Twelve months ago, at the age of ninety-nine I was relieved of my duties and brought here to this hospital to live out my remaining time. My body quickly began to fail, but I have spent every moment possible of this last year learning the skills that would allow me to tell my tale. I learned to read and write. Now, finally, I can give my confession.
I was born without vocal chords and am therefore mute. Growing up, many people equated this inability to speak with stupidity as if one who can not talk must be dumb. I personally feel I’m quite the opposite, but truly, what does any man really know? Perhaps the only thing one can know for sure is that he knows nothing. Was that Socrates? Or Plato… I can’t recall all those Greeks. And what does it matter in the end?
As you may know I’m Roman and though Rome joined the unified State of Italy forty years before my birth there were still many around who considered themselves Romans before Italians while I was growing up. My father was one of these and he instilled in me a great pride of my heritage and my native town and its ties with my religion: Catholicism.
My family was one of zookeepers for many generations. After the first great war there were many who enjoyed peaceful days in the sun, gazing at the likes of caged majestic lions and playful monkeys. I took care of these sorts of animals and many others. I suppose it was this skill as much as the fact of my inability to utter a sound that made me desirable to the Vatican.
It was shortly after Vatican City forged its autonomy in 1929 that my father was approached about my services. He was, of course, quite honored by the fact that his only son was chosen to carry out secret duties inside the consecrated walls and basically sold my life to the Holy See for but a few Lira.
Under the catacombs of Saint Peters’ Cathedral I was to spend the vast majority of the next eighty-three years of my life tending to the most holy, or should I say most unholy of secrets.
I can still vividly recall the first day I was led underground. There was a string hung sparsely with tiny uncovered light bulbs; each one illuminating an area just wide enough that one must pass through meters of pitch black before arriving at the next glowing spot. I walked the labyrinthine corridors amidst the smell of dirt and sulphur, passing niches filled with the bones of those long dead and my heart raced with fear and excitement. Few were allowed entrance to these passages. Fewer still survived to tell of it.
I was given my own quarters down there. Modest by some standards, I considered them luxurious compared to my home in Ciampino where my family had lived for over four hundred years before all that land was taken away by the military. But, these are things I’ve only heard through gossip during my years of service. I have not left the walls of the Vatican since I arrived some eighty-three years ago.
I was given a day to orient myself to my new surroundings and the following morning I was introduced to my charge. Again, I was led through the maze dug out by ancient personages. This time however, I was blindfolded. Four times a day I was brought in this manner back and forth from my room to the cells of the one I was to tend to.
He was huge and at first I thought he was a leper and crossed myself repeated praying to God that this was not truly my fate. The wounds all across his body I later discovered were man made and not the ravishments of any known disease. He was chained to the floor and ceiling, but spent the majority of his time lying upon a kingly bed. He had fouled the bed and himself and would thousands of times over in the eighty plus years I would care for him.
That was my job.
When I saw him on the second day he was much smaller. The wounds were far larger and covered most of his body as if someone had cut the majority of his flesh out from under his skin.
What were they doing and why? Who was this man? A demon? An enemy of Christ?
I cleaned and bathed him as was my obligation. Dressed his wounds. Tidied his room and changed his linen. I was also directed to catch any excess blood that oozed from him in bowls and jars that were always kept nearby. I made sure never to let it touch my skin believing it must be cursed if they were so intent on removing it. There was also a time when one of my chores was the try to get him to eat. They wanted him to eat more and more. They wanted him as fat as possible so they might continue to take of his flesh and blood. Later, when the technology arrived they force fed him with tubes. Each time, within a day or two he would heal and then plump up like a sow prepared for slaughter. This daily transformation never ceased to amaze me.
How he continued to live through these tortures was beyond me, but live he did.
I always had a hard time understanding why he was restrained. As big as he was he could never in a million years squeeze through the door of his chamber, nor could he waddle along the corridors of the catacombs even if they were lined with melted butter except in the day or so after his surgeries and then he was far too weak. Only a miracle could free him, but it seemed miracles were the norm for this one.
