Authors: Elizabeth Hunter
“Romero?” He slowly walked toward the doorway.
“Of course.”
“Well”—Carwyn raised his arms and stumbled down the hall—“Zombies do seem strangely appropriate at the moment.”
“You try to eat my brain, and I’ll get the swords out.”
“Oooh, scary.”
Fontana del Pantheon, Rome
“I can’t believe how much gelato I’m eating.”
Ben eyed Dez as she scooped up another spoonful. “It is pretty amazing. But then, I think we just need to accept that we are no longer eating lunch while we’re in Rome.”
“Yep, gelato is its own food group here.”
Dez leaned back against the cool pillar as they sat in the shade in front of the Pantheon. They had woken that morning as they did most mornings since they had come to Rome. Late. Angela fed them breakfast before Dez and Ben struck out to explore the Temple of Hadrian, which was fairly close to the house. Every day, they would take in some site that the guidebooks recommended before they found a suitable
gelateria
and a shady place to people-watch.
Even though Ben made a game of flirting with Dez, she and Matt were two of his favorite people, and the three were having a great time exploring the city. If he was free, Matt came along, but most times, he was running an errand for Beatrice or Giovanni. That morning, he happened to be meeting with some of his “friends” to procure a suitable weapon for Ben to carry when he was in Rome. Ben slipped a hand into his pocket and felt the cool grip of the knife his uncle had given him the night before.
“Carry it whenever you go out. Particularly if you’re with Dez. Get to know the neighborhood. Learn the streets. We’re relying on you. Be smart, Benjamin.”
His eyes darted around the square, watching the bustling crowd. Tourist season had already started, but Ben knew enough about cities to be able to spot the locals. He may have spent the previous few years taking it easy in Houston and L.A., but he had been born in New York and raised himself on the streets. And big cities, he knew, were remarkably similar in a lot of ways.
He could still spot the tourists with the fattest wallets. He could spot the savvy local girls. And he could definitely spot the guy with the shiny forehead wearing the unseasonably warm jacket who was trying a little too hard to be inconspicuous.
“Okay, I’m stuffed.” Dez stood and stretched, shoving her sunglasses up her nose and looking around. Ben could hear the trickle of the fountain in the background, and the murmur of the crowd, but he kept an eye on the suspicious man out of the corner of his eye. The guy was definitely eyeing Dez, and Ben didn’t think it was because of her California-girl looks.
“Ben?”
“Huh?”
“Let’s head back to the house. I’m getting sleepy. Do you mind?”
Ben stood and casually slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Nah, that’s cool.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and started toward the street that would lead them to Giovanni’s house. Very subtly, he noticed the man shift in their direction before he looked down at the newspaper he was reading. As Dez and Ben left the shade of the temple, they turned right and Ben caught the man following them at a distance.
“Hey, Dez?”
“Yeah?”
Ben grabbed her hand and hustled down a side street he had mapped out the week before. It looked like an alleyway, but led to a triangular-shaped piazza surrounded by office buildings. Also headed in that direction was a blond girl who was similar to Dez in height.
Perfect
. “Let’s go this way, okay?”
“What?” She followed Ben, her pace matching his as they turned left into the cobblestone piazza. Ben hurried to catch up with the blonde, glancing over his shoulder. The man was definitely following them.
The triangle-shaped piazza opened up before narrowing down into a driveway leading out to a larger thoroughfare. Though that was the direction most of the pedestrian traffic was flowing; there was also a twisting walkway past a parking lot leading through the houses and to the primary school behind the Pantheon. Ben had found it when he was scoping out the neighborhood. It was roundabout, but the best way he could think of to lose whomever it was that seemed to be tailing them. The blond girl went straight; Ben tugged Dez’s hand and turned left.
“Ben? Where are we going?”
“I think I saw a bookshop that had English books in the window.”
Dez perked up immediately. Though Giovanni had a full library at the house, his selection of books in English was somewhat limited, so Ben and Dez had been on a hunt to expand it. He glanced over his shoulder as they turned the corner. He could see the man following the blond girl to the main road. Ben pulled Dez into a small shop that sold postcards and cigarettes. The man behind the counter, with the universal wisdom of all convenience store owners, eyed Ben with suspicion, only relaxing when he saw Dez walk in behind him.
