A PARALLEL PATH
Marco Peel
for Gepkeline
Though based on actual experiences, A Parallel Path is a work of fiction. All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are a product of the author’s imagination.
Copyright Marco Peel 2010
Smashwords Edition
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Prologue
High above, the severe lines of the stone vaulting gradually softened, dissolving into an invasive white mist. She no longer registered the sounds of the people around her, or the cold hard floor beneath. All she saw were the eyes of her saviour, looking down on her with concern. With love. So close now, and forever unreachable. She managed a last grateful smile, offered with the only thing she had left to give. Her final breath. Everything would be all right. It had all gone just as her dreams had foretold. Implacable. Inevitable. This was the end of her journey. Slowly, the drumbeat in her ears faded away, and the pain died with it. She was free now. For once she wished she wasn’t. A single tear rolled down her cheek as everything turned into nothing...
Chapter 1
Saturday, July 1st, 2002
She hated Brussels. Everything was grey. The endless maze of dull cobbled streets and grimy buildings. The sinister Gothic palaces on the desolate Grande Place. The brooding cathedral on its barren, windswept perch. The silly little pissing boy fountain, coated in soot, as overrated as it was insignificant. Even the people were grey. Nondescript, sullen and silent, living out their dreary lives under the oppression of a perpetually overcast sky.
Brussels, capital of a virtual Europe, mother of all bureaucracies. Warren of grey men in grey suits, always hurrying from grey cars to grey office buildings and back, clutching grey briefcases, and grey umbrellas. Like Nick, she thought, stuck up prick. Aloof, formal, restrained. Colourless. What had Mum seen in him? She should have known better than to marry again. Men were so useless.
She gazed out the coach window without really seeing anything, oblivious to the milling crowd on the station platform. The early morning haze was giving way to a half-hearted drizzle, just as it had when she’d arrived almost a year ago. It felt more like ages ago. Ages of monotonous, meaningless days, of wet skies and wet streets, of going to school at night and coming back home at night, of freezing fingers and freezing toes. Always damp, dark and cold.
Queensland seemed so far away now. Those open sunlit spaces. The deep red soil and lush green hills. The dry, fragrant smell of pines and gum trees. The brilliant explosions of colour in coral reefs and wild-flower fields. The soft sandy beaches and crystalline waters in all shades of blue. And the friendly, honest people. No masks, no nonsense.
Fidgeting with the silver amulet around her neck, she remembered those happy, carefree years alone with her mother, living like friends, sharing each other’s secrets. How Mum had bloomed after the divorce, finally free from father’s heavy drinking and late night rows. Free from his imperious demands and deprecating remarks. No more would they fear the moment he’d come barging through the front door, tired and in an ever foul mood, followed by that lingering smell of dead fish from his work at the processing plant. No longer would they cringe away from that sagging armchair in which he lived out his weekends, slumped like an unshaved pink pig in stained underwear, sweating, belching and slurping beer, watching bloody footy on the idiot box.
But then Nick had come along. Courteous, perfect, boring Nick. Graciously whisking Mum from her Cinderella past into the spotlight of High Society. Then dragging them both to this cold and wet place, before they even had time to think about it. Europe had sounded so exotic down under...
“Nasty!” She almost jumped at the sudden sound of her name. “I’ve been looking for you all over!” It was Sabrina, her cheerful face quickly changing into an expression of horror. “Jesus, what have you done to your eye?”
“I guess Nick didn’t like the nose ring,” Nasty replied, with the start of a conspiratory smile. “It will go away.”
On a whim they’d both gone to the piercing last week, after their final exams. They knew they’d passed, and simply had to celebrate their new freedom. When she’d come home, Nick had blown his lid, finally losing his composure for once. Really nicked.
How could she go around like a common tramp, he’d hissed. He was the highest representative of the Australian government in this country, couldn’t she grasp the responsibilities that implied? The need for a little decorum if you please? Had she paused to think how this would reflect on her father?
You're not my father, Nick, she’d shot back, and just because you let others do your thinking for you doesn’t mean I have to! At that he’d slapped her hard across the face. Left Mum petrified, unable to get a word out either way. Nasty’d simply glared at him, clammed shut. Locked in her room, she’d refused to attend her own graduation, even though she’d won the highest grades and awards, just to spite him. Something he’d never understand.
“Now I really don’t fit into his world of airs and graces,” she continued maliciously. “All those stuck-up farts in penguin suits and tattling tarts in glitter drag. How I hate all that plastic politeness.” She shuddered. “At least I’m free from that now.”
“Yeah,” beamed Sabrina, “three glorious months of vacation! No parents to nag at us. No exams to worry about. Happy summertime at last!” With a grunt of effort she lifted her heavy backpack onto the overhead shelf. “Where’s yours?” she asked.
“Here,” Nasty smiled, patting the small black shoulder bag next to her, “I’m a bush rat, I travel light.”
The other girl looked perplexed. They were going to spend the whole summer travelling together. First a couple of days in Paris, where they would meet up with Jana, another girl from school. Then the three of them would criss-cross Europe on an Interrail pass.
“You’re kidding, right?” Sabrina sat down with puzzled curiosity. “What’s in it?”
“Show you,” said Nasty, as she took out her items one by one. “Two t-shirts, two knickers, mini with matching tights, light towel, sleeping bag, plastic cape, brush, toothbrush, nailbrush, shampoo, Swiss army knife, passport, bank-card, some girlie things, what I’m wearing, and me. What more do I need? Better to wash one or two things every other night than to have to carry all that dead weight around.”
“Nasty, it’s all black.”
“I like it. Suits my mood. Besides, it goes well with my dashing black eye.”
Sabrina stared at the small pile of clothes blankly. “No bra?” she asked.
“Get off! To hold up what?” Nasty retorted.
Sabrina blushed. She envied her friend’s firm little breasts, and wasn’t sure what to make of her nonchalance.
“You forgot your socks,” she realised triumphantly.
Nonplussed, Nasty stared at her pile of things. “You’re right,” she laughed. “Guess I don’t like them much. Can’t remember ever wearing any before I came here anyway. Always wore bare feet in Cairns. Nick hated it, said it was uncivilised.”