A few of his escapes were spoken of by various people in my presence over the years. Of course one of the worst drawbacks of being mute combined with the inability to write is being unable to easily ask questions. I had become adept at making myself understood through gestures, but questions about this prisoner were difficult. I discovered much by simply listening to the gossip of those few I met during my days.
There were two girls who brought meals down from the surface; one each for days and nights. The meals for the prisoner seemed to never stop coming. I never once heard the daytime woman speak and came to believe that she was as mute as I. The night shift girl was slow in the head, but she did often chatter with the guard who stood outside the caged mans cell. I imagine that after she delivered her bounty and stood outside the closed door pattering on a bit with the guard they probably never guessed that I could hear them clear as crystal while spoon-feeding the captive, or tidying his room, or bathing him.
As the years went by the people changed. The day shift woman became a hunchbacked boy who eventually grew into middle and old age. The guard was always a young strong Italian lad who wore the raiment of the Swiss Guard with an insignia I did not recognize. Instead of gold or silver stars on a blue background, he wore a single black star on the traditional blue. I saw at least thirty guards in my time. Then there was the gentleman who blindfolded me and led me through the tunnels. Finally, there were those who dealt with the prisoner. I rarely saw them, but knew they visited him often.
The prisoner never spoke to me though sometimes I heard him mumbling to himself in a language that I did not recognize. It was certainly not Italian. The noises he made most often were tortuous moans whilst I tended his wounds or when I touched him in any way.
His eyes were a deep grey and he always gazed at me with the most curious of expressions; sad, resentful, fearful, compassionate, angry, wise, and somehow forgiving all at once. I often thought of what a horrible existence this poor soul had and wondered why the Pope allowed this monstrousness to go on. Did the Pope even know? And what exactly was going on?
Often times I arrived for my duties as the doctors were leaving. Men in white smocks rolling cart after cart filled with deep pans of what could only be the prisoners flesh and buckets of his blood. It wasn’t until I had been working there for nearly fifty years that I found out where all the extractions went.
The guide who brought me back and forth from my chamber and covered my eyes with clothe usually made sure I could not see at all. But, in the thousands of times I was escorted back and forth there were hundreds of occasions when my blindfold allowed me a glimpse of my surroundings. It wasn’t like I could mention this to anyone…
Once, when my blindfold was too loose to be any real impediment to sight, the doctors asked my guide for some assistance. I was taken along with them into what I guessed must be some kind of factory. It was at this location that the gallons and gallons of the prisoners blood was diluted with wine and bottled. There were cases upon cases of the stuff all loaded into boxes labeled to be sent off to thousands of exotic locations.
I saw the huge hunks of flesh sliced down to tiny pieces and fed into ovens. Finally I glimpsed the result of what these Catholics were achieving as they packaged and loaded it into similar shipping boxes. It was all I could do not to fall to my knees and weep.
I understood everything at that moment and heaven help me but I did nothing to stop it. Though I did my duties with the utmost reverence and care it doesn’t change the fact that I DID continue doing my small part in their ungodly design for the next thirty years or more.
But, I prayed every night that the prisoner would be released from bondage and wondered how this could possibly be his fate. Was god really that cruel? How could the church do such a thing, especially to this most revered of people?
And now as I write this letter and devise a way to get it to the public without those from the Vatican finding out in the hopes that exposing them will end this abomination, the priest has arrived to sit with me as is the practice here. Since learning to read and write I am expected to give weekly confessions. This I do, but I omit anything about what I know of the secrets of the Vatican.
Father Gimello asks if I’d like to take communion and I become so violently repulsed that he leaves to hail a nurse. When he exits I hide my note under my pillow and wait for their return that I may refuse the Father his offer. Though to my undying shame I used to do it before I knew the truth, never again will I eat Christs’ flesh, nor drink his blood!
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