Suicide Kings
Authors: Christopher J. Ferguson
Tags: #Fiction, #Horror, #Retail, #Suspense
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Suicide Kings
by
Christopher Ferguson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Suicide Kings
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Christopher J. Ferguson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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Publishing History
First Historical Mainstream Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-070-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-071-0
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my wife and son, who have always been supportive.
And to my parents, Denise and Stuart.
Chapter One
The End at the Beginning
Firenze, February 1497
The sun filled the horizon with angry rays glinting across a thousand lethargic flakes of snow that flurried down from a passing bank of dark clouds. Diana Savrano held a hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare. Her eyes, rimmed with red, already stung. The new flakes made the going treacherous, her black boots unsuitable for the slippery stone streets.
Late as usual. She’d found it difficult to dress herself, to hook the laces of her black dress, to adorn herself in such a dark and depressing garment. For such a complex article, she’d usually count on her mother’s help. Though a young woman, she’d never quite managed the dexterity for the most complex formal garb and somehow the designers managed to make things ever more difficult. More hooks, more loops, more layers, more madness. Her mother would not offer her any assistance this evening. Isabella Savrano already waited at the Basilica of Saint Zenobius.
Once, Diana had called out for her mother to help, forgetting her mother was gone. Frustration had reduced her to inaction, and for a while she could only stare at herself in the mirror. Finally she’d summoned up an absolute store of energy, and gotten herself dressed properly. By then the rest of the household had already gone. Her father had left behind one of their Swiss mercenaries as an escort. The young man had kept his eyes averted from her.
Now she scurried along the city streets as quickly as she could. She did not want to keep her mother waiting any more than she already had. Other citizens parted way before her, a fury of black, black dress, black boots, black hair, pounding her way across the crowded streets and piazze. She must have made for quite an odd sight.
Her breath came in rasps, and tears formed at the edge of her eyes, but these only froze into beads of ice, to drop away and mix with the snow. Behind her the Swiss mercenary kept pace easily, silent, watching, assuring she progressed to the Basilica unmolested.
At last the building loomed into view, the great Basilica rising high above the surrounding buildings. The marble and other stones around the outside were designed in such a way the edifice radiated a faint combination of light green and faint crimson hues, particularly in the fading light. The face consisted of so many statues, frescoes, gargoyles, and etchings the building seemed almost coated in spines. Huge wooden doors promised mass inlet for the penitents of Firenze, although in practice only the smaller doors to the sides were ever actually opened.
Diana chose one of those now. She burst into the church, huffing and puffing from exertion, eyes blinded by the oppressive dark within. She stopped short, realizing she’d made too much of an entrance. She wiped her eyes, gave them a moment to adjust.
Candles struggled to light the interior of the Basilica. At the best of times, with midday sun streaming through the ungenerous stained glass windows, the nave felt cold and oppressive. Sculptures from the finest artistic talents of Firenze did little to assuage this atmosphere, for too often the themes of these sculptures focused on the suffering of martyrs and the ease with which life transitioned to death. Indeed most of the artwork in the church had been commissioned for the many tombs that lined the walls; the exalted dead of Firenze marking their passage with the finest, if morbid, decor.
One of those tombs now sat open, the funerary plaque not yet hoisted into place. Before the black void waited an open casket. As Diana’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could see a small congregation gathered around that casket. They turned to look as she entered. Most averted their eyes upon seeing who it was, no doubt made uncomfortable by the grief written on Diana’s face. Her father watched her without expression. After a moment he turned back to two luminaries with whom he seemed engaged in discussion. The congregants near the tomb milled about, speaking, or sat quietly in prayer in the wooden pews set up near the tomb. Cardinal Michele Lajolo had been asked by her father to officiate at the service and he now stood off to one side, conversing quietly with several mourners.
With a sinking heart, Diana realized she’d missed the service. Fresh tears filled her eyes and spilled over and down her cheeks. Could this day possibly get any worse? She must seem like such a horrible human being to the other mourners. And they were right. Her mother would be so disappointed in her.
She sucked in a deep breath, one arm going defensively across her chest. She couldn’t make eye contact with the others present, tried to imagine there were no others in the room besides her. The least she could do was move forward to the sarcophagus and pay her respects. She could spend a little time alone with the dead, ask her forgiveness.
So she proceeded up the little impromptu aisle between the wooden pews, shivering in the cold. A nun stood as she moved past, a thin, sad bird of a woman. Their eyes locked for a moment, but it was the nun who looked away, seeming chastened somehow. Diana focused ahead, one small step after another, making her way forward to greet her mother who awaited her.
When Diana’s fingers touched her mother’s she found them cold and waxy. They felt unreal. Much unreality needed to be made real tonight. Instead of sitting side-by-side as they always did, fingers entwined as they prayed together for a dead acquaintance, her mother tonight had awaited her with the greatest of patience. For her mother lay in the ornate sarcophagus in quiet repose, her fingers cold because no more warm blood flowed through them. Her mother was dead. And it just could not be so.