Sabrina looked at her sceptically. “You went out with no shoes?”
“Too right. To the beach. To the mall. To school. Even to church. Wasn’t the only one. It’s nice, you should try it.”
“No, I should think not,” retorted Sabrina. She was rather self-conscious of her appearance, and tended to conceal her insecurity with rather conservative clothing and makeup. There was no Sabrina without war paint. She hadn’t dared to get her nose pierced like Nasty, settling for the ring on her navel only. Finding the turn of conversation disconcerting, she quickly changed the subject.
“Let’s see that sleeping bag, it’s incredible, where did you get it?” Sabrina studied the small package, not much bigger than a large grapefruit.
“Nifty isn’t it. Birthday present. Nick brought it back from Switzerland. Keeps you warm even when it’s freezing.”
Nasty carefully repacked her belongings. The girls were comfortable with each other, though their interests differed too much to be really close. Sabrina’s father had been deployed to NATO headquarters about the same time Nasty arrived, and being the only newcomers in the final year, they’d somehow found support in each other.
Changing schools in the middle of senior secondary was unusual, and it had taken a lot of hard work to catch up on several subjects. Especially for Nasty. The Australian school year didn’t coincide with the European one, as down under end of term and summer break fell around Christmas. Since she’d always been a straight A student, the school board had decided to place her half a year forward rather than half a year back. As a result, she’d been the youngest in class by far, never really accepted into the group. Together with the sudden need to learn French from scratch and the drastic change in lifestyle, it had made her even more introverted than she already was.
She’d always been different. Climbing trees when other girls played with dolls. Collecting scraped knees and dirty smudges when they dressed up. Listening to quiet classical music when others blew their ears out with the latest screaming hit. She sometimes wondered if she’d been born in the wrong age or even the wrong species. Most girls seemed to be either giggly and gossipy or mousy and blubbery, and most boys either rough and childish or gangly and inarticulate. As she was usually off into her own world somewhere, they usually left her alone.
“Don’t you think Harry’s cute?” Sabrina asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“What, Harry Potter?” Nasty looked up distracted.
“No, dummy,” Sabrina held up one of those silly wag-rags with a picture of the Royal Family on it. “Harry of Wales, you know, the Prince?”
Nasty glanced at the magazine with little interest. “He’s still just a Muggle,” she shrugged.
“Oh, honestly, Nasty, I sometimes wonder why I even bother talking to you...”
As the high speed train left the city behind, the sun started to show itself through light blue patches of sky. Lush green meadows glistening with dew glided by as they picked up speed. Sabrina chatted away brightly, taking care of the conversation as usual, which was fine with Nasty. She felt her gloom lifting, though she couldn’t get rid of this nagging feeling she was leaving something behind. Probably the bloody socks, she mused, pushing it out of her thoughts.
They arrived at the Gare du Nord before they knew it. Stepping onto the platform, Nasty marvelled at the short distance between the two capitals and the possibility of moving from one country to another without ever showing a passport. Even funnier was the fact that it had changed from winter to spring during the short ride. It was pleasantly warm, and there was colour everywhere. Like stepping from one of those dreary old black and white movies into the real world. Sabrina prattled on as they wove their way through the crowded streets, pausing to look at every other shop window.
“Ooh, I’m going to have to watch my figure here,” she noted, drooling over a display of cakes at a baker.
Nasty looked on amused. She didn’t much care for fancy food or sweets, and probably couldn’t stuff herself if she tried.
“Me too,” she offered politely, aware of her companion’s obsession.
Sabrina’s figure was generous, but nothing to be ashamed of. She was quite pretty actually, with a round sunny face covered in many-hued freckles and wide blue eyes under arched eyebrows, suggesting a permanent expression of surprise or expectation.
Nasty studied her own reflection in the window. Next to her friend she looked almost skinny. The bright spring sunshine set her tangled mass of hair ablaze in all shades of amber. She brushed it out of her face to reveal large green eyes surrounded by dense eyelashes, as if marked by eyeliner, something she’d have considered a complete waste of time. Reminded of her prominent bruise, she wrinkled her nose and smiled wickedly. It only accentuated her incongruous air of naughty innocence.
They soon found a small hotel that was at least clean and convenient, if not exactly cheap. Two out of three C’s would have to do in Paris. Sabrina wasn’t exactly the kind to rough it. They paid in advance. 75 Euro. It was nice to be able to cross borders without worrying about exchange rates. The introduction of the single European currency in January had gone surprisingly well. Though local currencies were still legal tender till the end of the year, they’d already largely disappeared off the streets. Most people still calculated in the old coins, but preferred to pay with the new ones for the sake of convenience.
The room was already available, so they went up to leave their bags. Two large old-fashioned beds all but took up the small space, and it had a tiny bathroom. As they ran back down the stairs, they almost bumped into two young men. Both were crew-cut with a martial bearing, though they wore jeans and sneakers. A startled “Sorry” was quickly replaced by an uncertain look of recognition.
“Hey, aren’t you General Prescott’s daughter?” the blond one blurted, staring at Sabrina. He had an angular face with a determined chin and small hazel eyes, a little too closely set.
“Yes,” she said, regaining her footing. “Have we met before?”
“Not officially, but we’ve seen you around,” smiled the other one in a low Texan drawl, offering his hand. “I’m Joe, this is Ray. We’re with the Marines at IMS.”
“Sabrina, pleased to meet you,” blushed Sabrina.
“Nastasha. Friends call me Nasty.” Nasty introduced herself half-heartedly. IMS meant nothing to her, it sounded like a disease.
“Really?” asked Joe, giving an unpleasantly firm handshake, “with friends like those, who needs enemies.”
Right. How original. He was tall and athletic, with jet-black hair and a tanned Mediterranean complexion. Handsome, she supposed. She wasn’t sure she cared for the sarcastic smirk on his face or whatever hid behind those opaque black eyes. She’d been named after her grandmother on father’s side, who was Russian. But the nickname came from her grandfather on mother’s side, who was Spanish. With his poor command of the English language, it was nothing more to him than a doting diminutive. No one ever corrected him, so the name stuck. She liked it, probably because her father hated it. It had character. She answered Joe’s comment with a shrug, in the hope of getting rid of him.
