Dark Horse Prophecy

By L. A. Green

In a legendary beginning, a God created the Earth and all living things on it. The final part of almost all these creations is mankind, male or female. In Hebrew, Adam and Eve.
The final creation was Original Humanity.
Then a Deceiver came among them and pulled a number of Original Humanity into a path of conquering wars. These new beings, Corrupted Ones, came forth out of the Original Humanity - destroying, killing and stealing anything in their path. To preserve the purity of the Eternal, the Corrupted Ones were sent away, Original Humanity was divided.
From the separated peoples came forth the Nations of the Earth. From these many Nations, a selected few have risen throughout history to places of renown. These were spirits incarnate from an older time.
They are spirits that were meant to rise again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664184107

Book preview

DARK HORSE

PROPHECY

L. A. Green

Copyright © 2021 by L. A. Green.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/08/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Introduction

PART I: ALL THE KING’S HORSES AND ALL THE KING’S MEN

Bordeaux, France

Milan, Italy

Puerto de Santa Maria, Spain

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States

Mexico City, Mexico

Jordan, MT, United States

Sodus Point, NY, United States

Budapest, Hungary

Chennai, India

Chengdu, Sichuan Province, China

PART II: WE GATHER HERE TODAY . . .

Porto-Novo, Benin

Cape Town, South Africa

Harare, Zimbabwe

Harare, Zimbabwe

Cape Town, South Africa

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo

Porto-Novo, Benin

Cairo, Egypt

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo

Cairo, Egypt

Eric Ulf

Porto-Novo, Benin: Michelle and Brash

Cape Town, South Africa: Teyolia and Niccolo

Harare, Zimbabwe: Felicia and Kievson

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo: Leo and Vinod

Porto-Novo, Benin: Michelle and Brash

Cairo, Egypt: Dacian and Min

Cape Town, South Africa: Teyolia and Niccolo

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo: Leo and Vinod

Porto-Novo, Benin: Michelle and Brash

Cairo, Egypt: Dacian and Min

PART III: CITIES AND FOREST

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo

Tehran, Iran: Eric Ulf

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo

Council

Living Arrangements

Travellers All

A River Journey

Congo River, Democratic Republic of the Congo

Yumbi, the Democratic Republic of the Congo

Death Before Dishonor

Up the River and Irebu

New York Interlude

Epilogue

Order/Introductions/Time Line

Dedicated to Solomon R. Green and Robert L. Green, my reason and my inspiration, respectively.

INTRODUCTION

I knew I would die when I was twenty-six years old. What I couldn’t know was the way my story would come to an end.

My beginning is the beginning of all people. I rose like the First Man and First Woman, in innocence, only to be cast down into struggle and, eventually, redemption. Ultimately, I came to face my own Apocalypse.

*        *        *

In a legendary beginning, God created the Earth and all living things on it. The final part of almost all these creations is mankind, male or female. In Hebrew, Adam and Eve.

The final creation was Original Humanity.

Then a Deceiver came among them and pulled a number of Original Humanity into a path of conquering wars. These new beings, Corrupted Ones, came forth out of the Original Humanity—destroying, killing, and stealing anything in their path. To preserve the purity of the Eternal, the Corrupted Ones were sent away, Original Humanity was divided.

From the separated peoples came forth the Nations of the Earth. From these many Nations, a selected few have risen throughout history to places of renown. These were spirits incarnate from an older time.

They are spirits that were meant to rise again.

PART: I

All the King’s Horses and All the King’s Men

I have not turned my steps toward the

East Mountain for so long.

I wonder how many times the roses have

bloomed there . . . . .

The white clouds gather and scatter again

like friends.

Who has a house there now to view the setting

of the bright moon?

Li Po Thinks of His Home

CHAPTER ONE

BORDEAUX, FRANCE

The cold downpour of rain brought a feeling of clean to the city streets below. Standing six floors above the washing dirt and grime, a person could feel both detached and godlike. The only drawback to reality was the gruff, accented voice of Provol Ivanovich resounding through the room.

As part of our agreement, the advertising is your responsibility. We have seen little profit, and my comrades are wondering why. I purchased a paper just today and saw the placements, and they are dull!

Dull! Jean-Pierre, marketing assistant and co-owner of Du Champes Ltd. had heard enough. Sir, your original ads had less than ten colors. Our ads show more life, more zest, than ten of your best ideas put together!

Jean-Pierre, please. Michelle knew her assistant had plenty of derisive comments handy at any time, but this was a paying customer. Don’t insult our client.

Michelle’s mind reeled at the prospect of losing another customer at this particular time in her life. There was an impending divorce from her husband, Tison Arouet; a mortgage for a home she had only visited twice in three years; and her little business’s own financial future. With all that in mind, Michelle feared losing even one more account, even if Mr. Ivanovich was bullheaded.

"Mr. Ivanovich, please. What Jean-Pierre failed to mention was the culture of the area you have chosen to break into. This is bordeaux country. Your product represents a challenge. The citizens feel it insults national pride.

Any Frenchman will frown on the price when they see the country of origin. An imported wine from Russia cannot compete with bordeaux in Bordeaux. I suggest and recommend that you allow us to place ads in the Normandy area. It has a much more international feel with the World War II monuments and history buffs. English, Italian, American, German—you name it. Even fellow Russians. There is your profit market.

Provol sputtered out a weak argument. Michelle knew it was pride and duty that bound this man to his strong position. Russian men, in her experience, found it hard to give in to women in the business world. It was especially troubling when Provol would have to report back to his comrades. Provol finished his diatribe and looked to Michelle for a response.

