The Cross of Sins (5 page)

Will simply shrugged and shook his head. "He doesn't give a damn who I am."

Felix felt saddened that night, not because of Will's announcement that he was gay, but because the boy was right about his father's attitude toward his only son. Yet, at the same time, Felix couldn't deny—or even feel guilty about—his overwhelming sense of pride that the boy he had often considered his own son, also considered him the closest thing to a parent he had ever known.

So, Felix and Will made for an odd family in a world where the meaning of family was constantly redefining itself, despite their differences.

Yet, there was a part of Will's world that the young 19-year-old had never invited Felix into—and that was the world of Professor Fathom.

Felix knew who the Professor was—vaguely.

Felix knew that Will would often forgo his college attendance and football games to visit the Professor. Once, while attending to Will's laundry, the boy's passport had slipped from his jeans and fallen open on the floor. Felix was stunned to discover that young Master Will had been to places Felix had never even heard of. Perhaps roaming the world was in his genes, perhaps it was something he'd picked up from his always-absent father. Although somehow Felix doubted that simple sightseeing was at the top of Will's travel agenda.

And as for Professor Fathom, he was indeed something of a mystery. But if Will did not want Felix to enter Professor Fathom's world, then Felix trusted Will enough to know that his reasons must be sound.

Now, as he turned down the heat on the oven and pulled the rump steaks off the plate, Felix untied his apron and plucked a central remote off the wall of the kitchen. From there, he could operate everything in the house, from the television and stereo to the garden lights and central heating. Being a fan of the twentieth century (Felix still sent mail using a postage stamp rather than the click of a mouse), it had taken him some time to conquer the tiny remote. But he had eventually done it and was rather proud of himself.

With a single selection and a click with his thumb, he now opened the garage door from where he stood in the kitchen.

A moment later, he heard the dreadful sound of the Ducati, coming down the winding roads to the beach house and pulling into the garage.

Seconds later, young Master Will appeared, pulling off his black motorcycle helmet and revealing a tumultuous tangle of blond hair that, in Felix's opinion, was long overdue for a haircut.

"Hey, Felix! How's it goin'? I can't stop long. Gotta pack. Gotta go, first thing in the morning. Do you know where my passport is? And my cargo pants, you know the ones with the zillions of pockets? Say, what's for dinner? Smells good."

And with that, Will vanished into his room, shouting more questions as he dumped his motorcycle and football gear and proceeded to get changed.

Felix couldn't help but roll his eyes and smile. At least his life was never dull. Not whenever young Master Will was around.

III

Tuscany, Italy

The young Italian scaled the empty, ancient, cobble-stoned street. The road—in fact, the entire village of Vita Sola—had been built before cars. It was so steep and so narrow he could almost stretch both arms out and touch the walls of the cottages on either side. He arrived at the crest of a hill and heard the clip-clop of a horse's hooves. An old man with a horse and a slim cart stacked with vegetables emerged from the other side of the hill.

The young Italian stopped. "
Buon giorno
," he said. The old man nodded, huffing and puffing after his trek up the desolate street. The young man said in Italian, "I'm looking for the house of Signor Brancaso, the artist. Do you know him?"

The old man managed a grin. "Yes, I know him, but not as an artist, at least not a good one." He pointed to a laneway veering off to the left of the street. "He lives down there, the fourth cottage on the right."

The young Italian's eyes followed the old man's finger. "
Grazie
."

"You can knock on the door," the old man said, "but don't expect an answer."

The young man smiled again. An answer was the one thing he was hoping for. And knowing Marco Brancaso as well as he did—or at least once had—he knew exactly how to get an answer out of him.

The sound of a bottle of Bulgarian vodka—no label, no brand, nothing but the potent forces of a peasant family's labor inside—makes a much different sound clanging against an eighteenth-century-old door than the knuckles of a man's hand. The young Italian heard footsteps inside somewhere, clambering down a set of stairs. The door opened. The face of a man in his late forties, unshaven, unkempt, but still—as always—in his own way handsome, looked up in sweet surprise.

"Luca? Luca da Roma?" Marco had dark brown eyes that seemed to deepen as he smiled at the sight of Luca. Gentle lines creased his forehead and the skin around his eyes. "I must be drunk!"

Luca, the young Italian, smiled back at his old friend and lover. "No, Marco." He raised the bottle of vodka. "But you will be soon."

For a moment, the two men stood looking at each other, smiling. "You've cut your hair." Marco reached out and ruffled Luca's medium-length brown hair. "It's been such a long time. Three years?"

"Five."

"You look good. You always did. Come! Come inside!"

Marco led Luca up an old set of creaking, cracked stairs, into a dusty old loft attic with large arched windows that overlooked the village of Vita Sola and the pale green plains that vanished into a white horizon. "The light," Marco said. "I love this place for the light."

"It's good light." Luca looked around the attic. There were canvases, dozens upon dozens of them, propped against every available inch of wall space. Luca noticed that not a single one of the canvases was finished.

Marco held the smile on his face, but he knew that Luca knew him all too well, and slowly the smile turned into a shrug. "Even if the work isn't, the light is good. Inspiration," he said. "It comes and it goes, that's the nature of the beast. You know, I had a muse once, someone who made painting easy, too easy, as though the mere sight of him moved the brush for me, and chose the colors, and so gracefully, so lovingly placed each stroke." Marco turned and began rifling through a stack of leaning canvases. He pulled one out. It was complete—old and dusty. With a gentle breath, Marco blew the age off and looked upon it proudly.