“You girls have any plans for today yet?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” chirped Sabrina, way too eagerly.
Nasty rolled her eyes. She wasn’t interested in soldiers. Or boys for that matter. Well, as long as she could be outside, she didn’t really mind the company.
As it was, they spent most of day in the Louvre. They wandered its labyrinthine halls in no particular order, stopping to see only what attracted their attention. The stately rooms were literally cluttered with art. Ray turned out to be rather well versed in the plastic arts once he lost his shyness, complementing Sabrina’s passion for painting. They were soon discussing the merits of one thing or another as if they’d known each other for years.
Nasty preferred the more primitive sculptures and colourful paintings that attracted no-one else’s attention. The hall with classical sculptures was delightful. Though she knew she wasn’t supposed to, she couldn’t refrain from caressing the smooth cold surface of the marble statues with the tip of her fingers. And the shiny polished floors looked so inviting, she wished she’d left her shoes at the hotel. Their confinement was starting to irritate her.
Around noon they had lunch in the cafeteria. Nasty decided to try the onion soup, more out of curiosity than anything else.
“Gross,” said Joe, pulling a face while he smothered his fries in ketchup, “how can you eat that?”
She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue. She wasn’t attracted to Joe, but enjoyed his curious sense of humour. He had a knack for dropping absurd comments at precisely the wrong moment, so they often had difficulty containing their mirth in front of the most solemn and macabre works of art, often to the annoyance of other visitors. Outside the cafeteria, he got a couple of Japanese tourists to inspect a built-in fire-hose, declaring it to be a work of art. They actually snapped a picture of it.
One room followed another. Eventually even the best paintings lost their appeal. There were simply too many to take in. The Mona Lisa was a deception, the small, dark painting looking lost in the cavernous room, hidden behind a neurotic array of safety barriers.
“Her enigmatic smile has been the subject of study since it was painted.” Sabrina whispered, leaning over the restraining bar for a closer look.
“If you ask me, she’s just knocked up,” Nasty pronounced dryly.
“Nah,” said Joe, “she had the onion soup. She’s desperately trying not to fart in front of the painter.” Nasty slapped him on the back of his head in mock indignation.
“Stop it,” Sabrina hissed, suppressing a giggle. “You’ll get us all kicked out.”
Back at the hotel, they parted on the promise to go out together later.
Nasty had been reluctant to leave her bed. She neither liked parties nor dancing. But Sabrina dragged her along, arguing a good rage was just what they needed. They had their freedom to celebrate after all. Together with Ray and Joe, they walked to the other side of the river. The temperature was still balmy, even though it was almost midnight.
She had a bad feeling about the place before going in. The little red door and the dark-suited thug guarding it were sinister enough, but she dismissed her thoughts. She was in good company, she reasoned as Joe courteously held the door for her.
The cavernous interior was dark and crowded with ravers, arms and heads moving randomly to an all pervading, thumping metallic drone that shook the very air. Coloured stroboscopic lights and erratic lasers sliced through artificial banks of mist, creating ever-changing scenes. She could see no walls or roof, which made the space seem both endless and oppressive at the same time. Her first reaction was akin to panic, a sudden need for oxygen, but it slowly subsided as she noted her breathing was perfectly normal. Let go, she thought, you’re finally free.
Joe shouted something and made his way to the bar on the left. He came back with four plastic glasses. No use asking what the black liquid was, the deafening noise made it impossible to talk. Rum and Coke, a guarded sip told her. That was all right, she could handle one or two. Joe offered her some pink pills with a bird-like mark on them, which she refused with a resolute wave of her hand. She had an instinctive fear of anything that altered the senses. Besides, there was no way to be sure what they were. With a shrug, Joe popped one himself, as did Ray. Giggling nervously, Sabrina took one too, pulling a disgusted face as she swallowed it.
Nasty was content to just stand there for the moment, and take in her surroundings. The dull official receptions in Brussels had taught her it was often more amusing to observe the follies of others than to participate in them. She watched the people in front of her move in various states of consciousness or delirium, and let her eyes wander over the often original and sometimes daring outfits. Her own exposed midriff, showing the ring on her navel, was almost prudish in comparison to the see-through blouse on her left, the thong-like hot pants ahead, or the bare breasts with stuck-on silver stars further out. The exposed hairy chest of a podgy bloke nearby made her grateful boys tended to dress more modestly.
Her drink was soon replaced with another. It seemed the more she drank, the thirstier she got. God it was warm in here. Taking another sip from her glass, her face screwed up in disgust. By now it tasted like paint remover. She went to get a Coke by herself. Didn’t want more rum. It was already going to her head. She left her empty glass on the counter and made her way back to the group.
Surrounded by the sea of swaying bodies, she could only just make out the skeletal DJ on a platform surrounded by keyboards, swinging his greasy long hair in trance. Isolated by headphones, he was completely absorbed in his own rhythm, oblivious to the movement around him. The electronically distorted sounds of the music became increasingly raw and piercing as the bass line resounded ever more savagely.
She looked up at the six girls moving seductively in golden cages overhead, their nude bodies painted with glitter. She wondered what it would be like to dance with nothing on high above the crowd. The idea was strangely titillating. Sabrina would be appalled. All the more appealing. Nice and naughty... God it was hot. She turned to look for her friend, and saw she was already in another universe with Ray.
The charged atmosphere was contagious, and it was difficult not to be drawn into the collective movement. The stress, frustration and anger of the last months were finally flowing out. She felt her body tingle with a sense of liberation, as she give in, allowing herself to become immersed into the music. She felt Joe’s movement close by, and then his lips touch hers tantalisingly. She sensed his desire, relished the feel of it. The kiss lingered, as all around them the world evolved into a blur...
