Soldier From the Sky, Book Six: Immagine

Soldier From the Sky

a novel in six books

by M.C. Clary

c2015 Michael Clary

All rights reserved

Cover design by Larry Carroll

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for use of brief quotes in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Generations of men are like leaves,

In winter, winds blow them to earth,

But when spring comes again,

budding wood grows more. And so with men.

One generation grows, another dies.

Homer, The Iliad, 6:181-5

Book Six

∞

Immagine

Immagine

Chapters

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

Old World People

Italy 14th Century

Popolo minuto

Bianca Mancuso, Niccolo Mancuso’s mother

Maffeo Mancuso, Niccolo’s father, peasant farmer

Maria, Maffeo’s widowed sister, Niccolo’s aunt

Giorgio Mancuso, Niccolo’s eldest brother

Violante Mancuso, Niccolo’s eldest sister

Ambrosio Mancuso, Niccolo’s older brother

Annunziata ‘Nightengale’ Mancuso, Niccolo’s older sister

Roberto, Mancuso cousin, soldier in the Gold Rose Army

Fiore Grosso, butcher for Montagna House

Imelda Grosso, Fiore’s wife, tanner

Leo Grosso, eldest Grosso son

Beppe ‘Big Mouth’ Grosso, second son

Francesco, Grosso cousin

Claudio Panettiere, village baker, dairyman

Flore Panettiere, Claudio’s wife, loomer

Rosana, Panettiere daughter

Pasquale, Panettiere son

Giovanni Bonati, woodcutter, carpenter, Niccolo’s brother-in-law

Sebastiano, blacksmith

Maximo, Sebastiano’s son

Levi, a traveling glover

Rebekah, Levi’s wife

Rachel, daughter

Aaron, son

Galiana Massaro, a village girl

Marco Massaro, Galiana’s older brother

Scryer of St. Celestina, forest forager, seer, healer

House of Montagna

Baron Carlo Montagna, Signore of San Michele

Rodolfo Montagna, eldest son, Vatican banker

Filippo Montagna, second son, Knight of Gold Rose Army

Antiocha Montagna, sole daughter, Signorina of San Michele

Eduardo Vallone, Montagna physician

Renaldo Greco, Montagna consigliere

Arturo, Renaldo’s nephew

Friar Tomasso, Montagna Franciscan counselor

Helmut, Knight/Palace Guard

Franz, Knight/Palace Guard

Corina, Montagna maggiordomo, midwife, duenna Captain Patrice Renouard, Field Marshal with Filippo Montagna

Enemies of San Michele

Pope Gregory XI, Ruler of Christendom

Sir John Sudbury, Mercenary Knight, Commander of Gold Rose Army

Lorenzo Datini, youngest son, House of Datini, Knight of the Gold Rose

Count Vittorio Valori, Signore of Sarago

Cardinal Paulus Valori, uncle of Count Valori

Father Umberto, Dominican agent for Sudbury’s Gold Rose Army

New World People

1944

Giuseppe Farini, Nick Mancuso’s grandfather

Angela Farini, Nick Mancuso’s grandmother

Giulietta ‘Skinny’ Mancuso, Nick’s sister

Theresa Mangiardi, Nick’s girlfriend

Carmine Gitano, dock crime boss

Niccolo/Nick Mancuso, peasant rebel, B-24 belly gunner

Dr. Pietro Orsini, Resistance operative, Allied airmen rescue

Chiara Orsini, Resistance fighter, Allied airmen rescue

Miro, Resistance fighter

Carlo, Resistance fighter

Imilia, Forest forager, hunter

∞

43

1944

Nick was out for only a moment and awoke possessing total, cogent recall for the first time since passing out under the sunlit silk of his parachute, blood freezing on his cap toed shoes, the glacial mountains and ochre cliffs rushing at him. His amnesia was no more and remembrance preceding his suddenly being in the scryer’s stone hut came back conclusively. He knew his origins, how he arrived in the current. It was 1944, and his belly had been ripped open by at least two fifty caliber rounds. He half leapt and fell out of the disintegrating Liberator, and hung listless as the wind tugged him toward the mountain crags. His senses had faded and went black seconds before smashing into the trees.

It was also 1374.

Memories from different continuums six centuries apart were conjoined in sequence and context, braiding and integrating to one. He awoke aware that he now existed in current and antiquated times.

