Chapter Text
It started, they told him, when Cesar Stradoni tried to make off with his Great-Grandmother Angioletta's prize pig and, in the ensuing fight, she stabbed him to death with a rusty nail to protect her virtue.
Of course the way the Stradonis told it, the animal had really been Cesar's all along and Great-Grandmother Angioletta was the nefarious pig-thief. But, as his father said, you couldn't trust the word of a Stradoni bacon-snatcher; and by then he was old enough to understand that it didn't matter anyway.
In the end, no-one really cared now who the pig had belonged to. What mattered was that the honour of the Calvis had to be avenged.
The year Theodore was seven, the embers of the vendetta died down to glowering looks and half-hearted brawls. There had been outbreaks of fever all over the island, and people were too busy trying to survive to think up inventive ways of killing each other. His sister Lucia and two of his brothers fell sick and suddenly nobody seemed to have any time for Theodore.
He spent his time roaming the beaches and climbing barefoot after gulls' eggs up the cliffs his parents had expressly forbidden him to go near. That was how he discovered the cave.
It was an excellent cave, fifty feet above the shell-strewn beach, and he had ambitious plans to make it into his own private hideout.
It was therefore an unpleasant surprise when he climbed up on the second day to find it occupied by other children.
The intruders were a boy and a girl around his own age; short and stocky with the same curly brown hair and turned-up noses. The girl was the taller of the two, and she stepped forward, her arm going protectively around the boy.
The extraordinary thing was that Theodore had never seen them before.
“Who are you?” he demanded, recovering quickly. “And what are you doing in my cave?” He put his hands on his hips the way his mother did when she found someone with their fingers in the bread dough.
“S'not yours,” the girl said, sticking her bottom lip out. “We found it last week. Anyway, who're you?”
“I'm Theodore.” said Theo, who was not prepared to admit he had only found the cave yesterday. “Everyone knows me. How come I haven't seen you around before? What do you do here?”
“We're from over the hill” said the boy, quietly. “We got sent to live with our cousins because our parents – got sick,”
“And died” the girl added, glaring at Theo with matter-of-fact ghoulishness. “Our sister got sent to Corte, but they kept us together because we're twins.”
Despite himself, Theodore was impressed. He'd never actually been as far the nearest town, though Father had promised to take him, and to be an orphan and a twin was a level of romanticism thus far unsurpassed among his acquaintances. He resolved immediately that these two were going to be his friends, before anyone else had a chance to claim them.
“And everyone does not know you,” the girl continued, unaware of Theodore's newfound determination. “That's silly. I bet people in- in Normandy don't know you!.”
“Well” said Theo, unabashed “They will one day.” He made a mental note to ask about Normandy when he got home.
“My name's Niculai” interceded the boy, looking anxious to avoid a fight. “But everyone calls me Niccu. My sister's Cristina. D'you want to play with us?”
The girl glared at her brother. “Oh all right,” she said grudgingly giving in. “There's more games you can do with three, anyway. I suppose you'd better call me Cris.”
“Well” said Theo, with immense magnanimity. “I expect I could share my cave with you a bit.”
The cave made a good den, a cool refuge from the sun. They played endless games of pretend, until it was time to climb barefoot like fearless monkeys to the grassy knolls above. Then they would run home and be scolded for running off for so long, reveling in the secret knowledge of their hidden fortress.
It was not until the next week that Theodore's harassed parents warned him on no account to go near those new Stradoni brats; and by that time it was far too late.
They made the den together, an illicit place for an illicit partnership. Over the years it was refined with shell collections, blankets and a rickety table that had nearly resulted in Theo plummeting to his untimely death. The fact that they knew it was wrong only gave a pleasurable frisson of danger to the fun. Niccu and Cris's aunt and uncle had thirteen children to worry about; they had no time for two foundlings thrust on them by circumstance. Theodore was the baby of his own family; with his golden curls and angelic blue eyes he could get away with almost anything. And both Theo and Cristina were excellent and inventive liars.
For different reasons, they were all glad of the escape. On St. John's Eve, two days after Theo's ninth birthday they stole away and built a small fire on the rocky floor of the cavern. They held hands and jumped over the flames together, declaring themselves commere and comperes, sworn friends for life.
