23
Two men of Montello del Lanzigo leaned on a fence nearby, watching their sheep, and I looked to
them to ask what the shimmer on the mountainside could be. They stared at the mountain, and I do
not think they noticed me. Their fingers were held together in the sign of the cross, and they
whispered scraps of Latin in prayer. Remembering what I had been told of local superstitions, I
turned my horse back to the village without a word.
Later, with the sun hanging midway in the sky, I walked up the mountainside, picking my way among
rocks and dead trees. I had been told that nothing would grow here. In the spring, as with
everywhere else in these mountains, new life would pop up wherever it could find a foothold, but,
every plant on this side of the mountain would wither and die. No one lived here. There was no
reason to. Nothing would grow, and whatever wasting curse affected the whole area eventually
wormed its way into the bodies of any animals or people that lingered here.
A shadow caught the corner of my vision, and I turned that way. Was it a cave? But the villagers had
said the whole mountainside was a solid wall of rock. I scanned the area, but there was only a
featureless expanse of stone. I continued on, towards the peak.
I stopped short of the drifting cloud and looked down on the valley. Smoke coiled lazily from the
cottages and farmhouses below. There were sheep on the lowest plateaus of the other mountains,
dots of white on a field of green. Soon, I knew, the flocks would be brought in to the village barns for
the winter, and the paddocks would just be a sea of white. For now, they looked like a poorly-done
painting.
I surveyed the peak I had climbed, and saw only brown, dead grass. Down on the distant ridge, near
the entrance to the valley, the decaying guard tower pointed to the sky. It was a relic of a time when
the threat of invasion had been keenly felt. Now, safe in the centre of the Duchy of Milan, the
Brughescia Valley had worries of a different kind. A supernatural presence gnawed at this place, I
was certain. Nothing natural would cause such a blight. Only evil, or an extraordinarily powerful
poison, could have this effect, when the valley thrived around it.
24
I descended the mountain as the sun sank in the sky. The watchtower cast a shadow like an accusing
finger as I picked my way among the rocks at the base of the mountains. The cliffs sheared straight
up, piercing the clouds that had gathered behind me. When I brought my gaze back from those
dizzying heights, I saw at the base of the cliffs a sheep’s carcass.
Despite an irrational urge to turn and run, to get away from the bloody wreckage, I walked closer.
The sheep’s back was broken from the fall, but it looked like something had torn out its chest before
it had been dropped. While hungry wolves, or even hungrier bandits, might have wished to devour a
sheep, neither possessed the strength to so thoroughly destroy it. Towards the bottom of the
ribcage, scraps of meat still clung to half-ribs, but the top halves of the ribs had been ripped away
completely.
I stared at the ruined beast, shaking my head in denial of what lay before me. Perhaps my agitation
rattled loose some thread of sense, because I realised then what I must do. I must investigate the
watchtower. Something had caused the poisoning of the mountain, and I could not discount the
shimmering that I had seen, which had so terrified the village shepherds, nor the shadow which had
caused the widow to drop to her knees in prayer.
Some maleficent presence lurked on this mountain and over this valley. Where better to watch, than
from the tower? And had not both Pasquale and Attaviano Strozza warned me away from the ruin? I
did not believe the problem was Pasquale’s malign spirits, for how would ghosts tear apart a sheep’s
carcass? I knew in my heart I must investigate the watchtower, and put an end to any debate about
whether or not there was some form of evil influence over the tower.
I had told Father Donato that I would return to Rome the next day, and as I walked back to his house
I thought how I might question him on the tower without voicing my fears. I pulled open the front
door, taking care not to take the handle off. As I walked through the corridor, floorboards creaking
beneath my feet with every step, I heard the sound of a book being slammed shut and moved onto a
shelf. I entered the room to find the priest praying, seemingly innocuously.
25
“Have you found that text on the Dead Sea you promised I might read?” I asked.
“Oh... oh, no, unfortunately not. I cannot think where I have misplaced it,” he murmured, staring at
the mass of paper, and books, and scrolls that littered his desk.
“What, then, were you just reading?”
