In the name of St. George

The repetitive sound of hooves tramping along the ancient road resonates throughout the length of the narrow valley. The green of the trees climbing up the steep slopes on either side of the bed of light green grass that makes up the bottom of the valley distinctly detaches the latter from the deep blue of the sky, stained white by the occasional clouds. The gentle, steady rustle of the only stream flowing through the heart of the valley, fed by waterfalls peeping through the dense forest vegetation, accompanies the song of the lone nightingale. A placid wind blows through the valley bringing fresh air from the snow-capped mountains to the plains.  

"My dear Fener, we have the wind against us," says Scariot as he stretches to the leather saddle and extends his hand to caress the neck of his mount. The road he has taken, according to the priest of the village that lies at the entrance to the valley, should take him up to the height of the snow that melts on the neck of the mountain as it awaits the return of his winter.  

Astolfo Scariot is a young captain of venture whose army has headed for Florence to take part as mercenaries in the struggle of the Guelphs against the Ghibellines. He has lost his job because of the rivalry between de' Medici court and the Scariot family, which does not hide the fact that Pope Giuliano de' Medici abuses the dullness of the church, indulging in deadly sins without even making an effort to hide it.

The horse moves at a walking pace, as the aimless rider feels no hurry. A sudden roar puts the few birds perched on the branches of the trees in the valley to flight and makes the horse nervous, which the rider manages to calm only after a lot of reins work. "It's the sound of a bell, but it's so intense it's like being under it!" Beyond the stream, and beyond the grassy bed of the valley, on the cheek of the right side of the mountain, the tip of the roof of a bell tower barely manages to peep out, hidden by the large pines and firs that dominate unchallenged the steep mountainside.  

"So there it is, the church of St. George, the only church dedicated to his name. It is there that the malingo, outraged by the heroic deeds of the saint against his emissary, has decided to re-present his wrathful nature."

Indeed, the priest had told him that great dangers lie in wait in that valley for those who go in search of what they have not lost.  

"There is a church, dear knight, the foundation stone of which was laid many centuries ago by a congregation of Franciscan friars, of which only a few memories remain today among the elders. It is said that an enormous evil was conjured up at the altar of that church," are the words spoken by the priest of the village that stands at the entrance to the valley, as he makes the sign of the cross, "and it is said that it is no longer permitted, to those who follow the path of Christ, to set foot there. It is now known in all neighboring villages as the church of the unfortunate, showing itself only to those who face its path in solitude, and when seeking shelter within it are no longer able to return to the sunlight.

"Before Saint," Astolfo replied to the priest, "St. George was a man, just as I am. I am sure that even if I fail in my intent to free the church, the dwelling place of the Lord, from the evil one, St. Peter will open the gates for me to reach the graces of our Lord." 

"If this is your will, go with God," the priest replied, motioning him to bow his head to receive the blessing for his intentions.  

The walk seemed to be so short from the edge of the village, yet now it seemed to take longer than expected, as if with each bend of the stream the road grew wider and wider.  

The narrow valley, with its steep walls, hides the sun making darkness fall faster than normal.

A bed is soon ready, and while the fire burns in the center of the camp, illuminating with its faint light the horse tied to the ground and its rider, whose light armor glows whenever a small flame dares too much, a piece of meat skewered on a spit is cooked. The long evening is accompanied by the glow of the full moon, whose white rays illuminate the meadow around Alfonso. The horse, after taking large sips of the cool waters of the stream, is ruminating placidly. He is a magnificent specimen, six feet tall at the withers, completely white. He is covered with a blue drape on which is the white coat of arms of the Scariot family. "We both know that there is no place for me at the castle," said Alfonso, as he passed the spit between his hands, sitting warming his feet on the fire. "The eldest son gets to inherit, and the youngest to be a priest. To all others it falls to serve in battle, but I battles n-" an icy tremor shakes the forest plunged in the obscurity of night, making the beasts that inhabit the darkness run everywhere. Alfonso rises, putting his hand to the hilt of his sword he cries out loudly, "who goes there!" But nothing. Every noise that occupied the valley is now suddenly silent. Only the slow flow of water and the crackling of fire make a faint echo.

A sudden wind rises from the forest, which seems to originate from the old church. The rustling of the trees increases in intensity, becoming a deafening roar. The deafening noise seems to carry a voice "you have done wrong," in a tone of hatred says "nulla evasio est." Black clouds interpose themselves between the moon with unnatural speed, smothering the valley in a black, almost palpable darkness. Only the small fire allows the rider to see what is happening just around him. Small lights appear at the edge of the darkness. The horse rears up, neighing, fighting with all his strength against the rope that keeps him bound in that valley of death. The lights move from top to bottom, rhythmically, in pairs. They are approaching the fire. At last the horse manages to free himself with a strong yank from the yoke that was holding him, and he flees at a high rate of speed, neighing in the direction of the village. Alfonso, sword drawn, stares in amazement at the sea of lights surrounding him on all sides. His labored breathing condenses against his iron helmet, while his heart beats so loud it can be heard in his ears. Here comes a pair close enough to the flickering light of the flames to show itself in its true form. Two large white fangs reflect the red light of the embers. The upper lip is stretched to show two rows of teeth. It is the nose of a wolf. Alfonso realizes that he is surrounded by a dozen wolves. Moved by the terror that permeates every fiber of his body, the knight shouts, "Bring it on, servants of Asmodeus!" The sword reflects the light of fire. The wolfmaster snarls forward, a masterful beast, worthy servant of the devil thinks Alfonso. Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the valley with its blue light, and for a brief instant the wolves appear in their terrible majesty. Another atrocious roar explodes inside Alfonso's ears, causing him to fall down and losing his sword. Disoriented, he can neither get up nor open his eyes. The armor begins to pinch, to chafe, and another roar deafens him.  