He was slouched forward in a slab wood chair, near the crackling fireplace, a fur weighting his shoulders. Antiocha was seated next to him, their hands tightly pressed to the kidney-shaped red stone. The scryer was adding a chock of wood to the fire. He recognized her hunched shoulders, untamed white hair, the crude furniture and pungency of goat tallow candles.

Imilia was not there.

Without looking, he knew his belly was unscathed, scarless, although he felt the tingle and painful twinge of phantom wounds. He and Chiara had hiked through the snow to the hut. He was exhausted from the climb. Imilia told him of their centuries-old Cathar ancestry and handed him the stone that had always belonged to him. The hot, seasoned wine she dished up hit him like a Joe Louis haymaker.

He’s awake, Antiocha said, sotte voce, in archaic dialect that Nick understood. Studying her in the clumsy candlelight, he saw how closely she resembled Chiara, despite the dark birthmark and floral tattoo across her face. Did you dream of me, my love?

Yes, he said, the happiness of seeing her alive redoubled. From the time they took you away. He felt his face, knowing he had shaved in the lodge, only hours before, but now had a coarse beard. Specchio, he said to her. Mirror.

His being and cellular substance had transposed across time to old world ambience and aromas, the weighty, fur cloak, fibrous wool garments and hard leather boots, the weapons nearby, iron and steel purposed solely for combat death. He was wholly himself from modernity, yet wholly his own ancestor, twinned within himself, his duality now singular.

Antiocha handed him an oval of hammered, burnished brass. She touched his face, watched his eyes. You are rested?

He nodded.

You fell asleep like a babe. Her neck had a sweet, spicy fragrance that brought back the pleasures of the bakery loft. His face was distorted in the rippling reflection but clear enough to see the gold fleck was now in his right iris. He remembered what the doctor in Texas called it: heterochromia iridum and he smiled, mentally intact, with memory and knowledge acquired in two separate but singular lifespans.

Your charm is strong, the scryer said, indicating the helix etched into the red stone. Pietro had called it ‘Bernoulli’s lemniscate’.

He was alert, his nerve ends and reflexes hyper, like he just emerged from an ice water plunge, conscious of what he had to do, where he had to go, that Castor was in the shed outside. His Mad Dogs were waiting, sworn to put their lives down for him. He was suddenly agitated for being separated from his mission and militia, intent to leave.

San Michele was a full day’s ride. While he languished, his men were waiting only a few leagues away. He was separated from Theresa, his family, Chiara, Pietro and 1944 by immeasurable distance, and knew, from his first breath of realization that he would have to survive to get home to her. He had been carried to this temporal anomaly, so there had to be reversal, dependent on his will and facility to resolve his ancestral oaths.

He remembered Chiara mentioning of The Wizard of Oz, and Theresa and Skinny singing the rainbow song. He couldn’t help smiling.

The scryer joined their hands over the stone again, but spoke mostly to Nick. Now you must follow the fate you swore to. I will go to the shed and wait the night. You will seal your love. She put on a shawl and heavy cloak with a commodious cowl. Be like rabbits. Quick and plentiful. She laughed and went outside, into the lowing wind.

As soon as alone, their hands hastily unhooked, unlaced and undressed each other and themselves. Kissing frantically with unbound urgency, they stripped to the waist and lay on the goat fleece-covered straw pallet close to the hearth. There were no traces of having been shot up, only bodily sensations. When Antiocha slipped the sock off her right foot, Nick grabbed her foot to see its sole and prove himself correct. The scarlet lemniscate was there, visible in the candlelight. I am who I say I am, she said. And you?

Nick showed the bottom of his foot, knew without looking that he bore the same mark under heel.

∞

Fucking her brought great physical satisfaction, and no doubts or qualms. His intense love and ardor for her courage did not diminish his deeper love and longing for Theresa. He loved both, wholly, but not equally or similarly. Antiocha had a strong disposition and strapping physique, and they shared warriors’ wantonness and abandon of the moment. Theresa was smaller, had softer demeanor with gentler voice and touch, and was prettier, more loving and desirable. She had a lushness that he craved.

No matter what came from their alliance against Filippo and Sudbury, Antiocha would always be his signorina, daughter of his lord. He would always be her vassal, as much as Nunzi was her brother’s whore. Theresa wanted him, wanted his affections. Antiocha enthralled him, dangerously, but owned and demanded his love, and he could not disassociate her from the lust for gold and glory and the barbarism all about them.

