Secrets Read online

  Why was he whispering?

  Dario was about to open his eyes, when someone—presumably the he who was almost done with something—prevented him by lightly touching his eyelids. Dario sucked in a breath, heart hammering. What was the person going to do? Was this an operation? An involuntary whimper escaped him as he braced himself for whatever torture was to come. The one holding his hand tightened his grip.

  Dario waited, breathless, his eyelids still held down.

  Seconds ticked by. He lay frozen, unable to breathe, imagining all the nightmare procedures done on soldiers after battle. He'd seen them all. In fact, he'd even performed a few over the years to save comrades on the field.

  Quietly spoken words, foreign and incomprehensible, floated above the bed.

  Nothing else happened. No knife. No flaming alcohol poured into his wounds. No red-hot iron pressed into his flesh to cauterize an open gash. No thick needle stitching his shredded, broken body together.

  Why was nothing happening?

  Disturbing noises from elsewhere in the room assaulted his ears, prickling his skin with goosebumps. Someone was screaming in pain, someone else crying. More than one voice begged loudly for water, only to be answered with swearing. The hand around Dario's tightened, like a silent plea to ignore it. Dario tried to block the hellish sounds, his fear escalating. Maybe it was a good thing his eyes were being held shut after all.

  “It's alright.” The one squeezing his hand tried to assure him for the second time.

  Really? Dario didn't think so.

  He forced himself to breathe, concentrating with all his might on the foreign words being recited above him, trying to ignore the heartrending noises of the ward. The words' rhythm and flow sounded oddly familiar, and something unexpected stirred in his heart. The chaos in the background seemed to fade as a gentle peace enveloped Dario's soul. For a split-second he almost forgot his searing pain.

  The fingertips moved from his eyelids to his ears. Then to his nose. There was a faint scent, somehow reminding him of the olive groves back home. More strange utterances. Why did Dario recognize the words? They weren't Italian. They were . . . something else. He knew them from somewhere in his past. Where? What language was this?

  He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to look at the source of the noises around him. The fingers found his mouth, brushing his lips with something moist. Instinctively Dario licked it. It was slippery. He recognized the taste. Olive oil. Why would anyone put oil on his—

  Understanding slammed into him with a tidal wave of fear. He was being anointed! This must be a priest, administering Extreme Unction. That meant he was going to die!

  Terror rushed upon him and instantly he knew why he recognized the language. It was Latin. The language of the Church. The Church he'd grown up in. And later betrayed.

  He suddenly knew what would be next. His hands. Memories flooded him. As a child he'd seen his father anointed. His aunt. Both grandparents. Folks in the village, when the parish priest had knocked on their door, sometimes in the middle of the night, asking Dario or one of his brothers to act as server and carry the candle and holy water. Eyes were always the first things the priest anointed, followed by ears, nose, mouth. Hands and feet last. The five senses. The faculties by which people sinned, the village priest had explained. And, without exception, all those people had died. The Church didn't do this unless the person was on the brink of death.

  He didn't want to die!

  Panic pulsed through Dario and he yanked his hand free from whoever was holding it. No, no, he wouldn't allow the priest to anoint his hands. He would refuse! The Church had no right to issue him a death warrant. For that's what this ceremony was—a proclamation that he, Dario Tellini, was about to die. How dare they decide that! He wouldn't let them. He would never give in! He tried to sit up, anger surging.

  Pain spiked like a million swords ramming through his body and he collapsed back to the pillow. A moan escaped him. The man beside him, the one speaking in ordinary language, murmured soothing words.

  The priest anointed his hands.

  Dario groaned, his anger draining as that consoling something fluttered in his soul again. His feet would be next. He might as well give in and—

  The ritual stopped abruptly. A crinkling of pages, then a muffled thump as a book was gently closed.

  The priest and the other man exchanged whispered words that Dario couldn't make out. Suddenly a door banged open, interrupting them. Loud urgent voices and cacophony erupted somewhere in the room.

  Dario sensed quick movements by his bed. Footsteps hurrying away. The priest? The other man? Which one was leaving?

  His eyes darted open.

