MJD: chapter four

Chapter four. Christmas Eve, 1887

'What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd,
I would bring a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man,
I would do my part.
Yet what can I give Him?
I give Him my heart.'

~Christina Rossetti

I dreaded wintertime. Nothing could be worse than that in London, where the cold is as spiteful and chilling to the bone as the public manners. When I was younger, there was no joy in it, either - although the season was infused with magic - and that, of course, came from the church.

They found me on the stairs of San Lorenzo fuori le mura on new year's Eve of 1555. Paul IV was still Pope, and the war, they later called the Italian war, was still on. It was, of course, of no use to a newborn baby, motherless, forlorn and utterly alone - crying on the cold stone stairs.

I was barely a week old, they later told me, when the good father Giulio found me that winter night. He took me in, he taught me everything he knew - and he baptized me that very night. San Lorenzo gave me to him, he said, and thus I was to bear the saint's name. I was found on the stairs of his basilica, on his birthday, - what other name could come to his mind?

San Lorenzo was a curious place, being the one of the seven pilgrim churches of Rome - you couldn't imagine the amount of people crossing its threshold daily these days, to pray to San Lorenzo, roasted to death for distributing church's wealth among the beggars in order to save it from the greedy Roman prefect. They placed him on a huge gridiron and roasted slowly, for hours on end. He was thirty three at the time, as my guardian said, strong, handsome and the fires could not harm him as the fire of God's love was burning in his heart. They laid him to rest here, at San Lorenzo, and people said he favoured the beggars and the lepers more than anybody.

I loved the story as a boy. I loved the medal Father Giulio gave me - and a serene look on San Lorenzo 's face. I wished to be like him, so sure in my love for God, that nothing would ever harm me. I wanted to be a priest - honestly, what else could I hope to be?

I worked hard, I prayed the nights away, and God heard me. I was accepted into the seminary, and then - I suppose, father Giulio somehow intervened - I was suddenly a deacon of my beloved San Lorenzo! My life could not be happier, and people loved me as I loved them. In a year, I was an ordained priest - and of course, some said, I was too young for all that, but I was thirty by the time, and the good father staunchly defended me from all the naysayers and such.

'He is San Lorenzo' s gift to us, ' he used to say 'San Lorenzo blessed him with the spark of the flame divine, do you not see? He is our gift '.

Mostly, people agreed with him, and he only waved me off when I tried to argue.

'Eh, my boy, would you argue with an old man? Old age has benefits, you know- when we know, we know.'

This was his philosophy, and I dared not contest him, for I loved him dearly, as he loved me. In Father Giulio I've found what every orphan seeks - home, and San Lorenzo became my only comfort in spirit. Whenever in doubt, I would invoke him, and my head would be rid of fuzziness and confusion in seconds. My nightmares were healed through the intercession of Saint Blaise, my love for learning was a gift of Saint Catherine and Saint Ignatius. My life was a litany, a continuous prayer, that flowed easily and unperturbed, as the waters of the Tiber. I was content, I was loved - and as selfless as can be, growing up away from the distractions, jealousy and rivalry. Who could rival God, anyway?

Seminary was hard, but not because of hours and hours of studies and examinations, but because I was away from home. Upon graduation, my mentors noted in my papers, that a future appointment to the Holy city would be the best option, ob promptitudinem serviendi Deo et Papae pro virili parte (et gravissima causa cogendi quae eum efficacius facere prohibebat). That is, my homesickness was hanging over me like a ghost, preventing me from concentrating on service.

And so, either by the intercession of Saint Anthony, or by a happy coincidence, I came back to San Lorenzo and father Giulio. The years went by - I was almost thirty then, - when one night, while I was getting ready for the Mass, a ragged girl came running into the church.

'Tu, sei un prete? Vieni, mamma malata, la morte vicina, spaventata' she said in one breath, her Italian mingling with a language I didn't know.

I tried to explain that the Mass was too soon, and I had but a little time, but she wouldn't listen. I called for father Giulio.

'Oh' he said upon seeing her 'I understand. I'll cover for you, but be careful'.

I took the bag I used for visiting the parishioners, checked everything, and followed the girl outside. The snow was falling and I could feel the cold swirling in the air. My guide ran ahead, beckoning me into the labyrinth of small and narrow streets, until we reached a dilapidated house.

'Mamma ' the girl said, pointing to the door. 'Mamma'.

I crossed the threshold. It was almost pitch black inside, but I could discern a bed, and a pale woman lying there. I moved closer.

'Are you...a priest?' She asked, her voice hoarse and low. Judging by it, she was not that old, but there was something inherently hungry in it, something desperate. Something...not quite human.

To spare you the effort of combing through the confessions of the dying, I will tell you what I've learned in that dingy room.

Her name was Veronica, and her father took her on pilgrimage once, and while on the way she realized she was with child. Luckily her drunk of a father never cared, and she gave birth soon after they set foot in Rome. Forced to give up the child, she left it on the steps of San Lorenzo fuori le mura, and ran away. This happened (and you were right if you guessed) precisely thirty years ago on New Year's Eve.

The dying woman was, indeed, my mother. A mother I never knew, and had no intention of knowing. A mother who didn't want to be my mother for thirty years, was confessing to me, and wanted to elicit some reaction - and I could provide none. I felt nothing. I said what I had to say.

'Ego te absolvo, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen'

She sighed.

'I suppose...That is all I'm worthy of. I am so sorry now,but I had to leave you there. My father would have killed me. Please, say something...say you forgive me'.

'Let the Lord be your judge, signora. I am a priest, and thus I am here as one. Be at peace. '

She turned her face away from me. Her shoulders were shaking, and I realised she was crying.

'I know' she sobbed 'I wasn't much of a mother but I gave life to you. And you've grown so handsome now, so...like the San Lorenzo. But he used to care for the needy...'