He knew their differences, and which he wanted.

They fucked three times, in heated tumult, thrash and throe, bathing in each other’s sweat and flesh, and calling out their shared ecstasy. He had missed her, thought of her every night since they took her away, nearly half his life. She said the same, and neither denied their bodies, thrilled to be together, to come together in waves.

In the suspense of night, as the chip of moon sank to the south, and the wind combed the bare treetops, soldiers and paesanos talked softly about their families, women and past battles, or lay silently awake, musing on their mortality, vowing to return to loved ones, whispering prayers and deals with god and saints to spare their life, or, when the moment came, to take them quickly to paradisiacal glory. Occasionally a camp dog yipped and the tethered horses shuffled and chuffed.

A cowbell jangled in the forest, partnered with a single lantern light, growing louder and the lantern brighter as a rider approached the mouth of the ravine.

Who’s there? The nearest sentry cocked his crossbow at the bell and lamplight moving toward him and his torchlight. Yo! He called warning and three other sentries joined him, their pikes and crossbows sweeping the darkness.

Messenger from John Sudbury, a reedy voice hailed.

Come forward, the sentry said.

He was riding a donkey, bareback, with the bell looped around its neck. I am Roberto. Mad Dog’s cousin. He had bony cheeks, stringy red hair and psoriatic complexion. He had joined the Gold Rose Army years earlier, served faithfully, and now, because of his blood ties, was reduced to ridicule, put out on a donkey, like a laughingstock fool.

He leaned unsteadily off the donkey to deliver a wax-sealed parchment and let them know, You’ve been betrayed. If I were you, I’d flee. Go home and save your families. John Sudbury will show mercy. His seal is his promise. Surrender or die. Roberto wasted no time nudging his donkey away in a wide circle, and melted into darkness.

Get the Dominican! the sentry shouted alarm, not knowing how to read the scrit. We’ve been betrayed!

Roberto’s lamp winked out and no sooner had the clanking bell floated off in the darkness than a flaming arrow traced a high arc across the trees, thudding into the center of the army camp, only a few paces from Marshal Renouard’s tent, as if placed there expressly to end any question about the aim and intent of Roberto’s invisible escorts.

Go home! Roberto’s laugh rose from the forest. Save your asses while you still have them!

Renouard, two constables, their Dominican attaché and a platoon of swords and pike men that included Franz scrummed across the dell to the paesano camp, torches bobbing.

Seeing the torches and soldiers descending on them, the villagers scrambled for their weapons and formed three ranks around their supply wagons, bowmen kneeling, backed by axes, pikes and crude swords, prepared to protect the bombs and powder, and awaiting Nico’s lead.

Where’s Mad Dog? Renouard demanded.

Eat dung! they traded insults with the soldiers. Foreign dogs!, French swine!, Kiss my ass!

Leo ran toward a lamplight glowing inside Nico’s tent, with two soldiers following close, their swords out. He drew back the tent flap just as Giorgio was emerging.

He’s not here, Giorgio said. He’s gone. So is his horse.

He’s gone! a soldier yelled to Renouard so that all heard.

He led us into a trap and ran off! someone shouted. Take their weapons! Renouard’s men commenced threatening the peasants, stabbing at sacks in the supply wagons and stirring their swords overhead. The outburst brought more soldiers and paesanos running.

Enough! Renouard heatedly ordered his constables back. Control your men.

The soldiers reluctantly obeyed but kept their weapons and shields raised, and the villagers a tight, defensive formation around their provisions.

You, big man! Bull! Renouard signaled Leo. Come here. Come here to me. I’m your ally not your enemy. Come here.

Leo reflexively walked a few obedient paces toward the marshal, then halted, defiant. You aren’t my lord, Renouard. If you have something to say, you come to me. He mimicked Renouard’s signaling finger, and the villagers cheered his refusal.

Renouard smiled, showing lots of teeth and no offense, and approached Leo accompanied by a knot of soldiers. Where is Mad Dog? His grin was amicable but meaningless.

I don’t know, Captain. I was sleeping, dreaming of a fine French whore, Leo said to the villagers’ increasing amusement. Maybe your mother? His men hooted and