“People don’t have video games and cable television to keep them entertained,” the hakeem went on. “Instead, they gather around fireplaces and tell each other stories, passing on their life experiences. And the Yazidis, in particular, have a phenomenally strong oral tradition, one that was perhaps founded by necessity, given that their most sacred writings are gone.” The Yazidis’ holy book, the Mashaf Rash—the Black Book — was long lost. The common belief among them was that it was taken by the British, and that it was currently sequestered in a museum somewhere in England. In its stead, they had a tradition of talkers, who could recite the entire lost book from memory. “And it seems that this dear man’s grandfather once told him about a man who came down from the mountain, a sheikh no less. The man was delirious with a horrible fever — typhoid or cholera would be my guess — and in his final hours, he spoke in many different languages, languages they’d never heard. He created something of a stir, which is understandable.”
“He died here?” Kirkwood asked.
“So it would seem,” the hakeem confirmed sardonically. “We were about to go out and have a look at his grave. You want to see it?”
Chapter 65
Sebastian rode away from the docks with a feeling of profound contentment. On clear, golden evenings like this, Lisbon was truly a magnificent city, and he was glad to be back.
It had been far too long.
He’d fretted about moving back to the country, let alone the city, of his birth, but the choice had proven fortuitous. Like the city, he was experiencing a rebirth, a reinvention that was — for both — a marked improvement over their previous incarnations.
The city had been devastated by a massive earthquake on the morning of November 1, 1755, on All Saints’ Day. The churches were crowded with worshippers honoring the dead when the first shock struck. A second jolt followed forty minutes later. The waters of the Tagus River rose and thundered through the city, wiping out most of it. Fires took care of the rest. By the end of that day, the city was a smoldering wasteland. Over thirty thousand of its citizens were dead, most of the rest homeless.
The Marques de Pombal, the effective ruler of Portugal, handled the disaster with exemplary care and efficiency. Shelters and hospitals were hastily improvised, and troops were summoned to deliver supplies to the needy. He also drafted visionary architects, who quickly refashioned the old, medieval city into a stunning European capital.
The city’s rebirth wasn’t just physical. Pombal’s enhanced prestige, due to his handling of the disaster, allowed him to rid the country of influences he had long fought against. Of particular relevance to Sebastian was that Pombal had dissolved the Jesuit order, expelled its members, and turned its headquarters into a hospital. The Palace of the Inquisition, flattened by the earthquake, was never rebuilt.
Sebastian and Thérésia had arrived in Lisbon in the midst of the reconstruction. The lack of records and the infectious optimism he found there both suited him well. Anyone who knew him from his days as an inquisitor was long since dead. And with the expulsion of the Jesuits, any lingering ghosts from his darkest days were finally swept away.
And so the Comte de St. Germain had retaken the first name his parents had bestowed on him, Sebastian. As a precaution, he’d given up his original surname, electing to use his mother’s surname instead, Botelho. He’d invested in a small sugar refinery in the Alfama district, converting the raw cane from the colonies in Brazil into the kitchen staple that he exported across Europe. Sebastian’s business was flourishing, as was his home. He’d married Thérésia in a small ceremony that was held in a church in Tomar, and their son, Miguel, was born two years later.
He’d also banished another lingering ghost from his past the day he and Thérésia had left Paris together.
Her radiant face drifted into his mind as he rode past the arcaded buildings of Commerce Square and headed home. The day’s business had been successful, the contract satisfactorily concluded. He nudged his horse into a full gallop, relishing the brisk, salty air as he skirted the burnished waters of the Mar de Palha — the inland “sea of straw”—before heading north into the low, rolling hills that hugged the city.
An intangible sense of dread ambushed him the minute he was told that Miguel was still out riding with Thérésia. He’d recently bought him his first pony, and Thérésia enjoyed putting their son astride its small saddle and walking him around the estate’s lake. Sebastian knew they never stayed out this late, not at this time of year, not when the sun was already melting into the surrounding hills and surrendering to the rapidly encroaching chill of night.
He didn’t bother with his horse and headed down the sloping meadow, his strides gathering pace until he was tearing through the olive and lemon groves. His heart froze as he burst out from the trees and spotted the pony, grazing innocuously and very much alone. He hurried over to it, scanning the edge of the lake with panicked eyes, and spotted Thérésia, lying prone on the ground, a hundred yards farther down the shore. Miguel was nearby on a rocky outcropping, sitting next to a man whose brooding deportment Sebastian recognized even from that distance.
The man pushed himself to his feet, his fingers firmly clasped around the boy’s little hand, as Sebastian rushed to Thérésia’s aide. Mercifully, she was still breathing. He couldn’t see any blood, any cuts or wounds. She was just dazed. Sebastian guessed di Sangro must have struck her and knocked her down before wresting control of their son.
“Miguel,” she muttered worriedly as she stirred at Sebastian’s touch.
He nodded to her as he flung off his overcoat and tucked it under her head before standing up to face his tormentor.
Di Sangro’s face and posture bore witness to the decade of grief and frustration that he’d lived through since their last encounter in Paris. His shoulders were drooped, his hair now a shock of gray, his skin shriveled and pallid. The tall, lithe, ravenous principe of Naples was gone. In his place stood his decaying shell, frittered away by time and by his own obsession. Only the seething hunger in his eyes hadn’t dimmed.
“Let go of the boy,” Sebastian raged.
Di Sangro held firm. “You owe me, marquese. Occhio per occhio, dente per dente.” An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. He pulled out a dagger from under his belt and held it close to the boy’s cheek.
Sebastian understood. Di Sangro’s son hadn’t survived the wound he’d inflicted on him that night on the Île de la Cité.
“You came after me,” Sebastian said fiercely as he stabbed a finger at the prince, trying to keep his anger in check and failing. “You put him in danger.”
“Just as you put your own son in danger by refusing me,” di Sangro shot back.
Sebastian took a step forward, but di Sangro quickly tightened his grip on the boy and nudged the blade against his neck.
“Tranquillo, marquese,” he warned him. “That’s far enough.”
Sebastian stopped and raised his open hands in a calming gesture. “I’m sorry about your son,” he said with genuine regret, keeping his eyes fixed on di Sangro. “Let him go. It’s me you want.”
“I have no use for you,” di Sangro rasped angrily. “I only want what you know. Tell me the truth now and perhaps I just might consider it soldi di sangue.” Blood money. “Perhaps that way,” he added ruefully, “my son won’t have died in vain.”