James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (10 page)

The soldier was right. There was no way the poor farmer could have missed them. They were ten on horseback, with a carriage, and all women, most in armor. A sight that would stop even the most pious of men. And it had stopped him. The moment they rounded the bend, he had looked up. They had drawn to a halt, asked him about the road ahead, if he had seen any soldiers. He had told them of the narrow pass, and that he had seen no soldiers for days. He had offered them fresh milk from his goat, a goat he seemed particularly proud of. A goat that seemed to be his only possession of value.

“Perhaps I know a way of loosening your tongue!” The soldier snapped his fingers. “Get me the goat.”

“Yes, Decanus!” Another soldier left the small house, and a moment later the bleating of the poor creature could be heard as it was pulled against its will into the home of its master.

Berenice watched in horror as the soldier grabbed the creature by the tuft of fur atop its head, and yanked back. The sound of his short sword drawn from its sheath caused her to start, and the poor farmer to cry out.

“Please don’t, not my goat, please! She’s all I have!”

The soldier pressed the blade to the beast’s neck. “Where are they?”

The farmer dropped his head onto his chest. “They were here.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Where did they go?”

“Into the pass.”

“And you haven’t seen them since?”

The farmer hesitated, looking directly where she was hiding.

The goat cried out as the soldier pulled his sword slightly, slicing the exposed neck a fraction. The creature cried in fear more than anything else. The farmer fell to his knees, his hands clasped, shaking them in a desperate plea to reach the heart of the soldier.

“Please, please don’t hurt her!” He looked again at Berenice, huddled in her hiding place among the root vegetables that were its regular occupants.

“It is you, by your silence, by your lies, that hurt this foul creature.” He yanked its head back again. “Now, I will ask you once again. Have you seen them since?”

The farmer collapsed, prostrate on the floor, sobbing. “Oh, God forgive me for what I’m about to do,” he whispered through the floor, into her tiny hiding space. Berenice looked at him and nodded, giving him a smile of understanding, then made the sign of the cross.

“I forgive you,” she whispered, gripping the Word tightly.

The farmer jumped to his feet and pointed at the tiny root cellar. “Under there.”

Berenice closed her eyes and prayed. Overhead she heard the carpets pulled aside.

“Get out.”

She opened her eyes and saw the interrogator looking down at her, hands on his hips.

She nodded and slowly rose, then, with the help of a shaking and apologetic farmer, climbed from her hiding place. She stood before the soldier, gripping the Word to her breast, and stared at him, fear filling her heart, but her outward countenance stolid. She would not let this man see her fear.

“Father, come in here.”

She looked to see an old man enter the abode, his priestly robes simple, humble, unlike many in the Church who adorned themselves in gold and lace. He held his hands out to Berenice, indicating she should give him the book. She knew there was no point in resisting.

She handed it to him.

He took it, gently, respectfully, almost reverently, and opened the hard cover protecting the precious words inside.

“Well, is that it?” asked the impatient soldier.

The old man nodded. “Yes, yes it is.”

“Very well.”

The goat bleated a horrible scream as the soldier sliced its throat through, blood spilling on the floor. The farmer cried out and fell to his knees, grabbing the poor creature as it gasped for air. Berenice looked in horror then anger at the soldier. “You didn’t need to do that! I gave you the book!”

The soldier looked at her, then without emotion, without a muscle on his face moving, jabbed his sword forward, burying it in her belly, then, pulling it out, wiped both sides on the fallen farmer’s shoulders. “Let’s go, I want to make it back to camp before nightfall.”

“We will leave when
I
say,” said the priest, taking a knee in front of Berenice.

“Now, Father.”

“Not until I have read this poor girl her Last Rites.”

A growl of frustration erupted from the soldier, who then left the house. The priest placed a hand on her shoulder. “Would you like absolution for your sins, my daughter?”

She shook her head. “Listen to me. Please, please don’t destroy the book. It is the last copy.”

“I’m sorry, child, but I must.”

