June, and Rome had entered the most beautiful season of the year; the plane trees along the banks of the Tiber River were lush with foliage, and sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, carpeting the cobblestone streets in patches of mottled gold.
Martini had been living in the guards’ barracks in the East Wing of the Quirinal Palace for five months.
He had changed into three sets of clothes—not military uniforms, but civilian attire.
A dark gray coat, a black shirt with the collar unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled up above the wrists, revealing several old scars on his forearms.
His hair had grown a bit longer, covering the most prominent scar above his brow bone.
But the drooping of his left eye could not be hidden; it was a permanent mark left by nerve damage.
Cerydra never asked where he went each day.
Virginia did not ask either, and Martini himself never said.
But every time he returned, he would stand at the door of the study for a moment, wait for the Princess to look up, and then nod slightly.
That nod meant: “It is done.” In those five months, he had brought back seven pieces of intelligence.
The first: The shift schedule of the OVRA plainclothes officers in the Testaccio District of Rome.
The plainclothes officers changed shifts three times a day, two people per shift, stationed permanently at the café opposite the relief station.
The café owner was a member of the Fascist Party and reported the foot traffic at the relief station to the Fascist Party Headquarters every day.
Martini had added a small line of text to the report: “The café owner’s daughter had received bread at the relief station.” The second: Between seven and eight o’clock every morning, a garbage truck drove out from the back door of the Palazzo Venezia without inspection.
Martini had attached a route map of the garbage truck to the report, drawn in pencil with crooked lines, but every turn and stop point was clearly marked.
The third: The adjutant of Crown Prince Umberto in the Naples Legion went to a tavern in the port district every Friday night to drink.
The tavern owner’s son served in the navy, and Martini’s comment was only two words: “Usable.” The fourth: Piero Colonna, the youngest son of Colonna—the young noble who had once been stunned into silence by a single sentence from Cerydra at a banquet—was having an affair with a female secretary at the Rome branch of the Fascist Party.
The secretary’s husband worked for the OVRA.
Martini had added a line at the end of the report: “Colonna is unaware.
The secretary is pumping him for information.” The fifth: The supply manifest for the Royal Navy base in Naples from March to May 1931.
Martini did not explain how he had obtained it.
He simply listed a set of figures in the report—fuel reserves were twelve percent lower than the official figures, ammunition reserves were eight percent lower, but the inventory of maintenance parts was nearly one-third higher than the published figures.
Comment: “They are preparing for maintenance, not for war.” The sixth: A list of instructors at the Rome Military Engineering Academy.
Martini had drawn asterisks next to three of the names.
Comment: “The Fascist Party Headquarters pays them an extra allowance every month, which is not on the official payroll.
Source: The maid of one of them is from Sicily.” The seventh: A list.
Seven names.
Each name was followed by a small line of text—military rank, station, political inclination, and channels through which they could be contacted.
Comment: “These people are all waiting; they do not know what they are waiting for.
But they know that what they are currently loyal to is not worth their loyalty.” Cerydra read the seven reports from beginning to end, then folded them neatly and placed them deep in a drawer.
Martini stood at the doorway, waiting in silence.
His posture was still that of a soldier: spine straight, shoulder blades pulled back.
But compared to when he stood by the wall of the relief station five months ago, there was less stiffness.
It was as if a man who had stayed in the darkness for too long was finally beginning to let his eyes adjust to the light.
“The seventh list,” Cerydra said, “is that your own judgment?” “Yes.” “What is the criteria?” Martini was silent for a moment.
“I have drunk with them.
One by one.
I have listened to the tone of their voices when they spoke the truth, and also when they spoke lies.
I have looked into their eyes, and I have looked at their hands.
I know what kind of people are waiting.” Cerydra looked up at him.
Before her stood a man with a scarred face, blood on his hands, and a life spent in the darkness for ten years, and the words she spoke were like a chess piece landing in the very center of the board.
“When you were waiting in the darkness before, what were you waiting for?” Martini’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
He was silent for a long time, so long that the light outside the window had shifted across half the tabletop.
“I do not know.
I waited for ten years and never found what I was waiting for.
So I stopped waiting.
I began to do.
I did the things others told me to do, regardless of right or wrong, regardless of the consequences.
I thought that as long as I didn’t stop, it didn’t count as waiting.
I was wrong.” He looked at Cerydra, the drooping scar on his left eye particularly glaring in the afternoon light.
“Waiting itself is not an escape.
Waiting for the wrong person is.
I waited in the darkness for ten years, waiting for Your Highness.” The study was quiet for a long time.
Cerydra did not say “thank you,” did not say “I trust you,” and did not say any of the things that superiors often say to their subordinates.
“Black Scorpion,” she said.
“Present.” “From today on, your mission has changed.
You are no longer to collect intelligence.” Martini’s spine tightened slightly.
“You are to start finding people.
Not those who can be used.
But those who are waiting.
You have waited for ten years; you know what they are like.
Find them.
Find them one by one.” Martini knelt on one knee, his movements lighter than before, but more resolute.
“I, Black Scorpion, accept the order.” Cerydra watched him kneeling before her.
The sunlight fell on his back, the outline of his shoulder blades faintly visible through his dark gray coat.
Those bones had borne too much—the mud of the Piave River, the darkness of Sicily, ten years of endless waiting.
Now they were still bearing the weight.
But the direction had changed.
After Martini left, Virginia walked into the study, carrying a tea tray.
Her gaze swept over the tabletop—the reports had been put away, and only the chessboard remained, with the black and white pieces arrayed and waiting.
“Your Highness.” “Hmm.” “I have seen the list that Black Scorpion brought back today.” Cerydra raised her eyes.
Virginia never took the initiative to ask about the intelligence Martini brought back; this was the first time she had spoken up.
“Speak.” “The third person on the list, Captain Enrico Barberis, stationed at the Naples naval base.
His sister married a distant cousin of mine.” Cerydra looked at her without speaking.
The maid with gray-green eyes stood there, holding the tea tray steadily, her expression unchanged.
“My cousin lost his job last winter.
Captain Barberis sent money, allowing his family to get through the winter.
My cousin wrote to thank him, and mentioned in the letter that the Captain had said one thing in his letter—’I am serving something unworthy, but at least my salary can support people who are worth it.'” Virginia placed the tea tray on the table, then stepped back and curtsied.
“I just felt that Your Highness should know this.” Cerydra looked at Virginia, and the two of them locked eyes for a brief moment.
“I understand,” Cerydra said.
Virginia exited the room, the sound of the door closing very soft, like a chess piece being gently placed on the edge of the chessboard.
It might not seem tempting right now but who knows what the future holds?
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”