Nasty woke up with a piercing, nauseating headache. Her mouth felt like parched leather, and tasted like it too. Squinting against the first faint rays of daylight, she slowly came back from a profound nothingness. The surroundings were unfamiliar. The hotel room, it dawned on her, though she hadn’t a clue as to how she’d got there. She only vaguely remembered dancing. Sabrina was sleeping half dressed on the other bed, firmly embraced to whatever his name was, sporting a pair of garish skids. She couldn’t see who or what was snoring down on the floor.
A soft breeze entered through the window, warning her she was completely naked. Odd, she was accustomed to sleep in the nick, but not in the company of others. What was going on? The cool air on her skin was nothing compared to the chill she felt in the pit of her stomach. She had difficulty organising her thoughts. Groggy and confused, she padded to the bathroom, barely in time to throw up uncontrollably into the sink. She drank the cold water avidly, and splashed it on her face. Then froze. The water disappeared down the sink as the blood drained from her face. Looking up into the mirror, she stared at herself in shock. But for the big blue-green blotch around her left eye, she was so pale it bordered on transparent. Like seeing her own ghost. No. Not that... Stupid, stupid, stupid... How could you’ve been so stupid, she accused the still fuzzy image. He’d slipped something in her drink, she realised. He... He’d used her. Like an object... It didn’t seem real. Couldn’t be real. She’d fallen for the most stupid trick in the book, like the thickest common sheila. Not that she’d zealously guarded her virginity for some illusory magic moment, but she’d never expected to lose it like this. This was revolting, she thought, stooping over to retch again.
She took a long pee and an even longer shower, adjusting the hot water till it scalded. After washing herself thoroughly four times, she still felt unclean. Had to brush her teeth twice as well. She’d never felt so dirty. As if she were soiled on the inside. Or tarred and feathered.
The others were still deeply asleep. Sabrina with a dumb, beatific smile on her face. Blithering idiots, she sneered to herself, picking up her things. She checked the sheets of her bed looking for her briefs, and quickly slipped into what she’d worn yesterday. Didn’t care if it was clean. Her socks and boots were nowhere to be found though. Probably took them off last night at the dancing joint and left them there. Well good bloody riddance. Always hated the things anyway.
She quietly stole out of the room and headed for the stairs before anyone awoke. She felt betrayed. By Joe. By Sabrina. By herself. She needed to run away. Far away. She didn’t know what had happened last night and didn’t want to find out. Correction, she could guess what had happened last night, and didn’t want to hear it confirmed. The doorman greeted her with a friendly word as she passed, but she didn’t even notice.
The pavement was still damp and cold and felt gritty underfoot. It was strangely reassuring to actually feel the ground. She briefly closed her eyes, threw back her wet hair to soak up the weak morning sun, and walked out of her former life.
Chapter 2
First station of the cross.
Friday, January 25, feast of the Conversion of St Paul, 1348
The pale blue sky and fragile warmth of the sun still had that hesitant quality of a clear winter day. It was the first bright day of the new year. The first day it wasn’t cold, dark and wet. The fresh green grass was soft and spongy underfoot, still moist with dew. He liked the feel of the blades passing between his toes. The warm soil beneath was a welcome change to the frigid floors of the monastery.
Standing on top of the Goat Hill, beside the church of the Blessed Virgin, the boy looked out over the ruins of the ancient city. Way out in the fields beyond, he could follow most of the Aurelian Wall. He marvelled at the former size of the old capital, trying to imagine what it must have been like. The most important temples of the Roman Empire had once stood where he stood now, the Capitoline.
Below, lay the remains of the Forum, irreverently known as the Cow Paddock, for the lazy cattle ruminating among the stunted columns and pedestals. It was hard to make anything of the jumble of stones strewn amongst the rampant weeds. Little was left of the opulent marble monuments, now only used as quarry. A couple of intricately carved columns stuck out precariously from the grass. A moss-covered arch was barely high enough to walk under without bending over. He wondered how deep the original pavement was buried.
Further out, he could see the brooding fortress that had once been the Coliseum, its elegant marble arches mostly bricked up. A ragged palisade surrounded it, joining two triumphal arches, demoted to incongruously majestic entries. Since the Frangipani thugs had abandoned the stronghold, its stone walls were picked off for building works elsewhere.
To the right rose the overgrown stone terraces that had borne the imperial palaces on the Palatine. Not far behind, the endless arches of an aqueduct cut a straight line across the fields, still largely intact, though no longer in use. Beyond that, just vineyards and pastures, all the way to the walls and beyond. Only the occasional church or villa dotted the green landscape.
He turned around and looked down on the current city, mostly limited to the Campus Martius and Trastevere. Stretching from the Orsini castle of Sant Angello near the Vatican to the Caetani fief on Tiber Island, it was a maze of narrow, slimy alleys and dark, filthy hovels, nestled between ancient churches and even older buildings converted into family strongholds by the feuding barons who ruled the city. A veritable forest of tall stone towers and spires rose out defiantly above the black wood-fire haze that hovered over the town. Straddling the marshes of the Tiber, it was hot and sweltering in the summer, cold and damp in winter. Severe fevers wreaked havoc amongst the populace in both seasons.
Since the Papacy had moved to Avignon almost forty years ago, the rapacious nobles regularly turned the streets into fierce battle grounds, leaving behind the mangled bodies and burnt houses of those unfortunate enough to be caught in between. The uneasy arrangement of Co-Senators to rule the city - one from the pro-papal Guelphs headed by the scheming Orsini family, and one from the pro-imperial Ghibbelines headed by the martial Colonna clan - assured only a fragile truce during the best of times. Maintenance of streets and buildings was virtually non-existent. What was left of the ancient pavement was covered with a thick layer of dirt and debris.
The seven essential pilgrimage shrines fared little better. St Peter’s cavernous basilica, built by Constantine himself a thousand years ago, slowly sagged into the bog on which it was built, golden mosaics chipping off the walls, wooden beams sagging with rot, its leaking roof drenching pilgrims on rainy days. The opulent Lateran, the Pope’s former palace and parish church, destroyed by fire a few years ago, was used as a sheep’s pen, after attempts to rebuild it had floundered. The proud Pantheon, formerly consecrated to St Mary and Martyrs, then turned into a fortress, was now a poultry market, where the boisterous sounds of squawking chickens, honking geese and haggling peasants reverberated within the majestic bronze-plated dome.