“It, it was nothing, only a, a rare text, I mean, just a book by one of the Church’s earliest thinkers, on
the nature of reason. Nothing at all of interest to us, my dear Cosimo. We should go to the parlour,
perhaps, and take a glass of grappa to mark your last night here in Montello del Lanzigo.”
I was deeply suspicious of this explanation. He had stammered and contradicted himself, and his
cheeks had flushed with colour. I had never seen anyone tell such an unconvincing lie. The
explanation itself made little sense. Why would he treat a rare text so roughly, and why should he
not have told me about it before? He seemed like the sort of man inclined to share and discuss
ideas. I did not enquire further though, and I did not comply with his idea to move to the parlour.
Instead I said, “Tell me, Father Donato, about the watchtower at the mouth of the valley.”
He licked at his dry lips. “Why do you ask?”
“I have visited most places in the valley while I have been here,” I said, “but not the tower. It is
precariously placed, out on that crumbling ridge of rock.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, eagerly. “It is certainly not a safe place to venture out to, and I am sure the view
would not be worth the risk, or the effort. It was last used in the fourteenth century, around the
time we were attacked by Louis the Fourth. It was a watchtower against invaders, but the villagers
ceased to man it, and it has fallen into disrepair. It is of no real interest,” he assured me.
“Perhaps not,” I agreed.
“Certainly not,” he insisted. “Now, nothing goes there except birds.”
26
I nodded and thanked him, but I still thought that the tower bore investigating. Perhaps it was
occupied, and by something other than birds.
That night, as Father Donato slept, I slipped out of his house. In preparation, I had put on several
extra layers of clothes, and tied the blessed crucifix to my belt. I did not think I would encounter
spirits, but it would not hurt to be prepared. The night was bitingly cold and I knew I would not have
much time to investigate the tower if I wanted to keep all my extremities intact.
I could not risk the noise that the horse would make, so I crept into the shadows by the church and
hurried along the side of the road until I was clear of the village. I had brought with me a small
lantern, and I opened the hatch at the front, allowing a thin ray of light onto the road at my feet. It
was not much, but it would help me avoid the dangers of the dark.
I went as quickly as I could towards the tower’s ridge. The trail was tiny, and I had trouble believing
that even the local sheep could make it up here. Something brushed against my face, and I started at
the cold touch. I looked up to see that snow had begun to fall, and hurried on
Finally, the watchtower loomed before me, near invisible in the dark. It looked precarious from a
distance, but I found the path was not as bad here, as I had feared it might be. The rust on the
hinges, the mould on the door and the weathering of the stones confirmed what Father Donato had
told me: the tower was deserted. Pushing with all my strength, I managed to force the door, with
creaks loud enough to wake the dead, open partway. I leaned inside. The door had ground to a halt
on a patch of rubble, but the gap was wide enough for me to fit through.
I walked inside, not daring to close the door lest it not open again, and looked up. The ceiling was far
above me, cracks ominous in the faint light the lantern gave. In many places, the floorboards had
collapsed entirely, allowing the rubble of what had once been the roof of the upper room to fall
down to the very bottom of the tower. I could barely make out the shape of what might once have
been a brazier, but was now covered in angry red lumps of rust.
27
The only way up was via a rope, which looked suspiciously new for a centuries-old watchtower. The
rope itself looked barely worn, and the ring it was tied around seemed to be almost new, although I
couldn’t see the fine detail from where I stood. If the tower was abandoned, why was this rope
here?
I picked my way across the rubble, took a firm grip on the entwined hemp, and pulled. I strained as
though a full net of fish was on the other end, but the ring remained stubbornly in place. I thought
the rope safe enough, and started to haul myself up. It was a long climb, but I had worked to keep
the muscles I had built as a fisherman while I studied, and I found the movements easy.
The topmost room was even more degraded than the lower sections. Here, I hardly dared walk, for
fear that if I placed all my weight on one foot, the floor would break. Above, there were only a few
barely-mortared chunks of stone to mark where the roof had been. The brazier was in an even
worse state, half-collapsed, with the ribs of iron that formed its body peeling into layers of rust.