Then, the summer he was ten, Alesiu ran tattling to their father that he was a traitor, and he was given his first sound thrashing and an admonishing lecture on the evils of fraternizing with those dirty Stradonis. His parents started to keep a closer eye on him, and he was forced to spend most of his time following his three older brothers about like a crab on a string, or playing with his sisters, Lucia and Angioletta, who submitted him to awful indignities. Despite Theo and Cristina's constant disagreements, he was certain she would never have tried to braid his curls. Even if she did, Niccu would have talked her out of it.
He got better at sailing, learned how to shoot and fish, and begged in vain to be allowed to join Andrias and Carlu when they hunted for wild boar in spring.
Sometimes, Andrias hunted other things too. He had his own vendetta knife, a lovely, deadly little thing with “I am vengeance; vengeance is death” inscribed on the hilt. Their father had it made for him, and Andrias was inordinately proud of it, taking every opportunity to take it out and boast about the number of Stradonis he was going to stick. He claimed that it was him who shot Petru Stradoni in the hills, and Theo was not quite sure whether he believed it or not. These days, when he saw Niccu or Cris they avoided each others gaze.
He still visited the den though. Sometimes he left things there, and when he returned they were always gone, something else left in their place. It was half-stealing, half gift-exchange; an intermediate step between friendship and murder.
The year he was thirteen, two uncles and a cousin were killed, and his father took him to the graveyard. Not to mourn their dead, but to visit the cluster of stones that represented the Stradoni family, going back three generations. “These stones” he told Theo, “represent the honour of our family. Every time one of us kills one of them, we avenge the hungry ghosts of our fathers and brothers.” He looked solemnly at Theo. “To die without ever avenging one's family is a terrible thing, and death can come at any time.”
Theo nodded, looking at the rows and rows of headstones. They looked like an awfully heavy weight to live up to.
So he carried around his gun and his own sharp dagger – one a hand-me-down from Carlu and the other Andrias' old knife. Theo considered this most unfair; why should they get all the best things just by virtue of being older?
But though he had several times stalked Lisandru, Niculaiu's oldest foster brother, through the scrub, he inevitably returned with nothing but game in his bag.
Another two years went by; he turned fifteen and Lucia got engaged. Alesiu killed his first man, and their father helped him pay off uncle Carlu's old fishing boat, patched up and repainted. Alesiu let Theo take it out sometimes, mostly so he could go and pay court to Lisabetta Zarconetti instead of catching lobsters like he was supposed to.
On the night of Lucia's wedding, Theo was sulking.
Ostensibly, it was because he was in disgrace for letting two of the goats escape onto old Francolo's land, where they ate a sizeable amount of his garden and a set of smallclothes that had been hanging up to dry. Mostly, it was because he was almost sixteen, but everyone still treated him like a child. He especially disliked Lucia's new husband Silvestru, who ruffled his hair and called him “little brother” like they were already related, even though he wasn't that much older than Theo. And now Lucia was going to go off and start producing more brats, as if Angioletta's two – soon to be three- didn't get in the way enough already.
Unfortunately, no-one else shared his black mood. The wedding coincided with the Easter celebrations, and everyone was in high spirits for the party.
Well, thought Theo savagely, let them have their revelry. He would take the bottle of home-brewed spirits he'd lifted it from Andrias' stores three weeks ago up to the cliffs, and drink a solitary toast to life's unfairness and the empty futility of existence.
Dusk was just beginning to darken the skies as he began his walk. It wasn't long before the sounds of music and laughter grew tinny and distant, fading out of earshot. It was mostly out of convenience he decided to climb up to the old den. The view of sunset over the sea was suitably desolate, and there was a pile of mouldering blankets and skins near the back that would make a tolerably comfortable bed if he succumbed to sleep.
By the time he reached the top, the shadows were reaching black fingers over the rock. He'd stuffed a bundle of sticks in his pack to build a fire, and it made climbing harder than usual, He reached the ledge that marked the entrance with a feeling of relief and pulled himself up.
Then he stopped.
For one thing, there was already a fire laid, unlit but ready.
For another, there was Niculaiu Stradoni half-crouched in front of it, clearly getting ready to strike the tinder.
