Jesus: A Hell of a Secret (A Vatican Thriller) E-Book

Germano Dalcielo

• Herausgeber: germano dalcielo
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Brother Raymond has found a dusty old manuscript in the dark cellars of his convent. It has been kept secret for five hundred years. What was it doing over there? Why is someone trying to kill him?
During the Italian Renaissance, Pope Leo X unwarily declared: " How well we know what a profitable superstition this fable of Christ has been for us and our predecessors!". What is that supposed to mean?
How do the intrigues of 16th century Papal politics tie into a conspiracy that spans centuries?
Sister Lucia dos Santos, the seer of Fatima, sends a letter to the Vatican from her death bed. What must she tell the world before she dies?
Court plots, poisoning, torture, heart-pounding chases... Find out what the most powerful "spiritual" enterprise of the world ‒ the Catholic Church ‒ can be capable of.
WARNING: Please note that this is a work of fiction. Catholic believers and Christ followers should read it with caution.

Leseprobe

Jesus:

A hell of a secret

(A Vatican Thriller)

by

Germano Dalcielo

Copyright 2015 © Germano Dalcielo

Cover art © Markus Lovadina

malosart.blogspot.com/

By the same author:

Darkness, come on in...

Table of contents

Prologue

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

Epilogue

Author's Note

Credits

Biography

To my beloved parents

who are watching over me

from up above

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are completely imaginary. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

No responsibility can be assumed if the reader's faith and/or religious beliefs are undermined.

Prologue

Gualdo Tadino,Italy

11th February 2001

It was pitch dark, an almost unnatural black. Brother Raymond's eyelids felt like boulders, his mouth was completely dry and his neck was aching.

What the hell...?

His first instinct was to breathe, just to expand his lungs. Unfortunately, only a weak, hoarse gasp came to his throat.

Something slimy stuck to his nostrils. He moistened his lips and his tongue returned an earthy flavor of something plastic. He tried to raise his arm to his face but it felt like raising a bag of cement. When his right hand rubbed against a moist and gritty pellicle, he opened his eyes in sudden realization.

A horrifying scream froze in his throat. He had no saliva.

Oh Father Almighty! I am buried alive...

I

Rome,

13th March 1514

Pope Leo X was standing in front of a mirror in the middle of his room, smugly admiring his reflection. Before any public appearance, he would always devote an entire hour to his dressing ceremonial, monopolizing two personal servants every time.

His ermine red cassock, girded on his loins with silk cinctures and golden flakes, was not supposed to be too tight and close-fitting to his body – “God forbid that someone notices my limp, dangling belly and the obesity plaguing me on the waist!”, he kept repeating to his tailors.

The velvety mozzetta on his shoulders, laced on his chest with a row of buttons, caused him sudden hot flushes, which ended up staining his cheeks a particular color of purple. This was an almost natural make-up which – John de' Medici was positive about it – perfectly matched the elegant red skullcap on his head, which was necessary to hide his baldness, so embarrassing at only thirty-nine years.

On the one hand, the dimples on both sides of his mouth betrayed the overindulgences he would often grant himself, on the other hand gave him an easy-going and roguish look. The final touch was ensured by the papal stole, which draped down to his knees, fluttering with curls and fringes. It was magnificently embroidered in gold.

Yes, Leo X was satisfied: God had given him the papacy and he was definitely going to enjoy it.

“Call Peter Bembo and tell the cooks to prepare fifty different meals for today. I want to choose the Sunday lunch menu! Then bring me one of the kitchen boys, possibly a well-built one...” He ordered in a peremptory tone to the two servants behind him. “Before this useless official parade, I do want to enjoy myself...” He added naughtily, winking at the mirror.

The servants showed a certain amount of dismay on their faces but no one of them dared say a word. After they were dismissed, Pope Medici kept admiring his reflection, protruding his lips a little too much, as though he was going to kiss it. He felt regretful for the shape his mouth had been taking in the last months and he hoped his detractors would not exploit that as gossip to allude to his unorthodox habits behind the alcove curtains. He smiled mischievously at this thought, nibbling his thumb and shrugging his shoulders.

A weak, timid knock brought him abruptly back to reality. By clearing his throat, he invited his personal secretary to come in.

Peter Bembo slipped on velvety steps into the huge room filled with tapestries, closing the door behind him with deferential slowness and without making any noise. Walking as if he was weighing every step and joining his hands on his lap upon the linen tunic, he kept his eyes half-closed, focused on following the profile of his hooked nose or the curling meanders of his long and neglected beard. His high broad forehead seemed to emanate an aura of deep culture and remarkable education, giving him the appearance of a naturally superior bearing and aristocratic elegance.