“Mother?” Diana pleaded quietly, looking down into the sarcophagus. In death, Isabella Savrano wore the finest deep green dress with a string of diamonds around her neck. Her skin seemed the color of snow, set off against rivulets of dark hair, black with some strands of gray. Diana might have mistaken her for sleeping and hoped even now her quiet entreaty might awaken her from this deep slumber. A drop fell from Diana’s cheek down onto Isabella’s dress. A last gift from daughter to mother.
Diana collapsed to her knees beside the casket, her legs unable to hold her upright any longer. A great sob burst from her chest, the reality of her mother’s death inescapable. Never could Diana have believed this possible, even as Isabella Savrano had sickened with fever, Diana had believed fervently in her mother’s immortality. She’d been wrong to believe.
Diana sat arm in arm with death itself. Past marble images of angels, she reached her hand up and over the lid of the sarcophagus to stroke her mother’s face. Her other hand held the rosary, fingers ticking off the prayers in deepest grief. Her mother’s flesh drew warmth out of her.
Behind her still was most of the funerary procession: the Cardinal Lajolo, her father Signore Savrano, dozens of others who blended together like ghostly strangers through blurry eyes. They gave her time to say goodbye to her mother before the tomb was sealed and Isabella Savrano vanished forever into the wall of the Basilica.
God had taken her mother, stolen her. Her death had come during the bitterest days of winter and the cold had taken away her life. Now she was gone. The thought of it still came as a shock. It could not be possible, still so beautiful, now dead. Marsh fever had been the cause. The disease had come on quickly, progressed fast and ended in these unimaginable consequences. Diana could not fathom that her mother died so, taken in the prime of her life by the natural and loving hand of God.
She wiped her eyes. Her breath trembled as she inhaled. Without her mother she felt lost.
A presence loomed behind her, a dark shadow. Diana ignored it. Nothing anyone could want from her would be enough to pull her from this deepest moment of despair. Let them speak with her father, whatever they needed. A moment passed. The figure remained, felt more than seen. Diana remained turned away, forehead against the marble.
A hand gently brushed her shoulder and she tensed. Still she didn’t turn to look. Perhaps they’d leave if she didn’t respond. Instead, fingers brushed her long hair aside from her right ear. She felt breath, warm and moist against her throat. Diana’s fingers gripped the lid of the sarcophagus in surprise. Otherwise she froze, unable to move, unable to turn. She behaved like a child hiding under covers in hopes not to be seen by some imaginary witch. The person, whoever it was, seemed to hesitate. A heartbeat passed. At last came the fateful words, whispered in Diana’s ear.
“Your mother was murdered.”
Chapter Two
The First Death is the Sweetest
“Your mother was murdered,” carried a voice on breath that stank of foul wine and rotten teeth. Diana barely registered the words, and when she did, she thought they must be some horrible seed of her own imagination. She blinked, forcing herself out of her misery. Diana looked up, searched the Basilica of Saint Zenobius for the speaker.
There seemed to be no one standing close. Perhaps it had been her imagination after all. She had not slept well since the death.
She couldn’t shake the vividness of the voice, though. Certainly it had been no illusion. If only she had been clear-headed she could have seen who it was. She stood, and stared at the crowd, none of who paid her much mind. The voice had been a hiss; it could have been a man or woman. Not far away stood a man in a green doublet, his back turned to her. She touched his arm. “Did you speak to me?”
He turned and looked at her in sympathy. “No, Lady, I did not.”
His was the wrong voice. She turned from him without explaining. Her eyes scanned the others in the Basilica frantically. There! Far away now, across the dark and cold chamber, a nun hurried from the group. Short and thin, she moved past the massive altar at the end of the nave toward a small wooden door studded with iron bolts. As the door creaked open, the nun turned and caught Diana’s eye. The woman’s wrinkled face quivered but she held Diana’s gaze and the rosary dropped unnoticed from Diana’s hand.
“Wait!” Diana shouted, her voice echoing endlessly through the cavernous hall. Several dozen pairs of eyes turned to look at her at once, but the nun broke her stare and fled through the door. Shouting had been the wrong thing to do, Diana realized. Picking up the folds of her dress, she hastened to follow the nun. She ignored the looks from the other mourners.
Diana tore open the studded door, finding herself faced with a narrow set of stone stairs winding up. This was the way into the cupola then, the huge dome painted with scenes of heaven and hell. It was a long way up and Diana was poorly dressed for such a climb, but she felt determined. With one hand she held onto the central stone pillar for balance and with the other she held up her dress to keep it from getting under her feet. She looked up, but of course could only see the bottom of the stairs above her. She had no idea how far it might be to the top.
“Sister!” she called up the stairs. “Was it you who spoke to me? I must know!”
No answer came, only the soft retreating sounds of footsteps above. Up, Diana drove herself, higher and higher, round and around until she became dizzy and slightly nauseated. Once she stopped to rest and wobbled on one foot before catching herself in time. She pushed herself onward, ignoring the cramps moving across her diaphragm, ignoring the tightening in her chest as her lungs struggled for breath. Her long black hair billowed out behind her like branches of willow. The stairs seemed endless. Only small windows cut into the stone brought light into the stairwell, and showed her how high she ascended. There must be a thousand stairs, she thought, maybe ten thousand.