For a long moment, they stared at each other warily. It had been almost five years and the world had changed. They were almost grown now, with adult responsibilities that included the duty of dealing death. Theo half-expected Niculaiu to stand up and simply push him off the cliff, and he realised, horribly, that he would be quite powerless to do anything to stop it.
Then Niccu said “Well I wasn't expecting company” and Theo replied:“Neither was I, but it's a good thing you're here, because I've forgotten my tinderbox!”
Niccu laughed. Despite his newly-deepened voice, it was the same surprisingly infectious chuckle he'd had when he was eight and Theo realised, with a little rush of gratitude, that nothing had really changed after all.
He pulled himself over the ledge and dumped his pack on the floor, taking a seat on his favourite stone.
“You brought extra wood though” Niccu said, finally managing to coax a little flame into existence.
Theo grinned. “That's not all I brought.” He pulled the bottle out with a flourish, and Niccu whistled.
“Nice haul! Does your brother know you've been stealing his wine?”
“It's not stealing, it's.... redistribution. I helped pick the fruit – it's only fair I get the pick of the benefits too.”
“I'm not sure your brother would agree with that.”
“He doesn't have to – he's not going to find out!” He uncorked the bottle and took a swig, passing it over to Niccu, who took a large gulp.
“By the Virgin! That's good stuff!”
Theo smirked. The night was warm and the stone was more uncomfortable than he remembered. Theo spread his coat out and sat with his back to the fire, looking out over the purple ocean. He gestured with the bottle, and Niccu came over and followed his example, pausing first to give the fire a final poke and set a couple of sticks on. They sat for a little while like that in companionable silence, passing the bottle back and forth, watching the sinking sun set the sea alight.
“How's Cris?” Theo asked, trying for casual and hearing the tightness in his voice anyway.
Niccu made a face. “They're trying to get her married off. It's set for next August.”
“Who to?”
“Bernardo Cavanu”
“Old Cavanu? But he must be forty, at least!”
Niccu took another swallow. “Yes, but he's got a good farm and that's all they care about. Still, at least Cris'll be well out of it. If Cavanu lets me, maybe I'll come work for him instead.”
“She should have married me” Theo declared. “That was our plan, remember? I'm not old.”
Niccu snorted. “Theo, if Cris had married you, all of our relatives would unite in order to execute you. And they'd be disappointed, because you would either have already murdered each other, or dared each other into oblivion”
This was actually a fair summation of Theo and Cris's relationship, but it stung nonetheless.
“You said we were never allowed to do dares again” Theo reminded him mulishly.
“Yes, because you broke your arm, twice, and Cris was almost gored to death by a wild boar!”
“Happy times,” said Theo, with fond nostalgia.
“If you two ever find a common cause, the world is doomed.” Niccu predicted darkly
“My sister's getting married tonight.” Theo remarked, some time later, though of course Niccu already knew that. Quite possibly everyone on the island knew it and certainly, if they didn't, it was not through a lack of effort on Lucia's part.
“And you're not out there dancing with the pretty girls because...?”
“Bah!” Theo looked up at the sky, where the first stars were beginning to appear. “Who cares about girls? I'd rather be up here with you any day.”
Niccu laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. His elbows were sharp – he was thinner than Theo remembered, his collar bones standing out prominently above his ragged collar. Theo elbowed him back.
“You're just saying that,” Niccu said, and Theo could hear the smile sliding slyly beneath his words. “Because you still look like a ten-year-old. Look at you – smooth as a baby's bum. They want to kiss a man, and find only a little boy.” He broke off, laughing too much to talk, and made an obscene gesture, denoting exactly which part of Theo he was impugning the maturity of.
Theo punched him on the arm. “Oi!” he said. “I'll have you know I have ample manliness. More than ample. Manhood to spare. And I've kissed lots 'f girls” Which was true. “Hundreds” he added, for good measure, which was not.
“Reallllly” said Niccu, drawing the word out sarcastically.
“More'n you, anyway” said Theo. “You're all bony” he poked Niccu in the ribs. “Bony like a skeleton. Who wants to fuck a skeleton?” He wondered if Niccu's hip bones stuck out the same way his collar bones did.