  A young man was sitting beside him. He looked to be in his early twenties, like Dario, but his expression shone with something Dario had not seen in a long, long time: innocence. It was so startling that for a moment Dario stared. The fellow wore a blood-splattered tunic and trousers. Definitely not the priest. Must be a hospital worker. An orderly.

  Dario's mind whirled. Why had the priest not finished administering Extreme Unction? He hadn't anointed Dario's feet yet. That always came after the hands. Dario knew. He'd seen it as a child.

  The memory blasted him like an icy gale. He had no feet. His legs were gone.

  Nausea churned his stomach. He was going to throw up. The orderly must have realized, because he fumbled for a pan. The next second Dario was leaning on the fellow's shoulder, half-sitting, doubled over, being violently sick.

  The other held the pan for him, without the least sign of annoyance or revulsion. In fact, the kindness of his manner was tangible. When the ordeal was over, he helped Dario lie back down and tried his best to make him comfortable—as if that held any possibility with his legs laying somewhere in a field.

  An elderly man shuffled by the bed. He was a thousand years old. In his gnarled hands he held a pile of bloodied sheets. His tunic was likewise splotched with blood and hospital filth of a species that Dario preferred not to know.

  The fossil glanced at Dario and stopped, eyes misting. “Hang in there, brave fellow.” He blinked back what Dario suspected were tears. “Them good angels will wing you to your reward soon, my boy, don't you worry.” As if that was what Dario wanted to hear. The wrinkled face turned to the young orderly. “I'll get these to the laundry, then I'll take over here. You've done three shifts today, Curzio. You need some sleep.”

  Was he also an orderly? At that age? He looked for all the world like he belonged in a hospital bed himself.

  “Thanks, Bernadino,” the one named Curzio said. “But I'm good. I'll stay with him.”

  Bernadino hesitated. “Well, I'll be back.” The two exchanged the kind of look that only the closest of friends could share, then the old man limped away with the sheets.

  Dario watched him for a moment, trying to fight down rising fear. He had no legs. He was gashed open by sword blades, riddled by musket bullets, ripped in half by a cannonball. He was dying. He had never been more afraid in his life. Uncontrollable trembling took over his body.

  Curzio reached down and brushed the sweat-drenched hair from Dario's forehead as if he were a child. “I'll get you some laudanum. It'll help the pain.”

  While he moved to a nearby table, Dario dared to glance around. The room was crammed with beds. People moaned. Some rocked back and forth, sobbing. The lucky ones looked like they were in comas. A handful of orderlies moved between patients with trays and bottles of medicine. Unlike Curzio and Bernadino, most appeared sullen, angry, or bored out of their wits.

  Dario swallowed. The soldiers who'd brought him here had left. The priest who'd anointed him was nowhere in sight. The stench of blood and decay was suffocating. Chaos reigned in the ward. Dear God, this place was more frightening than a battlefield. Were all hospitals like this? If so, why didn't someone do anything about it?

  The instant the thought came, Dario realized the impossibility of reforming a place like this. It would take a person of iro
n will, extraordinary courage, and incredible devotion. In other words, it would take a saint. Good luck, Rome.

  His gaze searched in desperation for someone, anyone, who looked like he might be a doctor, might be in charge. Everyone was too young, except Bernadino. Not one person struck Dario as a figure of authority. From the expression on most of the workers' faces, they had little compassion for their charges. They stalked moodily from bed to bed, obviously hardened to the sufferings around them. Dario shuddered.

  “Here. This tastes awful, but it'll dull the pain a little. And help you sleep.”

  Dario's eyes fluttered to Curzio by the bed. Well, at least he seemed to care. Dario was lucky. He let Curzio lift his head and spoon a few drops of bitter liquid into his mouth. Then Curzio put a cup of water to his lips to wash it down. After Dario drank, Curzio rearranged the sheet over the bandaged blood-drenched stumps that had once been his legs, as if to keep Dario from having to see his loss.

  “I'm going to find you more blankets,” Curzio said. “You're shivering.”

  Dario didn't want to be left alone. He tried to protest, but before he could get his mouth to work, Curzio disappeared into the crowded ward.

