Pier Paolo Manetti looked even more like an opera star in real life than he did on television.
The Fifth Horseman watched him from across the restaurant in Florence, a short, portly man with deep laughter lines, curly black hair that was almost certainly dyed, and a jovial round face that smiled and smacked contentedly as he dug into a generous helping of pasta.
Manetti looked older and stouter than he had on his famous television show, Misterio 2000, but it was undoubtedly him. There was no mistaking those exaggerated mannerisms, that crazily unkempt hair that somehow managed to give him style, or that waxed moustache that came out to points on either end, nearly doubling the width of his already wide face.
There couldn’t be two of those moustaches anywhere, not even in Italy.
So the Fifth Horseman watched, and waited. He enjoyed every bite of Manetti’s meal almost as much as the Italian himself. He would also enjoy watching the result of that meal when it kicked in about an hour from now.
As embarrassing as it was to admit to himself, Misterio 2000 was one of the shows that had set the Fifth Horsemen on this path.
It was a ridiculous program, begun, as the name implied, during the wave of paranormal interest around the turn of the millennium. Filmed in Italian for Italian TV, it was soon an international hit for the elaborate gestures and mannerisms of its host. It was the only Italian show on American network television, and they didn’t even dub it, instead opting for subtitles so viewers wouldn’t miss Manetti’s extravagant mode of speech and occasional bursts into song.
Manetti and his program became a cult hit, but while most people only watched it for laughs, the Fifth Horseman noticed a more serious side to the show that the general public missed. Manetti researched his topics in depth, and while he never lost his showman’s façade, he conducted informative interviews with UFO abductees, conspiracy theorists, and people who claimed to have lived past lives.
Manetti was at his most serious when speaking of the mysteries related to the Christian religion. On one program he even went all the way to Axum in Ethiopia, where church elders claimed to keep the original Ark of the Covenant hidden in the sanctum sanctorum of the great Ethiopian Orthodox Church there. Only the eyes of the clergy were allowed to gaze on it.
Manetti broke into the church one night, nearly got shot by a guard, and was arrested by Ethiopian police. His eventual release, and the smuggling out of the footage, created an international incident and hugely entertaining television.
It was that episode that made the Fifth Horseman realize Manetti was something more than a showman. He really wanted answers, and was willing to put his freedom, even his life, on the line in order to get them.
A man after his own heart.
But a rival. And rivals needed to be dealt with, each in their own special way.
The Fifth Horseman ate his crespelle alla Fiorentina and bided his time.
After a second portion and a generous helping of gelato for dessert, Manetti lifted himself off his seat with a grunt, paid the bill, and left.
The Fifth Horseman, who had been nursing a glass of wine to pass the time, drained it and quickly paid.
Manetti huffed down the Via Sant’Antonino, singing a popular love song in his trademark baritone. His voice echoed off the crumbling old buildings on either side of the narrow street, the flaking tan paint and worn green shutters somehow seeming attractive and homey despite their modest nature.
A gray-haired woman leaned out of a third-story window and clapped.
“Bravo! Bravo, Signore Manetti!”
Ever the entertainer, Manetti stopped and sang the rest of the song below her window like some ardent young lover in a cheap Italian romance film from the fifties. The woman put her chin on her crossed arms and listened, beaming with delight from the attention.
Once done, Manetti bowed, got another round of applause from several people who had appeared at their windows, and moved on, starting up a new song.
No one noticed the Fifth Horseman walking half a block behind him.
Still singing, Manetti continued into the Piazza di Santa Maria Novella whose famous Renaissance basilica of the same name made it the epicenter of tourism.
The TV star strode right across the piazza, singing as he went past the ornate basilica façade of white marble with its perfectly proportioned arches. Tourists turned and started taking pictures.
The Fifth Horseman slowed, putting more distance between him and his quarry. While he was only a face in the crowd, he knew the police would soon be studying those pictures. There were already dozens of photos of him in a suit of armor.
He wondered how well the police would be able to trace it. The armor and sword were modern reproductions, purchased in Germany ten years before.
The Fifth Horseman had been planning these encounters with the paintings’ owners long before he knew who his intended victims were.
While he had paid in cash, there weren’t many modern armorers who could make a suit of such quality. The authorities might be able to narrow it down. Briefly he considered flying to Germany and killing the craftsman but discarded the idea almost as soon as he thought of it. That would only bring attention to where the armor came from, and he didn’t have time to take a side trip anyway.
No, he had far, far more important things to do.
He needed to see the stars in all four paintings. Only then could he know the time.
And the time was everything.
Manetti’s belting song cut off as the man coughed, tapped his chest, and continued walking, a bit slower now. He took up the next verse with a little less gusto than before.
Passing through the piazza, Manetti turned onto the Via del Banchi. A few steps into the new street, his song was interrupted by a loud belch.
Manetti stopped, cleared his throat, thumped his chest, and continued. His pace grew even slower, and he did not sing.
