The Da Vinci Legacy - Softcover

Lewis Perdue studied biology and biophysics at Cornell University. He is also the bestselling author of numerous fiction and nonfiction works, including Daughter of God and The Delphi Betrayal. Perdue lives in Sonoma, California.

Chapter 1
 
 
Sunday, July 2
 
Killing made him happy. Waiting to kill was the only thing that made him anxious. He was anxious now as he sat in the rocky cool that shielded him from the broiling heat outside.
With the back of his hand he wiped away the tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his upper lip despite the cool of this cave, this man-made cave. Stealthily he looked about him, careful to pretend an interest in the mass. Yes, he thought, it was a cave made by man--of marble from Elba and gold from Africa and lavishments from the world at large. He loathed churches--all churches--but especially ones like this that had extravagantly demanded the life's labors of thousands. Churches and caves. They were all Stone Age abodes for Stone Age thinking.
"Lord God of Hosts," the congregation chanted in unison. "Heaven and Earth are filled with Your glory." Trying to remain unobtrusive, he mumbled along with them in his journeyman Italian.
He looked about him at the elaborate paintings of saints and angels and seraphim and cherubim covering the cavernous walls. And in marked contrast to the grandeur, he saw the people--poor and lower-middle-class folk sitting stiffly, unaccustomed to the formal clothes they wore only to mass. The men, with much callused hands, hair obviously cut by their wives. The wives, corpulent yet somehow dignified by their sheer bulk. And among them all, squirming ill-at-ease youngsters who'd rather be almost anywhere else at all.
Standing out from this drab and ordinary crowd like gems in some plowed field were tourists--mostly American he figured--well dressed, well coiffed, well fed, just like him. Although at six-three he was a bit taller than the others, he could still be mistaken for an American tourist That had been the fatal mistake of more than a few people.
"Hosanna in the Highest" He looked at the prayer book, reading along.
"Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord."
In front of him a small boy of about nine twisted restlessly from side to side, bored with the service, and apparently unimpressed with the cathedral, the Duomo at Pisa, with its famous Leaning Tower nearby.
"Hosanna in the Highest"
The congregation fell silent and the priest, robed in red silk vestments--for this was July 2, the Feast of Precious Blood--continued the mass in Italian.
The man wiped away the new sweat that had formed on his lip, and nervously combed his fingers through his sandy blond hair. As the words of the mass washed over him, he scanned the nave. Unlike most cathedrals, this one was well illuminated with huge windows at its apex that bathed the interior with light Gently, almost imperceptibly, the massive bronze lantern they called Galileo's lamp oscillated with the air.
The man glanced anxiously up at the railed walkway perched almost at the ceiling of the massive cathedral and at the single door to which it led. His eyes floated slowly down from the door, across the gold-encrusted image of Christ, and down to the altar with its imposing crucifix, six feet tall, bronze, and designed by...he searched his memory...by Giambologna. Yes, he thought, that was it, Giambologna. Christ, what this civilization could have done if its finest minds hadn't wasted all their time carving, casting and painting crosses.
"Yet on that very night," the priest intoned, "He gave the greatest proof of His love. He took the bread in His hands." The priest took the bread and raised his eyes to heaven. The man looked up too, sneaking one more glance at the railing, the door.
"He thanked you, blessed"--the priest made the sign of the cross over the bread--"and He broke the bread and gave it to His friends" Watching intensely, the man's hard, cold blue eyes did not waver from the altar as he reached into his French tailored coat and touched the ivory handle of the Sescepita with his fingertips. Reassured, he returned his hand to his thigh. In front of him, the nine-year-old tapped the floor restlessly with the toes of cheap shoes. The noise played a jittery pitter-pat on the man's nerves.
The smell of incense grew stronger and the colors of the cathedral intensified. He could feel each layer of clothing that rested damply on his skin. His senses always grew more sensitive at times like this. He loved killing; it made him feel so alive.
"When the supper was ended," the priest continued, picking up the chalice in both hands, "He took the cup, gave thanks, and shared it with them, saying: This is the cup of My Blood--"
The man's muscles tensed like strained ropes.
"The Blood of the New Covenant."
The man looked up at the door above the altar.
"This Blood shall be shed for you, and--"
A shriek of blinding terror filled the cathedral. A thin man, bound hands and feet, hurtled toward the floor, his neck tethered to a stout nylon climber's rope.
"No-o-o-o-o," the man yelled in German as he fell. "Oh, Jesus! No-o-o-o!"
As the screaming body plunged through the Sunday morning silence, the blond man stood and made his way toward the door, the nine-year-old stopped tapping his feet. The priest dropped the jewel-encrusted chalice; it clattered down the steps of the altar, spilling the consecrated wine as it did.
The nylon climbing rope suddenly ran out of slack and throttled the thin man's screams as the noose closed about his neck. But still the body fell as the elastic rope stretched tight. The body smashed into the marble floor with the muffled thuds of breaking bones.
The blond man was halfway to the exit when the rope jerked back to its original length, yanking the broken body upward, where it tumbled toward the altar. The congregation held its breath in a silence that seemed to suspend time and gravity. For one short awesome instant, the body seemed suspended above the altar. Then the next moment, the thin man's abdomen impaled itself on the top of Giambologna's cross.
Blood flowed freely down the image of Christ and across the altar, curdling as it mixed with the wine from the overturned chalice. The priest crossed himself and fell to his knees begging forgiveness.
Horrified screams filled the cathedral as a few worshipers went to the aid of the priest, and the rest surged for the exit just behind the blond man.
Outside, the blond man turned briskly to the left and pursued the figure of a large man walking briskly from the cathedral, toward the round, marble baptistry that stood in the shadow of the tower. Screams grew louder now as the terrified congregation flooded the grounds of the cathedral, calling for the police.
The baptistry quickly emptied as people rushed outside to see what the commotion was about.
"Wonderful work," the blond man said warmly as soon as he was alone with the hulking man he had followed inside. "Even I didn't see you throw him over the rail and I was looking."
"Danke, mein Herr" the hulk responded respectfully. He had a heavy Germanic face and the build of a Bremen steelworker, which he had once been. And though the same height as the blond man, the German easily weighed fifty pounds more.
I'm quite sincere," the blond man continued in faultless German. "It was quite a performance. The lesson will not go unnoticed. I particularly liked the bungee rope tied around his neck."
The German beamed. They called him "The Schoolmaster" not for his education, but for all the "lessons" he had taught others. "Thank you again, mein Herr, but you flatter me too much. I am only doing my job." He smiled expectantly.
The blond man slipped a well-manicured hand into his coat What he withdrew, however, was not money, but a long knife with a round ivory handle, ornamented with gold, silver, and jewels. In the Middle Ages, the Sescepita had been used by pagan priests to perform sacrifices. It was priceless.
The Schoolmaster was quick for a big man, but he failed to react in time. The first slash spilled his intestines across the cool marble of the baptistry. The second left him with a hideous red grin below his chin. He slid to the floor, his back against the font.
"Ah, Schoolmaster," the blond man whispered in German to the fading light in the big man's eyes. "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. A lot is even more dangerous." He paused as the large man's eyelids flickered. "And too much? Well, too much can get you killed." There was a flicker of comprehension in the eyes before they hid forever behind the man's heavy eyelids.
The blond man quickly wiped off the ancient weapon on the German's shirt and resheathed it As he strode from the baptistry, he wondered briefly how long it would be before someone else thought he knew too much.
 
Copyright © 1983, 2004 by Lewis Perdue