The Fallen (11 page)

He laughed and stepped forward, picking up the hammer and nail and setting it back to the skin of Tacit's forearm, the hammer held high. “It's just you and me now for the remainder of your days, at least until I've decided I've had enough of you. So come on,” he growled, his eyes growing wide, “entertain me while you can!” He brought the hammer down hard on the head of the nail.

And the private voice returned, more loathsome than ever, crying guttural curses. And deeper still, lights began to flicker and burn red within Tacit.

FIFTEEN

T
HE
V
ATICAN
. V
ATICAN
C
ITY
.

Father Strettavario watched Bishop Basquez slip from the Vatican Library and moved across the Belvedere Courtyard to meet him where the shadows of the Apostolic Library were erased by the sun.

“Bishop Basquez,” the Father greeted him, standing square and firm. It was a stance never intended to intimidate or impress. Strettavario had always been squat and thick-set, ever since puberty had failed much to give him height, only widen his shoulders. He had always had the appearance of a man who could handle himself, should the teachings of God fail him.

“Father Strettavario,” replied the Bishop, making no effort to mask his displeasure at seeing the ginger-haired Priest approach. “What can I do for you?”

“A little tense this morning, aren't we?” asked Strettavario, enjoying the opportunity to mock the wily Bishop.

“Considering the times in which we live, I feel it prudent to be tense,” replied Basquez, his eyes narrowing with distain. “Inquisitors being killed within the streets of Rome. Demonic possessions enslaving a nation. A world war enflaming a continent. A war now come to Italy's borders. And yet you face it with your pitiful wit, no doubt some attempt to form humour at my expense?”

Strettavario snatched hold of Basquez's sleeve and drew him close, the old Father's strength alarming the ambitious young Bishop as he tried vainly to pull his arm free.

“Don't try to warn me about when and how to be prudent, Bishop Basquez,” growled Strettavario menacingly. “I've lived years longer than you, in situations far more grave than you'd ever dare to face, rubbed shoulders
with folk who'd turn your hair white and your heart to pallid rubber. So don't you dare lecture me about the dangers we face!”

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

T
HE
V
ATICAN
. V
ATICAN
C
ITY
.

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.”