Last Vampire 6(24)

"I know this name," I say. "Even in Italy, the farmers in the countryside speak of him. They say he is an evil wizard, capable of performing magical acts." I pause. "Dante, why are you crying?"



He is really devastated. "It is nothing, my lady. Let us talk of another person." He pokes at the rabbit with another stick he has found. "Or we can just eat, you can have some meat. You must be hungry after such a long day."



There is something in his tone that catches my attention. "Do you personally know this Landulf of Capua?" I ask.



He stiffens. "No."



"You must know him to be so frightened of him."



He rubs at his leper arm. Actually, the disease has spread so far, he has only a stump left. His left leg is also little more than a stump; he walks with the aid of a wooden brace I found not far from where he was strung up. His sores are open and fluid oozes from them. He must be near death, yet he has energy. But now his strength is in a whirlwind of constant motion. His eyes are moist and he cannot stop shaking.



"I cannot talk about him," he begs. "Please do not force me to say his name."



"Dante," I say. "Look at me."



He raises his head. "My lady?"



"Stare deep into my eyes, my dear friend," I say gently, carefully bending his will to mine. "You need not be afraid to speak of this duke. He cannot harm you now."



Dante blinks and his tears begin to dry. "He cannot harm me," he whispers.



"That is true," I say. "Now tell me about him, how you came to know him."



Dante sits back and stares at the fire again. He has forgotten the rabbit. He is half in a trance, half in a dream. I know I am asking him to repeat a nightmar­ish section of life. For even though I have calmed him with my power, his withered leg and arm continue to twitch. It is almost as if his leprosy was given to him by the duke, but that I find hard to believe.



Yet I do believe it. I know it.



What do I know? The stars are far away.



Dante's face holds my attention.



"My duke was not merely a duke, but an archbish­op and a special friend of theH oly Father," Dante says, in a clearer voice than usual. "It was to Rome my duke brought me at the age of ten to serve as his personal attendant and to sing in the Vatican choir. The Holy Father said my voice was a sacrament, and I was allowed to join the privileged castrati and sacri­fice my manhood to the Church. This I did not mind, as long as I was allowed to stay close to my duke. For five years I was at peace within the holy walls, and I thought of nothing but my duty and my vows." He pauses and sighs. Even though he is partly hypno­tized, his pain comes through. "Then, it happened, one terrible day, that my duke was falsely accused."



"What was he accused of?"



Dante hesitates. "I thought it was a lie."



"Did the pope accuse him?"



"Yes. The Holy Father himself."



"Of what?" I repeat.



Dante pauses before he answers. "Of invoking the spirit of Satan."



I do not believe in such nonsense, nevertheless, his words are chilling. "Was he cast out?" I ask.



Dante coughs. The smoke of the burning logs has entered his lungs. The agony of remembering suffo­cates him, too. "There was a trial," he says. "The cardinals and the Holy Father were present. Accusa­tions were made, then witnesses were called—Ihad never seen these people before. Each one came forth and stated how my beloved duke had poisoned their minds with demonic spirits. Even I was called to denounce him. The Holy Father made me swear to tell the truth and then—in the same breath—told me to tell lies." A tear rolls over Dante's ruined face. "I did not know what to say. But I had never seen my duke commit any of these sins. I was afraid but I knew in my heart I could not lie." A hysterical note enters his voice. "Jesus never lied, even when he stood before his accusers."



"Be calm, Dante," I say soothingly. "That was long ago. None of it can hurt you now. Just tell me what happened."



He relaxes some, but shifts closer to the fire, as if chilled.



"The pope grew angry at me, and accused me of being in league with Satan and my duke. I was chained to my seat and more witnesses were called, more people I had never seen before. These spoke against me as well as my duke, while the cardinals whispered among themselves. I was very afraid. They were talking about burning us. I did not know what to do!"



"Peace, Dante, peace. Continue."



Dante swallows thickly before continuing. On top of everything else, he seems to have trouble breathing. A frown wrinkles his features and he blinks, trying to remember where he is, or where he has been. Yet his voice remains clear.