Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [112]
I went out of the chapel, not knowing whom to ask about these marvelous achievements, for surely I could not wake the Pope in his bed and ask him, and in a dark street at the very top of a hill, I found an Evil Doer, a striding drunkard with a dagger ready for me, and I drank my fill of blood in a rush of eagerness that I had not felt in years.
Poor sad victim. I wonder if in my taking of him I gave him some glimpse of those paintings.
I remember so well the moment, for I stood as the top of a narrow stairs which went down the hill to the piazza below me, and I thought only of those paintings as the blood warmed me and I wanted to go back to the chapel at once.
Something interrupted me at that moment. I heard the distinct noise of a blood drinker near me, the bumbling step of one who was young. One hundred years? No more than that, that was my calculation. The creature wanted me to know he was there.
I turned around and saw a tall, well-muscled and dark-haired figure, clothed in the black robes of a monk. His face was white and he did nothing to disguise it. Around his neck he wore a glittering golden crucifix upside down.
“Marius!” he whispered.
“Damn you,” I said in answer. Yea gods, how could he know my name! “Whoever you are. Leave me. Get away from me. I warn you. Don’t remain in my presence if you want to live.”
“Marius!” he said again and he came towards me. “I have no fear of you. I come to you because we need you. You know who we are.”
“Worshipers of Satan!” I said in disgust. “Look at that fool ornament around your neck. If the Christ exists, do you think He pays any attention to you? So you still have your foolish little gatherings. You have your lies.”
“Foolish?” he said calmly. “We have never been foolish. We do the work of God as we serve Satan. Without Satan, how could there have been the Christ?”
I made a dismissive gesture.
“Get away from me,” I said. “I want no part of you.” In my heart was locked the secret of Those Who Must Be Kept. I thought of the paintings in the Sistine Chapel. Oh, those lovely figures, those colors . . .
“But don’t you see?” he replied. “If one so old and powerful as you were to become our leader, we could be a legion in the catacombs of this city! As it is, we are a dreadful few.”
His large black eyes were full of the inevitable zeal. And his rich black hair shimmered in the dim light. He was a comely creature, even coated with dust and dirt as he was. I could smell the catacombs on his garments. I could smell death on him as though he had lain down with mortal remains. But he was handsome, fine of build and proportion as Avicus had been, not unlike Avicus at all.
“You want to be a legion?” I asked him. “You talk nonsense! I was alive when no one spoke of Satan and no one spoke of a Christ. You’re merely blood drinkers, and you make up stories for yourselves. How could you believe that I would come to you and lead you?”
He drew closer so that I could all the better see his face. He was full of exuberance and honesty. He held his head proudly.
“Come to us in our catacomb,” he said, “come and see us and be a part of our ritual. Sing with us tomorrow night before we go out to hunt.” He was passionate and he waited in silence for my reply. He was not a stupid creature by any means, and he did not seem callow like the other followers of Satan whom I had glimpsed in centuries past.
I shook my head. But he pressed on.
“My name is Santino,” he said. “I have heard of you for a hundred years. I have dreamt of the moment when we would come upon each other. Satan has brought us together. You must lead us. Only to you would I give up my leadership. Come see my lair with its hundreds of skulls.” His voice was refined, well modulated. He spoke a beautiful Italian. “Come see my followers who worship the Beast with all their hearts. It’s the wish of the Beast that you should lead us. It’s the wish of God.”
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