Luca couldn't see the painting, but knew Marco was looking at one of the portraits he had done of the young Italian. He could only guess which one—there had been so many. "The balcony in Florence, overlooking Il Duomo, am I right?"

Marco smiled and turned it around for Luca to see.

It was like looking into a mirror of time. Luca looked upon himself, standing naked, head down, one hand resting on the handle of an open door that led out onto a small balcony. Behind him, the famous dome of Florence stood against a cloud-clustered sky. Suddenly, the memory of that day came back to him in a swirl of small details. The coffee he had burned on the stove. The empty wine bottles from the night before still on the floor by the bed. Evidence that during the night, after they had made love, once they were sleeping soundly, a mouse had done his best to finish off the bread and cheese they had left on the table.

"It was the day after your twentieth birthday," Marco said.

Luca was twenty-six now. Where had the years gone? "It was the first painting you did of me."

"I hoped—still hope—there will never be a last."

Luca turned and helped himself to the cupboards in the small kitchenette in one corner of the loft. He found two mismatched glasses and wiped the dust off them with his fingers. He set the bottle of vodka on a small table that stood in the middle of the room. "You haven't asked me what I'm doing here."

"I didn't want to have to."

The two men each pulled up a chair at the table. Luca poured them each a generous glass of vodka. Marco took a gulp and smiled. "From old man Zabriski's farm," he commented approvingly.

"I kept a few bottles."

"So you've come to get me drunk. To take advantage of me. You're copying my old tactics."

"I need some information. You're the only person I can trust to ask."

"Are you in trouble?"

Luca raised his glass with a grin. "Not yet. But I'll find some."

Marco laughed. "I'm certain of it. That's what I miss, a little adventure. I thought I moved to this village to find myself, but I was running away. I craved inspiration, while all you craved was chaos. I miss that now. I miss your little games."

"Then let's play," Luca smirked. He clinked his glass against Marco's, and the two men polished off their first drink together in over five years. Luca put down his glass, took off his jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and then filled up their glasses once more.

Marco raised one eyebrow. "Ah, the conversation game," he grinned. "My favorite. So tell me, what is it you're after this time?"

"A statue. Sixteenth Century. Have you ever heard of
The Naked Christ
?"

Marco nodded. "Heard of it, yes. But have I seen it? No. I don't know of anyone who ever has. It was lost, wiped from history. Just like Videlle, the artist who sculpted it."

"He was murdered," Luca said. "I know that much."

"Not simply murdered. He was tortured for what he did. They sliced out his eyes. They cut off his hands. And while he was still alive, they strung him up in the middle of Piazza della Signoria and disemboweled him. Creating an image of Christ on the crucifix, completely naked, who would dare! Christ with a cock! It was unheard of! It was a sin punishable by death. They condemned Videlle to eternity in hell for what he did."

"They, being the Church?"

Marco paused a moment and grinned. "The Church has many factions. It wears more than one mask. Faith has many faces." The artist raised his glass, and the two emptied their drinks.

Luca sat back and undid another button.

Marco noticed the small silver crucifix at the end of a chain that hung around Luca's neck. It rested comfortably in the cleft between the young man's pectoral muscles. "You still wear that?"

"I'll always wear that. As you were saying, faith has many faces."

Marco tilted his head and gestured to the remaining buttons on Luca's shirt. "My handsome muse, if you want more information, it's worth more than a glimpse of chest."

The young Italian opened the remaining buttons of his shirt and peeled it away, fully revealing the tan mounds of his chest and a sparse forest of hair trailing from his pectorals down the ridges of his belly, disappearing into his jeans.

Another drink was poured and emptied.

"There is a secret arm of the Church that calls itself the Crimson Crown. Its members believe themselves to be soldiers of Christ. God's very own vigilante group. For centuries, they have killed and crippled in the name of God."

"And nobody stops them?"

"Nobody knows they exist. Except the Vatican, who turns a blind eye. Men of God do not judge men of God. They're far too busy judging everyone else."

Luca poured them both another drink. "What about Zefferino?"

Marco took a short breath. He smiled, realizing what the mention of that name meant. "You found one of the halves of the stone tablet?"

Luca nodded. "We think so."

Marco laughed, astonished and excited. He downed his vodka, poured another glass and downed that one, too. "Where?"

"This is a game, remember?"

Marco was happy to pull off his own paint-splattered shirt in exchange for an answer. He was strong and toned from decades of building frames and stretching canvases.

"Somewhere in Turkey. At an archeological dig. Yesterday, a man named Doctor Hadley stumbled across it at his excavation south of Ankara. He didn't recognize the markings on it, so he called Professor Fathom. He thinks it might be—"

"The code?" Marco whispered.

"We don't know what it says, yet. We won't know for certain until—"

"—Until you find the book," Marco finished for him. Another vodka vanished. "Well?" the artist said, setting down his glass, sitting back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head in a show of complete self-assurance. "Are you going to get those jeans off or do I have to come over there and do it myself?"

"So you know where the book is? You know who has it?"

"Maybe." Marco grinned teasingly.

Without hesitation, Luca pushed away his chair, kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down. Below a dark brown thatch of pubic hair, he boasted a large uncut penis, one that Marco knew all too well. He'd missed it very much. The artist watched now, his eyes roving over Luca's muscled young form as he pushed his jeans down past his ankles and kicked them across the dusty floor.

Luca smiled, "So?" The thick head of his cock began to slide out from under its hood.

Marco poured the last of the vodka into a glass and launched himself drunkenly out of his chair. The bulge in his own torn and tattered painter's pants was more than evident. "So now," he said, "Inspiration takes hold."