With careful steps, I reached the door out to the walkway that would once have allowed the watch
to look to the four cardinal points of the compass from the square tower. The door was swollen and
almost stuck in place, the doorhandles long fallen off to lie on the floor rusting.
Outside, the wind had risen. It gusted flurries of snow through the broken roof. With the brazier long
turned to rust, and my robes providing little protection, I needed to search quickly. I stepped out and
the wind slapped icy sleet at me. The walkway creaked dangerously beneath my feet, and any
guardrail that might once have existed had long since decayed or fallen over the edge.
I heard a faint noise, as though stone rattled nearby. I hurried my movements. Could this be the
spirits which Pasquale had told me about? Or was this an altogether more earthly entity?
My feet dislodged piles of icy slush, knocking them off the walkway. I turned one corner, and then
another. There had been no point to me coming up here, I thought, it was as deserted as I had been
told. I cursed my curiosity and hurried towards the door and the way down.
28
The snow had become sleet, and it was being hurled by the wind, striking me as I turned the final
corner. Cold pierced my robes, and burned my skin. My feet skidded on the icy walkway, and I
grabbed at the wall for support. Regaining my balance, I pushed against the door.
It didn’t move.
I pushed again, harder this time, to no avail. I set down my lantern, and shoved with both hands,
desperately ramming my shoulder into the wood. I panted for breath, as I put my whole weight
against the door, only to feel my feet slide on the ice. The door was stuck fast.
I pressed my ear to it, almost crying out with the cold that assaulted me, and was certain I could
hear someone moving within.
By treachery most foul, I had been trapped. But who would lock me out on this accursed tower, in a
storm which endangered my life? Could Father Donato have known I was heading up to the tower
against his advice? Could some other villager have followed me? Could the Dominicans wish me
dead? Had they been told of Signore Strozza’s decision, and want revenge? Might they plan to
report to the Holy See that the heresy was greater than suspected, that it had claimed my life, and
thereby justifying their violent suppression of the whole valley as demon-worshippers?
Or had Pasquale been correct, and I was being attacked by foul spirits?
I pressed my hand against the wall of the tower, fearing that in my danger I was losing my mind.
Rather than the firmness I had expected to find, my fingers encountered a channel in the stone. I
raised the lantern, and saw that the wall was riven with deep gouges that ran parallel to each other,
more than a hand-span apart.
It was as if... as if...
My mind struggled for a moment with the impossible, then accepted the truth that it looked as if a
great, clawed bird had used the tower as its roost. Like pieces in a puzzle that are suddenly made to
29
fit, I understood all that I had seen in the Brughescia Valley. The heat shimmer on the poisoned
mountainside. The widow’s terror at a shadow passing overhead. The dismembered sheep, and
Pasquale’s confused tale of a giant snake, which had changed to one with three heads.
This valley harboured a dragon.
My own words came back to mock me. I had told Attaviano Strozza that some men feared the
enormous beasts of the deep, believing them evil, when they are also God’s creatures. But a dragon?
I shook my head. I did not have the time to contemplate the morality of hiding a dragon. Already, my
fingers were growing numb. I tucked them firmly into my armpits for the extra heat, and searched
desperately for a means of escape. The door would not open, and if I fell from this height, I would be
killed, or crippled such that I could not escape the cold. Age had weathered and cracked the stone
blocks, and doubtless the dragon had damaged them too, but I did not think I could climb down on
the outside of the tower in the dark. The stones were too slick and cold.
Almost, I despaired. Then I glanced again at those great claw marks. Time, and the dragon, had also
damaged the roof, and if I could get over this wall, I would be safe. If the wall, I reasoned, would take
the weight of a dragon, it would not crumble beneath me. Still, the stones were too slippery to grip,
without the benefit of claws.
I stamped my feet to stop them from freezing, and the crucifix of St Thomas Aquinas tapped at my
thigh. The blessed crucifix, and my belt in honour of the Blessed Biagio! Could I not use them as a
grappling hook, by catching the arms of the crucifix in the iron ribs of the brazier, and climb up the
belt, and so to safety?