"I will send a report to your board of investors, explaining my view and my recommendation for the move to Normandy. Included will be a sampling of international brands and their sales numbers.

I hope they will be forgiving when they continue to see the comparative loss in profits.

It was cold, precise, and final. Michelle watched as the fight drained from Provol’s face. A moment of wary fear crossed Provol’s eyes. In that moment, Michelle wondered what hasty and foolish promises Provol had made to his comrades, the board of investors that he talked about with both mystery and apprehension. Finally, Mr. Ivanovich stood and, with a shadow of his inevitable military training, turned sharply on his heel and left.

Who is next to fight? Michelle could hear the first note of exhaustion in her voice. Both she and Jean-Pierre had missed lunch, locking horns with Provol. Prior to that, she had eaten a horrid breakfast of coffee and toast.

I have a Mr. Ulf to see you. One on one, by request. Jean-Pierre looked for a moment at Michelle’s face. What would you like me to do?

Go get us lunch. I’ll see Mr. Ulf immediately and hope he will be gone when you return.

As Jean-Pierre left, he waved to a man waiting in the sitting room. The new arrival brushed past him, speaking in a silky voice before continuing into Michelle’s office. When he entered, he locked eyes with Michelle in a way that spoke of meeting, again, an intimate relation. She felt exposed, confused.

Michelle felt that behind the stranger’s eyes there was power and sinister knowledge. Knowledge of who she was and what her life had been. Behind that, she sensed a knowledge of ancient mysteries and ancient worlds. In the next, she felt as if he exuded the freshness of new worlds to come.

He sat quietly across from her. He held out his hand with a business card that shimmered in the light. On it was embossed an ancient coat of arms that represented a family lineage from a time when France was still referred to as a kingdom of Frankish people. Then Michelle noticed the name, which stood out almost as boldly as the seal:

Eric Ulf.

Good afternoon, Mr. Ulf. How can I help you?

I am here to show you an item that I believe you will find of great interest. I have heard that you are an avid sword collector.

Michelle felt again that passing sense the man knew more than just this about her. I do collect, Mr. Ulf. But only rare pieces.

Then what I have you will want to see.

This is my office of business, Mr. Ulf. My sword collection is personal.

I should come by your home later. Perhaps tonight is free? Eric stood up, but did not turn to leave. Instead, he brought forward an item that he had lying on the floor. Allow me to show you the sincerity of my offer.

This is not the right time, Mr. Ulf.

Michelle fell silent when the sword was suddenly on her desk. It glowed with what she perceived to be an inner light. Her heart raced to touch it. Michelle drew in a sharp breath, bewildered at her own response, yet fully in love with the weapon before her.

She reached out and took the sword in hand, barely registering the murmur of words that Eric spoke to her. Her mind was swept away, his voice mixing with something deeper, more powerful.

Michelle felt herself shift, sensing that she was no longer just herself. She felt sweat and blood mingling all over her body, flowing freely over her skin. She could feel her legs spread over the back of a huge war horse and the itch of some rough material against her, scratching, clinging.

The sun seemed to have dipped lower in the sky as she observed fighting and killing all around her.

Michelle felt herself rise, as if a passenger on an air balloon. Her vision shifted, and below her sat a young girl astride a horse. She was dressed in rough linen, but wore the chest armor of any veteran knight. Her hair flowed freely in a slight breeze that carried the stink of battle and death. The girl was covered in blood, but seemed to be in a trance. Michelle looked at the girl’s face and realized she was being seen as much as she was seeing. And in those eyes, there was sensitivity and sadness, joy and despair.

A flooding sense of victory, power, and invincibility suddenly overcame Michelle’s senses. She felt again the sweat and blood, but now she felt tears—the exhaustion of war, the elation of victory. The country she loved would be free again. France would stay victorious.

France. Michelle felt suddenly dizzy. What is this?

This, Ms. Arouet, is Jean d’ Arc’s sword. I was telling you about it, but you seemed to go away from me.

Michelle gazed down on the sword, which now seemed to hum with a soft power of its own. She told herself that she was tired, that the sword had idly remained on the desk while she had drifted off in thought. There was no way she had traveled into the prior owner’s life. The memory, or delusion, had passed, she told herself. It never happened.

Have you been to Africa?

Benin. Many times, Michelle responded, catching herself staring again at the sword in front of her. Why do you ask?

"Because, as I was telling you, I have more history to discuss, and a lucrative offer. Jean d’ Arc’s sword was an easy catch.

Dinner at your place tonight will be fine. Eric stood abruptly and gave a customary bow at the waist.

Only then did Michelle notice Jean-Pierre in the sitting room. She stood in response to Eric’s parting and noticed a spot of blood on her desk and sweat rolling down her back. She was both thrilled and anxious.

Hours later, Michelle went into Jean-Pierre’s office to say good night. Jean-Pierre, would you mind locking up tonight? I have an appointment, and I want to get cleaned up.

Jean-Pierre’s eyebrow rose inquisitively. You are dating already?

No! Michelle felt herself blush. Though meant in general, she had felt as if Jean-Pierre had been referring to Eric Ulf directly. I have a meeting about another sword acquisition.

I worry you are going to kill your husband one of these days with all these weapons you chase after.

This is different, Jean-Pierre. Michelle smiled, feeling deeply affected. This is Jean d’ Arc’s sword.

Jean-Pierre watched her for a moment, saying nothing. Michelle waited for his face to register indignation or shock, but neither showed.