Dominic looked down on the muddy square below. There was no market today. It was quiet in the city. Aside from a couple of grazing goats, he was the only one up here. Even the Campidoglio, the sinister keep of the Senate, stood empty and silent beside him. He looked up at the cold grey walls, punctured haphazardly by small windows. The tall bell tower seemed to totter perilously on top as a few ephemeral clouds passed overhead. Black crows, perched on the battlements, peered down at him menacingly.
Had it been only a few weeks ago? It seemed so distant, so remote. So many things had happened so fast... The first time he’d come up here, near the end of the summer, he’d listened to Cola di Rienzo speak from the top of these very same stairs. Dominic had only just arrived with his father, Francesc, sent by the Pope to monitor the recent developments in the city.
Clement VI had initially backed the efforts of Cola to break the power of the barons. One Sunday late May, with the Roman army under Stefano Colonna out of town to secure the supply of grain, Cola had rallied the people with a fiery speech. Easily roused, they’d hailed him master of the city. Taken by surprise, the barons relinquished control without a fight. The Pope promptly named Cola Rector, on a par with the Papal Vicar in Rome, Raymond de Chameyrac.
Proclaiming himself Tribune and Liberator of the Holy Roman Republic however, Cola exceeded the bounds of his authority. He declared Rome capital of the world. Louis the Bavarian was summoned to justify his Imperial Title, as was his rival, Charles the Bohemian. Rome would decide who was Holy Roman Emperor. Though long at odds with the recalcitrant German emperor, Clement VI could accept no such challenge to his authority. Wary of Cola’s growing arrogance and the extent of his popular support, the Pope had secretly asked Francesc to be his unofficial eyes and ears.
While he openly observed a strict vow of poverty, Dominic’s father had somehow survived the purges and burnings of the Spirituals, those who publicly abjured all material possessions. His humble manner, warm humanity and quiet wisdom, quickly gained the esteem of anyone who came to know him. It was his open honesty, and stubborn refusal to judge anyone but himself, that had earned him the trust of the Pontiff. He was one of the very few who could speak to the princely Clement under four eyes, in unconventional familiarity.
It had taken them two months to journey from Avignon to Rome, as Francesc famously accepted no other mode of transport than his own two feet. They arrived in the Holy City just in time for the ceremony on August 15th, feast of the assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, at which Cola di Rienzo officially crowned himself. Proudly donning a laurel wreath, the intense little man had galvanised the crowds with his fiery rhetoric on the glory of Rome and the new-found freedom of her citizens. He’d spoken passionately of peace, liberty and justice. He’d shared his vision of the unification of Italy and the rebirth of the Roman Republic. Dominic had been captivated by this promise of a new and better world. Like so many, caught up in the general euphoria, he’d foolishly felt it was a golden turning point in history.
How short it had lasted.
Clement VI’s most respected ambassador, Bertrand de Deaulx, in Naples trying to avoid an impending war with Hungary, was urgently sent to the aid of Raymond de Chameyrac, to restore some semblance of papal authority. Cola insolently turned his back on the Cardinal, arms crossed aloof, signalling an end to any conversation before it even started. In return, the Tribune’s messenger to Avignon, bearing the belated news of the coronation, was stopped short of reaching the Pope. His letters ripped to shreds, his carrying case shattered, and his staff broken over his head by a severe blow, he was sent back, bruised and bleeding. Scenes that had been the subject of gleeful gossip for weeks throughout the city.
Hostilities built up, leading to a bloody massacre outside the San Lorenzo gate on November 20th. Aided by 300 horsemen from King Louis of Hungary, on his way to Naples, Cola’s troops defeated those of Stefano Colonna, killing him and several of his family. By then the embargo on the city by the barons, the unmitigated misery of the people, and the uncomfortable alliance with the Hungarians had withered away most of Cola’s popular and diplomatic support.
A papal bull arrived in December with the order that he be deposed and put on trial. Followed by a minor riot in the market, it frightened Cola into leaving the Senate to seek safety in Sant Angello Castle. His delusions of a free Roman Republic left with him. As he silently moved through the streets with his reduced court, the gathering crowds and even the heavens wept with him. The city didn’t take long to revert back to utter political chaos, but as long as the barons disputed their claims indoors, the people could at least go about their business unhindered.
Dominic sighed as he turned his view back over the ruins of the imperial city. Francesc was again trapped in some endless, frustrating round of negotiations with some Annibaldi or other. Or was it a Gaetani...? No, Luca Savelli, he smiled, shaking his head. It was so confusing. So many names, such shifting allegiances. His father disliked the trappings of politics and the intricacies of diplomacy, but his patience was outwardly limitless, and he was one of the few people all sides had learnt to trust. He bore the undesired burden with stoic serenity. Only Dominic knew the toll it took on him. He’d already resigned himself to go out and explore the remaining sights on his own.
Eager to dive into the distant past, Dominic scampered down the slippery slope. He ran past the remains of Trajan’s market, its dank shops and niches now infested with thieves and beggars, slowing down only as he reached the more agreeable orchards. He was glad to be away from the stinking town and its festering intrigue, happy with the sense of freedom outside. It was a relief to escape from the confining walls of the monastery and the petty pre-occupations of the gossiping monks. It was hard to believe they were Franciscans at all. Their way of life was so different to the one he lived with his father. Francesc never accepted anything but the most basic food and lodging, and even then, only in exchange for some sort of service. He had no roof to call his own or go back to. In Dominic’s eyes, the monastic life of those fat friars had little to do with the examples of Christ our Lord or St Frances himself.
Though not ordained, Dominic was used to the hard but independent life of a mendicant. His father had always taken him along on all his journeys. He’d taught him everything he knew, which was more than most people could ever hope for. Only in his thirteenth year, Dominic could read and write better than many a scribe. He knew a great deal of classical history and literature, though oddly his father had never gone further in his theological teachings than was strictly necessary to follow the rituals of the Church. In fact, Francesc never expressed any opinion on spiritual matters to anyone. He didn’t have to. His example was more eloquent than any words could ever be. Words alone were empty anyway.
