THE PRIEST OF SANTA MARIA

[ PART. 1 ] - THE ABBESS TOLD US that you are only at Santa Maria for a year, Father Abbadelli, said Marcello. Christiano, who had a spooned a mouthful of minestrone, swallowed it quickly to reply. Please, call me Father Christano...Yes, Monsignor Luka Basso requested that I gave my services for twelve months. He dabbed his lips with his serviette. So you are on loan? He smiled. It would seem so. The priest who was to take on the role had a car accident breaking a few ribs, both his legs and an arm. Marcello made the sign of the cross. And if you were not here, Father? I was to continue my studies for a Doctorate in Theology. Ah, I see, said Marcello, looking impressed. What do you do, Marcello? I am the janitor at Santa Maria. So I shall see you every day. Do you every day. Do you attend mass at Santa Maria? Yes, the Abbess permits me to attend with Agostina on Sundays. Father Cavallo is a wonderful minister, but he was forced to retire, due to his hip. Such a bad fall. I was right th

{ PART. 1 } THE CONVENT:                                                               ONE YEAR LATER, ITALY: Christiano stood at the entrance of the alleyway where the taxi had left him. The blazing sun, which highlighted the lustrous blue-grey flecks of his almong-shaped eyes, dazzled his vision. He used one hand to shield the blinding rays and scratched beneath his left eye with the other--distorting the mole in the shape of a cruciform below it. A rosary of perspiration had formed on his olive-toned skin, above his collarino, and jewels of sweat glistened across his forehead. He popped a ginger sweet into his mouth, picked up his luggage and continued to walk down the alley until he reached a small fifteenth century townhouse with a crooked but pristinely polished white door. He knocked and waited, breathing in the remnants of fresh paint. An old man of about sixty-five with smiling eyes greeted him at the door. His full head of hair was as alabaster white as his freshly painted do

[ PART. 1 ] FORTUNA CAUTIOUSLY POKED HER:  wizened face out of the doorway, slanting her head to the right. Seeing no one, she beckoned to Angelica to follow. They tiptoed over Enzo's unconscious body, into the hallway, down the stair and out of the building. The streets were as black as the cosmos. It was as if the entire village was midway through a hundred-year slumber. There was not a light in sight, but for Fortuna's little torch, which shed just enough for their actions to remain covert. They hurried through the Lilliputian streets, which wound round the hilltop village like the perfect peel of an orange--manoeuvring between the cars and mopeds which were parked with tight precision along the irregular stone pavements. They reached a cobalt Fiat 500, stationed outside a house with a matching blue door that looked too small to allow the passage of a normal--sized person. Fortuna entered the driver's side while Angelica, wearing an exaggerated, grey hood which conceale

BABYLON, CIRCA  7 BC                                                                    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------    { PART. 1 } - A subtle breeze wafted through the open shutters, caressing the nape of Jannara's neck like the soothing whispers of a woman. It was a welcome respite from the relentless desert heat of the day. The night always brought with it a sigh of relief. The light from three Roman lamps on his workbench guided his eyes as he scribed the last of his instructions onto a piece of parchment. The open shutters behind him framed the scintillatingly starry sky, while the breath of the wind frolicked with the lambent flames and contorted his silhouette on the whitewashed walls. He completed his task and signed off with his name and seal--a star with his initials in its centre. It had been an extraordinary few weeks, which had involved many painstaking hours fashioning a block of cypress into a receptacle that was