You know your history, Michelle. I hope it is worth the price.

It will be. Michelle waved. Good night, Jean-Pierre.

Good-bye, Michelle.

Outside her office, Michelle began to reflect on her times in Benin. There had been business and pleasure in the tropical environment of that West African country. She had experienced competitive business challenges and liberating sexual encounters. It was in the capital of Porto-Novo, only three years prior, that she had been proposed to by the man she was now divorcing. Benin had almost become a country of second life for her.

Michelle strolled down Rue de Bonneville, contemplating the value of the sword, if it turned out to be authentic. The price she could afford to pay topped out at around 13 million euros. And Michelle knew that a true collector would be willing to part with much more for a piece as significant as the actual sword possessed by Joan of Arc.

It troubled Michelle only a little bit that such an item would not be inside of a museum. At the close of the twenty-first century, pieces of history vanished more often than vehicles or people.

Michelle noticed that the rain had left an Atlantic cold about the city, but its effect was being challenged by a new northeast wind coming up from Spain and its warmer climate. All along the rue, a shimmer had picked up where lights played on the rippling puddles that would be smaller, but altogether still there, come morning. It was part of the mix of moisture and warmth that made Bordeaux the wine country that it was. It had always been her habit, as a child and to her mother’s abject horror, to step directly into puddles, sending cascades of morphing crystal into the air. She would imagine fairies dancing inside of each one, as if stealing onto a stage for only a moment, before the drops hit the ground and spread like rapid flowers in bloom.

How many times, she wondered, had she done that single act and known, for a moment, freedom from her mother’s and father’s social restraints? To know that she could spite status and just be looked upon as a child, not as the offspring of Monsieur Du Champes, premier of Girrone Province.

Something troubles you, madame?

Michelle looked up in surprise, unaware of having come to the front of her own home. She had been so lost in her memories that the short trip home had swept by her unnoticed. She was now looking into the face of Eric Ulf, confusion covering her own features.

Are you okay? Eric placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Yes. Michelle looked around and took a deep breath. Sorry. Just thinking.

It is the rain. The way the Earth comes clean again. When that happens, we can feel a reflection of ourselves in its renewal.

It is the rain, yes. It always puts me in the past. When Eric removed his hand from her shoulder, Michelle almost visibly shuddered. There was something taken out of her, and she felt she badly needed it put back. For a moment, Michelle felt the tingling of hormones, a primal urge to take a mate.

May I come in, Madame Arouet?

Please, call me Michelle, Mr. Ulf. Michelle unlocked her front door, hoping the evening would stay completely professional.

Eric, then. Eric stepped across her threshold and breathed deeply the atmosphere of her home. It is a beautiful house.

Thank you. Michelle waved Eric into a parlor, where she began to remove her light jacket. She held out her hand for Eric’s own jacket. She noticed it was a full-length trench coat.

Eric pulled a wrapped bundle from the inside folds of his jacket before handing it over to Michelle. He noticed Michelle’s gaze fall fixedly on the object. He smiled in recognition before sitting.

When she returned from the hallway, the sword was already unwrapped, lying upon her coffee table. She took in, again, how the blade seemed to shine from some internal source of light. Her heart picked up a pace, and she fought to turn her attention to her mysterious, surprising guest.

Did you actually want dinner, Eric? Or do you want business only?

I will gladly have dinner, Michelle. But as I told you, the Jean d’ Arc sword is proof of my sincerity. What I need of you will be much more involved and time-consuming.

Michelle had her hands up. "I can see it in your eyes, Eric, you are about to try to sell me even now. As much as you will accept dinner, you want to launch into your proposition.

Non, non. First, a drink. Michelle went to an old wooden cabinet, built shortly after Louis XII had taken the throne. What will you have?

Do you have a madeira? Eric sighed audibly. I’ll be going to Spain next, so I would like to get my taste buds ready.

I do have two bottles, Eric. Would you prefer ’62 or ’64?

Eric chuckled appreciatively. Is that 2064, or 1964?

In a grave, but self-conscious voice, Michelle responded, It’s 1964.

Eric’s eyebrows shot up in mock astonishment. I will take it, Michelle.

*        *        *

Dinner consisted of roasted duck with an orange sauce, snow peas, candied carrots, fresh bread, milk, honey, and coffee. Eric requested more madeira when Michelle presented a dessert of chocolate cake and strawberries. Other than a few comments about the good quality of the duck, Eric had been very focused on his appetite and remained quiet.

Michelle enjoyed it as a shrewd tactic to raise her interest in his offer. It was a tactic she had used to accomplish similar results in her years as a marketing agent before coming into her own business. And, she admitted to herself, it worked well whenever applied to any human whose interest you had already heightened.

Okay, Monsieur Eric Ulf, Michelle addressed him while he finished the last of his second piece of chocolate cake. Tell me your offer.

Hmm. Eric wiped his mouth. I need you to commit to traveling back to Africa, to Benin to start with. What I ask you to do involves risk, but for a lot of money.

So you are not selling me the Jean d’ Arc sword?

Eric shook his head. "It is not a sale straight out, no.

"What I offer is this: You can have the sword, if you are willing to gather another sword for me from the heart of Africa, Michelle. You will face challengers, but there must be a challenge because only the best, most proven fighter will be able to get at the prize I seek.

If you get the sword I want, you keep the Jean d’ Arc blade with 50 million US dollars converted, if you like, to any currency you prefer.