Strolling through the clean winter landscape, Dominic remembered the tales Francesc used to tell after sundown. The history of the ancient Republic and Empire, descriptions of the city and its buildings in classical times. Stories of great statesmen like Seneca and Ceasar, and great scoundrels like Sulla and Caligula. All the best and worst qualities and achievements of man could be found in the history of Rome.
Immersed in thought, he was already far out before he realised the surrounding countryside was deathly quiet. No birds, no insects, not even the wind made the slightest noise. It made him uneasy. Prudently, he gave the Conti keep in Constantine’s old baths a large berth. Climbing over a low, overgrown wall, he came to the cavernous husks of Diocletian’s baths. The thick masonry walls and huge crumbling arches loomed overhead, even though the building was partially buried under a thick layer of dust and rubble. The opulent frescoes and marble ornaments were flaking off, eaten away by black splatters of mould. He wandered idly through the halls, awed by their sheer size and majesty. Like a giant cathedral.
A soft chill down his spine alerted him he wasn’t alone. Dominic sensed the cold stare bore into him, before he turned slowly to face a large grey wolf watching him intently, only a leap away. He felt his heart slow down with the world around him as his throat went dry. Wolves were rumoured to roam within the Aurelian walls at night, but he’d never heard of one sighted during the day. He wished he’d brought his walking staff. Without it he was completely defenceless. All he could do was maintain eye contact, and hope his fear wouldn’t betray him. The animal was almost as big as he was, if not bigger, and had a beautiful, thick winter coat. Its ears were poised to attention, head cocked slightly to one side, with an expression more akin to wisdom than malevolence. There was absolutely nothing to read behind those cold blue eyes.
Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis.
Sancta Dei Génetrix, ora pro nobis.
Sancta Virgo vírginum, ora pro nobis...
In his head, Dominic silently recited the Litany of the Blessed Virgin, praying for strength.
Mater Christi, ora pro nobis.
Mater divínae grátiae, ora pro nobis.
Mater puríssima, ora pro nobis.
Mater castísima, ora pro nobis.
Mater invioláta, ora pro nobis.
Mater intemeráta, ora pro nobis.
Mater amábilis, ora pro nobis.
Mater boni consílii, ora pro nobis.
Mater Creatóris, ora pro nobis.
Mater Salvatóris, ora pro nobis…
The words gave purpose if not comfort. Time ground to a halt as boy and beast stared at each other for what seemed an eternity.
Virgo prudentíssima, ora pro nobis.
Virgo veneránda, ora pro nobis.
Virgo praedicánda, ora pro nobis.
Virgo potens, ora pro nobis.
Virgo clemens, ora pro nobis.
Virgo fidélis, ora pro nobis.
Spéculum justítiae, …
Just as suddenly as it’d appeared, the wolf turned around and leapt with a few deliberate bounds out of sight through a gap in the walls. Only then did Dominic notice the movement under his feet, growing in violence. The ground shook like a cart on a rocky ford, ever faster as time shortened. It was joined by a low, angry rumble from deep below the earth. A substantial block of masonry broke loose from the vaulting, and came crashing down beside him, showering him in a spray of dust and shards, jolting him back to reality. He could hear the very walls crack. Frightened, he ran out the way the wolf had gone as the room collapsed around him in a thundering roar.
The gap was very narrow, and Dominic had to literally claw himself out between trembling, loose masonry. He threw himself onto the ground outside, coughing dry dust. The pervading smell of rotting eggs, dense as a heavy fog, made him gag. Sheltering under a lone pine, he huddled himself into a ball, covering his ears and closing his eyes, wishing for it all to stop. He continued the Litany, now desperately mouthing the words with his lips.
Regína Angelórum, ora pro nobis.
Regína Patriarchárum, ora pro nobis.
Regína Profetárum, ora pro nobis.
Regína Apostolórum, ora pro nobis.
Regína Mártyrum, ora pro nobis.
Regína Confessórum, ora pro nobis.
Regína Vírginum, ora pro nobis.
Regína Sanctórum ómnium, ora pro nobis.
Regína sine labe origináli concepta, ora pro nobis.
Regína sacratíssimi Rosárii, ora pro nobis.
Regína pacis...
Abruptly, the movement stopped, though Dominic still felt himself shaking, as if the air itself still quivered. He felt queasy, light-headed. Disoriented. It took him a moment to stand up, holding on to the tree trunk, uncertain of his balance.
He looked out over the quiet fields. In the distance, he could make out the proud silhouette of the Santa Maria Maggiore shrouded in a haze of dust. Even from this distance it looked battered and broken. He thought of the beautiful interior, the perfect rows of columns, the intricate mosaics and colourful frescoes. The cross-beamed roof, spanning such an impossibly large space. Unconsciously, he crossed himself.
Shielding his eyes against the mid-morning sun, he turned towards the city, mostly hidden behind the hill. Thick columns of dark grey smoke rose up from its location. The sight caught his breath in a full stop. Francesc. He ran down the hill, cutting straight across the vineyards, leaping over the hedges, ignoring the brambles.
The city was an infernal cauldron. Many of the rickety homes had collapsed. Some were ablaze. Several of the tallest towers standing guard over the larger houses had toppled over, crushing whatever was below under a heavy pile of rubble, blocking the streets. Smoke and dust assaulted his eyes and lungs. Everyone was out in the crowded alleys. Men running into each other trying to put our fires. Women keening hysterically outside ruined homes. People desperately digging through mounds of debris. Grubby children, lost and unattended, wailing impotently against the chaos. Guards in torn uniforms were moving heavy furniture out of the Savelli fortress, the former Theatre of Marcellus, as smoke billowed through the tiny windows of its bricked-up arches.
Dominic elbowed and wormed his way through the commotion, crossing the Fabricius Bridge to Tiber Island, oblivious to the foul stench of the brown slime streaming perpetually below. He almost crashed into an old man on the Cestius bridge.
