Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

Serafina fought to control herself. “No matter, Rosa. No time for anger. If we are to catch the killer ourselves, we must remain calm. I know our plan will work. And I’m sure the monk acts alone-except, of course, for his accomplice-so we outnumber him. There will be five of us-four in the chancel, and Arcangelo somewhere in the shadows near Carmela.”

“And don’t forget the guards.” Rosa said.

They were crossing the piazza on their way home, hands folded into copious sleeves. Passing the fountain and the statue, Serafina saw the ragpicker leaning against a weather-beaten cart crammed with old cloth, his cap pulled down low against the wind, his one-eyed mule swishing its tail. In his line of sight were the Duomo’s copper doors. She welcomed his presence, a fearful confirmation, like the glimpse of death at the edge of vision.

All her deliberation must be focused on their plan for this evening. Nothing must be left to chance. After it’s over, Arcangelo could rescue the mule. She hung onto this thought, a single strand of mercy in a skein of madness and death.

Tuesday late afternoon, November 6, 1866

The wind was a knife at their backs as the wimpled group blew across the street to the Duomo’s side entrance. Nodding to the guards sitting on a nearby stone bench, they climbed a flight of stairs and filed through the sacristy to the main altar.

Serafina led the way. With eyes cast downward, she snaked through the sanctuary toward the Madonna’s Chapel, genuflected, kissed her beads, and cast an outward glance. No shadows moved in the darkness beyond the communion rail. Turning around, she saw the madam scowling to herself, red-faced in her tight-fitting headpiece. She spied Beppe frowning and Scarpo sucking at his shaven lip. They followed her to the rear of the chapel. Serafina fit the key into the chancel’s lock, wincing as the tumblers fell and echoed throughout the cathedral. Slowly she opened the heavy, grilled doors. The four slipped inside.

Cold, damp, dark, the room contained nothing of comfort. Simple wooden furnishings were scattered throughout, a few straight-backed chairs with seats of straw, several unforgiving prie-dieus scattered around. A small altar jutted out from one wall. After her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Serafina glanced at Rosa. Kneeling, and with head bowed, the madam grasped the crucifix of her beads as if it were a pistol. Sensing Serafina’s gaze, Rosa turned to her and smiled. Beppe and Scarpo stood against the stone wall, Scarpo with one hand on the knife wedged into his belt.

Serafina looked out. She could see nothing at first, no shadows, no movement. Soon, however, Carmela’s form emerged. Facing Serafina, several meters beyond reach, she sat in the first pew waiting for the monk’s arrival. Serafina’s heart raced as she whispered the words to a half-remembered prayer.

Where is he, this monk? Had he gotten wind of their plan? Perhaps, after conferring with his accomplice, he saw through Carmela’s ruse, devised a surprise of his own. For all Serafina knew, the cunning monster had them in his sights and would appear in fury, whipping steel blades into their hearts. No chance, then, to save her child. She started from her seat, but sat back down and wiped her forehead.

Minutes seemed like hours. Finally she heard footsteps, felt the vibrations of a heavy object on stone. Tap-step-step-tap. Tap-step-step-tap. An iron rod rammed the floor. It shook her skull. Tap-step-step-tap . The sound grew louder.

From out of the shrouded gloom a silhouette appeared, faint at first, becoming more distinct as it approached. She blinked, calmed herself, reached over, and clasped Rosa’s arm. Perhaps their plan would work.

Wearing a cowl and what looked like dark sackcloth covering his head, face, and neck, the monk appeared. Cold eyes peered out from behind two slits. In one gloved hand he held a staff. At its top, a piece of metal coiled around a cross. Serafina recognized the same spiraling snake she’d seen over and over again in Bella’s magazine-the symbol of the brazen serpent. The monk neared Carmela’s form. Bending to her, he said, “You wait for me?”

The old nun was right. Despite the headdress Serafina wore, its starched cotton muffling sound, she heard everything, even the tremor in Carmela’s voice as she began to speak.

“Do you know where I can find the monk?” she asked, her voice growing stronger. “The one who gives absolution to a few of the chosen? I have sinned, and no ordinary priest has the power to forgive me. What’s worse, I probably will sin again.”

My girl. Serafina smiled.

There was a long pause before the monk replied. “I am the one you seek. You must follow me and kiss the brazen serpent.” He pointed to the coiling snake. “It is the serpent, not I, who offers absolution.”

“Give me this absolution, monk,” Carmela said. “I can pay.” She opened her reticule and held out gold coins. They gleamed in the light from nearby candles.

Serafina turned and saw a veiled Beppe, his brow furrowed, his cheeks working in and out. Looking beyond Carmela and the monk, down the main aisle to the vestibule, she could pick out, in a sliver of light from the rose window, a figure walking softly toward them, twitching in his sleeves.

“No gold can buy you absolution, lady,” the monk said, grabbing the coins in his gloved hands. “A few are chosen. You are one of the lucky ones, but you must feel the viper’s sting. I will sign you with his mark, and you will be absolved in his blood. For this you must go with me to my chapel. Are you willing?”

Carmela nodded. “Where is it, this chapel of yours?”

“Follow me.”

Serafina’s heart pounded. Again she rose in her chair, but was stopped by Scarpo’s hands on her shoulders, forcing her to sit down.

The monk was leading Carmela up the steps to the back of the chapel, pointing beyond the main altar to a hall leading to the sacristy.

They were nearing the chancel. Serafina crouched down as far as possible into her chair. The others did the same. She felt the air move as Carmela and the monk passed by. She hoped Mother Concetta was right, that no one could see into the room.

“My chapel is not far from here, in the rocks by the sea. I must hear your confession before the bell tolls midnight. We haven’t much time. Walk faster.”

“Why, monk? Why before midnight? And why not here?”

He turned to her, rapped the marble floor with his staff. “Quiet!” he hissed.

Careful, Carmela . Serafina wanted to pull her daughter inside to safety and rip apart this mad monk. But with one who had shown such quick deadly power, and her daughter’s life at stake, she was too afraid to try and overtake him now. Oh, Madonna, help us, she whispered.

“Keep your head down. Speak to no one. And hurry!” the monk said.

Arcangelo bounded up the aisle, past the chancel and the altar. Serafina opened the grille and the four exited. She led them through the hallway to the sacristy and down the stairs in time to see the door at the bottom closing. They ran down the stairs.

At the bottom Rosa caught Arcangelo’s elbow. “Stalk this monk, but as we rehearsed, as quietly as possible, staying a few meters behind us, keeping close to the walls. Careful: his knife never misses the heart.”

“Everyone, stay close to the walls!” Serafina said.

Arcangelo nodded, grabbed his revolver and, like a cat, slipped out the door.

Outside Serafina looked around. She saw the glint from Arcangelo’s revolver several blocks behind them, followed by two lolloping figures: the guards. Two others should be posted by the monk’s lair. Otherwise the piazza and surrounding streets were empty. The wind swirled around them, blowing their veils, knocking stones against their shoes, burning Serafina’s eyes. Ahead she saw two moving silhouettes.