Chapter 22 #2
Ansaldo manages a tight-lipped smile. “As you’ll soon see, it was all for a reason.
” He glances up at the tree with reverence.
“The Order was founded thousands of years ago for a single purpose: to protect the world’s knowledge.
After Julius Caesar attacked Alexandria and his soldiers burned part of the library, destroying thousands of scrolls, a group of low-level leaders banded together to ensure that the knowledge of the world would never be completely destroyed. ”
He pauses, staring up at the tree. “Without knowledge, the world falls into chaos. It allows evil to prevail, for true evil preys upon the weak and uneducated.”
How true that is.
“Those who choose to join the Order of Cavendi, who sacrifice themselves for the greater good, must first offer their blood to the Tree of Life,” Ansaldo continues, gesturing in front of us.
I stare up at the tree now too. This is the Tree of Life? That’s not possible.
Across time and religions, legends of a tree of life exist, spanning all the way from ancient Mesopotamia and Persia, to the religions of Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam—even the Vikings praised a tree named Yggdrasil.
I search out the ashen leaves and don’t find any. Perhaps they were plucked long ago.
I shake my head. Not that I actually believe in any of it.
“They then receive a tattoo of the ouroboros,” Ansaldo continues, grasping his hands behind his back, “with ink that contains a ground leaf from this ancient tree, and their role within the organization is bestowed upon them by the gods. Those who join, choose a life of selfless bravery and great purpose. Of sharing their knowledge with the rest of the order to better the world with it, and then doing their part to maintain the status quo.”
Oh, good God. Though Ansaldo isn’t looking at me, I keep my expression neutral. I have to imagine the order meant well at one time, and yet… not only is this a cult, but it’s a cult with a savior complex.
“What if someone doesn’t want to share their knowledge?” I wonder.
Ansaldo cocks his head as if he doesn’t understand the question. “They don’t have a choice: once the tattoo is complete, your mind becomes one with everyone else’s, melding together in a shared space. The information you provide is then archived.”
I swallow hard—that’s such a violation of privacy. This is not the sales pitch he thinks it is.
He moves on. “Each initiate could be chosen to become a Valtivar, facing evil head-on in its many forms on the battlefield of the world stage.”
I dig my nails into my thigh to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
“Or one of the Gaeta, protecting this hidden stronghold of knowledge from our many enemies. Perhaps one of the Asklepios, healers of all wounds. Or an Episteme, gathering and safeguarding the great knowledge of the world.”
Finally, he looks over at me. “Or, what I am—a Themis, tasked to be the ears, eyes, and mouths of the gods, and counsel in all matters large and small.”
I blink at him. Valtivar, Gaeta, Asklepios, Episteme, Themis.
My mind struggles to keep up with all the information being thrown at me.
So many potential vocations to be forced upon a person.
Even if each member believes they’re choosing it, I doubt they understand the full implications of what they’re getting themselves into.
“What about Bes and Cec? What are they?”
Bes says, “Cec and I—”
“—are none of her concern,” Ansaldo finishes for him. “Not yet, anyway. The gods have not yet willed it so.”
I grit my teeth to stop from scoffing out loud.
Remembering all the important educating Nonna has done over the years because of how passionate she is, I wonder what she would do if a cult leader claimed they received a sign from God, telling her to join the circus because God said it would fulfill her life’s purpose?
Would she do it simply because God supposedly asked her to?
Honestly, I’m not sure she wouldn’t. Even operating solely on faith, she could become a lion tamer if she put her mind to it.
This place feels like a similar manipulation.
Eyeing Ansaldo, I wonder how much power he holds and how long he’s held it. Though I’ve spent no more than a couple hours here, I’m coming around to the idea that this place is more of a religious conservatory than the spy organization I expected it to be.
My most burning question from all this, however, is: why would anyone want to join the Order of Cavendi? Even if this isn’t a cult, it’s at least a traditional monarchy. And much of the modern world tires of centuries of divine right propaganda.
Though I suppose Germany has manufactured a new, different sort, disguised as freedom and justice.
“The Order truly found its footing during the Crusades,” Ansaldo explains, “with the Church recruiting members who couldn’t fight in battle.”
“Good lord,” I mutter. Worst fears confirmed. No wonder I’m uncomfortable here. I truly hope I’m wrong about Nonna being involved in all this.
