Chapter 8 of 12
(Bladelover)
The disturbing events leading to his current situation had all taken place in the summer of 1795 in Madrid. Dr. Adam Benjamin had come to town ostensibly to perform a check-up on his former patient, Francisco Jose de Goya y Lucientes; but the ambiance of the city and the remarkable talents of his patient were the chief attractions for him.
Now completely deaf due to the illness for which Benjamin had treated him three years prior, and for which he had been lucky to survive; Goya had also suffered a darkening mood. An outlook, due not only to his hearing loss, but also to ongoing changes to the social and political landscape around him. The factors that now made the artist a somewhat less pleasant dinner companion had also brought a wickedly satirical bite to his work, which appealed to his doctor immensely.
Goya had left word at the inn for Benjamin to meet him at his studio, and the walk had been a pleasant one. However, once he'd come within range, he had sensed an immortal lurking within. Not yet having shunned the Game, Benjamin was not one to avoid such a confrontation, but neither did he like walking right into an undefined situation. He chose to remain outside and wait for the other immortal to seek him out.
It happened within minutes. A tall but otherwise nondescript man, who looked about thirty, dressed in a paint-splattered artist's smock, walked cautiously out of the building and looked around briefly before locking eyes with Benjamin.
"You're here for me?" he asked with a slight German accent.
"No, I'm here to visit with the master," Benjamin said, smiling slightly. "I'm his physician." Eyeing the other man's apparel, he added, "I gather you're his student."
The other immortal looked him over appraisingly before nodding. "One of them." When Benjamin made no further effort to move the conversation forward, the man continued. "So, how shall we handle this? I would prefer not to leave in the middle of my studies; perhaps we could meet tonight, around six o'clock?"
Benjamin realized he'd applied the term nondescript too hastily to this man. His eyes, light blue and very clear, were so penetrating that their gaze could almost be felt physically. Benjamin guessed that little was ever missed by them. The air of confidence was also unmistakable, and told of challenges accepted without hesitation and won. This one would provide an interesting match, he'd wager.
But Benjamin had long ago given up fighting for the mere enjoyment of it. "I do hate to fight before supper – it spoils the digestion. Why don't we agree to simply acknowledge one another and carry on? I have no desire to take your head merely because it exists."
Another appraising look preceded an abrupt introduction. "Johann Meinhoff," the man said, extending his hand. Benjamin reciprocated, and the two men stepped inside.
The studio was small and shabby, as such places often are, but there were colorful things happening within. Isabela immediately caught his eye, a dark beauty with large warm eyes he could dive into and spend the rest of the night in a blissful, leisurely swim. He noted with pleasure those eyes following him as he moved about the studio, admiring the works of Goya's protégés.
He had stopped to pay her an obligatory compliment, but was taken aback by what he saw on her canvas: two youngsters, a boy and a girl, caught in a moment of sudden and fleeting maturity. Standing under a tree in an orchard, the boy was taking advantage of the girl's distraction as she reached for a fruit by leaning in for an unexpected kiss on her cheek.
The scene would have been trite and forgettable save for the expressions on the faces of the subjects – he displaying his longing of his emerging desires, she wearing her first tentative awareness of the demands of love. Though done in the somewhat superficial Rococo style of the period, it had a power and grace that made one ache.
Benjamin and Isabela had enjoyed respectable but desire-laden conversation, and it was clear to everyone in the room that he would be enjoying her company later that evening. Engaged in thrilling her with his wit and charm, he never saw the hand on his shoulder that spun him around to connect a fist with his jaw. From the floor, he gazed up into the infuriated face of Johann Meinhoff. It occurred to Benjamin that the expression was not unlike that of Isabela's boy.
In the ensuing chaos of both Isabela and Goya decrying Meinhoff's behavior, Benjamin managed to assure them both that there was no harm done. He also persuaded the master not to expel the immortal from his tutelage. But he made a point of not only leaving the studio with Isabela on his arm, but of making eye contact with Meinhoff as he did so. Rubbing the jaw that no longer hurt, he also decided that what he'd planned as a brief dalliance, would now be something more.
During their time together, Benjamin frequently noted Meinhoff lurking in the background – during walks, at dinner, once even in the nearby woods during a picnic. Sometimes he saw him in town accompanied by another man, also immortal. Alarm bells clanged. Later, upon describing the man to Isabela, he had learned that the man was Lorenzo, an art student of Meinhoff's. Isabela scoffed, saying that the man had no talent and she didn't understand why Meinhoff kept him on. Benjamin had an idea, which he kept to himself.
Almost six weeks later, Benjamin was ready to move on. He had already remained in Madrid longer than he'd intended, and Isabela was obviously taking their liaison too seriously. It was time to take himself on to the next adventure. She had taken it badly, and on the walk back to the inn that night, he resolved to get an early start the next day to avoid a scene.
He felt an immortal as he walked across a meadow on his way to the inn. He was dismayed but not surprised. The darkness made it difficult to see anything clearly, and he stopped moving and strained for audible clues to Meinhoff's whereabouts.
With hardly a sound, Lorenzo strode into his path, brandishing his sword.
"You don't want to do this," Benjamin said earnestly. It was glaringly obvious that the young immortal was not ready for a challenge, even if his opponent were not almost 5000 years old.
"You have offended my teacher and sullied the honor of his woman. I will have satisfaction in his name."
Benjamin allowed himself a roll of the eyes, thinking the darkness would hide it, but Lorenzo thrust the sword with an enraged cry, and he was forced to defend himself. The young immortal was disarmed within three minutes.
"I don't want your head, youngster," Benjamin said, withdrawing his broadsword from Lorenzo's throat. Later, he would berate himself for not resisting the parting shot as he walked away. "Be sure to tell Meinhoff how ill-prepared you were. He'll want to know."
He heard the motion on grass as Lorenzo got to his feet and turned just in time to avoid the wild stroke at his neck. Reflexes took over, and the young man quickly lay headless at his feet. The Quickening was mercifully short, and as he rested on one knee, he gave thanks for the empty field. Hopefully he could get back to the inn and leave tomorrow before –
A sudden sound behind him caused a moment of panic. He had dropped his sword during the Quickening, and there was no time to retrieve it now. Sure that Meinhoff was here to avenge his student, he spun around as he drew the knife from the sheath on his back – and plunged it into the belly of Isabela. She had followed to plead with him to stay, most likely, had witnessed the Quickening, and had approached to make sure he was unhurt. In the aftermath of the Quickening, he had failed to appreciate the lack of immortal sensation at her unexpected approach.
As he stood surveying the gruesome scene, Benjamin couldn't escape the fact that it was solely the result of his own stubborn pride and inability to walk away from an ill-considered insult without retribution. He didn't know it at that moment, but Lorenzo' would be the last head he would take for another two hundred years.
It had taken little effort to make it appear that someone had murdered two secret lovers during a tryst. He regretted that this would throw suspicion on Meinhoff, but it was a question of survival. He did not admire himself for being able to so callously reason away what he was doing. In fact, there wasn't much about his behavior in the past six weeks that he did find admirable. It was uncomfortably close to things he'd done in the distant – and yet not so distant, after all – past.
Before he left Madrid, he persuaded Goya to let him have Isabela's painting. He told the old master that he wanted a remembrance of her vitality and talent, but in fact, he wanted something tangible to remind himself of the depths to which he could so easily sink.
It was only much later that he realized he should have allowed the painting to go to Meinhoff, who had truly loved her. But by then, it was much too late.