  Dario pushed back panic. Would a doctor come and assure him his legs could be reattached, his other wounds weren't fatal, and everything would be fine? Please God, please please please.

  But deep in his heart he knew no doctor would bother. That soldier had been right—Dario would never make it. He was finished. He was nothing but a breathing cadaver on a creaky bed for an hour or two, after which he'd be wrapped up by one of these bored orderlies, wheeled away on a gurney, and dumped into some unmarked grave. Just another dead, nameless soldier. And a mercenary soldier at that. Who bothered marking the grave of a hireling?

  Hireling. Ha! That was too gentle a word. Most people would call Dario a traitor, a greedy swordsman who fought for whichever side paid him the most. A Judas. An enemy of Christendom. A betrayer of Christ.

  And they would be right.

  Panic, mingled with guilt, stabbed him. He realized he should have asked the priest to hear his confession. He'd once fought on the side of the Turks. Sure, it had only been for a couple months, but he'd still done it. Was . . . was he in mortal sin? Or had the priest's anointing erased that evil blotch from his soul?

  Dear God, what if I go to Hell for wielding my sword against Christendom?

  Fear swelled in his chest. He was going to Hell.

  Inch by agonizing inch, he propped himself on one elbow. Pain ricocheted through him. Biting back a cry, he desperately looked around. He needed that priest to come back! He had to make his confession, before that drug put him to sleep!

  An orderly stood at a bed a few feet away, savagely ripping a bandage off some poor fellow's arm. The man was sobbing.

  A bead of sweat dripped down Dario's forehead. “Help me,” he begged.

  The orderly glanced up. “Huh?”

  “That priest . . .” Pain wracked Dario's lungs and scorched his throat, making it hard to speak. “I need . . .”

  The orderly rolled his eyes, a smirk twisting his mouth. “He left for the night.”

  “Please. You don't understand. You need to bring him back.”

  The worker glared. “I don't need to do anything for you, legless. What are you, deaf, too? I said the priest left. Won't be back until morning. Now shut up and leave me to do my work.”

  Too weak to stay propped up, Dario collapsed on the bed. Such a comment would normally unleash his fury, ensuring those were the last words the man ever said. But all Dario felt now was despair.

  He'd fought for the Turks. The enemy. He'd crucified the Lord he'd once claimed to love. His soul was in mortal sin.

  And the priest had left!

  A memory knifed him, and he winced. It was a venomous memory, cruel with irony. Why did he have to think of it now? He cringed and squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would make the memory disappear.

  It didn't.

  In fact, the remembrance grew more vivid.

  The tavern of the inn was empty, except for the two of them.

  Not surprising, considering the snow storm raging outside. That was good. Maybe not for Signor Vitali, the innkeeper, but certainly for Dario and Antoni. It left them all the wine.

  Dario knew he should call it a day and get some rest. They’d traveled a long way and had an even longer way to go to meet the troops in Venice. But the crackling fire kept Dario warm. So did the contents of his cup. Besides, Antoni was winning the card game, and that was totally unacceptable. Dario would have none of it.

  “You’re cheating,” he said, although he knew Antoni wasn’t. Antoni couldn’t figure out how to cheat to save his life.

  Antoni cocked an eyebrow and grinned in that irresistible way of his. “Ever heard of beginner’s luck?”

  “Doesn’t apply. You’re not a beginner. You’ve been losing since the moment I met you. Must be . . . what? Two years? Three?”

  “Hmm. You’re right. Guess I don’t qualify for beginner’s luck.” Antoni studied the cards in his hand and frowned, as if trying to unravel an unsolvable mystery. Then his face brightened. “Hey, maybe it’s skill!” He wiggled his eyebrows and looked appealingly at Dario. “Think it’s skill?”

  “Skill? You?” Dario laughed. “Has Hell frozen over?”

  The door crashed open and a blast of icy wind shoved two men inside. Dario glanced over. Talk about Hell. He didn’t know it at the time, but his own journey thither started with the entrance of those two snow-dusted strangers.

