The Machiavellian Gaston

"The great proof of madness is the disproportion of one's designs to one's means.”—Napoleon Bonaparte

Madness has always manifested in man—an insatiable thirst that grows by gradual degrees, surpassing countless vicissitudes of character. It is impetuous, unbridled, and deeply impressionable, fed by the obscure whims of intention and deception. An uncontrollable urge consumes the soul of man, a fervour unmatched in nature. It rises like a slow-burning fever, creeping into the mind and twisting it with a feverish grasp, until thought becomes a slave to its whims.

At first, it is but a whisper, faint and elusive, but with time, it gains strength, clawing its way through the heart of reason. The man who succumbs to this force finds himself at its mercy, driven by desires too vast to be understood, too fierce to be contained. It pulls the mind into shadow, obscuring clarity and replacing it with a suffocating fog that renders all moral consideration futile.

You who believe man to be noble and decorous will soon learn of the masterful dissimulation and treachery that unfolded upon the Ides of March. For it is in those moments of great consequence, those pivotal days when history bends to the will of the wicked that the true nature of man is laid bare. The mask of civility slips, revealing a mind capable of horrific betrayals—a mind unbound by virtue or morality. The Ides of March, once a mark of promise and order, became a turning point where the noble ideals of man were extinguished, crushed beneath the weight of calculated deceit.

It is in the depths of such betrayals that one comes to understand how thin the veneer of civilisation truly is. A single moment—an Ides—can pull the world into disarray, casting all who stand upon it into a maelstrom of confusion and chaos. The soul of man, for all its lofty aspirations, harbours within it an infinite capacity for darkness, and that darkness, when awakened, spreads like fire through dry tinder, consuming all in its path.

Allow me to introduce such a man: Gaston Bonifati—the vile embodiment of that madness. You shall know him simply as The Machiavellian Gaston. This tale begins in the year 1798, amid a bustling, festive Venetian night during Carnival. Within the walls of a grand Gothic palazzo, a masked ball was held on a night that would soon curdle into horror. Distinguished members of the local aristocracy were in attendance, among them Signora Veneto and Signor Bondemiro—an affluent patrician and a noted connoisseur of the arts.

Vengeance had already sown its malevolent seed within Gaston’s tormented psyche. On this fateful evening, he intended to exact his brutal, irredeemable wrath. If a redress is to be made, it must not be redressed lightly—especially when pride is injured. All those in attendance would feel the creeping shadow of Gaston’s madness and vindictive violence, but none more so than Signor Bondemiro—a misanthrope who once dared to mock Bonifati’s lineage and question his connoisseurship.

Bondemiro arrived adorned in green and gold damask coat and trousers, a green moiré waistcoat trimmed with lace and gold braid, and an ivory silk shirt with lace jabot. He wore tights, gloves, a powdered wig, a tricorn, and the Arlecchino mask.

Signora Veneto was equally resplendent in fuchsia silk velvet trimmed with white fur, lace details at the sleeves, ivory gloves, a hoop skirt, a wig, and the Volta mask.

As they approached the palazzo’s grand gate near the cerulean lagoon, they were greeted by a ceremonious butler and led through a door that opened into a labyrinthine courtyard. At the northern edge stood the junction between the palazzo and a nearby basilica. In the courtyard’s centre were two elaborately carved well-heads from the mid-16th century. The façade was a masterwork of Renaissance classicism—its stairways and solemn grandeur recalling the ethereal glow of the moonlit orbs above.

Their host, Gaston Bonifati, was dressed in a flowing black velvet cloak with a double cape and detachable hood. His tricorn, gloves, and Bauta mask completed the ensemble. He greeted his guests with the gracious poise of a consummate nobleman, hiding the true tempest beneath.

'Benvenuti al palazzo. I am Signor Gaston Bonifati', he announced. 'This palazzo is built of white limestone and pink marble, softened by porticos and adorned with Gothic balconies and finely wrought loggias. The thirty-six capitals on the colonnade bear carvings of beasts, flowers, and scenes of virtue—The Judgement of Solomon, the Drunkenness of Noah, Adam and Eve with the Archangel Gabriel. It is the very spirit of Venice made stone'.

'A magnificent home, Signor Bonifati, and a splendid venue for such a ball,' Signora Veneto remarked.

Bonifati smiled and replied warmly, 'Thank you for your gracious words. But tonight, let us dispense with formality. Call me Gaston—it is Carnival, and we must enjoy it in full!'

