Читать книгу Ancient Inheritance - Rita Vetere - Страница 8

Chapter 3

Rome, Italy – Present Day

Sammael headed north along the Via de San Gregorio towards the Coliseum, his new good looks and immaculate attire, compliments of the banker, attracting admiring glances from many of the pedestrians. Others, however, hastened their step and averted their gaze as they passed close to him, instinctively having picked up his malevolent scent.

Rome. How he adored the timeless place, a place where dark and savage passions lurked just below the surface of refinement, a city marked with a history of lust and violence. A history almost as turbulent as his own.

At the Coliseum, crowds had gathered for the Good Friday torch lit procession up the Monte Palatino to re-enact the Way of the Cross. Moving through the throng to get a closer look at the pageant, Sammael was disappointed to see the man chosen to wear the crown of thorns did not even vaguely resemble the original cross-bearer. Once again, Christ was being portrayed as a meek-looking savior, a weakling. In reality, the Creator’s son had been strong and muscular, square-jawed and with dark eyes that blazed with passionate fire when he addressed his followers.

On the anniversary of Christ’s death, as the procession commenced, Sammael evoked the memory of the original Way of the Cross to Golgotha over two thousand years ago, when he had attended the crucifixion of Jesus. He remembered…

…a parching sun bearing down on the crowd gathered at the fortress. The gates open and the soldiers appear, followed by the condemned prisoners. When Jesus stumbles out carrying his cross, weak and barely able to stand, the mob lets out a mighty roar. Sammael, triumphant, joins in. Turning the rabble against Jesus was nearly effortless, the time ripe.

He pushes his way through the laughing faces at the roadside to get a better look. Jesus meets his gaze, but looks straight through him, giving no sign of recognition, vexing him. He wants the Son of God to know who is responsible for his suffering.

Passing outside of the city gates, Jesus travels along the muddy road, carrying his heavy cross, rivulets of blood and sweat coursing down his face. Then, exhausted and trembling under the weight of his burden, he falls face-down into the mud, opening the wounds on his back. The soldiers pull him up roughly and send him on his way again. Jesus stops before a woman in the crowd, but is not given a chance to speak before he is pushed forward once more.

Sammael recognizes the woman—Jesus’s mother. He passes close beside her, savoring the image of her sorrowful countenance. Then, Jesus falls a second time, and a third.

A large crowd has already gathered, waiting, at the desolate hilltop known as the Place of Skulls. Jesus walks the final few steps and the soldiers remove his clothes. Sammael hears the pounding of hammers, banging on nails. He watches as the sharp metal enters the flesh of Jesus’s wrists. At last, the sound he has been waiting for—the piercing scream that echoes through the air.

The cross is hoisted up. Soldiers hurry to nail Jesus’s legs. His mother moves forward to stand at the foot of the cross, and Sammael moves alongside her, again hoping to make his presence known to the Son of God. When Jesus thirsts, it is Sammael who offers up the vinegar-soaked sponge on the tip of an olive branch. And then Jesus does see him, his eyes widening in surprise.

Having gained his attention, Sammael locks eyes with the dying Son of the Creator. “Tell your father it was Sammael who turned the mob.”

Immediately after he utters the words, the Son of God takes his last, ragged breath and expires. The oldest of the Roman soldiers, carrying a spear, pushes Sammael aside. Seeing Jesus is already dead, he does not break his legs as he has done with the other two. Instead, the soldier thrusts his spear into the side of Jesus. As it exits the wound, the blood on the spearhead glows like fire.

Moments pass. The sky rumbles and darkness falls. The earth trembles violently. The

throng flees, Sammael along with them. Only Jesus’s mother remains behind. The Son of God is dead.

A bitter aftertaste tainted Sammael’s recollection. Bringing about the demise of the Son of God had been his finest achievement. Yet, in the end, he’d been cheated. Trickery had been employed to create the illusion of Jesus rising from the dead, and his subsequent ascension into heaven, a great hoax in which his dear brother, Michael, had no doubt played a part. Sammael himself had often employed the technique of animating a lifeless body, and recognized the trick. But the appearance of Jesus’s animated corpse to a select few following his death had been viewed as a miracle, one that served to propel Christianity throughout the world. Ultimately, Sammael’s plan had backfired. Mortals are a gullible bunch of miscreants. His brother, however, was another story. Michael would pay dearly for his involvement in having ruined Sammael’s success.

