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Amoro awoke to blackness. When he tried to lift his head, a curious hum in his ears mingled with the steady cadence of a painful throb. He winced at the discomfort and lay his head back down until the pain passed.
Where am I? A cold darkness surrounded him. He had no idea how much time passed. “Is anyone here?” he called out. The sound of his voice croaked out weakly. When no one responded, he called out in a deeper, stronger voice.
Again, no answer came. Confused, he reached out his arms to grope the black abyss that surrounded him. He felt nothing, caught not a glimpse of anything. Only silence existed. Yet, he breathed fresh, cool air.
As he grew accustomed to the darkness, he detected an opening in the wall above his head. He sat up, but the room spun and forced him to clutch his head until the dizziness passed.
He rose to his feet and reached up. His hands closed upon cold iron bars. He gazed out into the night and strained with his eyes to penetrate the dark blanket of fog.
He failed to see beyond the mists, lightened in places by the incandescence of far-away lanterns. He turned away from the window, spread his arms wide, and touched stone with both hands. He dropped his arms and counted his paces. It took eight steps across the straw-strewn floor before he reached the door. Trapped in a cell the size of a tomb. A sense of constriction consumed him. He hated small spaces.
Then everything flooded back in recall. Morena’s blackened eyes, the battle, the illicit use of the mace, even the disorder that ensued after Ernesto felled him. What of my men? Amoro punched out in rage and struck stone. Pain shot through his hand. He stopped and rubbed his knuckles. Frustration swept through him, but his judgment cautioned him to remain calm. His head throbbed and he longed for sleep, the enticement of profound blankness. Yes, he welcomed sleep. Perhaps when he awoke, Roberto and his men would rescue him.
He lay on the floor. The thin layer of vermin-ridden damp straw beneath him added to his discomfort. Small beasts feasted upon him. A myriad of smacks failed to end their ceaseless assault. At some point, sleep overtook him.
***
WHEN AMORO NEXT OPENED his eyes, dawn’s delicate light entered through the little window and lightened the small stone cell - a cell devoid of anything other than a bucket for defecation and the mound of ancient putrid cloths upon which he lay. An irrepressible urge to scratch his body told him the biting vermin won the battle. He longed for cold water to wash his discomfort away.
What of his men? Did they suffer likewise? Were they all together?
He hoped his men were safe for they were loyal and served him well. He vowed to see to their welfare at the first opportunity.
What of Morena? He recalled the defeated look, blackened eyes, puffed lips, evidence of an assault, likely by Ernesto. Somehow, he would escape this bowel of hell, and when he did, not even God could help that rank lewdster.
Amoro glanced about the cell. He went to the window, gripped the bars, and pulled himself up. Through narrowed eyes, he peered into the morning haze that blanketed the courtyard of Ernesto’s castle.
Savona roused to greet the new day despite the depressing cover of fog. Lights from torches glowed faintly from within the mists. Beneath the haze on the sea, boats and barges waited for the fog to lift. Amoro could distinguish the outline of the dwellings and warehouses at the edge of the port. Carried upon the chilly mist, came the tolls of a distant church bell. The world appeared at peace. The town of Savona awoke to a new day. Its townsfolk began their chores, oblivious to the upheaval in his life. How he wished he could trade places with any one of them, so that he too could be free to tend to his own matters.
He wrapped his hands around the cold iron bars of his cell. In a flash of anger, he tried to pry them loose from the stone ledge. Frustrated, he dropped down to the rancid floor.
Time passed in unbearable increments. Thoughts of Morena haunted him. He overcame much adversity in his life, but his helplessness and inability to help her or himself, for that matter, more than exasperated him. He loved her and he knew she felt the same way about him. Such thoughts tortured him, so he tried to distract himself. He found he could not.
The sun reached its highest point when he heard a clatter at his cell door. He scrambled to his feet. It did not open. Instead, he heard the sound of wood that scraped against stone. He looked down. Someone opened a section at the bottom of the door and slid a tray with a small cup, a bowl, and a large round of crusty bread into the chamber. Before he could react, the panel slammed shut.
Amoro pounded on the door. “Come back.”
Nothing but dead silence.
He groaned with aggravation and kicked the door. He ran his hands through his hair to push away some loose strands and reached down to pick up the tray. He raised the cup to his nose and when he could detect no aroma, took a small sip. Water. To kill his powerful thirst, he downed almost the entire amount. Although warm, it tasted clean and brought relief to his parched throat.
After he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, Amoro turned his attention to the bowl. Lumps of an unknown meat floated in a watery grey liquid.
He raised the bowl to his nose and sniffed. It didn’t smell foul, so he brought the bowl to his lips and tasted it. The substance lacked flavour.
Ravenous, he tore the bread apart, dipped it into the gruel, and ate with such voraciousness that he finished the entire meal almost immediately.
He rose to peer out through the bars again. The fog had dissipated.
Fishing boats set sail to sea. More townsfolk were about, but they were too far off to contact.
He turned away from the window and sat down, his back pressed against the cold damp wall. Nothing to do but wait.
By the tolls of the church bell, he counted the long hours. At Sext, his hunger returned. By nones, he became ravenous. Vespers came and went. It brought with it the dark and the realization that food came only in the morning hours.
The sounds and smells of Savona drifted in through the barred window and faded with the darkness. The tension in his gut refused to relent. Yet he sat with his back against the wall and imagined all types of horrors he or Morena might face. Such thoughts pressed upon his angst.
The sound of key in the door forced him to his feet. A large oaf in the faded livery of Boccanera, his face marked with a red rash, stood upon the threshold with his hands on his hips and an impatient look upon his ugly face. “Platter and pail.”
Amoro retrieved the items. Before he passed them to him, he asked,
“My men, where are they? What has happened to them? Contessa Morena, what of her?”
The lout’s face reddened as he grabbed the items and left the chamber. The door clanked shut behind him.
Amoro sat in anger. With no information and no food, for it seemed that they fed prisoners but once a day, he slammed his palm against the door. As he prepared to sit back down in the corner of the cell, the door opened and the guard threw in the empty pail, its contents likely thrown down a chute and into the moat.
Amoro jumped to his feet. “I demand an answer.”
The guard only laughed. Amoro’s frustration caused his anger to flare and he drove his fist hard and fast into the guard’s jaw. The force sent the man’s head back and exposed his thick neck. With his other hand, Amoro struck the man’s exposed throat.
The turnkey fell back hard against the stone floor, unable to breathe.
Amoro kicked the man hard in the gut and fled through the open door and into the corridor. A stairway spiralled before him. He raced towards it, taking the steps two at a time in a dash to freedom.
The guard came fast upon his heels. He locked a burly arm around Amoro’s neck and yanked him back down the stairs. Amoro struggled, but the brute fought all the harder. The stench of the turnkey’s foul breath and rank body odour sickened him. The guard dragged him back into his cell and flung him down hard. Before Amoro could gather his equilibrium, the door slammed with a crash and the lock turned.
A desire to kill flared within him. Surrounded by complete darkness and silence, he shivered in the cool air that blew in through the bars of his cell. Despite the wretchedness, lack of food, and pestilence, he fell into a restless sleep.