'Agreed', she answered.

As Bondemiro had stepped inside he had noticed a particular man—one whose presence seemed to disrupt the flow of merriment. Bonifati. A man of mystery and unsettling composure, Bonifati stood at the far edge of the ballroom, his eyes locked on Bondemiro, as if they shared a secret only they could comprehend.

Bondemiro had seen Bonifati before, but tonight there was something different about him. Perhaps it was the strange mask he wore—shiny, dark, with the twisted smile of a joker. Or maybe it was the way he looked at everyone, as though they were marionettes in a play he controlled.

'Good evening, Signor Bondemiro', Bonifati greeted him, his voice low and velvety, carrying a weight of something unspoken. "I see you are in high spirits tonight."

Bondemiro nodded curtly, his instincts telling him to avoid engaging with this man, yet the strange magnetism Bonifati exuded kept pulling him back. 'Indeed, but not all here are deserving of such delight', Bondemiro replied, glancing briefly at the dancers.

'Some come here seeking more than just entertainment'.

Bonifati chuckled softly, his gaze never wavering. 'You’re right about that. But remember, Signor Bondemiro, sometimes the most haunting things aren’t those we see but those we choose to ignore'.

Bondemiro eyed him carefully. 'You are courteous, Signor Bonifati, but something about your voice is familiar. I feel I have heard it before'.

'Perhaps at the Piazza San Marco, before the villeggiatura?' Gaston suggested smoothly.

'Perhaps', Bondemiro replied, unconvinced.

He did not recognise the man whose honour he had once trampled—an arrogant noble who once dismissed Bonifati’s family as provincial forgers. He strutted now with his gold-tipped walking stick, every inch the pompous patrician.

Inside, the palazzo gleamed. The orchestra played violins and harps; guests sipped fine wines from Venetian vineyards and sampled exquisite hors d’oeuvres. Bonifati’s scheme was in motion.

'The beauty within these walls is truly palatial', Signora Veneto observed.

'The stairway beneath the south-eastern portico leads to chambers from the 16th century', Bonifati explained, with gilded stuccoes and canvases by Tintoretto in the Anticollegio. The Sala del Collegio—designed by Palladio—is hung with glorious tapestries. The Sala dell’Armamento still bears Guariento’s fresco Paradise. And of course, there is the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, the grandest of all'.

Signor Bondemiro frowned slightly. 'But is there not a sense of something... concealed? Something hidden behind these draperies and tapestries?'

'There is nothing to fear', Bonifati replied with a smile.

'Then why are the shutters closed?'

'The lagoon’s chill wind. Nothing more',

The music stopped. Bonifati raised his glass. 'My dear friends, let us toast—to this joyous gathering!'

The grand ballroom grew more suffocating as the night wore on. Bondemiro, feeling increasingly uneasy, found himself walking alone into a dimly lit side corridor, seeking a moment of solitude. As he moved further into the maze of corridors, he noticed another oddity—a door ajar, leading to a room he had never noticed before. The air beyond the door was thick and pungent, like old leather and rotting wood.

Bondemiro’s hand trembled slightly as he pushed the door open. Inside was a room unlike any other in the palazzo. It was entirely circular, with high windows covered in dust. The furniture was strange—seemingly antique, but too well-preserved to be mere decoration. In the centre of the room stood a marble pedestal, upon which rested an ornate wooden box.

As he approached the pedestal, the box began to hum, its vibrations barely perceptible. Bondemiro reached out to touch it, his fingers grazing the polished surface, but before he could open the box, a voice behind him startled him.

'Touch it, and you will invite darkness into this place'.

Bondemiro spun around to find Bonifati standing in the doorway. The man's smile was twisted, his mask gleaming in the low light.

'Do not listen to him', Bonifati continued, his voice steady and eerily calm. 'That box holds what you fear most—your own end'.

Bondemiro felt a cold shiver pass through him, but he refused to let fear dictate his actions. He stood tall. 'You are a fool, Bonifati. I fear nothing!'

Bonifati’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Bondemiro thought he saw something break in the man's calm façade—anger, frustration, perhaps even madness.

'Perhaps', Bonifati replied, 'But the truth is not something you can fight with bravado. It will come for you, Signor Bondemiro, no matter how hard you try to escape it'.

Then he turned to Bondemiro. 'And now, my friend, may I invite you to my cellar? You are a man of taste, and I would value your opinion of my collection of wines—if you do not object?'

