The night sky turned gradually to gray, but no rays of the Italian sun broke through the overcast. Instead, there would be rain soon, and a cold summer wind whipping down from the northern mountains.
Victor walked down the stable road into the gardens. It was too dark to make out the colors. Then, too, there were not the rows of flowers bordering the paths as there had been; he could see that much.
He found the path with difficulty, only after examining the uncut grass, angling the beam of his flashlight into the ground, looking for signs of the past. As he penetrated the woods beyond the garden familiar things came back to him: a gnarled olive tree with thick limbs; a cluster of white birches, now concealed by beechwood vine and dying spruce.
The stream was no more than a hundred yards away, diagonally to his right, if memory served. There were birches and tall pines; giant weeds formed a wall of tentacles, soft but uncomfortable to the touch.
He stopped. There was a rustle of bird wings, the snap of a twig. He turned and peered into the black shapes of the overgrowth.
Silence.
Then the sound of a small animal intruded on the quiet. He had probably disturbed a hare. Strange, he should assume so naturally that it was a hare. The surroundings jogged memories long forgotten; as a boy he had trapped hares in these woods.
He could smell the water now. He had always been able to smell the moistness when he approached the stream, smell it before he heard the sound of the flow. The foliage nearest the water was thick, almost impenetrable. Seepage from the stream had fed a hundred thousand roots, allowing rampant, uncontrolled growth. He had to force back limbs and spread thickets to approach the stream.
His left foot was ensnared in a tangle of ground vine. He stepped back on his right and, with his cane, worked it free, losing his balance as he did so. The cane whipped out of his hand, spiraling into the darkness. He grabbed for a branch to break his fall; the small limb cracked, stripping itself from its source. On one knee, he used the thick stick to push himself off the ground; his cane was gone; he could not see it. He held onto the stick and threaded his way through the mass of foliage to the water’s edge.
The stream seemed narrower than he remembered. Then he realized it was the gray darkness and the overgrown forest that made it appear so. Three decades of inattention had allowed the woods to impinge upon the water.
The massive boulder was on his right, upstream, no more than twenty feet away, but the wall of overgrowth was such that it might have been half a mile. He began edging his way toward it, crouching, rising, separating, each movement a struggle. Twice he butted against hard obstacles in the earth, too high, too thin and narrow, for rocks. He swung the beam of the flashlight down; the obstacles were iron stakes, rusted and pitted as though relics from a sunken galleon.
He reached the base of the huge rock; its body extended over the water. He looked below, the flashlight illuminating the separation of earth and flowing stream, and realized the years had made him cautious. The distance to the water was only a few feet, but it appeared a gulf to him now. He sidestepped his way down into the stream, the thick stick in his left hand prodding the depth.
The water was cold—as he remembered, it was always cold—and came up to his thighs, lapped over his waist below the brace, sending chills throughout his body. He shivered and swore at the years.
But he was here. It was all that mattered.
He focused the flashlight on the rock. He was several feet from the edge of the bank; he would have to organize his search. Too many minutes could be wasted going over areas twice or three times because he could not remember examining them. He was honest with himself: He was not sure how long he could take the cold.
He reached up, pressing the end of the stick into the surface of the rock. The moss that covered it peeled easily. The details of the boulder’s surface, made vivid by the harsh, white beam of the flashlight, looked like thousands of tiny craters and ravines.
His pulse accelerated at the first signs of human intrusion. They were faint, barely visible, but they were there. And they were his marks, from more than half a century ago. Descending lines scratched deeply into the rock as part of a long forgotten boyhood game.
The V was the clearest letter; he had made sure his mark was vivid, properly recorded. Then there was b, followed by what might have been numbers. And a t, again followed by what were probably numbers. He had no idea what they meant.
He peeled the moss above and below the scratchings. There were other faint markings; some seemed meaningful. Initials, mainly; here and there, rough drawings of trees and arrows and quarter circles drawn by children.