“I’m sure it doesn’t surprise you that the order’s past is tainted,” Cec mutters close to my ear. “The killing of millions, the religious and economic devastation… it’s sickening.”
“Admittedly, it wasn’t our brightest hour,” Ansaldo concedes, having heard his son’s hushed words.
“However, when the Christian Church split into the Roman Catholic Church and the Greek Orthodox Church almost a thousand years ago, the Order saw it as an opportunity to split as well, cutting all ties.”
“That’s something, at least,” I acknowledge.
“Yes, all it took was the murdering of innocents under the guise of halting the expansion of Muslim states to reclaim the Christian Holy Land in the Middle East,” Cec comments, irony dripping from his words.
Ansaldo goes on as if his son hadn’t spoken, the only sign of his anger in the tick of his jaw. “Eventually, the order opened its doors up to the world, metaphorically speaking, while maintaining the divine system with which it was founded upon.”
“Lady Macbeth would be ripe with jealousy,” I comment. “But then who are all of the people I saw earlier if not religious zealots with a lust for morality?”
Ansaldo huffs. “How dare you speak in such a way about the order?”
Bes cuts in. “Though I don’t doubt some here to be overtly religious, the members are mostly orphans, rebels, people with nowhere else to go. If they do something the order deems worthy, they’re offered a chance to give meaning to their lives by joining.”
Why is he defending them so staunchly?
“As if their lives had no meaning at all before the order took pity on them.”
Bes doesn’t reply. It sounds as if the order takes advantage of, as Robert Park would put it, marginalized people. I want to say it aloud but hold my tongue. Ansaldo’s face has turned the color of a bright tomato, and I don’t want him to burst.
“If the work you do is so important, how can you guarantee that the members won’t let slip anything about this place?” I wonder instead, hoping he can explain the blood oath to me in a way that’s not completely unfathomable.
Ansaldo’s dark eyes bore into mine. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He gestures toward the base of the tree. There, the root juts out oddly into a sort of hollowed-out circular shape. Almost like a bowl.
“In this basin, formed from the Tree of Life itself, each initiate sacrifices their blood to guarantee the safety of the Order of Cavendi. The members whose purpose keeps them here only require one drop. It ties up the tongue and petrifies the body before any whole truths can be spoken to or acted on, in case this place were ever discovered.”
Sure, it does.
“For those out in the field,” he continues, “a second drop allows the person to speak a single word aloud, which will kill them instantly. This is for our more covert initiates, who are more likely to be tortured if captured.”
My breath catches in my throat. Either way, they die for their cause.
“And what word is that?”
Ansaldo cracks a small smile. “Yes, very much like your nonna. She was feisty too, and crafty.”
“How do you expect me to believe any of this?” I ask. “You have to know how absolutely insane you sound.”
I glance at Bes and Cec, but neither of them say a word, their gazes downcast.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I raise a brow at Ansaldo. “Fine. Prove it.”
Bes’s gaze snaps to me out of the corner of my eye. “Miss Hawkins…”
Ansaldo smiles devilishly. “As you like.” He beckons me forward. “Kneel before the basin.”
I blink rapidly at him. “I’m not doing that.”
He shakes his head. “I understand it’s difficult to trust all I’ve told you. However, you asked for proof. And, with Bes and Cecilio as my witnesses, I won’t harm you.”
I don’t trust a single word out of his mouth. He expects me to believe blood-triggered magic exists and that trying to prove that to me won’t hurt me? The man needs help.
Although… I am more than curious. Because, if what Ansaldo says is true, then everything I know about the world I’ve lived in all my life is a lie.
It’s one thing to feel the Amulet of Amun—currently tucked beneath my shirt and out of sight—warm against my chest and see the red flecks move beneath its surface.
It’s another thing completely to believe an entire organization is built upon blood oaths and tattoo magic.
If he’s proven right here and now, then magic, in some form, is real.
And wouldn’t that be something.
“Fine,” I concede, almost giddy at the prospect. Something’s truly wrong with me.
“You can’t be serious,” Bes argues.
Cec remains strangely quiet.
I turn to Bes, finding his expression aghast. “I’m a scientist, Bes; I require proof. And if Ansaldo claims he can give it to me, then I need to see it through.”
He shakes his head. “You’re mad—completely and utterly mad.”