Michelle stopped her fork on its way to her mouth, not really wanting to believe the offer she had just been made. Her mind worked over the surprising reversal that had occurred. Where she had come expecting to spend money, she was being offered money; the sword for free, essentially; and a chance to adventure in Africa again.

Michelle’s mind also registered the threat of challengers. The way Eric spoke about the situation was as if there would be vicious battles. However, Michelle had a background in fencing and doubted it would be much more than a little bit of the underground fighting that happened all over Europe. Fencers were known to go at each other with sharper weapons for higher pay than the Olympics could afford, all done quietly in out-of-the-way places in the woodlands of France.

I will pay for your entire stay in Africa. You may be in Benin for quite some time, Michelle. But it will all be on my budget, which is by no means a small thing.

What about my business here? I have responsibilities, Eric. I have a partner in business, whom you met today.

I would hope you could convince Jean-Pierre that your time away would be well worth it.

My chasing a treasure in Africa will hardly impress Jean-Pierre, Eric.

Then I will give you three million up front, enough to bide Jean-Pierre through the transition while you are away.

And how long will that be, Eric?

If you accept, at least eighteen months.

Michelle became absolutely still. Eric watched her mind calculate and process every bit of the opportunity and risk that he had laid out before her. Her face showed every evidence of fear, but intermingled with that was an excitement, a gleam in her eye.

Eric had bet on Michelle’s passion. And it was that passion and spirit of rebellion that won out in the end.

I will inform Jean-Pierre in the morning. Michelle smiled. When do you need me ready to leave?

You will have this week, Michelle, to do all you need. Eric stood up and waved toward the parlor. Would you like to hold your sword?

I can hardly wait.

What happened next Michelle would never be able to explain to anyone, not even herself, but she remembered the details for the entire week after.

Entering the parlor, Eric’s hands were suddenly on her breast, cupping them while his lips played along her neck and ears. His fingers splayed around her firm nipples and flicked them lightly, teasing her into amorous moans. Michelle felt herself succumb to the odd mix of emotions that this stranger effected in her. Without knowing just when or how, her clothes were off, and she was on all fours on her couch, receiving Eric from behind. In a seemingly half-crazed bout of passion, she climaxed enough times to create wet spots on her couch at her knees, a thing she would not have believed possible.

A searing flash of pain exploded inside of her when Eric finally grunted his own orgasm. Michelle imagined lava filling her body. She thought she smelled burning hair and felt Eric’s rigidness as a rod of simmering steel. The impact of it all made her cry out in shock.

Wow. Eric’s voice was again smooth, and his breathing had returned to normal. The ladies of France . . . Wow.

Michelle stood up and turned. To her surprise, Eric was still hard and presented something monstrous in size to her appraising eye. She could smell the sex in the air and see her own dew still clinging to his body. Her eyes drifted for a second, and her attention shifted.

The sword . . .

Some have called it that, but I prefer Lancelot.

I was not speaking about you, Eric. Michelle went to the sword and picked it up. How sure are you of its authenticity?

I retrieved it personally from its last owner, Michelle. It is the real one.

And who was the last owner?

Eric smiled mischievously. The Vatican.

Michelle stood in silence while the blade shone out at her, the lights from her lamps dancing off the polished steel. She felt more drawn to it then than she did to Eric in all his physical beauty. She felt more drawn to it than she did to anything she could remember, for that matter. A blue-green light struck her eye and seemed to force her thoughts into contacting the sword. Once in hand, Michelle felt herself swept away.

Let us pray before this battle. The King of our king shall hear us and guard us well.

A field full of men bowed to one knee before her. Others on horseback bowed their heads solemnly. Under her, Michelle could feel and smell the white horse she sat upon. She was fitted in armor and held the sword before her as if it weighed no more than a twig. The sun shone off its sharp edges in a miasma of light that made her think of angels dancing in sunbeams.

As quickly as her hand turned over the sword to view it better, Michelle was suddenly surrounded by fire and a crowd of hushed people. A sonorous voice read in Church Latin, reciting a benediction to the crowd while sealing her fate. Like a chill wind, she felt a whisper enter her left ear:

Et nil mors est ad nos.

Michelle turned her head, noticing the shift in her environment. What?

Eric stood before her, his clothing back on, filling glasses with wine. He looked up at her questioning voice with a small knowing smile. Michelle thought it sinister before it turned into a warm laugh. He offered her a glass of the madeira while obviously assessing her then seemed to remember her question.

Nil mors est ad nos? Eric sighed. "Death is nothing to us. We fear it not, and indeed, we challenge it.

You challenged it when you went into the Benin forest alone and again when you climbed in the Alps for two weeks, solo.

How do you know about that?

I would have thought it apparent by now that I am a man of extraordinary means. The real question, Michelle, is whether or not I have convinced you enough to take on this venture wholeheartedly.

Michelle was all too aware of her own nakedness the whole time. She felt both vulnerable and powerful, faced with the challenge of Eric’s knowing things she felt sure he shouldn’t. She allowed a sensual heat to enter her response. You have mostly convinced me, Eric.

In response, Eric began the chore of undressing again.

*        *        *

Jean-Pierre was livid. He launched into an irate polemic. How can you leave with him on such short notice? Were you drinking— He saw Michelle flinch. You were drinking!

Jean-Pierre, it is not the drinking that convinced me. Michelle stood next to her desk, allowing her sadness to show. This is the real weapon of Jean d’ Arc. And what he offers is another chance for me to do something different, to get away from all this denouement.

That may be, Michelle, but a year and a half? Jean-Pierre threw up his hands in resignation. This is ridiculous.