  The muskets and swords at their sides proclaimed they were soldiers, like he and Antoni. Dario was taken aback by the size of one of them. The man barely fit through Signor Vitali’s door. Young—about his own age and Antoni’s—the fellow must’ve been nearly seven feet tall. The first thing Dario noticed about him, other than his size, was the arrogant glint in his eyes. Big, muscular, and showing it off. For some reason, instant antipathy stirred inside Dario.

  The other soldier was middle-aged and, despite his normal stature, looked strong as an ox and mean as a bull. But right now, he was breathing hard, as if trekking through the blizzard had taken its toll.

  Father and son? Had to be.

  They swaggered inside and fought the door closed behind them. Pride seeped from them like slime.

  Amazingly, Signor Vitali cracked a smile and wiped his hands on his apron, rushing to the door. He offered the older man a handshake and laughed. “Well, if it isn’t Giovanni de Lellis and his wayward offspring.”

  Yep. Father and son. Dario knew it.

  Antoni must have recognized the name, because he swiveled in his chair to look. “Oh no!” he called out. “Why is it that whenever I’m on one of my rare winning streaks, you two always show up and spoil it?”

  Antoni knew them? Huh. Strange. Even stranger, he was grinning, as if they were old friends.

  The giant stamped the snow from his boots and strode to their table. He had a limp. “Seriously, Antoni, you didn’t think you could get away with a card game without us smelling it halfway across the border, did you?” He punched Antoni’s shoulder.

  Antoni shook his head and heaved a sigh. But a smile sneaked through. “Should’ve known better. Happens every time.” He turned to Dario. “You don’t want to meet this fellow in a card game, Dario.”

  Dario didn’t want to meet him—at all. Something about him raised Dario’s hackles. He couldn’t explain why, but he sensed this fellow was bad news. Dangerous. Looking for a fight.

  Antoni sprang to his feet. “Guess I better do the polite thing and introduce you two. Dario Tellini . . . Camillus de Lellis.” His voice held affection for both.

  Dario dutifully stood and shook hands. Camillus didn’t say anything, just sized Dario up. Maybe it had something to do with the card game. Or perhaps the instinctive dislike was mutual. Dario had heard of things like that. Two people meet, the chemistry is bad, and bang, you have an enemy for no logical reason. />
  “Haven’t seen you and your old man for ages.” Antoni sat down. “Where’ve you been?”

  Camillus shrugged and pulled up a chair. “Soldiering as usual.” He plopped down. Hesitation flickered in his eyes for the briefest of moments. He shifted uncomfortably and mumbled, “Only this time . . . well . . . we’ve just been doing it for the other side, that’s all.”

  Antoni jolted in shock. He cocked an eyebrow, yet held his peace. Dario suspected he was biting his tongue.

  As for Dario, a wave of rage washed over him. He glared at the mercenary with disgust, but before he could think of an appropriately stinging remark, the two older men sauntered over with drinks.

  “So, Giovanni,” Signor Vitali was saying, “what high and mighty commander was it this time who could no longer bear you two scoundrels in his ranks?”

  Camillus’s father chuckled. “Would you believe it? The Sultan himself.” Amusement glinted in his beady eyes. “Heathenish Turk can’t recognize a couple decent soldiers when they’re staring him in the face.”

  Dario’s blood boiled. “Decent?” he sneered, before he could stop himself.

  The older De Lellis looked startled, as if unaccustomed to being crossed. He met Dario’s gaze.

  Everything inside Dario warned him to shut up. But the bold words slipped out before he could weigh the consequences. “No Christian soldier is decent, Signor de Lellis, who is willing to take up arms with the Infidel against God and His people.”

  An icy silence dropped into the room. Everyone froze.

  Dario’s heart thumped wildly. Why had he thrown down the gauntlet like that? Stupid move. His hand tingled as he wondered whether or not he would need to go for his sword.

  No need. Giovanni de Lellis merely rolled his eyes, snorted a laugh, and poured himself a drink. Apparently, Dario wasn’t worth his time.

  His son, however, took up the challenge. He locked eyes with Dario.

  Danger hung heavily in the air.

  “God and His people didn’t pay us enough.” Camillus smirked. “The Turks did.”

  Dario tensed.