His eyes strained under the glare of the flashlight; his fingers peeled and rubbed and caressed a larger and larger area. He made two vertical lines with the stick to show where he had searched and moved farther into the cold water; but soon the cold grew too much and he climbed onto the bank, seeking warmth. His hands and arms and legs were trembling with cold and age. He knelt in the damp overgrowth and watched the vapor of his breath diffuse itself in the air.
He went back into the water, to the point where he had left off. The moss was thicker; underneath he found several more markings similar to the first set nearer the embankment. V’s and b’s and t’s and very faint numbers.
Then it came back to him through the years—faintly, as faintly as the letters and the numbers. And he knew he was right to be in that stream, at that boulder.
Burrone! Traccia! He had forgotten but now recalled. “Ravine,” “trail.” He had always scratched—recorded—their journeys into the mountains!
Part of his childhood.
My God, what a part! Every summer Savarone gathered his sons together and took them north for several days of climbing. Not dangerous climbing, more hiking and camping. For them all, a high point of the summers. And he gave them maps so they knew where they had been; and Vittorio, the eldest, would indelibly, soberly record the journeys on the boulder down at the stream, their “river.”
They had christened the rock The Argonaut. And the scratchings of The Argonaut served as a permanent record of their mountain odysseys. Into the mountains of their boyhood.
Into the mountains.
The train from Salonika had gone into the mountains! The vault of Constantine was somewhere in the mountains!
He balanced himself with the stick and continued. He was near the face of the rock; the water came up to his chest, chilling the steel brace beneath his clothes. The farther out he went the more convinced he became; he was right to be there! The faint scratching—the faded scars of half lines and zigzags—were more and more numerous. The Argonaut’s hull was covered with graffiti related to journeys long forgotten.
The cold water sent a spasm through the base of his spine; the stick fell from his hands. He slapped at the water, grabbing the stick, shifting his fee in the effort. He fell—glided, actually—into the rock and righted himself by pressing the stick into the mud below for balance.
He stared at the sight inches from his eyes in the water. There was a short, straight, horizontal line deeply defined in the rock. It was chiseled.
He braced himself as best he could, transferred the stick to his right hand, manipulating it between his thumb and the flashlight, and pressed his fingers into the surface of the boulder.
He traced the line. It angled sharply downward into the water; across and down and then it abruptly stopped.
7. It was a 7.
Unlike any other faded hieroglyphics on the rock; not scratches made by awkward, youthful hands, but a work of precision. The figure was no more than two inches high—but the impression itself was a good half inch deep.
He’d found it! Etched for a millennium! A message carved in rock, chiseled in stone!
He brought the flashlight closer and carefully moved his trembling fingers about the area. My God, was this it? Was this the moment? In spite of the cold and the wet, the blood raced to his head, his heart accelerated. He felt like shouting; but he had to be sure!
At midpoint of the vertical line of the 7, about an inch to its right, was a dash. Then another single vertical line … a 1, followed by yet another vertical that was shorter, angling to the right … and intersected by a line straight up and down.… A 4. It was a 4.
Seven—dash—one—four. More below the surface of the water than above it.
Beyond the 4 was another short, horizontal line. A dash. It was followed by a … Z, but not a Z. The angles were not abrupt, they were rounded.
2.
Seven—dash—one—four—dash—two.…
There was a final impression but it was not a figure. It was a series of four short, straight lines joined together. A box … a square. A perfect geometric square.
Of course, it was a figure! A zero!
0.
Seven—dash—one—four—dash—two—zero.
What did it mean? Had Savarone’s age caused him to leave a message that meant nothing to anyone but him Had everything been so brilliantly logical but the message itself? It meant nothing.
7—14—20…. A date? Was it a date?
My God! thought Victor. 7–14. July 14! His birthday!
Bastille Day. Throughout his life that had been a minor source of amusement. A Fontini-Cristi born on the celebrated day of the French Revolution.
July 14 … two-zero … 20. 1920.
That was Savarone’s key. Something had happened on July 14, 1920. What was it? What incident had occurred that his father considered so meaningful to his first son? Something that had a significance beyond other times, other birthdays.