“The end of the world is here!” the wretch cackled after him with toothless gums, swinging his arms wildly. “The righteous shall be delivered. Woe those who remain behind!”
The situation on the docks of the Trastevere on the other side was even worse, as merchants vied with soldiers and looters to save their wares from fire and water. Arriving finally at the monastery, he stopped abruptly in front of the heavy wooden doors. They were open. Silently, he entered, the feeling of dread gnawing at his guts. He ran up to the library. There was no one there. Manuscripts lay open on the table. No one in the kitchen, no one in the chapel. With sudden panic, he recalled the wild-eyed old fool he’d almost run over on the bridge.
Had he been left behind, he thought dumbly. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to dispel it all as a bad dream. Standing in the middle of the empty cloister, he looked around miserably, feeling lonely and lost. He hardly noticed it had started to rain.
“Dominic?”
He turned around at the mention of his name, the soft familiar voice, and ran into his father’s embrace.
“Thank God I have found you,” Francesc whispered, holding him close. “Our brothers have gone out to help with the fires, they couldn’t tell me where you had gone. I was hoping you’d come back here.”
Separating, he looked Dominic in the eyes with a serious expression. He was drenched, his face and hands stained with soot. He looked tired.
“Louis of Hungary has entered Naples after a heavy siege. His troops are on the rampage in the city. He has vowed to avenge the murder of his brother Andrew. Queen Joan has fled to the Provence,” he said quietly. “Cola di Rienzo has escaped to find sanctuary with the Hungarians. Someone has accused me of helping him. We must go now. If they find us, they may kill anyone we’re seen with.”
It took Dominic a minute to make sense out of all that. Rumours that Joan of Naples had killed her husband Andrew of Hungary had started the war. Neither Cola nor the Hungarians were particularly popular in Rome now. Taking a deep breath, he nodded. He’d seen how the barons’ mercenaries operated. Kill first, ask questions later.
Gathering their gourds and walking staffs, they left quickly and quietly. Francesc set a good pace, but Dominic had little trouble keeping up, following in silence. Neither had eaten anything since yesterday evening, but they didn’t mention it. It was Friday. And they were used to long marches and infrequent meals.
Out in the country, Dominic turned around for one last look on Rome. It had succumbed to intrigue and debauchery, plunder and pillage, negligence and fratricide. Fire, flooding and earthquakes had done the rest. He wondered if it would gradually decay and disappear beneath the fields forever. Just then it stopped raining. As the sun broke through the clouds, bathing the wounded city in a golden light, a perfect rainbow formed over it.
Chapter 3
Nasty wandered aimlessly along the Parisian streets, arms folded, hands clasping her upper arms as if she were cold, or afraid to literally fall to pieces. She was unaware of the tears on her face or the stares from people who passed by. Everything was grey again. Suffocating. She was still dizzy, her heart still racing. If it didn’t hurt so much she would have sworn she was still dreaming. She had to get out of this maze. The river, a park, anything. Any place she could get some air and let the nausea pass.
She finally stumbled on the Tuileries gardens. Not far from the Louvre she’d visited only the day before, in a parallel universe. Another spasm almost doubled her over, but nothing came out anymore. There was nothing more to give up. She went up the terrace to lean on the balustrade over the river. At least the sun was good as she closed her eyes. Now she felt the occasional teardrop run down her cheeks, but she didn’t care.
What had she done? She couldn’t remember anything beyond giving Joe that lingering kiss, and even that was vague. Had he taken advantage of her, or had she led him on? It all seemed absurd. Completely out of character. She had no proof that anything had even happened. No pain or soreness between her legs. No traces of blood or anything else on the blankets where she’d lain. But they’d done it all right. Deep down she knew.
Taken advantage of. Good grief, it sounded like something from a Jane Austen novel. Guilt and Gullibility...
My God, what if she were pregnant, she realised, embracing herself even tighter. What if he’d passed on one of those sick diseases? She remembered the junkies she’d often seen in an alley on her way to school. Pale spectres, sifting through garbage cans in wooden slow motion. HIV Zombies. She shivered, feeling very cold. Couldn’t be bothered to take out her jumper though. It wouldn’t help, the cold came from inside.
What was she supposed to do? There was some sort of morning after pill. Could she still take it? Where the hell would she get one? Could she just walk up to a clinic and ask for an Aids test? Where? The sheer humiliation! She wasn’t even sure how to say Aids in French. Too many questions... Somehow she wasn’t able to think clearly. Her mind was still clouded. God, what would Nick say... She felt her blood being sucked into some deep inner void. Everything whirled around her...
A soft tap on her left shoulder roused her. She opened her eyes with difficulty, coming to from a profound darkness, only to stare into the authoritative uniform of a policeman. Startled, her heart galloped up her parched throat. As if she’d been sprung. Caught in the act of a heinous crime. But the weathered face she finally glanced up at only showed genuine concern under a stern pepper and salt moustache.
The officer held out his hand to help her up off the ground. She couldn’t immediately follow what he was saying. Her knowledge of French was wobbly at best. A mere year of intensive study after classes had not made her completely comfortable with it yet. It took all her effort to answer anything at all, fighting her natural tendency to clam up. In a barely audible voice she managed to convey to him she’d be all right. She’d just had too much to drink, she lied, not very convincingly. Hesitating, embarrassed, she asked where the nearest pharmacy was. He pointed out a green neon cross on the other side of the avenue. Was she sure she was all right? His friendly baritone calmed her enough to give a weak smile of reassurance. She sighed with relief when he left, she felt so utterly ashamed and horribly guilty.
The sun was already way overhead. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. It felt like days. Numbly, she dragged herself to the pharmacy and tried to ask for a morning after pill with what words and gestures she could conjure. The stiff, dour woman behind the counter eyed her over with undisguised contempt, and gave her a clipped retort from which Nasty vaguely deduced she needed a doctor’s prescription. Dazed, she just stood there for a few minutes, lost, but the old cow studiously ignored her. It only made her ears burn hotter.
Where would she find a doctor, she thought despondently, taking to the streets again. All the other shops were closed. Today was Sunday, she realised, to make matters worse. At least her splitting headache had dulled down to a stuffy throbbing and the dizzy spells were less severe and frequent. She crossed the park and followed the riverbank, keeping the sun behind her back, lost in her inner labyrinth.
