Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (25 page)

In 1696, the last of the Orsini’s of Bracciano sold the castle to Livio Odescalchi, whose family still retained ownership, and were more than happy to shut it down for Bracciano’s favorite son, Cardinal Polletto, one of their own. The cardinal promised that he would return it in the same condition.
It’s the world that will be different
, he thought at the time.

Cardinal Polletto’s driver wound the car along the dark snake-like road, Via Claudia, stopping at the castle entrance, at the base of the eastern tower. The entire building was under-lit with high watt lights from the ground up, and the four massive towers at each corner, along with the windows and ledges of the rooftops, were accented with white Christmas lights, giving the medieval colossus a festive, dominate air.

Up close, the years of wear, battles fought, and the elements of time, were much more evident on the castle’s outer wall. Like many of Rome’s ruins, the castle wore chips and cracks in its brick and stone with a historical pride that emanated culture and conquest. Cardinal Polletto stepped out of the car and took in the familiar surroundings, remembering the stories his parents shared with him about the battles fought at the castle, and its secrets passed down through generations, known only to those who grew up in the small village.

One of The Order’s faithful, Bishop Giordano, met him as he walked up the long, steep walkway to the front door. “Good evening, Your Excellency,” he gushed. “Things are proceeding as planned, and all preparations will be finished in less than a few weeks.”

“We no longer have a few weeks,” shot Cardinal Polletto, continuing on through the front door.

“How much time do we have?” asked the bishop, following so close, he almost crashed into Cardinal Polletto when he made a sudden stop.

“Five days,” the cardinal answered. “Everyone will be here, so we can proceed at that time.”

“But why? We still need to gather up the children.” Cardinal Polletto leaned close to the cleric. “The Hammer of God is on to us,” he whispered.

Bishop Giordano took a step back and covered his mouth. “Il Martello di Dio. But how do you know? How can you be sure?” Cardinal Polletto stepped back. “Trust me, my friend, I’m very sure.”

“Then we must inform the others,” said Bishop Giordano, panic in his voice.

“We’ll do no such thing,” barked Cardinal Polletto, catching himself, looking around. “There’s no need to tell anyone,” he continued, in a much softer, more controlled tone. “I have it well under control. Have I ever failed?”

Bishop Giordano took a deep breath. “No, Your Excellency. The Order has prospered well under your leadership.” He eased closer to the cardinal. “But let’s hope your certainty is one hundred percent, or we’ll all pay a price I dare not contemplate.” Cardinal Polletto smiled. “Where is our guest?”

“Father Ortega placed Father Tolbert in the room next to the Hall of Arms. We’ve kept him under as ordered, but he should be coming out of it soon.”

“Excellent,” beamed the cardinal. “I’ll look in on him myself. You may continue with your task.”

Cardinal Polletto didn’t wait around for a response. He climbed the wide circular stairway in the entry hall to the study and library known as Pope’s Hall, named after Pope Sixtus IV, who was a guest at the castle in 1481.

The third room Cardinal Polletto passed also took its name from an illustrious guest who lingered in Bracciano’s fortress for a time in 1900, King Umberto I.

After strolling past the Triptych Room and Pisanella’s Hall, two of the most opulent of the castle’s reception halls, Cardinal Polletto stopped at his favorite, the Hall of the Caesars.

Hands behind his back, the cardinal strolled past the white marble busts of each of the twelve Caesars, lined up along the wall like a jury of his peers, the power and energy of each surging through the room. He closed his eyes.
This is where I belong, a part of history.
Cardinal Polletto allowed himself a moment to admire the stunning frescoes suspended beautifully on the walls, painted by Antoniazza Romana, one of his favorites.

After the Hall of Isabella, the cardinal finally reached the Hall of Arms. It was well stocked with a vast collection of medieval arms, swords, sabers, medieval shields, helmets worn in battles to defend the castle, and full suits of armor donned by warriors of times past. The room wore the shroud of death with unimpeachable strength and honor.

Father Ortega opened the door to a small unobtrusive space just to the right of the Hall of Arms, looked out and nodded to Cardinal Polletto, who entered the sparsely furnished room and found Father Tolbert sitting up on the side of the bed, head in his hands. The priest looked up, eyes swollen and blood red.