Jean-Pierre, please calm down. As my partner in this business, you will be getting both a raise in pay and position while I am away. Michelle’s excitement finally won out. This is an opportunity for so much good, Jean-Pierre! Please do not hate me for taking it.

In his familiar dramatic fashion, Jean-Pierre stalked out of her office. It was acceptance, if reluctant, and meant that Jean-Pierre would allow her to leave without much more complaint. Michelle hoped that by the end of the day, he would come to her as if the idea was one they both could enjoy.

She was not disappointed.

Elle. The nickname was assurance that things were okay. You have got to take bug repellant. Jean-Pierre stood in the doorway to her office. With him stood their two part-time employees, Sylvia and Remi.

I hear that you will want chlorine tabs for the water. You don’t want to die from what you drink. Sylvia’s voice was often soft even when intent.

I am not going to die from the water in Benin. Michelle walked into the sitting room where she would have more space to address her three workers. Remi handed her a box of chocolates. Bon voyage, Michelle.

Merci, Remi. She took the chocolates and shook his hand. You and Sylvia both will get pay raises since Jean-Pierre is going to need to depend on you both more often while I am out of the country.

Oui, merci beaucoup.

Michelle dismissed both Sylvia and Remi before turning her full attention on Jean-Pierre. He held out a gift bag with colored tissue paper peeking out of it. His smile forewarned Michelle that she had a possible laugh in store.

Michelle opened the package to reveal a pair of erotic edible thong underwear. She smiled brightly and read the label.

Peach! Why not cherry?

Jean-Pierre smiled coyly at their shared past. You have not been cherry since we were fifteen, Elle.

*        *        *

The week went by faster than she had anticipated. Michelle had cleared up the problem with Provol Ivanovich, informed her husband that she was leaving France for a long time, and placed flowers at her parents’ grave. She felt a sense of joy that had been absent ever since her marriage had essentially ended the night she came home to discover her husband locked in a four-way with her brother-in-law, their cousin Xavier, and Lillie, the brother-in-law’s wife. Reality had seemed to turn out of sorts when Michelle had been able to only get Tison’s attention, as if her presence was the oddity in her own home. Michelle believed that the moment when she knew she could not look past it occurred when Tison attempted to become angry with her for, in his words, ruining a perfectly fine adult event. He pushed her from study where the tryst was occurring then and informed her that she was being immature.

In the airport, Michelle’s phone rang, breaking her focus on the past. Several people cast disapproving stares in her direction. One voice was heard to complain about the phone bringing the airplane down if it wasn’t shut off. Hello?

Michelle. Eric’s voice was filled with charm. I will be in Milan for the next few days before moving on. Everything is arranged for you in Porto-Novo. I hope you will be ready when the time comes.

Certainly, Eric. Michelle moved into the tunnel that linked to the airplane. How long will it be before I see you again?

Not long. Eric’s voice was muffled by the sound of an explosion in his background. Have a good flight, Michelle. I have to go.

The phone went dead before she could say any more. Though she was tired early into the flight, it was only after changing planes in Algiers that she fell asleep. She had been worried about the explosion she had heard over the phone and Eric’s hurried good-bye.

Eric was in Italy.

Italy was in a civil war.

MILAN, ITALY

Watching Mr. Hovarti create a character, life that involved so many aspects and events, brought light into Niccolo’s mind. The class was on the topic of simple theory of character development, but the magnitude that Mr. Hovarti brought to his presentation created entire novels. Niccolo sat, stunned at the ease with which the act was done.

As for himself, Niccolo was drawn to figures of sinister appeal or plain guile. Most of those he could draw inspiration for from his own life, having had experiences that in themselves could fill a few books. Niccolo often wished his life had the straightforward logic of novels, instead of the tragic tales that defied the monotony of local customs. He had always felt captured by too much, too early.

Niccolo found himself getting lost in his thoughts, recalling the many times of terror or degradation he had survived. It allowed him to feel that life was a few moments of good surrounded by darkness. He even created his own philosophy on God as a result: he did not care.

Niccolo did not feel he hated God; he just felt exhausted with trying to maintain a moral high ground when it felt that everyone was at war with him. Somehow, he couldn’t help imagining that God had failed or simply was not the God that he’d been taught about since his youth. Where were the promises and deliverances so many people of his faith spoke of?

As a resolve, Niccolo found comfort in writing stories that related and searched out different ideologies. It was a way of releasing all the emotional tension that resulted from years of being beaten whenever he allowed his emotions to show. In story, tears and honest emotion were allowed their place. In contrast, Niccolo himself could have made the perfect soldier: dedicated to goals, logical at need, intelligent, and perceptive. He was a shell of impenetrable, callous feeling. A hollow human who could look any insulting person in the eye and never flinch. A machine in many aspects.

Niccolo shuddered. Like any machine with faulty programming or given a task beyond its bounds, there were problems. The biggest fault he found in himself was the inability to love. He found it hard to trust any woman he came across in Milan’s social scenes. And it only took one incident for him to understand that even as far south as Sardinia, his life fell to risk.

The stories made up for the losses. They were his feelings, his being, put into words.

"That resolves a few blocks. I want to see a minimum of three-character sketches by tomorrow, for updating and advice. I would like five by this Friday.

Class dismissed. Mr. Hovarti bowed theatrically while using his remote to turn up the classroom lights. His smart board faded from the screen on the front wall.