That gave the Fifth Horsemen time to duck into the recessed arched doorway of a villa and make a quick change. From out of his pocket came a burlap bag from which he pulled a small mirror and makeup kit. Putting those on the ground, he shucked off his jacket and tie and slacks to reveal a second set of clothes beneath.
These were not nearly so formal. A loose white blouse of medieval style and brown britches with a belt and a big square buckle. The sort of clothes someone of modest means would have worn five hundred years ago. Dirty and torn as well and stained here and there with blood. A large red stain ran down the front of the shirt, as if he had vomited up blood.
The Fifth Horseman opened the makeup kit and quickly daubed a sponge into some yellow base and covered his hands and face with it to give him a sickly pallor. Then he used a small brush and some red paint to dab little spots all over his exposed skin. A quick look in the mirror showed him he had done a satisfactory job.
He had practiced this change of costume a hundred times. Every move was quick and assured and he barely even needed the mirror to guide his hand. Within less than a minute he was done and, with the sackcloth bag slung over his shoulder, he stepped out of the doorway and saw Manetti had only made it a further half-block down the street.
The Fifth Horseman followed at a discreet distance, smiling. A few people gave him and his strange getup a second glance, but no one stared for too long. They no doubt thought he was going to a fancy-dress party or was an actor in one of Florence’s many outdoor entertainments.
Strange costumes were common on the streets. Just today, he had passed a woman dressed up as Lucrezia Borgia, a man imitating Michelangelo, a trio of condottieri, and a woman in Roman robes covered from head to toe in marble colored makeup in order to imitate a statue.
The Fifth Horseman and his quarry continued down Via del Banchi, another of Florence’s narrow residential streets enclosed by four- or five-story apartment buildings on either side, with a few shops on the ground floors and many windows overlooking the street. The Fifth Horseman knew that Manetti loved singing along these little lanes, loved the sound of his own voice; but the Fifth Horseman also knew that Manetti wasn’t feeling quite himself today.
Yes, a bit under the weather. Perhaps it was something he ate.
At an intersection about a hundred yards down the street, where the Via del Giglio branched off at an angle, stood a small, whitewashed palazzo. Its wall sported an ornate crest of some old Florentine family and a ponderous door of thick wood studded with brass.
Manetti’s home. Pulling open that door made the television personality break into a sweat.
The Fifth Horseman hurried up to him just as he managed to get it open.
“Signor Manetti,” the Fifth Horseman said in passable Italian. “You look unwell. Do you need some help?”
The TV star’s round face shone with sweat, and his breath smelled distinctly unpleasant. He looked at the newcomer in his strange outfit, confused.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“No, but I know you. I am one of your greatest fans. I’m an astrologer.”
Manetti’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “An astrologer? Ah, perhaps you can help me after all! Dressed as you are, I thought you were a street entertainer, or maybe a portent of death like might appear in an opera by Puccini. You are right, I am feeling a bit poorly. Help me up the stairs and get me a glass of water, and I will show you something more astounding than anything I ever put on television.”
The Fifth Horseman closed the door behind them, the heavy thud resounding in the front hall, then snicked the bolt shut. With Manetti leaning on his arm, his other hand grasping a smooth old balustrade, the Fifth Horsemen led him up a flight of worn stone steps. They passed through another door and into a hallway that branched right and also continued forward. Manetti gestured forward with a groan and the Fifth Horseman took him down the passage and into high-ceilinged sitting room. A gilded loveseat and a couple of armchairs were arranged around a coffee table strewn with books on the occult and paranormal events. A long bookcase filled with similar books took up one wall.
While all the shutters were closed to block out the heat of the noonday sun and the Fifth Horseman couldn’t read the titles from across the room, he could have named most of them. Any time Manetti mentioned a book in one of his shows, the Fifth Horseman bought it and pored over its contents.
And he wasn’t really interested in the books right now anyway. He was far more interested in the easel and painting covered with a cloth in the opposite corner of the room.
The TV host sat heavily in one of the armchairs.
“Please,” he choked, loosening his collar. “A glass of water. The kitchen is just down that hall.”
The Fifth Horsemen went to fetch him a glass of water. It didn’t matter. It would do Manetti no good.
When he returned a minute later, he found Manetti where he had left him, sweat pouring down his face.
“Thank you, my good man,” Manetti gasped.
Manetti took the glass gratefully and downed it in one gulp. Then he winced, clutched his stomach, and let out a foul belch.
“Do forgive me. I seemed to have a touch of food poisoning. I can’t imagine how. I’ve been eating at Marco’s for years and have always had excellent service.”
“A rare seasoning perhaps, added by a novice chef.”
“Perhaps,” Manetti set the glass on an inlaid side table. “Now, my astrologer friend, let me show you something as a reward for your kindness. Go uncover that painting over there and open the shutter a bit so you can see it better.”