When he finally manages to open his eyes and recover, it is morning. Groggy, he sits up, incredulous that he is all in one piece, checking his arms and legs. 

The sun's first dim rays illuminate the smoldering ashes of the hearth. A light mist prevents one from seeing a few meters beyond the camp. Large furrows in the ground can be seen, as if a large beast had laboriously crawled out of the ground, spilling clods of earth, arranged where the wolves were the night before.  

Alfonso, in disbelief, could not tell if the previous night's fight had happened for real or had been a dream. There is no sign of Fener, though. The knight rises and picks up his sword from the ground, marching toward the church of the unfortunates by crossing the path hidden by the fog with heavy steps.

The boundary separating the valley from the forest on the slope is stark. An imposing wall of trees with thick brown stems and piled needles seem to want to close the passage to the path. The horseman begins the climb, clambering up between the large roots stuck in the black soil, which landslides under his every step.  

After several hours of walking here comes a small glimmer of light filtering through the dense foliage. The sight that awaits him beyond the forest boundary is very different from what he expected. A small white church, with a steeple that is also white, stands in the middle of a meadow of light green grass, adorned with small pink flowers arranged in clusters, scattered here and there.

The church, whose entrance is preceded by a portico of Doric columns, is arranged so that from the altar one can see the valley and the village. The mist has disappeared, giving way to the clear sky.  

Alfonso draws his sword and with great strides makes his way to the entrance of the church. The doorway is open. It has evidently been abandoned in great haste. Drapes and cassocks lie along the nave and on the pews. Crossing the porch he feels an unpleasant sensation, as if an abomination is waiting for him. His footsteps rumble in the structure, and his armor bangs with each step, producing metallic noises. He stops in front of a cassock abandoned on the ground. With the tip of his sword he shakes it, making it obvious that it is not empty but that there is something inside. A large white sack peeks out from under the hood: it looks as if something wrapped in cloth has been hidden inside it. The foreboding of the proximity of the evil one becomes more and more intense and vivid. Looking up at the altar, he sees himself reflected in a golden bowl placed on it, and behind him a huge figure struggling to wedge and push his body inside the church door.

Alfonso turns his head and with horror becomes aware of the terrible creature placed by the evil one to guard that place. In an instant he realizes that the cassocks were never abandoned by their owners, and that what he has stepped into is no longer a church, but a cemetery. In front of him, a couple of steps from the tip of his sword, two large fangs covered with brown fur, an incalculable series of black eyes arranged on a disgusting round, hair-covered head. Long hairy, curved paws branch out from an obnoxious body.  

Asmodeus himself appears before Alfonso in the guise of a giant tarantula. Above it a glass rose window decorated with a depiction of St. George on horseback impaling the dragon. The only sound echoing in the church are Alfonso's deep breaths; the aberrant creature's movements seem to produce no sound.

"Ecce alius martyrum" are the words coming from that shapeless body, the creature communicates in a hissing voice as it moves the chelicerae placed in front of its slobbering mouth. Alfonso clutches his sword with two hands so as not to lose his grip, the insane terror clouding his mind not allowing him to think. In a dim, trembling voice he repeats, "Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam." Backing away with indecisive steps, Alphonsus steps over the friar's dead body. Propping his sword in his tunic, he bends to his knees and with a sweep of his kidneys raises his arms, hurling the corpse at the creature, who immediately uses his two front paws to remove the tunic that ended up over his eyes. Alfonso uses this diversion to escape behind the altar. Under the white pallium covering the marble of the altar is a small black iron gate. He does not know if it is an ancient escape route, but it is hardly worse than where he is now.

The creature has broken free with great speed and is now crossing the aisle quickly as it topples the pews with its long legs. With a couple of kicks Alfonso breaks the hinges of the gate, which falls down what appears to be a flight of steps. The huge spider is already with its body above the altar, but it has not seen the passage. It stares at Alfonso with its hosts of disgusted eyes, waiting for the slightest movement from him to initiate the attack. Everything he expected except Alfonso to leap toward him. With a leap his prey suddenly disappears. He immediately looks for it fiercely, poking the marble floor with his paws and discovering the deception of the passageway. A Czech fury pervades the disgusting creature, which tries to wedge itself with all its might into the small opening, breaking the altar mensa. It is about to stick its long hairy paws inside the catacomb with no way out, when a bolt of silver lightning strikes it between the eyes. The creature backs away, trying to wipe its paws off the thing, to no avail.

A spearhead slowly emerges from the crypt, around whose neck a red triangular banner is tied. Alfonso's iron glove holds up the shaft, and the knight rises from the darkness with renewed vigor. The beast cries "Eques ruber!" and in mad terror attempts to flee, but is soon caught up by the knight who, at the cry of "Pro Sancto Georgio!" comes after it, chasing it down the aisle handling the relic that lay in the catacomb, the sacred spear that St. George used to exterminate the dragon. The servant of asmodeus sprints at full speed toward the church door, but a blinding beam of light hits him just before he reaches the doorway. Alfonso waits for no other opportunity and thrusts his spear full length into the creature. With a terrible cry, the beast's legs involute along its body. 

The battle is over; Lucifer's servant has been defeated. The knight pulls the spear out of the disgusting but now rendered helpless mass, and heads out of the church to lie down in the meadow of green grass beside the flowers.

#notes:

nulla evasio est : there is no escape, no way to escape.

Ecce alius martyrum : here is another martyr.

Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam : not to us, O Lord, not to us but to your name you give glory; it is the motto of the Knights Templar Ordo Templi.

Eques ruber! : the red knight! in Christian culture St. George is associated with the color red.

Pro Sancto Georgio! : for St. George! /in the name of St. George!