With a nod, Bondemiro followed, curiosity piqued.
The cellar was vast and cool, lit by dim sconces. Rows of casks and bottles lined the chamber like soldiers waiting for inspection. Bonifati gestured with pride.

'This is my eternal collection', he said. 'Come, taste the wonders of Venice'.

Bondemiro sipped from a glass of vernaccia. '’Tis... a bit sour for my liking. I have tasted finer'.

Bonifati’s smile did not falter. 'How long have I collected wine? Years. O thou invisible spirit of wine... if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil'.

Bondemiro arched a brow. 'Shakespeare?'

'Indeed', Bonifati replied. 'But wine does not sting so sharply as insult'.

There was a bitter gleam in his eye, but Bondemiro did not notice. He was too absorbed in examining the vintage—too unaware of the trap slowly closing around him.
Signor Bondemiro had always been an arrogant man, proud of his intellect, but his cleverness paled in comparison to Bonifati’s. Despite his sharp wit, Bondemiro had failed to notice Bonifati’s peculiarities. Bonifati, however, had not missed Bondemiro’s self-importance, and it filled him with a quiet, unsettling anger.

'Before we continue, try a spirit', Bonifati suggested.

Bondemiro took a sip, savouring the flavour. 'Cognac. A fine drink!' he exclaimed.

He continued sipping as Bonifati led him through a dark, damp passageway. At the end, hidden behind a secret door, was a room that seemed to pulse with a sinister energy. Strange and unsettling devices filled the space, each one more unsettling than the last. Piles of bones and skulls, reminders of forgotten souls, littered the corners. For Bondemiro, the sight was chilling, but Bonifati found the scene strangely beautiful, as though it belonged to another world entirely.

Despite the luxurious setting, there was a tension building in the air. Bondemiro, though always composed, found himself scanning the passageway more often than usual. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something ominous—was pursuing him.

What had begun as a simple evening of wine and conversation quickly transformed into something darker. Bondemiro, unaware of the danger, remained oblivious to the atmosphere that hung around him, thick with menace. Bonifati, however, had a different view, seeing Bondemiro’s ignorance as a small but tolerable flaw.

'Let me show you something', Bonifati began, his voice calm yet cold as he gestured to a figure suspended unnaturally. 'This is a contraption designed to cause great distress. The victim's shoulders are pulled from their joints. It’s not for the faint of heart'.

Bondemiro, now visibly uneasy, stepped closer as Bonifati explained the devices in chilling detail. 'Here we have a chair that bends to break the body’s resistance. And over there, the whip, designed to leave its mark on flesh, leaving behind scars as sharp as the mind’s deepest regrets'.

Bondemiro tried to mask his discomfort, but it was clear that the mood had shifted. 'I can feel the weight of this place, Bonifati. It’s... unsettling'.

Bonifati smiled, his eyes glinting with a strange fervour. 'Exciting, isn’t it? The thrill of fear is more intoxicating than the finest wine, don’t you agree, Signor Bondemiro?'

Bondemiro, now feeling the effects of the alcohol, struggled to stay focused. The room spun around him as Bonifati’s voice echoed, almost as if in a dream. Slowly, he drifted into unconsciousness.

When Bondemiro awoke, the world around him was dark and oppressive. He found himself lying in a damp, stone-walled chamber. The sound of flowing water echoed in the distance. He was bound tightly, unable to move, and a heavy weight hung above him, ominous and menacing.

Panic set in as he struggled against the restraints, but they were unyielding. He screamed, but only the echoes of his own voice responded. The place was a tomb, filled with the remnants of those who had come before him—bones, skulls, and forgotten souls.

A voice broke the silence.

'To be, or not to be: that is the question," Bonifati said, his tone as cold as ever. He was standing before Bondemiro, his face hidden behind a mask, his words heavy with meaning. 'To die, to sleep; perchance to dream. But what dreams may come?'

Bondemiro's mind raced. 'What is this, Bonifati? Have you lost your mind? What is this madness?'

Bonifati chuckled softly, his voice full of a quiet malice. 'You came seeking entertainment, Signor Bondemiro, did you not? Perhaps you’ve become tired of the mundane, and now you wish to witness something truly... unique'.

Bondemiro struggled to make sense of it. 'This is no jest, Bonifati. What have you done to me?'