“Lots of people” Niccu said, with portentous dignity. “And ghosts” he added.
For some reason, Theo found this hysterically funny. “You been having it off with the dead have you? And you say I'm bad with girls – that's a new category of desperate!”
“Not me.” Niccu explained. “Skeletons. Which 'm not. Here, pass the bottle.”
Theo did. “Not much left.” he said, nudging in closer because it was cold. “Anyway, you are. Look I can feel your ribs.” He shoved a hand up under Niccu's shirt to demonstrate at the same time as Niccu turned around to face him, and Theo became aware of three things.
Firstly, that Niccu's eyes were wide and almost black in the starlight; secondly, that he was very drunk and, thirdly, that he was excruciatingly turned on.
He moved his hand under Niccu's shirt, and Niccu made a noise that was half-whimper, half-breath, his lips parting ever-so-slightly, and, almost without meaning to, Theo kissed him.
He tasted of alcohol, sour and sweet at the same time. For an instant he was completely still, and Theo just had time to panic, before he was kissing back, his tongue moving and his hands moving too, one under Theo's shirt and the other over his breeches, and all Theo could think was that it felt so good. He fumbled with the tie on Niccu's breeches, and Niccu had to undo them for him, which was embarrassing, but he didn't care, he just wanted skin and, oh, that was good.
The hand sliding between his thighs made him gasp and thrust and the ground was hard and cold and when fingers pinched his nipple it hurt but he never wanted to stop. He'd never touched another boy's privates before.
It was soft, like the skin of a peach or a baby mouse. Like touching himself, but different – thicker and less hairy and a little bit terrifying in the same way that touching a girl was, in case you got it wrong. He tried to move his hand in the same way that he would on himself but it was hard to think past the sensation of Niccu's fingers.
It must have worked though, because Niccu made that little sound again – oh, he loved that sound. Everything was lips and tongue on his neck and hands on his arse and fingers moving- and he was going to come and almost didn't want to. Well, he did, but then this would stop, and he'd have to think about things again, and that's what he didn't want, not ever, just wanted everything to be right here and now, Niccu under his hands and warm skin and smooth muscle, uncomfortable and wonderful and. Niccu who'd been here forever and now was in his arms, warm and solid and, oh God, touching him.
* * *
He woke up in the dark, somewhere between hungover and still drunk.
It was cold now, sometime in the deep watches before dawn. Niccu lay beside him, asleep. He looked very young like that, and vulnerable, as if anything might happen to him. Theo wanted to stay, just to make sure nothing did.
Maybe they could just run away. Become banditti. Go to France.
Anything was possible.
But right now, he supposed he ought to get back, before his stupid family started to worry and he got into more trouble. The fire had died down, but he blew on the embers and put the rest of the sticks on. After some deliberation, he took his coat off and carefully covered Niccu with it.
Halfway back down he decided that climbing down a cliff in the dark while still drunk was definitely one of the worst ideas he'd ever had.
He made a mental promise to all the saints he could think of that, if he survived, he would never, ever do it again.
Miraculously, he made it down in one piece and started staggering towards home.
The first thing he saw was the cloud, dark even in the first rays of dawn. That's odd, he thought. I wonder if it's going to rain?
There was a heavy smell in the air, like ash and burning food, but even when topped the grassy rise and came in sight of the farmhouse he didn't quite understand. He thought for a moment that he must have come the wrong way, even though he'd walked this path all his life and the next-nearest cottage was half a mile away.
But this couldn't be right, couldn't be his home.
That was when he started to run.
Someone had let the animals out, and two of the goats were milling about a little way off. The outbuildings were mostly intact, only scorched.
There were groups of people standing about in talking in low voices. They stared at him and somewhere in the back of his head he realised they were all from the village, half an hour's walk away. He couldn't see his parents or his brothers or – anyone. He stared at the house.
The roof was mostly gone, and the walls were black. The door frame had collapsed, and crouching in front of it was a person, bent over a charred piece of wood.
As he got closer he realised that the person was his cousin Matteus, and the low sobbing in his ears was coming, not from Theo, but from him. He looked up from his log as Theo approached. He was black with soot, and under it his hands looked red and burned. “Theodore” he said, blankly. His voice was unrecognisable, hoarse and ruined, as if the smoke had burned away his lungs.