Timing is everything. And the timing of this latest undertaking was proving to be perfect. The Lucifer rebellion had finally been adjudicated. The Prince of Darkness had been sentenced to exile in a world light-years away, in another galaxy, where he would remain imprisoned under the watchful eyes of ranking celestials. With Lucifer gone, the playing field on Earth had been left wide open for Sammael.

It won’t be long now. The thought brought a smile to his lips. A messenger was due to arrive this very night with news as to the whereabouts of Alan Fairfield.

Suddenly, he laughed uproariously. He could only imagine the look on the face of his despised twin, the great Archangel Michael, when he learned what Sammael was up to. It would be Michael who the Creator would send to do battle once it was discovered what Sammael had gotten his hands on. And when Michael arrived, Sammael would be ready. He had a score to settle with his despicable brother, all right.

He checked the banker’s Rolex watch and found he had some time to kill. Turning abruptly to leave the procession, he came face to face with an elderly priest and barely managed to suppress a snarl at the sight of the crucifix resting against the black robe.

Sammael did not possess the ability to read minds, exactly, but if a mortal did not guard his thoughts well, he was almost always able to glean a clear impression or two to work with, as he was an expert on human nature.

The old priest nodded amiably at him. “Scusa, excuse me.”

Sammael locked eyes with the priest. The man took a small step back, his face suddenly pale.

“Please, allow me,” Sammael said, taking the priest’s arm as if to assist him through the crowd. He felt the man trembling in his grip and inwardly smiled. “Lovely day for a procession, isn’t it? Tell me, Father, have you seen la Seniora Carelli lately?”

“Seniora Carelli...”

“Yes. Surely you remember her. Such an attractive woman.”

“No,” said the priest after a moment’s hesitation.

Oh, but you lie, priest. Sammael noted beads of perspiration had sprung up on the man’s forehead.

“Come now, last month she came to you for confession, no? Told you she wanted to leave her husband. Surely you remember?” The priest extricated his arm from Sammael’s grasp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sammael, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, spoke in the priest’s ear. “She died, you know. Beaten to death by the husband you told her not to leave. I watched it happen. Of course, she should have left the man long ago, but she didn’t dare. You told her it would be a mortal sin to break the sacred vows of matrimony. But then, how were you to know such a thing would happen?”

“Who are you? Lascemi in pace, leave me alone.” The old priest pushed through the crowd to get away from him.

“Old man...” Sammael spoke softly, but the glance he flashed in the priest’s direction was incinerating.

The priest clutched his left arm and doubled over. He made the sign of the cross.

“Pray all you want, false priest. Your precious God won’t help you, or maybe he will. Let’s see, shall we?”

Striding away from the pilgrims, he could hear shocked voices rise above the crowd: “Dio mio, help him. He’s having a heart attack.”

Laughing, Sammael turned onto a narrow cobblestone street, walking with vigor until he spotted a tiny café he knew would be open for tourists, even on the holiday.

He entered, looking around. The place was packed. Removing the banker’s cellphone from his pocket, he dialed a number and spoke briefly. “I’m back. Bring the car around,” he said, naming the café.

He made his way to the crowded bar. “Cognac, per favore.” The sweet, burning sensation of the amber liquid on his tongue reminded him how pleasant certain mortal pleasures could be. He stood casually at the bar, scanning the patrons for someone interesting, when his eyes fell on an exquisite brunette sitting with an older, well-dressed man. Sammael watched as she crossed her long legs under a flowing silk skirt and leaned towards the man, the simple black top she wore revealing the barest glimpse of a lovely bosom.

He studied her regal profile as she tossed back her long, dark tresses and brought a cigarette to her plump, glossy lips. The man with her—not her husband, Sammael intuited—lit the cigarette with an expensive-looking lighter. Smiling in anticipation, Sammael moved towards the table.

“Thank you, Roberto,” the woman said, taking a deep drag on her cigarette. She looked up to find an attractive, well-dressed man standing over her. Instantly, a dreamy haze fell over her. Such eyes.

The man leaned in close to her, his hand lightly grazing her forearm, those piercing eyes drawing hers like a magnet.

His touch ignited instant arousal. A shameless, delicious heat began to build between her thighs. Her nipples turned hard beneath the filmy chemise she wore. When he extended his hand to her, she reached out to take it, captivated.

Roberto protested, but only for a second. She watched as the man turned to glare at Roberto, who immediately began to sputter and clutch at his throat. She was shocked when Roberto suddenly slumped back into his seat, but did nothing to assist him. The mysterious man had returned his gaze to her, and she found Roberto’s fate no longer concerned her.

