Italy 1945
I t was almost dark when they reached the palazzo. The sky was a turquoise blue, fading into pale orange just above the tree line where the sun was setting. The stone walls rose up, sheer and impenetrable, to quixotic towers, and a tattered flag drooped on its pole. Once, when the winds of Fate had blown more favorably, it had danced on the breeze with vitality, dominating all around it. Now ivy was gradually choking those walls to death, like the slow poisoning of an old principessa, whose breath now rattled up from her belly in fits and starts. Memories of her celebrated past, that lay within the fabric of the ramparts, were evaporating beyond recognition and recovery, and a foul smell emanated from her bowels where decay had set in, along with the putrefying foliage of the wild gardens. The stench was overpowering. There was a sharp edge to the wind, as if winter resisted the call of spring and clung on with icy fingers. Or perhaps winter lingered there, in that house alone, and those icy fingers belonged to death, who now came calling.
They did not speak. They knew what they had to do. Bound together by anger, pain, and a deep regret, they had vowed to seek revenge. A golden light glowed from a window at the back of the palazzo, but the thickness of the encroaching forest, the overgrown bushes and shrubs, prevented their reaching it. They had to risk entering from the front.
It was silent but for the wind in the trees. Not even the crickets braved the malevolence that surrounded the place, choosing to chirrup further down the hill where it was warm.
The two assassins were used to creeping about. They had both fought in the war. Now they were united again against a very different evil, one that had touched them personally, beyond all reason, and they had come to eliminate it.
Without making a sound they climbed in through a window left carelessly ajar. They made their way across the shadows. Silently like cats. Their black clothes allowing them to blend with the night. When they reached the room where the light melted through the crack beneath the door, they paused and stared at each other. Their eyes shone like marbles; their expressions grave, resolute. Neither felt fear, just anticipation and a grim inevitability.
When the door opened their victim looked up and smiled. He knew why they had come. He had been expecting them. He was ready and he wasn’t afraid to die. They would see that killing him would do nothing to ease their pain. They didn’t know that, of course; otherwise they would not have come. He wanted to offer them a drink. He wanted to enjoy the moment. To prolong it. But they were eager to get on with it and get away. His cool affability was sickening, his smile that of an old friend. They wanted to slice it off his face with a knife. He sensed their offense and it made him grin all the more. Even in death he’d smile. They’d never be rid of him and of what he had done. What he had taken from them he could never give back. He had won at their loss, and the guilt that would eat away at them would be his final victory.
The blade of the knife glinted in the golden light of the lamp. They wanted him to see it. They wanted him to anticipate it and fear it, but he did not. He would die willingly, joyfully. He would take pleasure from his pain as he took pleasure now from theirs. They looked at each other and nodded. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin, exposing his white neck like that of an innocent lamb.
“Kill me, but don’t forget that I killed you first!” he gloated, his voice resonating with triumph.
When the blade sliced through his throat, a gush of blood spurted over the floor and walls, turning them a rich, glistening crimson. He slumped forward.
The one with the knife stood back while the other kicked the lifeless body to the ground so that he lay face up, his neck a crude, gaping gash of flesh. Still he smiled. Even in death he smiled.
“Enough!” the knifeman shouted, turning to leave. “We have done enough. It was a matter of honor.”
“It was more than honor to me.”