Justice
Hammered Greed
Tibbald’s Hammer
“Sometimes the act of being greedy will come back to bite us. Those who use their greed to make gains at the expense of those less fortunate deserve a little comeuppance, don’t you think?”
Hammered Greed
Could my heart beat loud enough to reverberate through the columns? My clothes stuck to the cold sweat on my skin. I closed my eyes, swallowed and filled my lungs with air. The thought of being caught had left me feeling as though I’d run a marathon.
The rhythmic beat grew louder. Footsteps clattered hollow and echoic upon the flagstones. Each followed by the click of a cane. The grand columns created a photogenic shadow this afternoon. I crept into the dark area and pressed close to the white stone.
There he was, an austere man with a salt-and-pepper beard and tiny glasses. His suit was white, matching the impeccable shine of his black Italian shoes. He was out of place, this was no businessman’s workplace. It was a monastery.
I held my breath, slinking around the column as he passed, praying he wouldn’t notice me. The way he rolled his cane, and then began to whistle with confidence infuriated me. I knew what he was doing, and that’s why I came.
He walked to the arched door, inscribed with a heraldic crown in black among other symbols. A purveyor of disrespect, he walked straight in, banging the door shut behind him. I released my long-held breath and dashed through the columns.
Now, it was my shoes shattering a silence filled only with the sound of crying jackdaws; a feathered echo of mortality within the near graveyard. Left of the door was an arched window. A close look would have revealed it was ajar, last evening’s incursion paying dividends. Now, I slipped inside, using the lavatory within to quietly gain the floor.
The room beyond was of fair size, not the main church but a smaller private chapel. I adored the ribbed effect of the vaulted oak and plaster ceiling. My nose itched with the aroma of incense which conjured the sense of spirits passing through. The walls were decorated with biblical frescos dating back centuries. Each beautiful artwork filling me with awe as it tantalized with the history and mystery I’d studied over the years. Two rows of dark, oak pews supporting candelabra lined the flagstone floor. I could imagine a congregation of ghosts waiting patiently for the Father to begin his sermon at the white marble alter.
Reaching the aisle, I took a moment to bow my head toward the altar. Just as quickly, I flattened myself behind the pew.
“Father Crespo, I’m glad we could reach an accord on this rather lucrative exchange,” said the suited man emerging from the presbytery door.
“There is no accord, Lucian. Just a monetary need to support the monastery. You know that very well.” Father Crespo was old.
Father Crespo’s white hair was neatly combed and yet thin. He limped into view and looked toward the altar. For a moment a smile deepened his wrinkles as he drew a cross in front of himself.
“Indeed. Enough chatter though. Where is the relic?” Lucian glanced about with the air of a shifty drugs baron desperate to get his hands on a fortune in cocaine.
Crespo sighed, “It’s in the reliquary of course.”
“Then retrieve it, I don’t have all day!”
I balled my fists with the desire to crush his septum into his vile skull. Lucian had brokered this deal whilst I laid my grandfather to rest in the graveyard not three moons ago. The phone call I’d heard after Father Crespo departed left me seething with determination to stop him.
“Yes, so be it,” Crespo ambled behind the altar.
I held my breath as Lucian glanced my way. He saw nothing and stepped up to the altar. “I’ll add 100 Euros for these golden candlesticks,” he said as if bartering in a junk shop.
Crespo gave him a disdainful glare as he produced a set of heavy old keys. “I’m old, Lucian. Not foolish. Those are worth a thousand a piece.”
Lucian chuckled, “We’ll see about that.”
I slipped from pew to pew, getting as close as I dared. Crespo knelt by the altar and slid a stone aside. He inserted a key into a revealed lock and caused a click to reverberate through the room. I watched a panel in the apse wall descend. It revealed a gilt box, goblets and something larger that caught the light with a flash of red-gold.
“At last, the golden hammer of St Tibbald of Hobbies,” Lucian rubbed his hands together. “Give it to me, Father.”
Crespo removed the hammer from the reliquary. It weighed heavy in his hands. In shape, it was like that of a Viking warhammer and yet it was as ornate as a king’s crown. “The moment this saintly object touches your greed-ridden hands, it will forever be desecrated.”
“This is no time to be sacrosanct, Father. This is not about religion after all. It’s cold hard business.” Lucian took a brown envelope from his pocket and dropped it on the altar. “Your ten grand as agreed.”
The old Father nodded, “I’d very much like to count it for myself.”
“Give me the hammer,” Lucian extended a hand. His fingers came within inches of the shining hammer’s grip.
“I don’t think so!” I yelled. My voice boomed around the chapel.
Lucian whirled to find me. “And who is going to stop me?”
“Me,” I said standing. “The Hammer of St Tibbald is almost priceless isn’t it?”
“I have a buyer waiting to give me fifteen grand, that’s — ”
“LIAR!” I took a step closer. “I heard your phone call in the graveyard. You have an American antiques expert waiting to pay you thirty million dollars in a black market exchange.”
“Is this true?” Crespo looked shocked.
Lucian hid his emotions well, “Of course, it — ”
“Every word. This man is a scoundrel whose depths are only bested by the devil himself!” I stepped within ten feet of him, close enough to feel the anger burning from his eyes.
“Damn you!” he raged. With a quick move of his left hand, he revealed a black Baretta 9MM pistol.
The sound of the safety being withdrawn sent a cold shockwave through my body.
“No! I forbid you from shedding blood within this holy sanctuary!” Father Crespo said.
“If he leaves, now. I will not shoot him,” Lucian leveled the gun at my face.
I gazed down the barrel. A dark tube of steel, waiting to deliver a punch of death. It struck me then, that a gun is not dangerous, rather the scumbag holding it provides the lethality.
“Your move,” Lucian smirked.
I took the opportunity. With a diving roll, I cleared the altar, seizing the envelope and hammer as I regained my feet.
“No!” Lucian fired twice. Both rounds zinged into the stone wall.
I jinked around him, avoiding a flailing fist and then dashed into the pews.
Three times the gun’s report echoed around the chapel.
Bullets tore into the pews and struck a candelabra. Flecks of metal and paint seared my face as I leapt away. My second move last night had been an escape plan. Another window waiting for me.
“Stop!” Lucian chased after me firing the last of his bullets.
A cabinet containing a collection of chalices exploded ahead of me. I dived aside, a moment too late. A round tore into my sleeve and bicep.
“Haha! I bet that hurt!”
My arm stung, but I bit back an unholy reply, leapt from a bench to the top of the cabinet and rolled out of the rear window.
The landscape fell beneath me.
I plummeted into the boughs of an oak and yew tree. My body bounced and folded over several branches before I caught myself. Wracked with pain, I used my good hand to descend to the ground.
“I’ll kill you!” Lucian screamed.
He was too late. I ran around an Acacia bush, gained my boat at the river bank and vanished into the city.
A week later, Father Crespo sat in the presbytery with a Belgian bun and newspaper. The headline made him smile.
‘Millionaire Lucian Di Antonio, Murdered.’
‘Sources believe Lucian was attempting to smuggle religious antiquities to the United States of America. His stateside dealer appears to have killed him when he failed to produce one such relic…’
Father Crespo closed the paper and finished his bun. “That’s what I call justice,” he said as he rose and entered the chapel.
There on the altar was the hammer of St Tibbald of Hobbies. With it was a brown envelope containing ten thousand Euros. A message on it read;
‘Take care of the hammer for St Tibbald. I’m sure this donation from Lucian will help with that too.’
‘Signed Mysterio.’
The End
This story was first published in my Menagerie on the 18/03/24 : “Hammered Greed” Thanks for reading!
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