“Why?” blubbered Father Tolbert. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“All in due time,” the cardinal sneered. “For now, you’ll have to stay calm and wait. All you need to know will be revealed soon, and you’ll thank me that I made you a part of something earth shaking, a part of history.”

“But how are those children mine? I still don’t understand,” said Father Tolbert.

Cardinal Polletto moved closer, and stood over the distraught priest.

“It’s simple really. Years ago while you were in the hospital for back surgery, The Order had your body cells harvested for the purpose of cloning a human being.”

Father Tolbert’s eyes widened. “What? How?”

“It’s simple really,” the cardinal continued. “The nucleus from your body cells were put into eggs from which the nucleus had been removed.

The resulting entity developed into an embryo, and was placed in a woman’s uterus and brought to term. How surprised we were when the embryo spilt, and not only was one child reproduced, but five. Two died at birth, three lived. Your exact genetic duplicates, clones.” Father Tolbert’s face twisted with anger. “You fucking bastard. Why me?”

“You were healthy. Fit for such an operation. I wanted to be the host myself, but my past health history with cancer made it impossible.”

“Who’s the mother?” Father Tolbert eked out, beginning to cry.

Cardinal Polletto smiled. “Someone equally healthy and strong,” he answered. He told Father Tolbert the mother’s name.

“Arrrrrrrh,” cried the priest. “You’ve used me all along! You fucking asshole! You’ve used me!”

“Calm down,” the cardinal snapped. “Without me, you would’ve gone to jail, or worst, been killed a long time ago. I saved you, protected you, as should a blood relative.”

“I don’t believe you! You’re lying!”

Cardinal Polletto slapped the priest hard. “You’re my nephew! Born of my sister here in Rome! Accept it!”

Father Tolbert sprang to his feet and lunged for Cardinal Polletto’s neck.

“Get the sedative!” screamed the cardinal. “Sedate him!” Father Ortega rushed to the nightstand and grabbed a needle, already full of Midazolam, a powerful sedative, and rushed over to the struggling men.

“Hold him steady!” yelled Father Ortega.

Cardinal Polletto couldn’t answer. Every bit of strength he could muster was being used to keep the priest from choking him to death.

Father Ortega pulled up Father Tolbert’s sleeve and aimed.

Father Tolbert let go of Cardinal Polletto and smashed Father Ortega in the face, sending blood flying from his nose. Father Ortega fell back and dropped the needle. Father Tolbert grabbed it and stabbed Cardinal Polletto in the neck.

The cardinal crashed against the nightstand, knocking over a water pitcher, then hit the floor. His vision blurred.
Can’t let him get away,
he’ll ruin everything.
Cardinal Polletto struggled to stand. The room swayed back and forth. He dropped to his knees.

“Cardinal Polletto, are you alright?” he heard a distant voice ask.

“Don’t let him escape,” he managed to mumble.

The cardinal felt his body lighten. His breathing fell shallow. The twelve Caesars stood before him, their disapproval obvious. Then Cardinal Polletto blacked out.

F
ather Tolbert bolted from the room and stumbled down a long, dark hallway, bumping into walls and furniture, knocking down paintings, legs aching, nearly out of breath, his heart a sledgehammer banging against the inside of his chest. He tumbled down the circular stairway and rolled to the floor, startling Bishop Giordano. Father Tolbert jumped to his feet and ran for the door.

“Stop him! Don’t let him escape!” barked Father Ortega, running down the stairs, slipping down a few himself.

Bishop Giordano sprinted after Father Tolbert, caught him just outside the door, and wrapped him up with both arms from behind. The priest, possessed, anger overflowing, broke the bear hug and punched the bishop in the face, knocking him on his ass, as two men trailing Bishop Giordano dove for him and missed. Father Ortega hit the doorway.

The muscles in Father Tolbert’s legs tensed. He willed them to run and sprinted down the walkway, the pounding of Father Ortega’s size thirteen’s stomping right behind him.

The immediate area around the castle, illuminated by floodlights, offered no place to hide. Father Tolbert headed for the woods just off the lake, down a steep hill of stones. He jumped off the rocky cliff into the darkness, barely avoiding Father Ortega’s grasp.

