“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Serrin said.
“To those guys that blood magic stuff is real heresy. Big-time bad stuff They wanted the Azzies even more than they wanted us. Or you.”
“Yeah, but they did want me,” Serrin said, “and that isn’t paranoia. I heard the mage’s words.”
“Yeah, that was big-time,” Streak replied. “Some stunt, that barbecuing across the square. Now why don’t you frag people like that?”
“I don’t have years of training with the Inquisition, if that’s the right term. It still seems odd to me.”
“Oh, you can call them the Inquisition all right,” Xavier declared with some feeling. “We know those guys, yes. Don’t forget they got their start in our back yard. Nadal, Acquaviva, all those guys with Ignatius. The Jesuits got damned near ninety per cent of their membership from Spain in the early days. It was policies that said they had to go to the Pope and have their central place in Italy, but it was originally a Spanish deal.”
“You do know these boys,” Streak said.
“Yeah, and not just in Aztlan. Seen ‘em in the South American states too, Xavier grunted. “They don’t care much for the Amazonians either. And they don’t care for their own brethren.”
“Nothing like a bit of that ole-time religion for making people kill each other in exciting, brutal, and deeply imaginative ways,” Streak declared gleefully.
“I thought that was your number,” Serrin said.
“Hey, be fair!” Streak protested, absolutely seriously. “The name of our game is to lake out your enemy as quickly as possible-before he does the same to you. With these Azzies, its torture and outright bloody sadism. Take a look at some of the stuff those people invented as torture instruments sometime; there’s a museum in Amsterdam where they’ve collected a lot of it, Makes me shudder just to think about it. Sick frags. Real gratifying to know God guided their hands as they crafted them so exquisitely.”
“Point taken,” Serrin acquiesced.
At long last they managed to reach the outskirts of the airport. Despite the lateness of the hour, the place was flooded with people panicking to get out of the city. If they’d been wanting to book a regular flight out of there they wouldn’t have had a prayer, but with their own aircraft all they had to do was dispense several large sums to the officials by way of flight clearance and get themselves whisked out of the VIP lounge and on to the runway verge.
“You wanna make the hop to Padova or just frag off somewhere else?” Streak asked. He was almost the only one, save for Juan sitting next to him in the front of the vehicle, who didn’t have to stretch his legs from the discomfort of being crammed into the car, which was not really designed to take seven adult passengers.
“Let’s take the shortest option,” Geraint decided. So they stayed within the Veneto and made the short haul, Michael booking rooms in an airport hotel as they went, and the journey was a lot faster than the car ride through the narrow streets of Venice. But with the clock showing a quarter to two, fatigue was beginning to catch up with them. There had certainly been enough excitement for one day. But though tired, they wouldn’t get to sleep easily and they knew it. Adrenaline was still coursing in veins too fast.
“Tomorrow’s May Day and another bloody public holiday,” Michael lamented. “And the deadline’s fast approaching.”
“So, let’s order up fifteen gallons of java and start chewing the rag.” Streak said cheerfully. “We’ll listen, eh, boys?”
“For what you’re paying us, you can talk about collecting postage stamps and we’ll listen,” Juan said, a grin on his face.
“Yeah, I’ll even take notes,” Xavier agreed, adding a few mineshaft-deep chuckles.
The combination of relief at being away from the threat of imminent danger, some light-headedness from tiredness and travel, and a swiftly delivered caffeine rush had them more bright-eyed and lively by the time the clock had passed two. The hotel room was small, Michael having booked the first on the list without worrying about details, and the air quickly grew stale from the scent of bodies and cigarettes. To Streak’s delight, Juan had also brought some rather fine export produce of Jamaica, and he knew how much could be inhaled without feeling useless in the morning. He settled back happily and breathed out with an expression of sheer delight.
“I think I have that munchies feeling,” he said. “What do you say? Let’s order a bucket of choccy biccies.”
“I don’t think Italian room service would be quite up to that. But the airport’s full of malls,” Michael said. “I bet you could find something.”
Slowly and more languidly than usual, the elf got to his feet and almost glided to the door, to search for the essential sustenance he craved.
“We haven’t really discussed what happened in the square,” Serrin said.
“Just a bunch of assassins fried alive and we had to run our lives,” Geraint said Sarcastically.
“I didn’t mean that. I meant the point of it,” Serrin replied quietly.
“The point of what?”
“Not them, not the idiots and fanatics with the guns and the spirits and the death wishes. I meant the demonstration.”
Geraint looked incredulously at him.
“The figure that appeared,” the elf said impatiently. “The woman.”
“I thought the severed head was pretty gross,” Michael said with some disgust.
“A very potent image. Outside the church of St. Mark, our man creates an image of real blasphemy. The Magdalene with the head of John the Baptist, that’s who she was. No wonder the Jesuits were so stunned.”
“I don’t get it,” Michael said.
“That figure was the Magdalene. I’m certain. I saw her in the painting outside, the Last Supper. It’s her, and there’s something very, very strange about that painting.”
“That’s for sure,” Michael said.
“And the painting of John is so odd. So androgynous. It’s the same thing as the icon he left: the Shroud with the black woman’s face. These images are highly powerful,” Serrin said deliberately, as if admitting something to himself and being surprised in the process. “I just don’t understand what they’re actually saying. They’re obvious I blasphemy. But it’s not being done just for shock value, There wouldn’t be any point in that, and I don’t think our man is up for pointless demonstrations. I just wish I could fathom exactly what it is he’s saying.”
“So he maybe has a thing about the Magdalene,” Michael pondered. “I certainly agree that she’s the central figure in the Last Supper painting.”
“And unless I’m much mistaken, there are references in the Bible to the disciples being jealous of her and disliking her,” Serrin said, reaching for the bedside table, “And for the first time in the history of this planet, someone somewhere is about to find the Gideon Bible in here of some actual bloody use.”
He leafed through the pages for a moment, found the relevant passages, and nodded a couple of times.
“They protest to Christ that she’s a whore and a bad woman, and they clearly don’t like his consorting with her. Read,” he told Michael, tossing over the flimsy book.
“It’s a long time since I did this,” Michael admitted as he scanned the New Testament references.
“All right, so they do, and the painting shows that. But why have her show up with the head in the square?”
“That’s what I can’t figure,” Serrin said. “It was Salome who brandished the head, as I recall. But our man has something about heads. The head on the original Shroud was separate from the rest of the body. And our man replaced it with another severed head, if you will.”
“The Priory,” Michael said slowly, clenching and unclenching his fist in an effort to reclaim a memory hidden deep inside his subconscious. “I remember something from my research on them. The Priory of Sion, our chummers back in Rennes. They claimed some descent from the Knights Templar, and the Templars were accused of worshiping a severed head that talked to them. At least, that’s one of the things they were accused of.”
“Along with sodomy and tax evasion, insider dealing and breathing in and out in a heretical fashion,” Serrin said with a grin. “I rather think the Pope drummed up every charge he could-possibly think of apart from lesbianism.”