The Cup

CHAPTER 17

Count Alessandro Mercurio knelt in his private chapel and prayed for the soul of Antonio Bellini, dead in Sweden. The cold stones of the floor bit into his aged knees, sending shocks of pain through his body. He was grateful for the pain, a small redemption for Antonio's death.

Mercurio was Commandante of the Compagnia del Santo Graal, the Society of the Holy Grail. The society marched in parades and carried banners during religious holidays, performed good works and contributed to the Church. For most of its members, it was little more than a social club. For Mercurio, it provided the central purpose of his life.

The society had been founded in the fifteenth century by a wealthy merchant named Rossini. An angel had appeared to Rossini in a vision, telling him that finding the Grail would fulfill God's plan for humanity. Rossini had spent his fortune and the rest of his life searching. He'd ended in a pauper's grave without finding the elusive cup.

Mercurio raised his head and gazed at a renaissance painting hanging on the wall behind the altar. It was by a student of Caravaggio and depicted the crucifixion. A man dressed in the colorful robes of a rich merchant knelt at the base of the cross, looking up with an expression of terrible sorrow. In his hands he held a cup to catch the blood flowing from Christ's wounds.

Joseph of Arimathea, holding the Holy Grail.

Mercurio had begun looking for the Grail because a voice told him to. The first time he'd heard the voice was during a month-long retreat of silence and fasting. He'd been praying in his small cell when a great warmth flooded over him and the whisper began. There'd never been a doubt in his mind that God was speaking to him. When he emerged back into the outer world, his purpose in life had become clear.

That had been more than forty years ago. Like others before him, Mercurio's search had been fruitless until a few pages of a fourth century manuscript had come into his hands. It claimed the Grail had been in the possession of Theodosius I, the last emperor to rule an undivided Roman Empire.

Mercurio was a powerful and wealthy man with many connections, some less than legitimate. He'd let it be known he'd buy artifacts from the time of Theodosius. An acquaintance from the criminal underworld of Milan had put him in touch with Bergstrom.

When Bergstrom sent the picture of the Anastasius tile, Mercurio's heart had begun pounding in his chest.

What made the tile special was not just the depiction of the Grail. There were many of those, although not from that time period. What made it special was that it identified Anastasius as the confessor of Theodosius. That tied in with the manuscript claiming the emperor had possession of the cup. The confessor of the emperor would have been present at his death, when all trace of the Grail had vanished.

The tile was a clue.

Bergstrom had demanded an exorbitant price and threatened to sell the artifact elsewhere. Antonio Bellini was a fellow companion in the society. Mercurio had sent him to Sweden in the hope he could persuade Bergstrom to see reason. At the time, it had seemed a good decision.

Now Bellini was dead, and it was on his soul. It was why he knelt on the hard stone of the chapel floor, praying for forgiveness. Mercurio was a devout man. He thought of himself and Antonio as soldiers in a war against Satan. Soldiers died in wars, but that didn't make him feel any better.

He got up with difficulty, his aging joints protesting, and made his way from the chapel to the library on the other side of the villa. He rang for a servant and told him to bring a café Romano.

Mercurio stood at the glass doors of his library, looking out at the garden of his villa. The glass reflected the image of a distinguished looking man. Tall, erect, somewhere in his 70s, Mercurio had a long, narrow nose that went with his aristocratic features. His hair was a perfect silver. His brown eyes were so dark they were almost black. He wore a dark blue suit of silk made for him by the best tailor in Rome. The third finger of his left hand bore a large, gold signet ring with words in Latin circling a cross and a cup, the sign of the society.

The garden enclosure was bordered by a high brick wall lined on top with sharp shards of colored glass. It was cold in the hills outside of Milan, where the villa was located. Winter was fast approaching and the garden had turned mostly brown. At the moment, it was bathed in the luminous light unique to Italy and beloved by Renaissance painters. A winding path of white gravel led to a fountain at the far corner of the garden, where water poured into cascading basins during the summer months. For now, the fountain was dry. A stone bench nearby provided a place for quiet contemplation.

The servant brought the coffee and left the room. With practiced motion, Mercurio twisted a piece of lemon peel to spray oil over the coffee. He sipped. The bitter taste of the espresso and pungent smell of lemon stimulated his senses. He turned from the window and picked up a picture of the tile from his desk. He hadn't known about Anastasius until he'd read the manuscript. Now he had an image of him, holding the Grail.

God has shown me the way. He revealed the tile to guide me in the quest.

He would follow in the footsteps of Anastasius.