“Matteus” he said unsteadily. “Matti, where is everyone? Lucia? My parents? Did they take them back to the village?”
Matteus didn't answer, Instead he said dreamily: “It was the wine. Those bastard Stradonis put something in the wine. Everyone got dizzy and sick. I went out to take a piss and when I woke up they were riding off.”
“Who was?” Theo demanded. “My brothers? They got out then?”
But Matteus wasn't listening. He was looking down at the thing in his arms. “Marisa” he whispered. “I tried to pull her out Theo. I tried. The door was barred, but I broke it down.” He looked up at Theo, and his eyes were bleak and terrible. “But she burned Theo. She wouldn't stop burning.” He began to cry again, and Theo understood suddenly and horribly that what he had taken for burnt twigs were curled fingers, and that the twisted thing in Mateus's arms was what was left of Marisa, Matti's younger sister.
Without knowing how he got there, he was on his knees, vomiting. When he had finished, there was a broad hand clamped onto his shoulder and he turned to look into the miller's weary soot-streaked face. Theodore wiped a hand over his mouth.
“My family?” he asked. It came out as a whisper.
The miller shook his head, “I'm sorry, Theodore.” He offered his hand, but Theo pushed away, ducking heedlessly past into the ruin of their farmhouse.
The flames had mostly died, but small fires still guttered here and there. Everything was hot to touch, even the ground. It was so wrong it seemed unreal.
Everywhere he saw little glimpses of his home, burnt not-quite out of recognition. The dresser was still half-standing, the china black and cracked. The great stove that his grandmother had had specially imported from the mainland looked almost the same, except that the black metal was dull. His mother had professed to hate that stove, but she always kept it polished to a glossy sheen.
The bodies lay where they had fallen, hardly recognisable as anything that had once been alive.
He made himself turn them over, looking for some sign that would identify them. Usually there was none.
He shoved aside a great lump of charred wood and found two little charred shapes under it. It puzzled him for a moment, and then with a sickening lurch, he realised it had been the big dining table. They must have tried to hide underneath it.
His two youngest cousins, he guessed, but he could not connect the small black figures with the two noisy girls playing hide-and-seek in the church yesterday.
The fire had burned hottest in the kitchen. At first he thought there had been nobody in there, until he stepped on something and looked down to see it was a ribcage.
In the other two rooms, the heat must have been less intense. He turned over a scorched hairless thing, and saw something shift on its neck. Carefully, he lifted the small piece of metal up, rubbing at the soot with his thumbnail.
It was Angioletta's necklace.
Angioletta who had long yellow hair, the same shade as his own. She had worn her best blue dress and now it was nothing but ashes. He knew she would have danced with all the men, even though she was expecting her third baby, to make her husband jealous. It never worked; Antone was far too easy-going to get jealous.
He laid her back down gently, beside the tiny corpse of his niece.
He found Andrias by the door. Theo guessed he had been trying to break it down but the bar had been on the outside. He knew it was Andrias, because the little vendetta knife that Theo had coveted so much lay half-buried in the ash beside him. He rubbed at it; the words were still visible. It did not look beautiful any more.
He tried to count in his head who had been there; to work out how many were lost but he couldn't think properly.
So he just kept looking.
It was when he walked past Angioletta for the third time that he remembered Josef.
Josef was three years old; he was Theo's eldest nephew and he had been ill with a fever last night. Angioletta had left him with her friend Martina who wouldn't be at the party because her uncle had a feud with the Zarconettis.
Which meant Josef was not here.
Which meant Josef might not be dead.
He had almost forgotten that anyone else was there, and he paid no attention to them as they shouted after him. Martina lived on the outskirts of the village, and Theo could run there in under twenty minutes.
Angioletta had doted on her little boy. Theodore had never understood why; Josef had a permanently snotty nose and was always underfoot because his sister seemed to regard Theo as her personal babysitter.