A shaft of pain—the second of what he knew would be many—shot through his body, originating, once again, at the base of his spine. The brace was like ice; the cold of the water had chilled his skin and penetrated the tendons and muscle tissue.
With the sensitivity of a surgeon, he pressed his fingers around the area of the chiseled numbers. There was only the date; all else was flat and unspoiled. He took the stick in his left hand and thrust it below the water into the mud. Painfully, he sidestepped his way back toward the embankment, until the level of the water had receded to his thighs. Then he paused for breath. The flashes of pain accelerated; he had done more damage to himself than he had realized. A full convulsion was developing; he tensed the muscles of his jaw and throat. He had to get out of the water and lie down. Lurching for the overhanging vines on the embankment, he fell to his knees in the water. The flashlight spun out of his hand and rolled over some matted fern, its beam shooting out into the dense woods. He grabbed a cluster of thick, exposed roots and pulled himself up toward the ground, pushing the stick behind him into the mud for propulsion.
All movement was arrested in a paralyzing instant of shock.
Above him, in the darkness on the embankment, stood the figure of a man. A huge man dressed in black, and motionless, staring down at him. Around his throat—in jarring counterpoint to the pitch-black clothing—was a rim of white. A priest’s collar. The face—what he could see of it in the dim forest light—was impassive. But the eyes that bore down at him had fire in them, and hatred.
The man spoke. His speech was deliberate, slow, born of loathing.
“The enemy of Christ returns.”
“You are Gaetamo,” said Fontine.
“A man came in an automobile to watch my cabin in the hills. I knew that automobile, that man. He serves the heretic of Xenope. The monk who lives his life in Campo di Fiori. He was there to keep me away.”
“But he couldn’t.”
“No.” The defrocked priest elaborated no further. “So this is where it was. All those years and the answer was here.” His deep voice seemed to float, beginning anywhere, ending abruptly in midstatement. “What did he leave? A name? Of what? A bank? A building in the Milan factories? We thought of those; we took them apart.”
“Whatever it was, it has no meaning for you. Nor for me.”
“Liar,” replied Gaetamo quietly, in his chilling monotone. He turned his head right, then left; he was remembering. “We staked out every inch of these woods. We ran yellow strings from stake to stake and marked each area as we studied it. We considered burning, cutting … but were afraid of what we might destroy. We damned the stream and probed the mud. The Germans gave us instruments … but always nothing. The large rocks were filled with meaningless markings, including the birthdate of an arrogant seventeen-year-old who had to leave his conceit in stone. And always nothing.”
Victor tensed. Gaetamo had said it. In one brief phrase the defrocked priest had unlocked the door! An arrogant seventeen-year-old, leaving his mark in stone. But he had not left it! Donatti had found the key but had not recognized it! The reasoning was so simple, so uncomplicated: a seventeen-year-old carving a memorable day on a familiar rock. It was so logical, so essentially unremarkable. And so clear.
As the memory was now clear. Most of it.
7–14–20. His seventeenth birthday. It came back to him because there had been none like it in his life. My God, thought Victor, Savarone was incredible! Part of his childhood. It was on his seventeenth birthday that his father had given him the present he had wanted so badly he had dreamed of it, pleaded for it: The chance to go up into the mountains without his younger brothers. To really do some climbing … above the usual and—for him—dreary campsites in the foothills.
On his seventeenth birthday, Savarone had presented him with an authentic Alpine pack, the sort used by experienced climbers. Not that his father was about to take him up the Jungfrau; they never really scaled anything extraordinary. But that first trip—alone with his father—was a landmark in his early manhood. That pack and that journey were symbols of something very important to him: proof that he was growing up in his father’s eyes.
He had forgotten; he was not sure of it even now, for there had been other trips, other years. Had it—that first trip—been in the Champoluc? It must have been, but where? That was beyond memory.
“… end your life in this water.”