Bonifati’s smile widened. 'Fear is but a natural end for those who have forgotten their place. But you need not worry about your fate. It will come, in its own time'.

And with that Bonifati turned and left, leaving Bondemiro alone in the gloom. Time seemed to stretch on forever as Bondemiro fought against his restraints, feeling the weight of his predicament sink in. The oppressive atmosphere thickened with every passing moment.

The hours dragged by, and Bondemiro's anxiety grew. Desperation gnawed at him, but he refused to succumb. He needed to find a way out. With great effort, he managed to free one hand, then the other. The cold, merciless device above him continued to swing, coming dangerously close.

In a burst of determination, Bondemiro lunged, his hand catching the shackles and breaking free. The relief was momentary, but it gave him the strength to roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the swinging menace.

Now free, Bondemiro scrambled to his feet, weak from the ordeal. His eyes scanned the chamber, searching for an escape. He spotted a wall with a hidden passage. Desperately, he rushed towards it, knowing that it was his only chance. On the other side, a small cellar awaited, dimly lit and silent.

Inside, dusty bottles and wooden barrels lined the shelves. Bondemiro, parched and exhausted, drank from one of the casks. It wasn’t the best wine, but it provided the briefest moment of comfort.

He continued his search for a way out, moving through the dim, narrow corridors. At last, he came upon a door. He attempted to open it, but it was locked. The padlock was old and rusted, and he realised that the key was nowhere to be found. Desperate, he began to search for anything that could help.

A bottle of olive oil caught his eye. He poured it over the lock, hoping it might loosen enough to free him. After several attempts, he finally heard the satisfying click of the lock giving way.

With the door open, Bondemiro made his way through the final passage, the faint light of the outside world beckoning. Though he was battered and bloodied, he had managed to escape. But the memories of what had transpired would haunt him forever.

Once out of the damp cellar, Signor Bondemiro made his way towards the staircase, climbing upwards to the vat room above. He was struck by the strange, almost unsettling light that greeted him—a hue that seemed unnatural, at odds with the ominous gleam of the place. Was it a portent, signaling the final moments of his life? Or merely a trick of his perception, warped by the harrowing events he had endured?

As he crept forth, he suddenly heard footsteps approaching. Instinctively, he hid behind a cask, heart pounding in his chest as the sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor. The figure walked straight past him, oblivious to his presence. From his vantage point, Signor Bondemiro could not make out the stranger’s appearance, but an overwhelming urge to understand the mystery drove him onwards.

When the stranger had passed, Signor Bondemiro cautiously moved towards the stairs once more, hoping the coast was clear. A sense of dread gnawed at him, for he could not shake the feeling that this person—this stranger—was no mere passerby.

Each step felt heavier than the last, and anxiety clung to him like a second skin. But he pressed on, mindful of his growing paranoia. What awaited him upstairs? Was he about to uncover a gruesome truth, or was he merely trapped in a nightmare of his own mind?

The blood from his earlier wound had slowed, but his body still trembled with fear. As he ascended, he found himself in the main corridor, only to hear the footsteps again. This time, the sound was closer—too close for comfort. He ducked behind a wall, his breath held, waiting for the figure to pass. It seemed as if his nerves were fraying with every passing moment.

Once the coast was clear, Signor Bondemiro’s thoughts turned to Signora Veneto. Surely, if the other guests were still alive, they would be found. But in his mind, doubt crept in—had they all perished, or was this a twisted game? The lines between reality and delusion were becoming harder to distinguish.

As the figure's words lingered in the air, the hall around Bondemiro began to shift and distort. The walls cracked, and the floor became covered in polished marble. The dark space transformed into a grand hall filled with mirrors—tall, ornate mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling.

Bondemiro looked around, bewildered. The mirrors seemed to multiply, reflecting countless versions of himself. Each reflection was different—some older, some younger, some more distorted. It was as though the mirrors were showing every possible version of his life.

He stepped towards one of the mirrors and gazed into it. In it, he saw himself as a child, innocent and full of life. The reflection smiled back at him, but it was an unsettling smile. The reflection then morphed, and the child’s face became twisted, corrupted by greed and ambition.

"No..." Bondemiro whispered, stepping back.

Another mirror caught his attention. In it, he saw himself standing over the body of a man, his hands dripping with blood. He recoiled in horror, but the reflection smirked at him, as if taunting him.

"Is this who you really are?" the voice of the hooded figure asked from behind him.

