PROLOGUE
2071 Words
PROLOGUE
The Church of Saint Augustine, Rome
7:45 P.M.
Gareth Jaxx considered himself a hunter.
While many younger men would chuckle to hear the portly, bespectacled man of fifty call himself such, especially since he had never stalked game or even held a g*n, Gareth felt the comparison was more than appropriate.
For he didn’t hunt animals; he hunted knowledge. He was one of the best in the business and he only went after big game.
Gareth had been all over the world, delving into old books and hidden byways of knowledge. From the medieval Coptic monasteries of Egypt to the great universities of Europe, from the Library of Congress to the family manuscript collections of Timbuktu, Gareth Jaxx had made a study of some of the most obscure and difficult works to uncover the rarest of knowledge.
But at the moment, he had to admit he was stumped.
The church library had some of the rarest works of early medieval theology anywhere. Because the Church of Saint Augustine dated back to the 8th century, making it one of Rome’s oldest, and was run by the Benedictine order, it had kept its ancient library separate from that of the Vatican. There were books here that could be found nowhere else.
So far, that hadn’t made any difference.
Gareth had been sitting in the vaulted reading room at one end of the basement chapel for two weeks now, straining his eyes as he read the tiny, faded Latin handwriting of long-dead scribes, hoping to come across what he sought.
He hadn’t.
For fourteen days, while above him tourists in their tens of thousands wandered the streets of Rome taking pictures and eating gelato, he had sat alone in the cold stone vaulted cellar, searching. At first, he had been thrilled, reading through 6th and 7th century sermons preached against the heresies of a Catholic Church still forming its ideology and trying to find its way.
He had worked patiently, steadily, hunting down obscure references and cryptic hints, hoping to find a reference to what he sought.
He had found nothing. At least not anything direct. Some mentioned the book, but since it had already been declared a heresy, no writings said anything about its contents, or if any copies had been preserved.
On the contrary, a couple of scribes wrote about how caches of the book were found and used as kindling when their owners were burned at the stake.
As one writer declared in a manuscript from 681 AD, “Thank Almighty God every one of the copies of the accursed text have been consigned to the pyre. No copy has been found in the hands of heretics for a generation or more.”
Gareth did not believe that. He did not believe that such an important, potentially Earth-shattering book could be lost for all time. He had found far too many so-called “lost texts” to ever give up once he had started a hunt.
He would have bet his entire personal fortune that a copy existed in the secret Vatican library, where the Church kept its most controversial documents, but it might as well have been used to burn a medieval heretic. That collection was as far out of reach for someone like him as the Moon. Even most cardinals and archbishops were refused entry.
Given his background and associations, Gareth Jaxx couldn’t even get into the public tourist areas of the Vatican without a fake ID. The Church wouldn’t let someone with his knowledge past the gates of Vatican City. At least the Benedictines were understanding enough to let him use their library. The Opus Dei and some of the other conservative factions wouldn’t even answer his emails.
Gareth absentmindedly pushed up the sleeve of his left arm and scratched the inside of his wrist, where the letter “P.” was tattooed in the Gothic style. It was a habit of his when deep in thought. But he only did it when he was alone.
A soft step echoing through the cellar’s chill interior made him quickly pull down his sleeve and turn. Brother Lucco was lighting candles in front of the icons of the Virgin Mary, Saint Benedict, and Saint Augustine at the far end of the room. His dark blue robes matched the somber tones the painter had used for the icons.
“It is late, Signore Jaxx,” the monk said in Italian when he saw him looking.
Gareth rubbed his tired eyes.
“Yes,” he sighed. Suddenly he realized he was hungry. And his back hurt. And his neck. Twelve hours hunched over medieval manuscripts took a toll on the body. Especially the eyes.
A nice pasta dish and a carafe of wine would take care of that. Then relaxing in his hotel room with Beethoven playing through his phone before an early night. First thing tomorrow morning, he’d be fresh and ready for the chase.
Gareth rose, stretched, and packed up his notes in his leather briefcase. He did not take notes on a computer. Computers could be hacked. At the other end of the room, Brother Lucco stood saying a prayer in front of the icons.
As the researcher passed him, the monk asked, “Did you find what you are looking for, Signore Jaxx?”
“I’ve found much of interest, Brother Lucco,” he said pleasantly, then turned to leave. The Benedictines were a good group of people, and Brother Lucco was friendly enough, but it paid to be careful.
The Church had eyes and ears everywhere.
Gareth passed through a small portal that took him to a narrow staircase under a low, vaulted ceiling.
Ascending its worn stone steps, he came out into the church. Only a few candles shone. Their light barely reached the vaulted ceiling, despite the Church of Saint Augustine being so much smaller than most of the later houses of worship in this city. Gareth passed by the icons and side altars without a glance, even though they would be of great interest to students of the Early Middle Ages. They did not offer what he was looking for. No church would be so bold.