Gaetamo had spoken, but Fontine had not heard him: only the threat had penetrated. Of all men—all priests—this madman could be told nothing. “I found only meaningless scribblings. Childish markings, as you said.”
“You found what rightfully belongs to Christ!” Gaetamo’s words sliced through the forest. He lowered himself to one knee, his immense chest and head inches from Victor, his eyes wide and burning. “You found the sword of the archangel of hell! No more lies. Tell me what you’ve found!”
“Nothing.”
“Liar! Why are you here? An old man in water and mud! What was in this stream? On this rock!”
Victor stared at the grotesque eyes. “Why am I here?” he repeated, stretching his neck, arching his tortured back, his features pinched. “I’m old. With memories. I convinced myself that the answer might be here. When we were children we left messages for one another here. You saw for yourself. Childish markings, scribblings, stone scratched against stone. I thought perhaps-But I found nothing. If there was anything, it’s gone now.”
“You examined the rock, and then you stopped! You were prepared to leave.”
“Look at me! How long do you think I can stay in this water?”
Gaetamo shook his head slowly. “I watched you. You were a man who found what he had come to find.”
“You saw what you wanted to see. Not what was there.”
Victor’s foot slipped; the stick that braced him in the water slid in the mud, sinking deeper. The priest thrust out a hand and grabbed Fontine’s hair. He yanked viciously, pulling Victor into the embankment, forcing his head and neck to one side. The sudden contortion was unbearable; wrenching pain spread throughout Fontine’s body. The wide maniacal eyes above him in the dim light were not those of an aging man in the clothes of a priest but, instead, the eyes of a young fanatic thirty years ago.
Gaetamo saw. And understood. “We thought you were dead then. There was no way you could have survived. The fact that you did convinced our holy man that you were from hell! … You remember. For now I’ll continue what was begun thirty years ago! And with each crack of your bones you’ll have the chance—as you did then—to tell me what you’ve found. But don’t lie. The pain will only stop when you tell me the truth.”
Gaetamo bent forward. He began to twist Victor’s head, pressing the face downward into the rocky embankment, cutting the flesh, forcing the air out of Fontine’s throat.
Victor tried to pull back; the priest slammed his forehead into a gnarled root. Blood spurted from the gash, flowing into Victor’s eyes, blinding him, infuriating him. He raised his right hand, grappling for Gaetamo’s wrist; the defrocked prest clasped the hand and wrenched it inward, snapping the fingers. He pulled Fontine higher on the ground, twisting, always twisting his head and neck, causing the brace to cut into his back.
“It won’t end until you tell me the truth!”
“Pig! Pig from Donatti!” Victor lurched to the side. Gaetamo countered by crashing his fist into Fontine’s rib cage. The impact was paralyzing, the pain excruciating.
The stick. The stick! Fontine rolled to his left, his left hand below, still gripped around the broken limb, gripped as one holds an object in a moment of agony. Gaetamo had felt the brace; he pulled on it, wrenching it back and forth until the steel lacerated the surrounding flesh.
Victor inched the long stick up by pressing it into the embankment. It touched his chest; he felt it. The end was jagged. If he could only find the smallest opening between himself and the monster above, space enough to thrust it upward, toward the face, the neck.
It came. Gaetamo raised one knee. It was enough.
Fontine shoved the stick up, driving it with every ounce of strength he could summon, impaling it into the stunned body above. He heard a cry of shock, a scream that filled the forest.
And then an explosion filled the gray darkness. A powerful gun had been fired. The screeches of birds and animals swelled in the woods—and the body of Gaetamo fell forward on top of him. It rolled to the side.
The stick was lodged in his throat. Below his neck a huge gaping mass of torn flesh saturated with blood was in his upper chest; he had been blown apart by the gun that had been fired out of the darkness.
“May God forgive me,” said the monk of Xenope from the shadows.
A black void came over Victor; he felt himself slipping into the water as trembling hands grabbed him. His last thoughts—strangely peaceful—were of his sons. The Geminis. The hands might have been the hands of his sons, trying to save him. But his sons’ hands did not tremble.