Niccolo had a story he was putting together quite well, except for one problem: how to make a villain so obvious he would not be noticed? It troubled Niccolo to speak with Mr. Hovarti because he had a way of making the best seem idiotic. Niccolo, self-consciously, found himself impressed by the multipublished author, who had earned the nickname Arti because of his approach of mixing genres with fresh appeal. Where other authors fell flat, or confused wider audiences, Arti made it easy to encounter a novel and not know you might be reading science fiction until the end.

Signore Hovarti? Might I speak with you?

Signore Niccolo. Mr. Hovarti was singularly jovial at every greeting. How might I help you?

I want to introduce a character, my villain, without him being too noticeable. In fact, I want him to be so prominent that the reader will not suspect the character until near the very end. Niccolo stopped short, waiting for an answer that he believed would be simple or at least sound that way.

Hmm. The author turned speculative. "That is not easy to do.

I recommend you see a classic American movie. It has a strong storyline, with an American black in the lead role, Denzel Washington. It is titled Fallen. In it, you have the classic ever-present villain, but you forget ten minutes into the movie that he is there. The opening is clever: ‘Let me tell you about the time I almost died.’ See it and learn.

Niccolo left the classroom in hopes of discovering the film, first, on his Lemur handheld. He planned on requesting it loaded to his home television, where he would view it with a dinner he picked up. The evening that greeted him outside the college was dry and cold. Winters in northern Italy were often that way, giving lie to the reality that would confront him if he were farther up in the Alps. Shadows formed in forbidding movements at every dark corner and sent Niccolo’s mind racing creatively. His focus bent to the Lemur in his hand, one of the shadows stepped forward and resolved into a real human being.

Excuse me, signore. I did not see you approaching. Niccolo was momentarily dazed by the abrupt materialization of this figure only steps in front of him.

I was not approaching, Signore Visconti. I was waiting.

Niccolo drew back, putting his Lemur away swiftly. All else was shoved out of his mind as he shifted his attention toward possible trouble. With Italy’s new revolutionary government and its inability to get a grip on the economy, people of Niccolo’s wealthy status had become targets for Mafioso abductions. His family’s wealth had led to his being abducted no less than eight times from his early childhood into his late teens. Even though he had not been abducted in ten years, he was aware that it did not diminish his value or the value of several family members. The Visconti family had ransomed their loved ones to the sum of millions of euro over the last half of a century.

I am sorry, signore, but I must go. Niccolo began to move around the shadowed figure when his arm was suddenly gripped firm. His panic rose, causing him to shrug hard and attempt to pull away. His ears immediately opened for the sounds of other assailants.

Calm down, please, Signore Visconti. The voice was accented, but not with any of the regional dialects that Niccolo knew. I am here to offer you something, not to steal you or from you.

The hand that released his arm was held out again in an instant, a shimmer in the exposed palm. Niccolo knew it to be money, but none that he had seen before. Take it home. Study it well.

Niccolo studied it there, in what little light was out on the street. It was a gold coin, made heavily and stamped with symbols that were artfully done. It was old, but not worn. He noticed that the symbols reflected his family’s crest.

It is not me you want—

It is you, the voice interrupted. Contact me when you want to know more.

Niccolo looked up in time to barely catch a glimpse of the face behind the shadows. In that moment, the man turned away with a casual wave, dropping something from his hand. Niccolo heard it flutter to the ground.

A business card lay on the ground at his feet.

Picking up the card, Niccolo was sure to stay aware of his surroundings and managed to see the stranger being swallowed by the darkness of Il Duomo’s thousands of statues. Everywhere else around him was both still and silent, only the wind giving voice to the winter air.

Niccolo read the card in his hand:

Eric Ulf

133 Via Dante

Come to history.

Milano, Italia

*        *        *

Back in his apartment, Niccolo lifted his cat, Euphony, while studying the card in better light. In the next instant, he had the coin in his hand, studying the design on its face. On it was a stylized bird at its top, perched over a dragon that consumed most of the center of the coin. On the left, there was a letter V and on the right, the letter B. Niccolo knew that the serpent crest held significant historical meaning for his family, and his father was an exceptionally proud inheritor of the Visconti royal blood.

What do you think, Euphony? Should I go running for my family? Euphony responded with a harsh mew and a small kick that indicated his desire to be put down. Niccolo bent to the task, rolling the tom over on its back and playfully swatting at its paws. Euphony responded by giving sudden avid attention to the distraction. A crash and a loud curse came from the apartment kitchen. Both cat and owner jumped at the unexpected sounds.

Another crash, this one a glass by the sound of its shattering, was followed by a litany of swearing oaths that no good Catholic would utter. Or some that a very inventive one would make up.

Antonio!

And what drink has you so handicapped tonight, Tonio? Niccolo headed into the kitchen and the epicenter of a very messy affair.

The loss of love. It is poison on the lips even as it sweetens the tongue. Antonio looked at Niccolo with bleary eyes. Any good Genoan knows that.

I am not Genoan, Tonio.

The man stood to his highest height, an impressive six foot ten inches of towering muscle and sun-kissed skin. His black hair swayed just past his collar, an indication of his imbalance from drinking. It gave the impression that he was now standing on the deck of one of his father’s boats.

Niccolo scanned his kitchen with growing horror. Where his own ordered, meticulous cleaning had left him with an almost ideal cook’s setting, there was nothing but disorder and ruin. Plates were scattered everywhere, cups and pans left soaking in a half-empty sink and one skillet beginning to smoke with the remnants of something Antonio had thought was a meal. Niccolo glanced briefly at the small bag of groceries in his hand, feeling the dread of having to clean up before he got to cook his own late meal. Antonio noticed the look and shrugged largely. Sorry.