She reached a bloody hand up and squeezed his. “Then promise me one thing. Read it before you destroy it. And if you can still destroy something so beautiful afterword, then do so. But please, do not simply toss it on a fire without looking at it. You must promise me.” She coughed, and the taste of blood filled her mouth. She grew weaker, and she knew her time was short. “Promise me.”

The old man nodded. “I promise you, I shall read it first.”

“And should you not destroy it?”

“I will have it placed in the Church’s archives in Rome.”

Berenice smiled. “Thank you, Father, I am ready.”

The old man proceeded with the final confession, and the Last Rites. After several minutes, she lay at peace, a smile of contentment on her face as she felt she had succeeded in having the book ultimately preserved.
No person could read those words, then destroy them, no matter how much hate filled their hearts.

The priest rose. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave, my child?”

“Parchment. Ink.”

He nodded, leaving for a moment, then returning with several long scrolls and a supply of ink and quill pens. She took them and smiled. “Thank you.”

He nodded and left, the book gripped in one hand.

She looked up to the heavens and prayed for strength, then began to write, a quick note to her sisters about where the Word may be, then everything she could remember that had been written down in those most blessed of pages.

As she wrote, she weakened, her eyes drooping, her hand continually slipping, but she pushed on for as long as she could, until finally, her hand fell to her side, and she gasped her last few breaths. The farmer, who had watched in silence, sitting on the floor, his dead goat’s head resting in his lap, crawled over to her. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes barely focused on him. In a final surge of effort, she looked him in the eyes. “Should any of my sisters return, give them what I have written.”

Then she heard the wings of angels, and felt the gentle caress of the Blessed Virgin on her cheek, as she rose toward the light.

Acton Residence

Stowe, Vermont

“So why
do
you call him James? I think you’re the only one who does unless I’m scolding him.”

“Which almost never happens,” interjected Acton as he held his plate up for the pancakes his mother, Dorothy, was rationing out.

“Oooh you, when you were a teenager, it was nothing but!” she said, making her point with the air-jab of a lifter.

“Now that’s true. It was always, ‘James Edward Acton, how many times do I have to tell you to clean your room!’, or ‘James Edward Acton, what’s the point of having an alarm clock if you never actually turn it on’,” said Acton, impersonating his mother’s voice.

Acton’s father, Ellsworth, laughed. “That’s your mother alright.”

“That kid was constantly driving me crazy!” she said, the last of the pancakes served.

Ellsworth grabbed her by the waist. “And you’d have those days back in a heartbeat if you could.”

She flushed, tears filling her eyes slightly. “You know I would.” Her voice cracked. “Oh, now look what you’ve done.” She hip checked him, breaking his hold, and took her seat. She dropped her head for a moment in silent prayer, a ritual Acton knew well, their family never actually saying ‘Grace’.

“So, Laura, why
do
you call him James?” she repeated.

Laura cut into her pancakes and stabbed the portion with her fork. She looked at Acton. “The night we met, he actually asked me to call him Jim, but I had been following his work for years, and in my mind I had always thought of him as James. I guess I never noticed, he didn’t say anything, and when we first kissed, he was James, and I never wanted that memory to be spoiled by later changing what I called him.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on his cheek. “Besides, I don’t think he minds.”

He turned his head and kissed her palm. “Not at all.”

His parents exchanged glances, his mother all smiles. “Look, Dear, our boy’s in love.”

“Awww, ma!” Acton cried in mock embarrassment, giving Laura a quick wink. Laura removed her hand but Acton grabbed it and held it for a moment. “And yes, I’m in love.” Laura’s eyes filled with tears as he kissed her fingers.

“I love you too,” she whispered. She put down her pancake filled fork and dabbed her eyes with her napkin. Across the table the matriarch of the family did as well.

“Now look what you’ve done.” Acton looked at his father, who nodded toward his mother.

“Sorry, ladies. I get my romantic side from my father.”

That elicited a grunt from the senior Acton. “These pancakes are gettin’ cold.”

They all ate in silence for a few moments, Dorothy breaking it.

“So, why is it you need to go to Italy?”