Father Tolbert crashed to the ground below, chest first, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He laid there clawing the dirt, gasping for air road-blocked from his lungs.
Good, maybe this is death calling.
He relaxed and encouraged death to take him, but the barrier released, and oxygen stampeded into his lungs. His head pulsated and pounded. Water pooled up in his eyes as he gasped and sucked in buckets of air.

Lights beamed down from the top of the cliff, creating a kaleidoscope through the salty pools flooding his pupils. The tears fell away. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the area, then finally settled on him.

“There he is, I see him!” screamed an unfamiliar voice in Italian.

The lights started down the hill toward him. Father Tolbert inhaled deeply. A surge of crisp air helped clear his head. He forced himself to his feet and bolted for the dense woods behind him. Branches and brush slapped his face, scratched his arms, and ripped at his clothing. Twenty minutes later, he stopped, sweat searing his eyes, and listened. Except for his heartbeat, and the wheeze of air from his lungs, all was quiet.

He bent over to throw up, but only dry heaved. A stabbing pain pierced his chest, his stomach knotted up and cramped. He gathered himself, stood, and leaned against a tree. He listened intently. The sound of twigs breaking crackled off in the distance. He quickly and quietly made his way toward the lake, where he could move faster along the shore.

When he reached the water, a full moon shimmered off it as though it were a sheet of mirrored glass. Father Tolbert spotted Bracciano Castle, now a half mile away. Trevigano, on the other side of the lake, stood sentry against the hills in back of the village, scattered lights visible in the hillside.

The crunching of brush and flickering flashlight beams moved closer. Father Tolbert ran along the shore, quickly putting distance between him and his pursuers, something he knew wouldn’t last long. As soon as they picked up his trail, they’d close in fast.

Just as the thought streaked through his mind, Father Tolbert heard faint voices, looked back and saw two roving lights stopped on the shore.

He increased his speed, pumping his arms and sore legs as hard as he could. The lights behind him quickly bounced in his direction.

“There he is!” one of the men shouted.

Father Tolbert tried to move faster, but couldn’t. The lights closed in, and he could make out the forms of two shadowed bodies running hard after him. Panicked, he bumped into something hard and hit the ground, his face plowing into a mud puddle. The priest jumped to his feet and looked down.
A boat!

Father Tolbert took a few steps back, sprinted forward, and pushed the rowboat out into the water. The two men chasing him were in full view, both lean and athletic. He jumped into the boat. They spotted him and dove into the water, splashing wildly, swimming after him.

Father Tolbert grabbed the oars and rowed, his arms straining, struggling at the unfamiliar effort. He spotted the flashlights, still in the swimmers’ hands, bouncing up and down like fireflies, getting closer by the stroke, an eerie sight in the darkness.

Father Tolbert found a rhythm and pulled away. The flashlights disappeared and the boat rocked back and forth. One of the men pulled himself up on the side of the boat, with a knife in his teeth. He rolled over into the boat and snatched the blade from his mouth.

“Bastardo!” he bellowed. “Stop rowing or I’ll cut your throat!” Father Tolbert stopped. The man took a step forward. His partner swam up to the other side of the boat.

“Turn around,” the man with the knife ordered. “I’m going to tie you up.”

The priest turned, grabbed one of the oars and swung it back at the knife wielding Italian, knocking him over the side, his partner going down with him. Both men tried to pull themselves up.

Father Tolbert, his eyes glazed over with fury, beat them over the head again and again, until both bodies floated out of sight, and disappeared into the night.

Distraught, Father Tolbert collapsed, completely drained. He sprawled out in the middle of the boat, breathing hard, staring at the stars; loathing what he’d become.
A menace to children, and now a
murderer.

The tiny dinghy drifted aimlessly in the darkness for nearly an hour before the priest mustered enough strength to raise himself up. The lights of Trevigano were few, but still visible from the middle of the lake. He grabbed the oars, one now blood soaked and severely cracked, and rowed toward Trevigano, the effort to reach shore twice as difficult as before.

But the fear that once consumed him, was now replaced with a new determination to confess what he knew.

The longer he rowed, the greater his anger grew.
I’ll put a stop to
Cardinal Polletto.

Father Tolbert considered going straight to the Vatican hierarchy, but squashed the notion quickly. There was no way for him to know who at the Vatican worked for Cardinal Polletto and The Order. The cardinal’s people would be looking for him everywhere; at the Church and in Rome.
Who can I tell and not get caught?