“Shall we?” he asked.

She took his outstretched hand and he led her outside. With such a handsome escort, it was easy to ignore the stares of the other patrons, who whispered to each other about the drunken man passed out in the booth she had just vacated.

Once outside the café, he walked her to a sleek black Mercedes purring at the curb. Its uniformed driver stood by the car door.

“Where are we going?” she asked. Not that she really cared, she felt drunk with

desire.

“My place,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”

The woman could barely contain herself during the ride. Never had she felt such arousal. Subliminal scenes of erotica flashed through her subconscious, creating delicious shivers of anticipation. She did not know the name of the man with the astonishing eyes, eyes that could look straight into her soul and know her every desire, nor did she care. She knew only that she must be with him. Moaning with pleasure as he liberated her breasts from her flimsy top, she ran her hand up his thigh and stroked his rock-hard erection, while the car carried them along a hilly road.

When they pulled to a stop in front of an old mansion, she adjusted her clothing and exited the car. The view was spectacular from the vantage point of the hill upon which the Villa rested. A sea of terra cotta roofs capped houses carved into the hillside and burnt gold by the sun. To the west, the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica in the heart of the Vatican glittered in the fading light.

He led her through a palatial entranceway and up a winding marble staircase to a sumptuous bed chamber. A myriad of candles had been lit, casting a soft glow over the room. She entered, taking in the lavish Florentine furniture and intricately-patterned Persian carpets overlaying the ancient stone floors. Yards of raw silk draped the tall, narrow windows, ending in a puddle on the floor. An enormous bed, dressed in pearly satin sheets, embroidered coverlet and plush cushions, dominated the room.

The man mounted the bed and reclined. She seductively stripped, then moved over to him, stretching out her hand. “What’s your name?”

He got up, turning her so her back pressed up against him. “You can call me D’Arcy,” he said, running his hands over her breasts and stomach, then traveling further down to the wetness there.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, pulling away.

She could hear the rustle of fabric as he undressed. He turned her to face him, his member fully erect.

As she stroked him with her hand, she looked down, startled. His erection appeared unnaturally large. Her insides tensed as she realized the experience of taking him into her body would be painful. She glanced up at his face. There was no charm in evidence now, only a malevolent sneer. Her lustful feelings withered as the spell vanished.

What am I doing here? Where was Roberto? Why was she here with this man she did not know? Another look at the man’s absurdly huge penis and knowing what he intended to do with it spurred her to action. She grabbed her clothes and made a run for the door, only to find Sammael suddenly in front of her.

What? How? She hadn’t even seen him move.

“Not so fast. We’re not done yet.”

She detected the veiled threat beneath his silky voice.

“No. Let me out.”

Those were the last coherent words she was able to speak.

* * * *

The door opened and old Massimo jumped back in alarm. On every occasion he had met with Sammael, he never looked the same twice. Except for his eyes. Massimo always recognized the eyes. Insanity, and something else, something old and decayed, lurked in those eyes. Trembling violently, Massimo bowed low, in spite of the arthritic pain that burned like fire deep in his bones.

Many years ago, in a sunny garden at the Villa D’esta, a dark man had approached Massimo with information about his wife’s infidelity. He’d shown him pictures of Massimo’s unfaithful wife with her lover. The dark man had tormented him with the images before offering to kill them both for a small price. In his rage, Massimo had not only agreed, he had begged him to kill them. In return, the dark man asked only for certain small ‘services’ from time to time.

It was a decision Massimo had come to regret, for he realized it was one that had damned his immortal soul.

“What news have you brought me?” Sammael growled.

Relieved the message he bore would undoubtedly please his dark lord, Massimo answered, his voice shaking despite his attempt to control his fear. “He has been found, Master. In America. Louisiana.”

After being summoned inside, he reluctantly disclosed all he had discovered about Alan Fairfield, knowing soon there would be more blood on his hands.

Once the information was delivered, his dark lord made arrangements for a hasty exit. As he left, he called back over his shoulder, “Get rid of the mess in the bedroom and secure the house. I may be gone for a while.”

Massimo watched through the window as the black Mercedes sped off, the fiery pain in his bones intensifying to an unbearable level when his dark lord cast one last look at him from the car. Despite the crippling pain, he hurried towards the bedroom to carry out his Master’s bidding.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that awaited him in the next room.