Bondemiro turned quickly, but no one was there. The voice seemed to come from every direction at once.

"Face your true self, Signor Bondemiro," the voice echoed. "You cannot escape your past. It has led you to this very moment."

With renewed determination, he began his search, moving from room to room. But all he found were mannequins—lifeless figures dressed in various costumes. Finally, in a secluded hall, he saw her. Signora Veneto sat motionless, her back to him, still in the same attire she had worn to the ball.

Approaching cautiously, he turned the chair around, hoping to find her alive. What he discovered instead froze him to his core. There she sat, not as a living woman, but as an embalmed corpse—a grotesque mannequin draped in finery. Horror washed over him as the truth struck him like a blow: Signora Veneto was dead, her soul likely bound to this cursed place.

When Signor Bondemiro turned the chair around, expecting to find Signora Veneto sitting there, alive or at least in some semblance of humanity, what he was met with was nothing short of a grotesque revelation. His fingers trembled as they grasped the edge of her mask, the ornate decoration cold and lifeless in his hands. As he pulled it away, his breath hitched, his mind momentarily refusing to accept the horrifying sight that lay before him.

Signora Veneto’s face—or what was left of it—was not the delicate, composed visage he had last seen at the ball. Instead, he was staring at a perfectly preserved, yet eerily artificial, visage. Her skin, waxen and pale, was cold to the touch, like a lifeless doll. The face was still painted with the same makeup, the same expression of serene composure she had worn at the event, but now it had become an unnatural mask, forever frozen in place. Her eyes, glassy and unblinking, stared back at him, vacant and devoid of the spark of life that had once inhabited them.

Bondemiro’s heart pounded in his chest, the blood draining from his face. His knees grew weak beneath him, and for a moment, he felt as though the world itself had spun on its axis, shifting into a place of dread and unreality. He staggered backwards, his mouth dry, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. He shook his head in disbelief, his hands still clutching the mask in an unsteady grip.

'No…' he gasped, the word escaping in a hoarse whisper, as if speaking the truth would somehow make it less real. His voice cracked, and he staggered backwards, his mind attempting to reject the nightmarish scene before him. His hands trembled violently as they reached out once more, but this time to touch her arm, hoping against hope that it might yield to some semblance of warmth, some sign of life.

But there was nothing. Only the stiff rigidity of a mannequin's body, frozen in time and death.

The reality of the situation began to sink in, slowly, painfully. His stomach churned with revulsion as he gazed at the horrific mockery of life before him. A wave of nausea gripped him, and he turned away for a moment, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He wanted to scream, to tear at his own skin in frustration, but no sound emerged, only the dull thudding of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

A surge of fear and dread took hold of him, and his mind spun, grasping for answers that seemed increasingly out of reach. Had it all been a lie? Had Signora Veneto never truly been alive? The thought was too much to bear, too much for him to comprehend. His chest tightened, as though an invisible weight was pressing down on him, suffocating him.

'No... not possible', he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper, his throat constricting with emotion. His expression twisted in confusion, shock, and then, finally, horror. His wide eyes were fixed on the mannequin before him, but it was not just the sight of the woman turned lifeless statue that terrified him—it was the dawning realization of the implications. She was no mere victim of an unfortunate fate. No, she was a mere prop in some cruel, twisted game orchestrated by an unseen hand.

He staggered backwards, his feet scraping against the cold floor, his entire being shaking as though an unseen force was slowly unraveling his sanity. The horror of the moment held him in a trance-like state, as though he were trapped between the world of the living and the dead.

Before he could process the full weight of his discovery, a voice broke the silence. It was Bonifati, seated in his ornate chair, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

'Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily'. he said, quoting Napoleon.

Signor Bondemiro spun around, fury and despair boiling inside him. 'Enough with the historical quotes, Bonifati! You are a madman, a devil in disguise!'

Bonifati chuckled darkly, his eyes gleaming with deranged amusement. 'You threaten me with words, but your bravado means nothing. You will mock me no more!'

Without warning, Signor Bondemiro was struck from behind, the blow rendering him unconscious.

When he awoke, he found himself trapped inside the dreaded Iron Maiden. The sharp steel spikes pressed against him from all sides, and he realised with a sickening certainty that he was at the mercy of his tormentor once again. Now, he wore the mask of a jester, a cruel reminder of his helplessness.

Once more, he was in the same catacomb, a place of death and despair. Bonifati, still masked, stood before him, his eyes cold and calculating.