She was right. San Lorenzo was a champion of the poor, indeed. And I was unworthy of his name. Kneeling by the bed, I took her hand in mine.

'I never knew you - and my guardian was too gentle to remind me of you. But I sometimes wondered if...you loved me. Was it love that made you leave me? Or was it something else?..'

She looked at me. Her eyes were bright, much like mine. Her face was once beautiful, I could see that. And it pained me to see how alike we were. I wished I knew more of her, but there was little time left, too - she was growing weaker by the minute.

'I loved you so much, cuoricino...your eyes were so beautiful, when you were born. I could have carried you to the nuns, but I had little time...I was weak. I carried you as far as I could. And I've prayed ever since. You are so...handsome now. And I am so happy I could...' she clutched my hand. A smile lighted up her face and she was gone.

God is sometimes cruel,I thought. Tears ran streaming down my cheeks, and I cried, still holding her hand, until someone touched My shoulder.

'Father? Are you alright?'

I shuddered at the touch and turned back.
A woman of rare beauty stood there, looking at me quizzically.

She could have been Raphael's muse, easily. Even the painters of modern times,such as Rossetti or Millais, would fight for the honour of painting her. Try as you might to imagine the most ravishing, most sublime kind of beauty- that woman surpassed it by far.

'I was...praying. '

'Sounded like crying to me' she smiled 'Veronica was my aunt. She has found you, I take it. What do I owe you?'

I stood up.

'You don't have to, signorina. I did my duty, that's all. If you need any help with the funeral...'

She smiled.

'There would be no need, Father. It is all arranged. I will be taking her to Farneta. Our family hailed from Calabria, you see. Her father's name was Severino, Alfredo Severino. You'd have been that...too. But I think...it's best for you not to be. We do have a dark history. Will you have some wine to...remember her?'

Gratefully, I took the glass from her cold fingers. The wine was blood red, and had a curious herbal aftertaste. My head was dizzy. The room went out of focus, I lost my bearings- and then, darkness came.

****
'Enzo, my boy, do you hear me?'

Somebody was shaking me gently by the shoulders. Somebody had a very familiar voice, too. I opened my eyes; daylight seemed so harsh that I hastened to close them again. That brief moment was enough, however, to notice Father Giulio by my side.

'What happened? Why are you...where am I?'

'I wish I knew, ragazzino, I wish I knew. I found you on the stairs, on New Year's Eve. It was three days ago. You were naked, Enzo. The night was so cold, too - I was afraid you'd die. But you are strong, my boy. Here' he helped me up, and poured some broth into my mouth, slowly and gently holding my head.

'What do you mean, you found me on the stairs?' I asked hoarsely 'Tell me'.

Giulio shook his head.

'I only know what I know, Enzino. I was going to light up the candles, to leave some food out, like we do, and I went outside, and there you were- prostrate on the stairs, naked, pale, almost dead. I sent for the good doctor Spezzano, he examined you, and honestly, he couldn't find any fault. The only thing he said, was a severe anaemia, but you were still alive. We tried warming you up, we swaddled you in blankets, but you looked....dead still. So he said, the room must be well warmed, and you should be too, and there's been three days, and I thought I'd lose you. But you're alive, you're alive...'

He hugged me so tightly that I gasped. His tears left stains on my shirt, and he was trembling all over. I patted him on the back.

'Looks like it's you who needs a doctor, eh?'

Giulio laughed.

'Enzo...my dear boy! You know, they sent you a letter from the Holy See- they want you to come as soon as you are able. But it can wait, of course. My priority is you, not his Holiness. At least, for now. Get your rest. God bless you, my boy'.

With that, he left the room. I lay motionless, trying to gather my thoughts. I didn't remember a thing. I remembered my mother, and the young woman who talked to me. If I concentrated enough,I could remember the aftertaste of wine she gave me - it reminded me of laudanum, which seemed a bit odd. When I fell asleep, I saw nothing but nightmares- that darkened room, the woman in a blood red dress, sliding off her shoulders, a sharp pain in my neck would wake me, and I'd lay there gasping. When these nightmares came, the air reeked of blood, sweat and something unfamiliar to me. The smell was despicable, nauseating- and there would always be blood on my pillow in the morning.

However, I got better. The following year the Pope came to San Lorenzo fuori le mura to preach and meet the believers. He wasn't a pleasant man, and when he offered me a raise, I declined, as politely as I could. He looked at me curiously and muttered, 'Humility and lack of ambition...I find it refreshing, young man. Let it be, then. Stay, if you feel it right - but should anything happen, don't hesitate to come. '

He blessed me, giving me a beautiful rosary, made of blood red glass beads, and departed. Next time, when the Holy See came by, I was thirty three- that time they succeeded. My guardian passed away by the time, and I agreed to go to Vatican, mainly because I felt so utterly alone and abandoned.

The Pope was kind to me, and even made me a generous offer, which I accepted, albeit hesitantly. He made me a cardinal, and thus, the weight of the title as well as the responsibility has never left me.

To cut story short, not everybody was happy about it. I was sent to Scotland on a mission- of benevolence, as they put it, to show James VI, son of Mary, that Vatican cared. Elizabeth's diamond years were long gone, and she was old now. We've had the reports of her Ill health of course, and of James's devout faith. True, he was devout. And he had a strange obsession with witch hunts, too.

Scotland was to be my demise.

The autumn months and chills made me quite sick. The doctors did their best to revive me, but the blood letting had a sad outcome: I died three weeks after coming. The only thing I remember, is a strange mixture given to me before I passed away. It tasted of blood, apples, sage and yew berries, crushed - and when I woke up, I was no longer human. I was a vampire, a vampire with no past and no knowledge of the future.

The year was 1588.