“Signore, uno... uno cappelo, per favore?” Ben motioned to Dez. “Per la signora?”
The older man shrugged and pointed to the back of the shop where a few rows of tacky caps with pictures of the Colosseum were lined up. Ben grabbed a navy blue cap and tugged it on Dez’s head.
“Ben, I don’t see any books here. I think you—hey!” She was looking around and jerked back when Ben pushed the hat on her head. “Ew! I’m not wearing this.”
“You should.” He kept hold of her hand and pulled a few euros from his pocket, handing them to the shopkeeper on the way out of the store. “It’s getting warm and you don’t want to overheat.” He peeked his head out, but couldn’t see the man anywhere. “I think I was remembering a shop on the other side of the Pantheon. Where we were this morning.”
“Oh.” Dez looked around. “Yeah, that was a big triangle like this one. Ben, I’m not wearing this hat. It’s ugly. Why did you waste the money?”
He pulled her out into the parking lot and to the left toward the alley that led to the school.
“Oh, just humor me until we get home, will you?” His eyes never stopped glancing around, looking for the shiny forehead of the man who had been watching them before. He was nowhere in Ben’s sight, and he allowed himself to relax a little.
“Ben?” He finally turned and looked at Dez. She was no longer smiling. “Who was following us?”
Ben was moments away from denying it, not wanting to seem paranoid or worry her, but he stopped himself. Dez was too smart to buy the quick lie.
“I’m not sure. I remember his face. I’ll try to draw it when I get home.”
She just nodded and squeezed his hand. “Okay. Which way should we go back?”
Ben let out the breath he was holding. He knew he wasn’t overreacting, but he’d been afraid that Dez would think so. He let her hand go, reaching back into his pocket to grasp the knife. “Down here. I checked it out last week.”
She smirked and tugged the cap lower on her head. “Lead the way.”
Residenza di Spada
“And he hadn’t seen him before?” Beatrice questioned Dez as they stood in the enormous walk-in closet in the guest room where Beatrice kept her wardrobe. She had acquired more clothes in the past month than she had in the previous three years, thanks to Dez’s shopping habits, her suddenly active social calendar, and Giovanni’s habit of losing his patience with buttons and zippers when the mood struck.
“No, he drew a pretty good sketch, though. He gave it to Matt as soon as he got home. Matt, Gio, and Ben are talking in the library right now.”
Beatrice sighed and glanced longingly toward the door.
“Nope, not on your life. You have to figure something out to wear to this party next week, and if you’re serious about not wearing that... grand occasion of a dress that Livia sent, then you better stay here.” Dez pointed toward the magnificent Renaissance era gown that Livia had sent by uniformed courier the day before. It was a sixteenth century style, rich with priceless fabric and stunning detail. The wine-colored brocade would set off Beatrice’s pale, luminous complexion. The gold cording around the collar would make her brown eyes and hair glow. It was stunning.
“It has a hoop skirt. Are you kidding me?”
“Technically, it’s called a...” Dez looked over to the laptop on the desk. “Farthingale.”
“Well, farthingale or hoop skirt, I’m not wearing this thing. It’s ridiculous.”
Dez grinned. “The corset’s kind of hot, though.”
Beatrice gave her most ladylike snort. “Okay, I’ll wear the corset with a nice pair of black jeans and some kick-ass boots.”
“Have you seen what Gio’s wearing? Is it tights? Please tell me it’s tights.”
“Should it weird me out that you want to ogle my husband’s ass in a pair of tights?”
Dez just shook her head. “Not appreciating that ass would be like walking through the Sistine Chapel and not looking up. No, really, what’s he wearing?”
Beatrice laughed. “It’s pretty simple. She probably knew she couldn’t get away with anything too elaborate. And no tights. There are these kind of fitted leggings, but they go just above his knee. The jacket looks similar to mine, but plainer. Mostly, he was grumbling because she’s doing this whole party in his honor. She has this party every year, but usually people just dress up in whatever costumes they want. Livia made it a Renaissance theme for Gio.”
Dez stood, blinking at her. “There are some serious issues going on there, B.”
“You’re not joking. And his outfit is right here. Take a look.”
