Chapter 57

Aramis covered his nose and mouth and then glanced at Porthos, who clenched his jaw and flared his nostrils. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, and the closer they rode to the church, the worse it became. There was something about the smell that caused stomachs to revolt, heads to swim, and gag thresholds to awaken. It was a smell that Aramis had grown uncomfortably familiar with over the years, during his time on the battlefield when men perished and were unable to be moved, to his time as a musketeer when bodies needed to be recovered from the tunnels beneath the city, or when men and women perished from starvation, grief, abuse, and old age.

The road to the church was overgrown with weeds. Heavy branches laden with apples and pears bowed downward and touched the ground. Broken limbs lay on the overgrown path. An old cemetery had been abandoned and mounds of rocks were the only indications of the dead's remains. Portions of a wooden fence lay in shambles. The wood had been weathered, shattered, and split.

Several windows of the old church were broken. The heavy branch of a tree had fallen and crushed the front right pillar, causing the entry roof to partially collapse. Vultures sat in the trees, several spread their wings, displaying their size.

Aramis dismounted, curled his nose, and said, "Stay here." He handed the reins to Porthos, who grumbled. "I doubt there is anyone alive inside."

Aramis breathed through his mouth. He brushed aside a low-hanging branch when he approached the church. One of the front doors was missing and leaned against the wall in the foyer beneath the portrait of a monk. Dust, cobwebs, bird manure, and animal droppings littered the floor with leaves and debris. Yellow pollen dusted the narrow alcoves that were meant to hold busts, and along the edges of the floor. The pews had been moved and abandoned against the far wall. Portraits and paintings had been vandalized, and the chairs behind the altar had been pushed aside.

He could see the source of the smell. Three bodies lay on the floor, across the steps and against the wall near the altar. Their discolored faces, partially hidden by their hair, their clothing, and the results of scavengers, denied Aramis the opportunity to identify them. Their bloated bodies distorted what they may have looked like in life. Aramis covered his nose, slowly approached, and hesitantly dug through the pockets of the first man laying over the steps. The man's black hair lay across the floor, over his brow, and the leather string that had kept it tied lay loose by his right ear.

Aramis frowned, felt the narrow folds of leather, and pulled the stringed purse from the man's pocket. He loosened the ties and then dumped a handful of Spanish gold coins into his palm. Aramis exhaled slowly, rubbed his chin, and then returned the coins to the bag. He searched a few more pockets, found nothing, and then said a quick prayer over their bodies.

He looked up when several doves fluttered in the rafters. Feathers fell gracefully and fluidly from their hiding places and landed on the steps.

Aramis would never learn their names if they had family, friends, or loved ones who would miss them. He would never know if these men were the ones that nearly killed him, Athos and Porthos. Aramis walked toward the credenza that rested against the far wall and looked at the plates of apples, pears, and dried meats that had been partially consumed. Flies swarmed around the brown, withered remains and the fruit, while bugs and worms consumed what was left. The wine bottle stood tall amongst the decaying fruits. Aramis turned, noticed several pewter cups on the floor, and one had rolled to a stop against the bottom step. He scratched his head, twisted his mouth, and then pulled at the tip of his mustache.

"Aramis!" Porthos shouted from beyond the walls of the church.

Aramis sighed and took one last look around. He looked through the window and noticed the sun was slowly descending.

"Aramis?"

Aramis sighed, ran a hand over his face, and then exited the building. He walked toward Porthos and grabbed his reins and mounted. "Spanish gold," he said and turned his horse toward the path. He tossed the bag to Porthos, who caught it.

"You were in there for a while," Porthos said. "Is this all you found?"

"Three bodies. They've been dead for a few days — scavengers have done their damage." Aramis winced. "I've done what I could for them."

"Any idea who they might be… other 'an Spanish?"

Aramis exhaled, thought for a moment, and then furrowed his brow. "Maybe whoever hired them wanted them dead… leaving no traces of evidence."

Porthos huffed, scratched his chin, and then turned his horse to the left and rode beside Aramis. "So, we may never know?" He said disappointedly.

"If whoever hired them wants us dead," Aramis said. "It's only a matter of time before they try again… eventually — he or she — will expose themselves."

"At what cost?"

Aramis looked at Porthos and said, "It's like Athos said. Our duty is to the king, but in the process of protecting him…" he paused, "we protect each other."