What brought you the whole way up here? Not a broken heart alone. Niccolo set his stuff down and commenced to cleaning.

I am in trouble, Nicco. I got in with a revolutionary band that blew a hole in the parliament building in Roma.

And what band was this?

They call themselves—

No. Better I not know, Tonio. Niccolo took a moment to absorb the information. Did you kill anyone?

That is just it, Niccolo! My heart belonged to Arianna, the lieutenant of operations. She was killed when the bomb went off too early.

Niccolo felt both horror and resignation. It was a story both old and often heard at that time all across different parts of Europe. In the turmoil of swiftly shifting demographics and economic upheaval, popular movements were both empowered and tragicomically exposed for their disorganized actions. Deaths like Arianna’s happened in a dozen different cities a dozen times a day.

Niccolo decided to shift the conversation. Are you sober enough to answer some questions about an antique?

Hmm . . . yes. I am more confused than drunk right now.

Niccolo laid the coin down on his dining table, where Antonio had already taken a seat. What of this? What is the probable authenticity?

Antonio had come across many relics of the past in his days of fishing and had sold many items to collectors across Italy. His was a working knowledge that Niccolo trusted more than the bookish knowledge of some of his college companions. Where they could tell him a lot of history, Antonio would quickly assess the pure monetary value.

It is authentic, Nicco. Could even get you out of the country and set up comfortably elsewhere. Where did you get it?

A stranger. Niccolo sat down heavily.

He is a very generous stranger. Antonio rubbed the coin’s surfaces. Why you?

He told me he would reveal more if I chose to contact him.

Antonio reached out and took Niccolo’s hand. It was an old gesture from childhood, a time when Antonio would place his bulk in front of dangerous situations facing Niccolo. Twice having being beaten when Niccolo was abducted, Antonio knew full well the threats that existed for his friend and why.

Just then, his face conveyed all the old concerns.

This is not a trick, Antonio. This man could have taken me tonight if he wanted me.

Antonio read the resolve in his friend’s eyes. Take a knife, at least, Nicco. A gun, preferably.

I will go tomorrow while you are still here. If something goes wrong, you will know where I last was. Niccolo smiled. For now, let me get dinner put together.

Until tomorrow, then, let me fill you in on Arianna.

Is it graphic?

Always.

Niccolo sighed deeply and mumbled a quick prayer. Go on. God will forgive this night of excess, I hope.

I will do more time in purgatory than God has forgiveness, Nicco.

*        *        *

The next morning brought the noise of the waking city into Niccolo’s apartment. Cars bleated their way down the streets as the high rev of motorcycles filled in as a background chorus. Near collisions resulted in exchanged curses and general disparagements. At a greater distance, Niccolo could detect shops being opened with the loud bangs of metal dishes and greetings from neighbor to neighbor.

A raging hangover drew all the sounds to Niccolo and magnified them to intolerable levels. He walked into his living room where Antonio lay, snoring on his couch. Even the snoring seemed amplified, a sound Niccolo was glad he was going to stop.

Antonio. Niccolo shook him. Wake up, amio. It is twenty past ten.

An unintelligible rumble of words came from the couch. Antonio stretched out a leg, placed it solidly on the floor, then returned to his snoring.

Come on, Tonio! There will be food, but not for long.

The grumble was followed by clearer words. When we eat, I get to come along.

"We talked this through last night. It is not safe for you even now. You stay in the apartment, as we agreed, and leave as soon as I call to tell you all is clear.

You said that coin is a way out of Italy, a way to set up somewhere else nicely. You need to go.

I know. Antonio sat up, rubbing his face. Where do I go, Nicco’?

Not the United States or Mexico. They are at war with each other. Russia and China have their differences, with all their allied countries joining in . . . Dio! The world is a small place.

A burst of gunfire echoed through the streets, and a surge of crowd noise rose in protesting response. More gunfire was heard from another direction, followed by explosions and cries of distress and pain.

Rioting starts early in Milano, Niccolo. In Roma, we waited until the shops closed for the noon duration.

Is there ever a good time for killing, Tonio?

The two friends remained silent for some time as the sounds of revolution continued to move and dwindle in strength. Niccolo saw the effect it had on his otherwise stoic friend. He spoke to break the spell.

I am leaving at eleven thirty to meet with Signore Ulf. That gives us time to grab something at Lucia’s instead of eating here.

Antonio smiled. A cup of espresso and some maritozzi buns to part ways, old friend. Could you be more typical?

*        *        *

The beautiful bustling Gallery of Victor Emmanuel would lead anyone to doubt the violence and death that went on only meters away. The display of natural light flooding through the gallery’s glass ceiling lent a feeling of being in the ideal Renaissance landscape. The patrons seemed as much crafted into the gallery as the flying buttresses.

Two cups of espresso and a half-dozen maritozzi buns were placed on a table between Niccolo and Antonio. Antonio grabbed a bun and started speaking before he swallowed his mouthful. I think I will live on the coast of Brazil. Antonio swallowed. But nothing as obvious as Rio de Janeiro.

That is good, Tonio, but what about money? You will need something beyond what is left over from the sale of the coin.

Nonsense, Nicco. Antonio swallowed most of his espresso. I will make my way across the Atlantic on the fisherman trawlers. The money from the coin will provide for me when in Brazil.

Your father’s fleet. Niccolo nodded. You’re sure to have an easy time crossing in one of his ships.

Antonio’s gaze shifted, alarming Niccolo. He looked to where Antonio’s gaze had locked—the gallery’s main walk. There, two ranks of Nationalist Polizia had entered.