'Beware the Ides of March', Bonifati intoned ominously.

Signor Bondemiro’s mind raced, and he screamed in defiance, 'You won't get away with this, Bonifati! I swear it!'

Bonifati’s laughter rang out, mocking and relentless. 'Be not deceived: if I have veiled my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance upon myself. Vexed I am of late with passions of some difference, conceptions only proper to myself', he recited, quoting Julius Caesar.

'Who are you truly, and why have you done all this?' Signor Bondemiro demanded, desperation creeping into his voice.

Bonifati paused, then slowly removed his mask, revealing his twisted, fanatical face. 'Ecce homo, behold the man. Do you remember me, Signor Bondemiro? At the Piazza San Marco, you dismissed me—mocked me. You took my name, my childhood, my honour, and now I will have my revenge. Yes, I am mad, but maddened by the voices of vengeance'.

'Please, for the love of God, Bonifati!' Signor Bondemiro pleaded, his voice trembling.

Bonifati’s smile twisted cruelly. 'God condemned me long ago, Signor Bondemiro. There is no love for me to give, only vengeance'.

'Bonifati!' Signor Bondemiro screamed once more.

And with that, the cold metal doors of the Iron Maiden closed with a final, unrelenting clang. Signor Bondemiro’s fate was sealed. His screams echoed in the catacombs, but no one would hear them.

The steel walls of the Iron Maiden closed around him like the jaws of fate. Though the barbs did not yet pierce his flesh, he could feel the breath of death pressing closer, curling like frost along his spine. The darkness was absolute, smothering, a velvet void that offered neither mercy nor promise. Only silence.

A silence more deafening than a scream.

His heart pounded with such vehemence it felt like a drumbeat summoning the underworld. He inhaled, but the air was thick, moist, cloying—more miasma than breath.

His body was trembling violently, every limb quaking in a symphony of dread. Sweat rolled from his brow in rivulets, mingling with the blood already crusted at his wrist.

He tried to shift, to turn, but the narrow frame of the device held him fast. The slightest movement threatened to press him into the serrated steel that surrounded him.

He whimpered involuntarily—a sound that didn’t belong to the haughty Signor Bondemiro but to something reduced, primal, exposed. An animal cornered. A soul stripped bare.

'No... no', he whispered, as if denial could undo it all.

His eyes, though useless in the blackness, fluttered wildly, as if grasping for sight. His mind clung to images: the luminous ballrooms of Venice, the soft laughter of courtesans behind feathered masks, the taste of Prosecco on his tongue, the glow of lanterns drifting along the canals like floating stars. And then—the cold, unmoving face of Signora Veneto. The waxen cheeks, the vacant smile, the hollow echo of something once alive. His throat tightened. He wanted to scream, but there was no voice left. Only airless silence and the ragged pull of his lungs.

What had he done to deserve such a fate? Was it truly vanity? His cruel disregard? The pomposity he wore like a brocade cloak? Or was this Bonifati’s madness alone—an ancient grudge twisted by time, loathing turned religious, death made sacred?

He became aware of a faint ticking. Not the pendulum of his former torment, but something internal. A clock winding down.

'I will not die like this', he growled, his voice hoarse and cracked.

He began to thrash, lightly at first, testing the edges. The spikes pricked him—but not deeply. Bonifati had spared him for now, left him entombed in anticipation. It was worse than pain. It was the knowledge of pain’s certainty.
'I am not a swine!' He shouted suddenly, his voice reverberating in the iron.

No answer.

Desperation roiled in his gut, twisting like a serpent. He slammed his head back against the iron wall behind him. Once. Twice. Perhaps he would die his own way. Perhaps madness was better than waiting for the blade.

'Help me!' He shrieked, his voice cracking into something feral, fractured. “Someone—”

Nothing. Not even footsteps. The silence was now

Bonifati’s final mockery.

And then, a sound.

A creak—gentle, deliberate. The sound of gears shifting. Of something unlocking.

His body froze, suspended in breathless anticipation.

Was this mercy?

Or was it the end?

Years later, when the catacombs were finally discovered, the skeletal remains of Signor Bondemiro and many others were found. Above the arch, an inscription was carved: Eram quod es, eris quod sum—'I was what you are, you will be what I am'.

Author Notes: Gaston is pronounced Gas-ton, with the entonation at the end, (Gastón). It is Venetian

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