Eric Lustbader - The Testament

"Yes." He knew that his father was referring to the deaths of American marines and the subsequent alleged massacre of Somali civilians that so incensed certain members of the United Nations and which the American administration vehemently denied.

"That's where I've just come back from, Bravo. Angola. Do you want to hear the truth?"

"The New York Times isn't reporting the truth?"

"They're reporting a truth," Dexter said, "just like Time and CNN and Reuters and everyone else."

Bravo had put down his razor. "How many truths can there be?"

"If one person believes a story, it becomes a truth-for him. That's why history is such a mare's nest: it's difficult to determine what happened as opposed to what people thought happened, wanted to happen, felt should have happened. The slant is everything, Bravo. The spin. Remember that."

Bravo watched whisker-laden suds swirl down the drain. "What happened in Somalia, Dad?"

"We got our butts kicked, that's what happened. The generals made a terrible miscalculation. Hubris, Bravo. It happened to the Romans and it happened to us. We thought of ourselves as unbeatable, we thought of the Somalis as a lower form of soldier. Then they tail-whipped us and because the secretary of defense got pissed off we went in and slaughtered-thousands-indiscriminately. Their crime was that they were Somalis, and we made sure they died for that crime."

"So Ambassador Perry was lying when he denied-"

"Perry was being the loyal mouthpiece for the administration. He told the truth just as it was written out for him by the president's policy wonks."

He had turned to his father. "You're sure about this?"

Dexter gestured with a soapy arm. "Look for yourself."

He saw a black folder sitting on the closed toilet seat and, drying his hands, opened it. Inside lay six photographs-aerial shots, taken from aircraft, of bodies, mounds of dead bodies, Somali bodies, not only soldiers but civilians. There was something sickening in the godlike view, the detachment from the human catastrophe. He found his hands shaking.

"You're the last person who'll ever see those," Dexter said. "In ten minutes I'll burn them to ash."

He had looked up, into his father's eyes. "Why did you show me these?"

Dexter sat up, the water purling off his shoulders and chest. "Because I want you to know the truth, because we live in the land of the blind and I don't ever want you to be blind. I want you to see what's around you, Bravo, even if it's painful, even if it's not what you want to see. Because doing the right thing is not the goal, doing the best thing is what you must strive for. If you learn nothing else from me, that will be sufficient…"

Bravo awoke, gasping. Sweat ran down his face. It was morning. Sunlight streamed down onto the harborside, its reflection burnishing the north-facing windows. He threw off his clothes and stood under a cold shower until his flesh was raised in goose bumps, until he shuddered with the chill. It was when he was toweling off that his father's words ran through his head again like an electronic news ticker. Wrapping the towel around him, he padded back into the room and, sitting cross-legged on the bed, allowed the dagger to rest in his hands as if it were a sacrificial blade. He pulled the dagger from its scabbard. How many Saracen hearts had this blade sundered, how many Ottoman bellies had it torn open, how many Knights of St. Clement's ribs had it shattered?

The lamplight spun off the blade as he moved it but also revealed something else. Carefully, he placed the dagger on the coverlet and picked up the scabbard. It was lined with blood-colored velvet, a fabric not used by bladesmiths because the constant abrasion of the weapon being drawn and scabbarded would have soon destroyed the nap. And even if it had been used on this particular piece, the velvet would not have survived the centuries intact.

Scrutinizing the inside of the scabbard, he could see a small edge lifted slightly from the steel. Plucking at it, he found that the velvet lining pulled away easily enough, revealing the leather beneath, worn shiny, dark with oil and, possibly, blood. On the reverse side of the velvet, he found written in his father's hand a name: Adem Khalif, along with a phone number. Just below appeared two words, one above the other:

VINE

PURPURE

There was an altane, a roof terrace, outside Father Damaskinos's apartment. Nowadays altane tended to be used to dry washing, but in the past women would sit out on the terrace in a wide-brimmed hat. Though the brim kept their skin youthful and pale, the hat was crownless, exposing their hair to the sun, hair that had been soaked in a solution that helped the sunlight bleach it blond.

The apartment was a haven for the priest, a place high up-the third floor was high in Venetian terms-away from the constant consumerism of a city obsessed with consumerism. Father Damaskinos was especially relieved to be home after this nightmare day. He had eaten nothing since noon, but found he had no appetite for either food or drink-in his mouth was the salty-copper tang of human blood, imagined, to be sure, but no less terrifying for that.

It was the altane he was thinking of on this hot, humid night, and the moment he closed the door of his apartment behind him, he crossed the Byzantine carpet and threw open the window beyond which the terrace beckoned. As he did so, he noticed a shadow, large and blocky. He craned his neck to see what it might be and the shadow moved, startling him. All at once the shadow resolved itself into a human figure, a large man who grabbed him with two powerful fists and shook him until his teeth rattled.

He looked into a pair of eyes the color of the lagoon at night, a distinctive face, part of a long bloodline to those students of Venetian history.

"Cornadoro," he breathed, "what are you doing here?"

"Let's step into your parlor, Father." With an enormous bunching of muscles, Damon Cornadoro threw the priest back through the open window. With a lightness belied by his size, Cornadoro stepped onto the Byzantine carpet and hauled Father Damaskinos to his feet.

"Answers, Father," he said. "I require answers."

"To what?" The priest shook his head. "What could I possibly tell you?"

"The whereabouts of Braverman Shaw."

Father Damaskinos's eyes showed white all around and his nostrils flared as if he had scented the approach of his own death. Nevertheless, he said, "I have no idea-"

The last word was snatched from his throat, ending in a high-pitched sound not unlike that of a stuck pig.

"You scream just like a girl, you know that, Father?" Cornadoro's breath was thick with bile and liquor. He made a sudden grab. "You aren't a female under all those robes, are you, Father? Oh, yeah, I've heard all the stories." Cornadoro frowned, as if disappointed. "But, no, there's no need to look further, is there, Father, though of what use a cock is to you I can't imagine."

With a violent tug, he drew Father Damaskinos off his feet. "Now where is Braverman Shaw?" His eyes, pits of darkness, seemed merciless. "I won't ask again."

"I… I don't know."

Cornadoro kissed the priest on his hairy cheek. "Ah, Father, now you've made me happy."

He shoved Father Damaskinos into a chair, took a candle from the marble mantelpiece, lit it. He brought the flame close to Father Damaskinos's face.

"Father, I'll tell you something about me. I'm an old-fashioned man. Not for me the modern innovations of torture. I like the tried and true." With that, he grabbed the priest's hair, at once pinning him to the chair and pulling his head back. "Now in five seconds I'm going to set your beard on fire. You have until then, not a moment more." He jerked on the curling hair, making the priest's eyes tear. "Do not mistake me, Father. You will not get a second chance, I will fucking burn you alive."