“Holiness, is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, bowing his head in obsequious curtsy. His love for classical literature and years of research and study earned him a natural polished language, far away from any swearing or profanity.

“Yes, Peter, I want to know if you solvedthatproblem...”

“Yes, Holiness, I gave orders to have it hidden in an unsuspected place, where nobody could ever think of looking for it.”

“Are you still positive about not destroying it? Will it be just enough pretending it disappeared?”

“Yes, Holiness. Although it represents a threat for the Holy Church and your papacy itself, it still stands as a priceless, unbelievable treasure. Who are we to preclude it to posterity? How can we decide its fate and yet raise our eyes to the sky again? You made the right choice, Leo. You will be able to live with it.”

“I couldn't take the chance of losing all I have accomplished, Peter. Chaos would ensue. Not to mention uncontrolled chain reactions, riots and conspiracies. How well we know what a profitable superstition this fable of Christ has been for us and our predecessors! So... since God has given us the papacy, let us enjoy it till the end and let us try not to blow everything after one thousand and five hundred years!” The Pope said for effect, arching his right eyebrow.

Bembo nodded in response, leaning forward to show his complete submission.

“Now leave. My toy will be here in a moment.” He ordered in a peremptory tone.

The secretary repeated his deferential bow and left. After shutting the door behind him, a sigh of deep frustration slipped from his lips. He closed his eyes and began praying for the soul of the poor boy who was approaching from the kitchens.

II

Gualdo Tadino

Panic was undermining Raymond's breathing. Hyperventilation was going to cost him precious seconds, burning up the limited oxygen supplies left in the trash bag he had been wrapped in.

Suddenly, a primeval terror overwhelmed him. His heart was already weakened by the atrial fibrillation he had been suffering in the last few years. His brain began pumping adrenaline into every muscle of his body. His survival instinct started dominating any synaptic process.

How much time did he have left? A minute, maybe two? He would go straight into apnea and asphyxia after that. He was sixty-five years old and had never played sports in his whole life. He would die in thirty seconds.

With a superhuman effort, he managed to reach out to his face with both his hands and began pushing against the mass that was pressing onto him. He could not keep tears from falling wild and he also peed himself. He tried to focus on the warm feeling the urine was giving him between his thighs, just to distract his mind from panicking, hoping his heart would slow down a bit and his chest would stop heaving up and down like a piston. He needed to calm down and avoid hyperventilation. He needed a deep, long breath if he wanted to get out of there. He knew that the soil and mud would probably choke him the very moment he would tear the plastic bag open. He had to take that chance.

What about this throbbing pain at the bottom of my neck?

Yes, someone knocked me out and thought I was dead. Who the hell was it? And why?

I am just a friar. I've never hurt anyone in the world, not even a bug! Maybe the man who hit me did not realize I was still alive...Maybe he has buried me while in a full panic, without checking if I was still breathing...Or he was perfectly aware I was not dead...

Raymond could not die before finding it out. He could not let a murderer go free. He could not let him win.

He opened his bloodshot eyes, sucked in all the oxygen left, tightened his lips and began ripping that plastic prison off with his nails. Soil engulfed him instantly. Being forced to close his eyes, he started to dig upwards with his hands. The more earth he managed to move, the more mud would drop over him. He tried to leverage by planting his heels and pointing his hands in a desperate attempt to reach out to the surface, but his feet kept slipping away. Despite his efforts, the rain-soaked ground frustrated all his endeavors.

He needed to hurry. He was feeling weaker and weaker. The oxygen was running out.

No, he would not give up. He began moving more and more mud with an unexpected strength, coming from who-knows-where. He kicked and pointed his feet again, and yet he slipped. He tried harder and dug in again. With an ultimate, desperate effort, he stabbed his right arm like a sword straight into the mass that was pressing onto his face. All of a sudden, his fingers felt the rain prodding his fingertips. Like a firework, hope re-ignited the last, living spark within him.

He leaned his right hand on the waterlogged surface and by pushing with his feet and with the leverage of his left arm, he rose up until his waist was free from the ground. He lay down on his right hip, frantically gasping. He threw his arms wide open towards the sky and burst into warm tears of overwhelming joy. He let rain drops caress his face and waited until his heartbeat would slow down to the sinus rhythm and the air would restore the balance in every chemical process of his body. After that, he switched to his other hip and pulled his legs and feet out from that makeshift grave.

He was alive.

He thanked God, leaning on his knees, and finally stood up. He began laughing nervously, but hypothermia could still kill him. He was soaking wet to his very bones. In fact, he was already feeling a numbing tingle in his fingers. It sort of announced a second countdown after the one he had just survived.

Raymo [...]