said Nicci, his voice calm and gentle. “I see what we’re going to have to do. In order to pull it out without pain I’m going to have to push it in first. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes, please help me. Please.”
“This might hurt,” said Nicci, and pushed.
Teo cried out again, so loud that the sound seemed to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him up into a thinner, greyer layer of sleep. There was no pain, only ecstasy, a hot sweet pressure that grew more irresistible as the arrow moved inside him. He was awake now, awake enough to know that this was sin, but his body didn’t care. He felt the heat pour from him, his wayward hips bucking and twitching, pushing the exquisitely sensitive tip of him against the fabric of the very hair shirt that had been supposed to prevent these things from happening.
He sat up in a panic, reaching down to check. He was wet down there, and still hard. And he was weak, because his hand lingered too long, cradling the thick, swollen source of all this mischief. The touch of his hand was unholy. Delicious.
“Oh no,” he said, and even the sound of his own regret held a carnal note. “Oh no, no. No.”
It was pitch black and silent. The clock inside him, the one tuned to the Liturgy of the Hours, knew the texture of this time of night. Matins were several hours away. In the solitary darkness a fresh wave of horror came upon him. Nicci. He’d been dreaming of Nicci.
Teo clapped a hand over his mouth and reached under the bed. There was no time to lose. He’d done it now. Something far worse than simply pulsing and spending in his sleep. An abomination. A lust so sinful that God had burned whole cities as a warning against it.
His shaking fingers found the discipline, a seven tailed whip with knots in its ends. He got up from his hard, narrow bed, slipped on his sandals and – head still spinning and thighs still sticky – hurried to the empty chapel.
The night air smelled of dew and rosemary and wild roses. As if emboldened by the moment when they’d stolen control of his sleeping body, his senses wanted to run riot. He filled his lungs, sobbing as he ran down the aisle.
Teo stripped, not wanting to stand before God in his stained robe. Naked, he stood before the altar in the moonlight, crying hard enough to shake himself to pieces. He gazed up at the tortured body on the cross before him and moaned, digging his fingernails into his bare thighs, appalled at this latest trick God had played on him. Was this punishment for his arrogance? For thinking he had the right to turn in Brother Sandro?
He dropped to his knees and took up the discipline. The first lash stole the ragged breath from his lungs. Peace. There was peace in pain. No more sobbing, no more whining and bargaining. Just the clarity of pain and the knowledge that what was needed now was prayer.
“Oh Lord, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee…”
It came upon him like a trance. Each bite of the whip was a reminder of how Christ had suffered, blow upon blow, and how all must strive to suffer in kind, because He had. He’d suffered it all, even though he’d been terrified and hurt and human, because His was the sacrifice, and this was the cup that h
ad been set before him.
Teo felt something wet run down his back. Blood or sweat, he couldn’t tell. The discipline slid from his fingers and he stretched himself out on the floor, face down, arms spread, the cold stone a mortification for the wicked organ that had brought him here in the first place.
“Lord, heal me of this evil. Forgive me. Forgive me for taking your gift of love and perverting it to my own base ends. Lord, give me strength.”
He lay there for a long while. The punishment had pulled him deep into his body and he was aware of every breath and sensation. His back howled with pain and the stone was damp under his belly and forehead, but he was back in control. He was himself again.
“Lord…” he said. “Do with me as you will.”
There was a strange fragrance in the air, a sweetness almost floral, until it reached the back of his throat and made him gag and his stomach twist gently. It was coming from Brother Sandro, who was laid out to the right of the altar, awaiting burial. Teo rose and put on his clothes, the smell thicker now, and sweeter, the floral notes overlaying the inevitable smell of rot.
Teo took a candle and approached the body. The smell was even stronger. Fragrant, even. And here – here was something strange, because in this heat Brother Sandro should have been turning grey by now, if not black.
But the old man only looked as though he was sleeping.
7
In the glare of the midday sun, Giancarlo felt hopelessly exposed. For several streets now he’d been conscious – as he now so often was – of footsteps behind him. He lingered deliberately in the middle of the piazza, where anybody who might do harm to him would have to do so in view of witnesses.
But it was no use. Fillipo Ribisi was not the kind of person who cared too much about reputations, so long as his own remained fearsome. Giancarlo saw him stalking just beyond the market stalls at the edge of the square, saw the red flower device on his sleeve and the line of his sword.
Giancarlo hurried for the church, hoping there was at least one person whose good opinion Fillipo feared enough to restrain himself.
The Thief Of Peace Page 7