Dez unzipped the garment bag that contained the sleeveless leather jerkin and black leggings that Giovanni would wear to the party.
“Okay, not gonna lie, that’s kind of hot.”
“It’s going to be
really
hot. This party is outdoors in June. Thank goodness it’s at night.”
“Haha. Seriously, that leather...”
“I’m definitely not complaining about the leather. So, what am I going to wear to this? You think I can I get away with wearing my Docs?”
Dez laughed for a few minutes before she looked back at Giovanni’s clothes. Then she looked at Beatrice’s dress, then back to Giovanni’s. She narrowed her eyes and smiled.
“No Docs, Beatrice De Novo di Spada Vecchio whatever the heck your name is now. But I may have an idea.”
Chapter Eight
Crotone, Italy
1497
The lash struck again, and Jacopo could feel it cut into his flesh. Still, he did not cry out, steeling himself against the pain that had become part of his daily life. His flesh, though dripping and bloody, would be healed shortly. Andros always made sure to preserve the perfect body he had created by healing him with his demon blood.
“Good. You are no longer even flinching.”
Jacopo made the mistake of letting his shoulders relax slightly, only to be struck on the back of the thighs with Andros’s staff. He grunted and his knees buckled, but he did not cry out.
“Cato may have been a Roman, but he was correct in one thing: The first virtue is to restrain the tongue. Do you know why, my son? You may speak now.”
Jacopo took a deep breath and flexed his arms and shoulders. He could feel Paulo wiping at the blood on his back so Andros could heal the open wounds. The muscles, unfortunately, could not be as easily mended and would ache for days.
“Why is silence the first virtue, Father?”
“Because words can be twisted. And they should be. I will teach you how. Words are to manipulate and fool, but when you hand them to your enemies, they will be used against you. Your Bible may not be worth much, but Solomon did speak some wisdom. ‘Even a fool is counted wise when he holds his tongue.’”
“Yes, Father.”
He felt the cool lick of Andros’s blood as he pierced his finger and began to seal the lashes. Giovanni could feel the strange tingling sensation of the wounds closing.
“Nothing will inflame your enemies more than your silence. Give them nothing. Nothing to accuse you with. Nothing to condemn you. Let your actions speak for themselves. Never talk to an enemy, but listen always.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And let your actions be your words. Is it better to reason with an enemy or kill him?”
“If I could reason with him, he would not be an enemy.”
Andros stepped in front of him and looked up. He smiled and patted Jacopo’s cheek. “Excellent. You have done well. You had your music class today. Do you like your new instructor?”
“Yes, Father.”
Andros scowled. “I said you could speak, my son.”
Jacopo’s face, as always, was impassive. It was the only defense against the mercurial moods of the ancient Greek. The monster would be as loving as his uncle some nights, then turn in an instant and beat him. Always, Andros said, for his own good. For his education. His training. Jacopo examined the man’s eyes. They were relaxed. Amused even, and his mouth may have been turned down, but his fangs were not descended. It appeared that Andros wanted a debate instead of rote answers.
“The music teacher is a heathen, Father. He teaches me profane songs. I do not care for them.”
Andros smirked. “There is no profane music. Only music. Some is good. Some is bad. Sometimes the coarsest peasant tune is the one most pleasing to the ear.”
Jacopo blinked. He had been exposed to the finest composers of the Basilica di San Lorenzo; and while he had heard beautiful madrigals sung in Paris, nothing could compare to the breathtaking experience of the holy mass.
“I would prefer learning music that edifies the spirit, Father.”
“That is your pathetic uncle talking, boy.”
His temper flared, as it always did when Andros criticized Giovanni Pico.
“You are a heathen demon,” Jacopo spit out. “And God will condemn you for your madness.”
Andros curled his lip and picked up his staff again. “I wonder about you sometimes.” Walking behind Jacopo, he struck the back of his thighs again. “Don’t you know? There is no god. The Greeks stole their gods from the Minoans. The Romans stole their gods from the Greeks. It’s all nonsense, and your Hebrew god is no different.”
Jacopo remembered the gentle instruction of his uncle, reflecting on the common strands of faith that wove through the ancient world. “You’re wrong.”