I unwound my belt, and kissed the wooden cross, praying fervently that I would be delivered from
death by this plan. God must have heard my plea, for the crucifix caught on my first throw, and the
rusted brazier held my weight as I scrambled up the wall, finding footholds in the dragon’s gouged
marks.
30
Once back inside the tower, I retied my belt, and fumbled for the rope. I descended with more haste
than dignity, and stood, trembling and breathless, my hands torn and bleeding, but too numb with
the cold to properly feel the pain. I was alive!
I could not guarantee I would stay that way, if whoever had tried to kill me, realised I had survived. I
was certain only that they preferred I die, rather than that I find the evidence of a dragon using their
watchtower.
I hastened back along the path, my gaze darting from shadow to shadow, afraid of attack, and more
afraid of staying still and dying in the cold. I had left my horse in Father Donato’s stable. I would be
warm there, and warmer still with a horse blanket around me. My saddlebags were packed. I need
only return to the stable, saddle my horse, and then ride as fast for Rome as I could, before another
attempt on my life was made in this God-forsaken valley.
I stepped into the stable and grabbed the nearest horse blanket, pulling it around me for warmth. At
first, I shivered too much to saddle my horse, and he tossed his head at my cold fingers and gasping
breath. As soon as I had managed to wrestle the saddle and tack onto him, I led the horse out of his
stall, and there, illuminated by a lantern he held, stood the priest.
Father Donato stared at me, and then dropped to his knees on the cold ground, and words tumbled
from his mouth.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to harm you, Cosimo, but what else could I do? We cannot leave,
we have nowhere to go. We cannot cut off ties with the dragon, not even the soldiers of the church
could protect us then. We must give it food, or it will take what it wants. We cannot let the
Dominicans find out, they will burn the whole village. We could not risk you telling them. Only your
death could keep us safe.”
31
He fell silent for a few seconds, but rather than berate him, I stood shocked. Tears ran freely over his
lined cheeks.
“It would appear that God has decided you must live. But what of us? What will become of us?”
I did not know what to say to him, and although I opened my mouth, I could not speak. I swung
myself up, into the saddle and urged my horse forward. Father Donato flung himself out of the way,
and I rode into the darkness, away from the whole mad valley, with its dragon, and its murderous
priest. It would be dawn in less than an hour, and I was heading to Rome.
Just before the sun rose, I passed the road that led up to the Dominican monastery. I thought of
Abbot Antonio, and of his words: “Those who die in a state of grace, God will recognise and receive
into Heaven.” He would not care if the entire valley were purged. Father Donato had known it, and
feared the Dominican’s wrath.
The abbot would be happy only that he did God’s work. His conscience would not trouble him that
innocent people had been killed. I thought of Attaviano Strozza, of Pasquale the storyteller, and of
the widow Brunetto.
“What else could I do?” Father Donato had said, and the further I rode from Montello del Lanzigo
the harder I found it to answer that question. By the time I reached Rome, I knew what I must do.
The announcement of the new seminary in the Brughescia Valley took place at the Society of Jesus’s
annual conclave. With so many of the Society’s finest in attendance, I was glad that it was Father
Angelico who informed them of Attaviano Strozza’s gift of the land, even if he gave me no credit for
it, and took pains to ensure that neither my belt, nor my accent, should offend the Order’s elite. He
had been stingy in his praise of my success, but Monsignore Iacopo Larroca had thanked me more
profusely. More importantly, he had intervened, acting in his official role, to ensure my request to be
assigned to the seminary was successful.
32
My report on the Brughescia Valley, and the claims made against it by the Dominicans, was given to
a trio of mid-ranked priests within the Holy See. They questioned me, for hours. Had I found any
evidence of devil-worship? Had I seen any black rites? Were the people in league with the Evil One?
I answered truthfully. There had been no black rites and no devil worship. The villagers I had met
were pious and Father Donato had their welfare, both physical and spiritual, first in his mind. The
Vatican officials did not ask about a dragon, and so I did not mention it. I reassured them that, since I
was being assigned to the area, I could keep a watchful eye on it, and report back any trouble.
I had finished my assigned tasks, but my secret ones were only beginning.
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