The sight of an Australian flag jolted her back. It flew from a rounded modern building. She stared up at it dumbly. Its sinuous form and pronounced concrete window shades reminded her curiously of home. Somehow she’d drifted away from the river. No... No, she couldn’t go in there to ask anything. No way. Out of the question. Imagine the row in Brussels. Sir Nicholas, we have your daughter here, barefoot, pregnant and pretty beat up, but alive and kicking sir... Still, she hesitated. At least they spoke her language. And the entrance looked strangely inviting...
“I beg your pardon miss.” She jumped. Why were people always sneaking up on her lately?
“May I help you? You do speak English, don’t you?” A man in a smart pinstripe suit and round rimless glasses smiled at her. Unruly ash-blond hair and a studiously maintained five o’clock shadow gave his friendly face a mischievous touch.
“Yes,” stammered Nasty embarrassed, “I...”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “My name is Peter. I reckoned you were from Down Under. You looked a little lost. Don’t mean to intrude.”
“No, no, it’s all right. I... I guess I am a little lost. I’m Nastasha...” She bit her tongue. Sheesh… Didn’t want to give away who she was. Couldn’t.
“Can I offer you a cup of coffee? They serve a mean one around the corner.”
“Yes,” said Nasty regaining her footing, it was a relief to speak her own lingo, “that would be nice, thank you.” Just the smell of coffee would probably make her gag, but some orange juice or something would go down well.
He took her to a café nearby, where he was obviously a regular guest, for he exchanged some friendly banter with the waiter in perfect French. They sat down at a tiny table near the window.
“So tell me, where are you from?” he asked invitingly.
“Cairns.” She bit her tongue again. In this tone he’d pry her deepest secrets from her.
“Nice,” he said, “always wanted to see the Barrier Reef. Never had the chance. I’m from Adelaide myself. On vacation here?”
“Yes,” she lied.
“Alone?”
She blanched. He’d trapped her. Peter leaned over, gently putting his hand over hers, his expression now grave.
“Look, I know you’re in some sort of trouble, it doesn’t take much to put two and two together. Pretty blond girl with no shoes, pale as pearl, whopping shiner, crying alone on the streets. Something’s wrong.”
She wiped her wet face with the back of her hand. She hadn’t realised what she must have looked like.
“Nastasha, I saw your reluctance to enter the Embassy,” he continued softly, “if there’s anything I can do for you, you can tell me here. It’s my job to protect the interests of our people abroad, not to judge them.”
Alarmed, she looked at him wide eyed. “You have to file a report?” she managed to choke in a small voice. Nasty felt her eyes welling up again. Damn them.
He leaned back and smiled. “No, not unless you want me to. I’d much rather solve a problem than write about it. I’m not even on duty today. Whatever you choose to say will be strictly between us.”
Not once did he lose eye contact, and she was beginning to feel at ease with him. He had an aura of trust around him.
“But if you want my humble opinion,” he offered, “I think you should report whoever gave you that eye to the police. There’s no excuse for doing that to anyone, believe me.”
“No...” That would be something, she thought. Ambassador prosecuted for domestic violence. “God, no.” The idea made her laugh. She hadn’t even resented Nick for it. At least no more than she already did. It was so uncharacteristic. It had revealed a decidedly human side to him she’d never suspected. “Just a silly accident,” she waved it away.
“Ah, a smile at last,” he smiled back.
An expectant silence ensued. It was her turn. Speak now or forever hold your tongue, she thought, biting it once more.
“O.K., I’m sorry,” she stammered. She felt like a dumb little schoolgirl, ears blazing in shame. “I’ve done something incredibly... stupid. Just arrived, met a nice bloke. At least, thought I did. Danced all night. Don’t remember anything... Something in my drink, I don’t know. I think... I think he may have used me,” she trailed off. She barely pronounced the last words. “I feel used.” God, she couldn’t believe she’d told him.
“Nastasha, what you’re describing is rape,” Peter said softly after a short silence. “It’s not your fault. What that bastard did to you is a criminal offence. Do you have his name?”
No, she stared back at him in shock. She didn’t want any more attention, just wanted to forget, to step out of this nightmare.
He sensed her fear, and reached out to take her hands in his. “I think you need a doctor,” he whispered. “Let me take you to one.”
Yes, she nodded.
He made all the arrangements through a small cell phone. She was too numb to follow what he said. A dark blue embassy car picked them up and took them for what seemed like an endless drive. She sat in the back with her legs tightly embraced against her chest, staring blankly out the window. Peter was considerately silent beside her.
When they arrived, they were immediately ushered into a spacious consultancy by a crisp young nurse. The doctor greeted Peter like and old friend. He was a portly, grand-fatherly figure, with a bald head and a neat grey beard that hung from his ears like a tame possum.
“Nastasha, this is Doctor Fourcault, he speaks English, you can tell him everything in absolute confidentiality. You’re in good hands,” said Peter. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“No,” said Nasty, irrationally afraid of losing his reassuring presence, “please stay.”
He exchanged a glance with the doctor, who assented with a brief nod, and gestured for them to sit down. As Dr Fourcault took his place on the other side of the desk, he peered over his reading glasses at Nasty with kind, grey eyes.
“Tell me what happened,” he said in a paternal voice.
She told him what she could remember, as if she were talking about someone else, looking down, unable to meet his eyes. He asked a few questions to fill in the gaps, jotting down some notes as she answered.
“I’ll need to examine you, Nastasha,” he said. “I would like to ask you to go behind the curtain and take your clothes off.”
In a dull stupor, she did as he requested. He examined her thoroughly. Cold and clinical. She didn’t feel the gentle probing of his big hands, as if it weren’t her body he was touching.
“You can get dressed now,” he concluded, peeling off his gloves. She did as she was told, while he went away and came back with a vacuum-packed needle.
“I’ll need a blood sample for further testing,” he said evenly. She stared absentmindedly at the syringe as it filled up with dark red soup.