Dark North

Eighteen

Magadalena and Alonzo’s cottage was located in a low, fertile valley on the Apennine road, just after the point where it turned inland from the Bay of Levante.

The cottage was built from local limestone, its outer wall rendered with stucco, which Alonzo had painted white. Its roof was of dry thatch, there was a small herb garden to the front, a chicken hatch to the side and at the rear a somewhat larger enclosure wherein they grew cabbages, broad beans and asparagus. Beyond that lay their main source of income: an olive grove covering some six hectares, though at present they could only sell their produce in local villages. They would be allowed to sell in larger markets if they had a license of trade, which was the main reason Alonzo was now in pursuit of full Roman citizenship. It carried all kinds of privileges: the right to vote, the right to hold public office and make legal contracts, and of course to operate a trading license.

Alonzo and his wife were already self-sufficient on their tenant farm. But as citizens, they would find full financial security and independence. Maybe then they could buy this land, and perhaps extend it and add more livestock — goats, pigs, even a cow or two. Any future Alonzos or Magdalenas would have a true legacy to call their own.

During the long, lonely days while her husband was away, Magdalena would often stand by front gate, gazing wistfully down the green, V-shaped valley towards the blue Mediterranean, one hand on her flat belly. Alonzo was a young man, but serious-minded. Many times she’d suggested they try for a child before they pursue their goal. But he was adamant that any child of his would be born a freeman with prospects, a citizen of New Rome.

She rose with the cockcrow one bright summer morning, ate a breakfast of bread and beans, and went out to feed the chickens and water the vegetable beds. Alonzo only had another year and a half before his military service was complete. That was the offer Emperor Lucius had made to the serfdom of Italy — five years unblemished service in the Imperial militia, and citizenship was guaranteed. Alonzo had never been a soldier before, but Magdalena had no doubt when he’d first suggested it that he’d make a fine one — he was strong, resourceful and tough from years of working the land. Like so many Ligurian men, he was brawny of build with dark, sun-browned skin. He was also handsome, with flashing eyes and thick black hair. Much as she was, if she was honest, though she doubted she looked her best at present; working the farm alone meant short nights and long, hard days. Today would be especially arduous. The autumn crop was already ripening on the branches, but if the winter crop was to be bountiful some of the trees needed pruning. It was necessary but difficult work, and there would be plenty of it, but — as she kept reminding herself — only a year and half remained, and then Alonzo would be discharged from his legion in France, and their life together could truly commence.

It was mid-morning when Magdalena went up to the olive grove carrying a small ladder. She’d bound her lustrous hair with a hessian scarf and fastened a leather girdle around her waist, from which Alonzo’s tools — knives, shears and a small saw — were suspended. She put on her animal-hide shoes, and donned the old skirt she had purposely split to the thigh to allow her to climb among the branches. It was not the kind of attire she hoped Father Pius would see if he passed the plantation on his donkey on the way to say Mass in the village, but work necessitated such things and most of the time she was alone here.

She set about the strenuous task with her usual zeal, clambering lithely, cutting, sawing and snipping away as much dead and excess wood as she could find. In the midday heat, she rested. Under a particularly shady tree at the farthest end of the grove, she took her flask and sipped the clear, fresh water she’d collected from the mountain stream, and then ate salted ham on dry bread and a fresh, green salad which she’d picked in her herb garden. For a brief time, she dozed, lulled by the trilling of the cicadas.

“Magdalena?” came a voice.

She assumed she was dreaming — for it sounded like Alonzo.

“Magdalena, where are you?”

Magdalena’s eyes snapped open.

Her brow glistened with sweat, her simple clothing sticking to her body as it so often did in the heat of noon. Had the temperature made her dizzy?

“Magdalena?” the voice said again.

She leapt to her feet, amazed, and peered down the length of the plantation, seeing a figure in trailing red robes coming through the wicket gate at the rear of the allotment.

“Alonzo?” she whispered, hardly daring to believe it. She had not seen him since a year last Christmas. Excitement took hold of her.

“Alonzo!” she squealed, lifting her skirts and dashing downhill, weaving between the trees, ducking under their low, spiky boughs. He too began to run, waving both his arms in his eagerness to hold her.

She did not stop to think how this was possible. She could only assume that he had been given unexpected leave. Maybe — horror of horrors — he had been wounded in some way. But if so, he looked fit enough: his long, lean stride drove him up the slope, his heavy red vestments dragging behind him. Her beloved husband was home. She did not know how long for, but did that matter? When he’d first enlisted, they’d thought it would be five years before they saw each other again. If he could manage just one period of leave it would be a boon, but two? God was truly with them this day.

And then she realised that it wasn’t Alonzo.

They were ten yards apart, in the heart of the grove, when the glamour was lifted.

The thing Magdalena had thought was her husband was indeed wearing a long red habit with a monk’s cowl, though it had fallen back as he had clumped uphill towards her, revealing his — or rather its — face. It stood eight feet tall. It had brutish, primal features coated in a shaggy down of silver-grey fur. Its feral eyes gleamed yellow under thick bone brows; its ivory fangs were bared like knives. It called her again, only this time it called in its true voice — a guttural, spine-chilling howl.

Magdalena slid to a halt, her mouth locked open. When a scream burst from her, it rose and rose and rose. But it was no good, for the thing already had her, wrapped in its massive arms, pressing her slender form to its barrel chest, crushing the life from her.

It was a mercy that she went unconscious as quickly as she did.

The towering monstrosity tore loose the girdle from which her tools hung, and cast her over its shoulder before turning and striding back through the olive plantation. On the far side of the cottage, a black enamel carriage with a team of eight horses waited patiently.