But as he ran, he prayed, over and over to every saint he could think of. If Josef was all right, he swore, he would never say anything bad to him again. He would go somewhere safe; somewhere his nephew could grow up and never have to worry about anyone trying to kill him. He'd tell him stories of everyone in their family, so they would never be forgotten. He'd tell him what their father said, that the Calvi family was so old they had a town named after them; and that Andrias had always claimed it was probably the other way round. It was suddenly very important that there was someone else left in the world with Angioletta's blue eyes and curly dark hair like Lucia's, who remembered his grandmother's ridiculous counting games and had rode on Alesiu's back like a horse.
He pounded on Martina's door, but it was her husband who opened it.
“Josef” he gasped, sucking in air through burning lungs. “Is Josef here?”
The man stared at him with wide eyes, taking in his soot-covered clothes and blistered hands. “Martina didn't tell you? She set off an hour ago when we heard.” He shook his head. “Angioletta came back for him. His fever had gone down, and she didn't want him to miss the party.”
For a moment Theo only looked at him uncomprehending. Then, numbly, he turned away.
Somewhere behind him, a thousand miles away, he heard the door click quietly shut.
* * *
They buried the dead in one plot. He sold Angie's silver necklace and brought the money, along with the small pile of tarnished coins his parents had kept under the bed, to pay for the funeral and the headstone. He worried it wasn't enough for both, but the mason took one look at Theo's steady tear-streaked face and blackened handful of coins and wouldn't touch them. He made the sign to avert the evil eye, and carved the stone himself.
One stone, with seventeen names.
Theodore kept the knife.
He had four surviving family members left: Mateus, two cousins who had stayed at home with their sick child and an elderly great-aunt. Slowly, the truth of what had happened emerged: the wine had been poisoned with a mixture of aconite and agaric, and then four men had rode in shortly after midnight to set fire to the place. Mateus hadn't seen their faces, but he recognised the horse.
Lisandru Stradoni was his first: a gunshot wound to the back. If he had done it earlier his family might be alive. He killed Lisandru's brothers while they were out on a hunting trip. Afterwards, he took their money and guns. Life as a bandito was not quite as romantic as he had imagined it to be as a child.
People started calling him a hero.
Theo didn't feel like a hero. He didn't feel like much of anything any more.
Cristina Stradoni got married and became Cristina Canavu. Niccu left to live with them and work the farm, as he had said he would.
Theo ambushed him in the byre, one arm around Niccu's skinny neck and the knife clenched in Theo's other hand.
He saw his coat hanging up on a nail out of reach of the animals.
“Don't move” he hissed.
Of course, Niccu did, because he was an idiot who could never do what he was told. He twisted around to face Theo.
“You really ought to listen to someone holding a knife at your throat” Theo said. Niccu was thinner than ever; old man Cavanu was obviously feeding him worse than his aunt and uncle.
Niccu glanced down at Theo's hand on his shoulder. “Your hands are shaking.”
Theo shrugged. “They do that sometimes, now.”
Niccu stared at him, tears shining in his wide brown eyes. “I didn't know, Theo, I swear. I went home the next day and they told me.” He sounded sick. “I'm so sorry. I didn't know.”
“I know you didn't” Theo told him, which was true. Niccu was a bad liar and terrible at keeping secrets. He'd always had Theo and Cris to do that for him.
“I missed you” he said, and that was true as well.
He felt Niccu collapse into him, all trust and sharp edges. His breath was warm against the hollow of Theo's neck.
The knife was very sharp; it went in fast and easily. Niccu stiffened against him, letting out a high, pained sound. Theo held him as he struggled, and then slowly went limp, blood pooling warm and sticky against his hand. He felt Niccu's breaths coming shallower and shallower, until they didn't come at all.
Gently, Theo laid him down. His eyes were open, but he didn't look surprised, like the others had. Only sorry. Niculai always was apologising for things that weren't his fault.
With one hand, Theodore smoothed his brown eyes shut. He could almost have been asleep, except he wasn't.
Before he left, he unhooked his coat from the nail and tucked it carefully around Niccu's cooling body.
After all, he told himself, he could always get a new coat. The brown one Tomasu Stradoni was wearing just now was particularly nice.
He looked down and saw that his hands weren't shaking at all.
In the end, it didn't matter that Niccu hadn't known. What mattered was that the honour of the Calvis had to be avenged.