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“Tell me the story again, Papa. The one in the book you brought home about twin brothers who drank blood.”
“One more time, Marco, and then it’s off to sleep with you. Once upon a time, there were two brothers.” Giovanni would never admit to his sons he couldn’t read the book, that it had been Franco, his groom, who’d told him the story of the twin brothers from long ago.
“Like Luciano and me?”
“Sì, like you and Luciano. They shared a womb and were born within minutes of each other. It was soon apparent that one of the brothers was stronger than the other, even though they should have been exactly alike. When the weaker began to sicken and waste, his brother, devastated, searched high and low for a cure.”
Marco whispered, “Like Luciano and me.” But his father didn’t hear him.
“He rode east, to the farthest corner of the earth, and collected strange herbs and the blood of young beasts. He then rode north, as far as he could, where it was light all day, and stayed a summer with a shaman who taught him how to use the herbs and the blood to live forever. He rode west, then, where the women were pale and staring, and collected books that would help expand his brother’s mind. And then he rode south, to his brother’s side, and, together, they experimented.
“They boiled the herbs, and they tasted the flesh of the young animals, and they drank the blood of the women in their village. And they grew strong, together, and the weaker brother wrote everything down in a book so they would never forget.”
The fire crackled, and sparks flew in the air. Giovanni looked pensively into the flames a moment, then turned back to his sons. “Everywhere they went, blood followed. And the brothers saw the villagers they’d spared die after growing old and sick, leaving behind another generation, who grew to maturity, married, created children, and still, the brothers preyed among them, and still, there was no gray in their whiskers. They remained tall and straight and vigorous.
“All of their tales they recorded, how they drank of the necks of virgins under the full moon, how the howls of wolves and bears never struck fear in their hearts. They moved unseen, unknown, until they set upon other young women and girls.”
“The book you brought home, Papa, it is the story of the brothers?”
“It is, young Marco.”
“I want to drink the blood of virgins,” the child whispered, and his father slapped him across the mouth, hard.
His father stood over them, his face suffused with blood and anger.
“I am sorry, Papa,” Marco whispered, wiping the blood from his mouth. “I was only thinking of Luciano, of ways he could be strong again.”
“It is a story, Marco,” Giovanni repeated, praying it was so. “It is not real, only a tale like the ones the bards tell us when they visit. You must swear to me you will never believe this tale or any like it. You must swear you will never act upon anything in this story. Swear to me!”
He shook both Luciano and Marco. Marco, terrified for his brother, yelled, “We swear, Papa, we swear. Let him go, please, let him go. We won’t ask to hear the tale again. Please tell us about the campaign. Tell us about the men you killed in battle.”
Luciano said, “Yes, Papa. Tell us about the campaign. Tell us.”
Marco watched his father draw a deep breath. Still, he kept himself between Luciano and their father, holding his brother’s hand so it wouldn’t shake, and pretended to listen to his father tell of fighting and death and pillage, all those deaths ordained and commended by the priests.
When their father left them and they were alone in their soft feather bed, Marco and Luciano spoke of the tale, of the long-ago brothers, twins, just like them, who lived for generations, and how they were able to do so.
Marco held his brother tight, afraid to say the word aloud, but he did. “Perhaps the blood of a virgin will help give you strength, Luciano, like the brother in the book.”
Luciano, a thoughtful boy, said, “It is possible the blood of another has healing properties. This must be why the physicians bleed us. Perhaps they give our blood to those weaker than us. I agree this may work. Are you going to steal Papa’s book?”
“I need the instructions. Perhaps there are ways to make the blood taste better.”
“You know he keeps the book on the shelf in his outer chambers. He plans to give it to our new mother as a gift for their wedding.”
“Then I must go tonight. I pray he will not catch me.”
“He isn’t in his chambers. He is bedding a chambermaid.”
“How do you know, Luciano?”
His brother’s gray eyes darkened. “I watch, I listen. I feel this strange book may be my savior. Even with it here in the castle, I feel stronger.”
Marco slipped into his father’s rooms, comfortable in the knowledge his father was busy with a chambermaid.
It was easy to find. The book sang out to him. It felt warm in his hands. He opened it and studied the drawings, but he didn’t recognize what they were. And the words on the page were in a strange language he’d never seen—yet somehow they seemed familiar. Several pieces of paper were loose inside the binding. He could see the numbers were out of order.
But the sense of them—Marco didn’t need to read the words to know what they were saying.