“Hugh needs our help, something with a case he’s working on.” Acton sighed and put his fork down. “Listen, I don’t want you to worry, but just in case something happens”—his mother’s hand flew to her mouth with a gasp—“no, Mom, not that kind of something, I mean if you see something on the news, or see us on the news—” He stopped. “Full truth?”

“Always,” said his father.

“Fine. You heard about the murder at the Vatican the other day?”

They both nodded.

“Well, Hugh’s former partner, Detective Inspector Chaney—”

“The one who was in that Roman thing?”

“Triarii, dear.”

“Yes, him. He was at the Vatican, and is now missing.”

“Oh, how terrible. Do they think he’s—” She stopped, apparently not wanting to say it.

“We don’t know. But that’s not all.” Acton looked at Laura, who nodded. “The Pope’s missing as well.”

Dorothy gasped and made the sign of the cross though not Catholic.

“I don’t remember seeing that on the news.”

Acton looked at his dad. “I don’t think it’s public yet.”

“Not going to be able to keep a lid on something like that for long.”

Acton nodded. “Agreed. That’s why we need to get there as quickly as possible.”

Laura looked up from her cellphone. “And speaking of, just heard from Tina—”

“Her travel agent,” explained Acton.

“—and she’s chartered us a private jet. We leave in two hours.”

“Private jet!” Acton’s dad looked at him. “Must be nice.”

Acton smiled and patted Laura’s leg. “She treats me well.”

“Nothing you wouldn’t do for me if our positions were reversed, I’m sure.”

“You know it, babe.” He grabbed his utensils. “Now, let’s power this down. We don’t have much time, and I don’t want to miss a chance at Ma’s pancakes.”

He took a bite as did Laura and his dad. His mother simply sat there, looking at him.

“What?” he asked.

“How do you keep getting mixed up in these things?”

Acton shrugged his shoulders. “Lucky I guess?”

“Lucky!”

Acton took another bite and swallowed. “Sure. In London I met Laura, best thing to ever happen to me.”

Her mother nodded at Laura. “I’ll give you that one, but you both almost got killed.”

“
Almost
being the key word.”

“Don’t you dare make me attend your funeral, young man.”

Acton laughed. “Young man? I haven’t been called that one in years.”

“I’m still your mother. I brought you into this world—”

“—and you can take me out, I know. So if I get myself killed, you’re gonna kill me again?”

She shook her fork at him. “Just watch me.”

Acton laughed and reached over, squeezing his mom’s arm. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be careful. Besides, it’s the Vatican. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Oh, I don’t know, what happened the last time you were there?”

Acton didn’t reply to the rhetorical question, only nodding, the memories of that day flooding back. He put his fork down, suddenly not hungry.

How
do
I get myself into these things?

Ciampino Airport Approach

Rome, Italy

Acton stood and stretched. Hard. He didn’t mind flying, having flown in every manner of airplane, with every standard of safety from Western to none, but he had to admit, flying in a private Gulfstream was the best. He slipped his shoes on, his habit of taking them off at the beginning of the flight still applicable, even when flying with more leg and arm room than most would know what to do with. Laura mirrored the stretches, both of them having been unsuccessful at sleeping until the final hour of the flight.

Isn’t that the way it always is?

This time, however, he had a private stewardess—flight attendant—to wake him ten minutes before landing, so he was able to enjoy the view. He never tired of looking down over an area, especially a city, from the air, where you could make out the details of not only daily life, but the layout of the town. To see what the city planners, hundreds, even thousands of years ago were thinking. London was a mess of streets, New York was a near perfect grid of blocks. But Rome. Rome was a mix of the ancient with the modern.

He pointed at the Coliseum. “Look.”

Laura peered out the window and nodded. “Perhaps we’ll have some time to tour the city. I’ve been here before, of course, but never with another archaeologist. I wonder if we can pull some strings and get access to some of the non-tourist parts.”

“That’d be cool.” He sat down and tightened his lap belt. “I have a funny feeling however that we’re going to have our hands full.”