My time to leave, Nicco. The special audience has just arrived, and I do not wish to know if I am famous with them.

Both men stood up slowly and made a big scene of leaving the café. Once outside of the gallery, Cathedral Square opened up before them with rushing automobiles and hurried conversations. Across the square, Il Duomo and the Sforza royal palace cast their chilly shadows down the avenues.

In those shadows stood Eric Ulf, staring coolly at Niccolo.

There he is, Antonio. That is Signore Ulf.

Go to him, then. I will walk up to Nuovo Stazione Centrale and wait for my train south, amio.

Niccolo looked longingly at Antonio. This is for real. No more Genoan tragedies and late drinking for me.

Antonio placed his arms around Niccolo to hide his own tears. You will have that all when you come to see me in Brazil.

I feel, in my heart, that will never happen, Tonio. Glancing across the square again, Niccolo noted Eric Ulf’s absence. He hugged Antonio close. This is arrivederci final.

*        *        *

The same cold glare that met in the shadows of Il Duomo was on Eric’s face when Niccolo entered the shop on Via Dante. The shop itself was pre-Renaissance, having the rustic, raw touches of desperate survival against invading forces of Austrians, Hungarians, and Romans. There were the more modern bullet holes of World War II also, but these only added to the look of natural wood decay.

What of my gift to you, Signore Visconti? Did your friend not need it?

Niccolo stepped further into the shop, not feeling secure with the entry door behind him. He recalled images out of his past, where sudden hands grabbed him, doors never having had the chance to close. When this one did, Niccolo spoke. How did you know my friend has it?

A dismissive gesture of the hand was the only response Niccolo received before Eric stepped through another doorway into a different room. A series of clicks and bumps went on for a few moments. Just when Niccolo was about to speak, an odor rose through the shop, forcing him to gag.

Niccolo grunted in disgust. Burned earth and bad meat, with a touch of sulfuric tang, assailed Niccolo’s nose. He shook his head and noticed behind the smells the sound of horses and clashing steel.

Eric reappeared as suddenly as he had exited the room, holding a box made from cherrywood. It was evidently aged, appearing to crumble even as Eric held it out. Here, Niccolo, is more than in heaven and earth by man’s recollection.

Excuse me, but I am not here for riddles, am I?

No, no. Eric shrugged, his frown seeming genuine. You are here to be offered a chance of a lifetime. Do you, by any chance, take risks?

Niccolo smiled ruefully. I take risks every time I walk outside. With the country in uproar, and my family’s known wealth, I am fortunate to still be alive.

You are destined for greater than death at the hands of common abductors and political rivals.

You studied me?

Look at this antique, well kept through the ages and given to me by my father. Eric pushed the wooden box across a glass display case before turning to disappear behind another door.

Niccolo picked up the box, and his nose filled with the scent of the cherrywood. He noticed a slight change in the lighting, as if the sun outside had suddenly shifted from early morning to late afternoon. He called out to Eric, a challenge in his voice. I am opening this, as you asked.

A muffled response was all Niccolo heard before his world changed.

*        *        *

Before his very eyes, the shop’s walls cleared of shelves of collectibles, and a hole opened up where he felt a window would be. The scene outside that window was not modern Milan, nor Milan of the past one hundred years.

It was the Milan of pre-Roman times.

. . . of your family, Signore Visconti.

The illusion, his vision, wavered and began to recede in slippery resignation. Colors dissolved into each other, pulsing with the rhythm of his blood flow, matching his blinking eyes. A black cloud rose out of the colors and seemed to shape into something lifeless.

It was a curtain.

Sometime in the moments of the vision, Niccolo had turned to face another divide in the shop’s seemingly changing interior. It registered briefly in Niccolo’s mind that the shop was a place of the devil’s doings. No further proof needed to exist, in his estimation, than what he’d already seen.

If my mother were here, Signore Ulf, she would curse you as the devil himself. His voice shook with a sudden sickness. What business do you have with me?

I was telling you that the coin is from your family. It is a piece that dates back to between AD 1354 and 1384. A Barnabo Visconti once ruled this area. ‘Signore of Milan,’ much before the Sforzas and the Renaissance . . .

The bird and dragon symbols, Niccolo interrupted. I saw them in my home growing up. Without thinking, he ran his hand over the inside of the box. He winced at the feeling of a slice across his finger.

Signore, your finger! We cannot have you bleeding to death in my shop.

Niccolo looked down, seeing for the first time what lay in the box. The smell of earth and damp wood wafted into his nose. Who did this sword belong to?

Eric bated his answer. I will tell you, but you may not wish to believe me.

I will! Niccolo felt a surge of adrenaline rush through him. Whose is it?

Eric’s face became an absolute mask of solemnity. He leaned forward, as if confiding the most intimate secret in his existence, and spoke lowly. That sword was carried by Alexander the Great, ruler of Macedonia and conqueror of Persia.

Niccolo’s senses shifted, making him feel as if his mind had stalled. The weight of Eric’s words lay heavily on his conscience. Can I afford this?

Eric chuckled lowly. Niccolo. I would not sell it to you for any price, but one—agree to accept my offer.

Niccolo’s ears perked. What offer?

Eric sat on an old wooden stool that protested his weight. The sound echoed through the shop, which was then quiet due to Milan’s traffic reaching its midday lull. The occasional sharp sound of high heels on the sidewalk outside was the only indication of the city having life.

It was into that lull that Eric spoke. "Spare me some time to explain some things to you. To tell you a story, if you