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journey ahead. That night, as I knelt beside my narrow bed, I allowed myself a brief, quiet cheer,
before I began my evening prayers, and begged God and all His saints to let me succeed in doing His
work.
I rose early, joined my brethren for Lauds, ate thick vegetable soup to break my fast, and reported to
Father Angelico. Sleeping on the Monsignore’s decision had not improved my superior’s affection for
it, and he kept me busy with many tedious tasks and questions until after the time for Terce. I was
glad I did not have to lie, and could honestly say I had followed my directions and had no knowledge
of the orders from the Holy Father. It was almost noon before I was finally allowed to leave, riding
out from the community’s gate to the cheers of my Order.
Later, with my horse moving at a steady trot, Rome behind me and the road empty except for
farmers and their carts, I opened the message. The wax seal, with the three crowns and the keys on
it, cracked apart easily, allowing me to read the folded piece of paper. The message was, as the
papal representative had warned, both serious and a burden.
I read that I had been chosen by the Holy See to investigate possible demon-worship in the region of
Montello del Lanzigo. I was to gain further facts for my investigation by visiting the Dominican
monastery near the Brughescia Valley. On my return to Rome, I was to report in full to the Vatican,
to allow them to decide what they should do. I could not be happy about the need to visit the
monastery, as the Dominicans were no friends to our Order. I folded the message back up and put it
into my saddlebags. Suddenly, the day seemed colder.
Within a day I had left the sprawling reach of Rome’s villas and outer farms behind me. The sun
shone high in the sky as my horse trudged along the stone road, a gift from the ancient Roman
Empire. In the fields and orchards, labourers burnt stubble and harvested the last of the season’s
fruit, hurrying to see to their chores before winter descended on them in full force. Smoke drifted
from their fires, and the sun set a deep orange through the haze. It silhouetted more labourers,
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trailing through an olive grove, heading back to their village after the days’ work. I thought of my
early years in my own village, and the time I had spent ensuring there would be food for all.
Long days had been given to hauling in fish from the Mediterranean Sea, and returning it to
Monterosso al Mare’s small port, or repairing the endless nets. All who lived and worked in the
village wore long belts to honour the town’s unofficial patron saint, Biagio. A son of the town, during
the reign of Ferdinand the First, some hundred years before my birth, Biagio was well known for his
dedication to the idea of Christ as the fisher of men, his devotion to ministering to the spiritual
needs of the poor fisherfolk along Italy’s southernmost parts, and for his weight, which required him
to travel by cart. Even with his problems, he had been beloved in the area, and was revered as the
town’s patron saint.
He wasn’t actually a saint, although Pope Leo the Tenth had beatified him for his work, but there
was still contention over his miracle. There was talk that Biagio’s miracle had actually just been an
unusually good fishing day, not a divinely-inspired rush by the fish onto the nets, allowing the village
to survive the winter. The town still thought of him as its saint, though, and wore their belts twice as
long as was needed to honour him. It had a practical side, too: the belt could be used as an
impromptu rope, allowing fishermen to tie nets in place or to tie the boats to a safe harbour in case
of a storm.
I settled my own belt more comfortably around my waist and looked ahead, to the church of St
Bartolomeo, where I planned to stop and rest for the night. I dismounted and tied my horse to the
fence. Then I went up the path, towards the door not of the church, but of the priest’s house, and
knocked. There was no immediate answer.
Around me, there were the normal sounds of a night just beginning to form, birdsong dying down,
cricket chirrups, the songs of men who had just returned to their homes and were settling in for an
evening with their families. There was a soft creak beside me, and the priest answered the door. I
introduced myself, and explained that I was travelling to the village of Montello del Lanzigo in the
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north to investigate setting up a seminary school there. He looked at me slightly askance, but invited
me in to spend the night anyway.
In the morning, the priest handed me a wooden crucifix, almost the length of my forearm. A blessed
one, blessed by St Thomas Aquinas himself, he said. If I was travelling up that way, to investigate
spirits, no less, I should take it from him, and restore it to its rightful place on the way back. If I made
it back. I placed it in my saddlebags, wondering how odd it was that he knew about my other
mission, and then I realised. The goods in the saddlebag were in different positions. He must have
rifled through my bags, and read about my mission. I resolved to, in the future, be more careful with
my personal items. I replaced them in my preferred places and took my leave of the curious priest.
As I rode towards the north, the temperature fell and continued to fall. The land changed, moving
ever higher, as if to provide a route to the heavens. I passed village after village, all full of honest folk
who were busy slaughtering, and smoking, and salting, and storing away the bounty of the land for
the coming months. As the hills got higher, though, the villages grew even more sparse than the
trees, until I only passed one every day. Then, as my breath formed clouds in the air and the sun
hung low in the sky, illuminating the mountains on either side of me with a deep, bloody red, I
reached the Dominican monastery that lay only eight miles from the Brughescia Valley.
My horse walked slowly up the path. The monastery loomed ahead, tinted like a building from
Pandemonium in the setting sun. There was a guard-post out the front. This was not an unfriendly
area, and none but the most depraved bandit would dare attack a monk, so the only purpose of the
guard-post would be to intimidate visitors and remind all that God’s Hounds, the Domini Canes,
were watchful and vengeful.
I was made to wait until the sun had almost completely set, as the guard checked and rechecked
that I was who I claimed to be. Finally, I was allowed in. The monks were just filing out of the chapel,
having completed the Divine Office of Vespers, which explained, in part, why it had taken so long for
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