The Fifth Horseman strode across the room, excitement rising in him. He opened the shutter a crack, just enough to let in light but not enough for the neighbors across the street to see inside. Then he went to the easel and carefully removed the cloth, his hands trembling a little.
He stood staring for a moment, the cloth hanging from his hand like a miniature ghost.
“A painting of Pestilence, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” the Fifth Horseman said, his voice almost stilled with awe. The third out of four.
“Ah! So you are familiar with medieval symbolism.”
“You might say those four are old friends.”
“Tell me, my good astrologer, what do you make of this painting?”
“You mean of the figure pointing to the tavern sign?”
“Yes! Yes! Oh, you saw it immediately. One of the great blessings in my life has been my fans. So many have interesting fields of study. So many see what the mundane world does not want us to see.”
The Fifth Horseman could not help but feel flattered at the praise from one of his former idols. He almost regretted what he had done and what he would continue to do.
But he held firm. The work was too important.
“I see the constellation Lyra, the harp,” the Fifth Horseman replied. “A fitting constellation to name a tavern after. One of the musicians lying dead on the ground even has a harp to emphasize the symbolism.”
“Quite true. You have a good eye, my friend. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
The Fifth Horseman ignored that question. Instead, he asked one of his own.
“You are an expert in the occult and the paranormal. Unlike many who watch your show, I can see beyond your showmanship, your singing and your amusing antics. You are not some cheap entertainer. You are wise in the ways of the hidden world. Tell me, what does this painting mean?”
Manetti wiped his brow, his breathing coming in gasps. He looked like he wanted to lie down but was so excited by having a receptive audience for his painting that he kept talking.
“The key to everything! The secrets of the universe are hidden in this painting. As you might have guessed, there are three others to make a set, showing all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I only have this one so far, sadly. Even so, it has taught me so very much. Each of the four paintings is a piece of the puzzle, but each part tells you more and more the longer you look at it. The constellation Lyra symbolizes the music of the spheres, the great concert that God set in motion to give order to the universe.”
“What?” the Fifth Horseman exclaimed, stricken with disappointment. Was Manetti serious, or was he simply playing him for a fool?
Manetti leaned forward, eager to make his point, but clutched his stomach, winced, and leaned back again. With a voice even weaker than before, he continued.
“The universe is like a great symphony, ordered and beautiful. It is constrained by certain rules, like music, and like music its individual parts, its individual notes, mean nothing without the others. All act to create a whole, and the final meaning isn’t clear until the symphony is finished. Nothing makes sense until the apocalypse.”
“And when will that be?” the Fifth Horseman asked, impatient.
Manetti managed a little shrug, then belched. “When do we know a symphony is finished? Only when it is. Oh, we can see signs it’s coming to a crescendo, and those signs are there, my friend, but we can’t really know until it’s all over.”
The Fifth Horseman groaned. Maybe Manetti was more of a showman than he had thought.
He shook his head, rage mounting in him. He took several deep breaths, staring at the painting, then turned on the TV host, his eyes afire. “All your research, Manetti, all your interviews with great thinkers, and you’re still as ignorant as most of your viewers.”
The TV show host blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have missed the point, you overly mustached ignoramus. The whole purpose of these paintings is to tell us when it will happen. The mayor of Haarlem discovered the date of the apocalypse, along with his inner circle of freemason associates. He ordered the paintings made as a step-by-step guide to knowing the fate of the world, a sort of instruction manual for those who have gone beyond the initiation stage. That’s why you need all four paintings. You can’t get anything from one part of the four, because you need all four to cast a horoscope. Then we’ll know the precise date of the end of the world. And there’s no music of the spheres, no grand symphony. It’s all chaos descending into more chaos.”
Manetti stared, trembling from more than the poison in his veins. He seemed to take in the Fifth Horseman’s costume with new understanding. “Wh-who are you?”
The Fifth Horseman looked him in the eye. “Your murderer. You don’t deserve the painting, and you don’t deserve the wisdom it contains. I thought you’d be the closest to the truth out of all of them. It turns out you’re the furthest. I’m glad I poisoned your food.”
Manetti looked at him in panic, clutching his belly protectively. “Poisoned my food?”
The Fifth Horseman gave him a grim smile. “Not as fitting a death as the others, but I couldn’t get my hands on any anthrax. Even my wealth and connections can only go so far.”
“You poisoned me?” Manetti asked, doubling over as another cramp hit him.
“Yes, and now I’m going to take your painting.”
The Fifth Horseman turned to the painting, threw the cloth over it, and lifted it off the easel.
“No!” Manetti cried.
He tried to rise, only to fall on his knees. As the Fifth Horseman walked casually out across the room, Manetti crawled after him, gasping for breath.
Pier Paolo Manetti, famous worldwide for his show Misterio 2000, only made it a few feet before he heaved out the contents of his stomach, gurgled, and fell face first into a pool of his own vomit, stone dead.