He could hear Brother Lucco following him so that he could lock up. No one else was here. Gareth did not turn around. He did not want to make conversation.
“Good night, Brother Lucco,” he said once he reached the main portal, a heavy thing of wood banded with metal which he had to strain to open.
“Good night, Signore Jaxx.”
Gareth stepped out into the warm springtime evening. The western sky was still the deep blue of final dusk. A few stars shone overhead, competing with the infrequent streetlights on this neglected back street.
The researcher paused in front of the church to remove his sweater. It was a good fifteen degrees warmer out here than in that vault. Tucking it under his arm, he took a deep breath, smiled, and walked along the street. He knew a good little place not far from here where he could eat. If he turned left, he would soon get to a main street that would lead him to it in five minutes.
But he took a different way, through the winding narrow lanes the crowds avoided. At this time in the evening, the tourists and the locals out for a fun evening would be on the main streets with their lights and their bars and their restaurants. Too much noise. Too many people. Gareth liked silence and solitude. The back streets, lined with buildings dating to the nineteenth or eighteenth centuries but mirroring the routes taken by roads dating back to the foundation of the Church of Saint Augustine, would lead him there with only a little extra time and a lot more peace and quiet.
He strolled along, the frustrations of the day easing now that he was out in the fresh air and moving again. For a time, he was alone; but then a footfall behind him made him turn.
He saw no one in the darkened lane.
Gareth shrugged. Some local going home or heading out for a bit of supper like him.
A minute later, he passed an older man out walking his dog. The man’s footsteps receded. Gareth turned a corner. Suddenly the dog started barking. Its owner hushed it in irritated Italian.
Gareth kept walking. A young woman came his way, walking quickly, clinging her purse tight to her side, high heels clacking on the cobblestones.
Gareth looked away. He had always been uncomfortable around women, especially in a situation like this. She was obviously nervous about being out alone at night. Should he cross to the other side of the street to make her feel better? No, that might seem strange to her and make her even more nervous. But staying on her side of the street would mean she would have to pass right by him.
He tensed, looking further away from her as he walked right in her direction. Perhaps he should pull one of his papers out of his bag and read it? No thug would do that. But if he opened his case, she might think he was going for a weapon.
Oh, it was all so complicated. Give him medieval Latin any day!
Before Gareth had come to a decision, the woman passed in a waft of perfume. Gareth inhaled the delicate scent, thinking how nice it would be to have someone to share his work. Perhaps a specialist in ancient Greek to balance out his focus on Latin. And pretty, of course. Social. Someone who knew how to go to parties. Someone who could help him be a bit more in the world.
Gareth smiled sadly. That would never happen.
The woman’s footsteps increased in pace. Had he scared her?
They receded and all grew silent again. He could see the last turn he needed to take, the intersection faintly glowing from the bigger street he knew lay about a hundred yards beyond the corner. A nice dish of pasta and a carafe of wine would improve his mood.
It was then that Gareth heard the quick approach of footsteps behind him.
He whirled around, suddenly afraid, but the man was on him so quickly he didn’t get to see his features.
An arm of incredible strength threw him into a recessed doorway, his head smacking against the heavy wooden portal, momentarily stunning him.
Before he knew it, a cord was around his neck, tightening, cutting off his breath. A knee in the small of his back stretched his spine painfully and increased the pressure on his throat. Gareth dropped his briefcase and sweater and scrabbled at the cord that strangled him.
The garrote eased back a little. Gareth sucked in breath.
“My wallet is in my—”
“Never mind your money. Where is your tattoo?” a harsh voice demanded.
“My … ” Oh no. Not after all this time.
His unseen assailant tugged at the garrote, jerking Gareth’s head back.
“Where is it?”
“My wallet is in my—”
The attacker gave another tug. “You know what I mean. Where is it?”
“My left wrist.”
“Show me.”
With a trembling hand, Gareth pulled back his sleeve to show the Gothic letter P followed by a period.
“Please, I—”
Those were the last words Gareth got to say. The knee pressed against his back again and the garotte dug into his neck, choking off air and drawing blood. Gareth fought, elbowing the man and stomping on his feet, but he knew he was already dead.
When they came for you, they always got you.
As consciousness faded into eternal darkness, Gareth Jaxx did not think of the many books he had written, or the many hidden secrets he had teased out of medieval manuscripts. He did not even think of the awards he had won from his peers.
He only thought of the smell of that perfume from a couple of minutes before.
After Gareth slumped dead in the doorway, his killer put away the garotte. He glanced both directions to make sure no one was in sight and pulled out a straight razor. Rolling up his victim’s sleeve, he began to cut.
- Writer
