The King’s Crown

When the guards learned of Clemente Fontana’s escape from prison, the public prosecutor swiftly mandated that the Carabinieri patrol the judge’s home— the very judge responsible for sentencing him— around the clock. This decisive action underscores the gravity of the situation and the necessity for safeguarding those involved in the justice system.

“ Good evening, Your Honour!”

In a stunning twist, Clemente had somehow evaded capture, arriving just moments ahead of the Carabinieri, who raced from the city in two speeding patrol cars. Now, he stood before the judge, a pistol gripped tightly in his hand. “ Say your prayers; your time has come!”

Outside, the Carabinieri on guard could see the warm glow spilling from the judge’s large study, yet they remained oblivious to the unfolding crisis within. Inside those walls, a chilling confrontation commenced: “ I warned you, Your Honour, that you would pay for my wrongful conviction with your life.” “ Clemente Fontana, I have ruled according to my conscience!” the judge retorted, unwavering. “ That’s a lie! I am innocent now and always have been… You know it! I’ve never taken a life, Your Honour! I was Clemente, the so-called ‘King’ of the harbour. Yes, I committed theft and deception, but when that policeman was found murdered by the quay, I was in bed with a fever! The ‘King’ would never stoop to such a senseless act!” “ Your Honour, death is no trivial matter!” Clemente exclaimed with fervour, yet he failed to grasp the true weight of the judge’s words, his thoughts drifting amidst painful memories. “ I had poured my life savings into a dream of buying a title of nobility. I could have been a ‘King!’ People would have looked at me and said, ‘There’s Clemente the “King,” with the title of count, baron, or marquis!’ But now, Your Honour, your verdict has shattered those dreams—my very essence…”

Clemente had voiced his deepest truths. The tension that had fuelled him dissolved in an instant, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. In a moment of despair, he released the safety catch and pulled the trigger.

The Carabinieri, alerted by the gunshot, rushed into the building. A shadow was seen climbing over the windowsill, prompting them to open fire with their pistols. In a matter of moments, silence enveloped the scene; a lifeless body lay in that room.

* * *

Upon reaching the gate, he peered through the peephole but saw nothing. Frustration bubbled within him; it felt like yet another prank by the neighbourhood children, causing his face to flush crimson. Yet, curiosity drove him forward, and he cautiously opened the gate, only to find a man lying motionless on the ground. “There’s a man at the gate who’s unresponsive... he may be dead,” Brother Luciano informed the Prior as he arrived. In a moment of swift determination, Bro Luciano gently shook the man, turned him over, and resolved to help. He hoisted the man onto his shoulders, carrying him back to the monastery with all his strength. “ Don’t jump to conclusions, Bro Luciano. He’s injured but still alive. We need to act quickly—follow me!” the Prior commanded.

They laid the man on a cot, anxiously hoping for him to regain consciousness. The Prior carefully washed and disinfected his wounds, but the blood continued to flow. “ Call the infirmarian, Brother Luciano!” he instructed urgently. “ Of course, I’ll go right away…”

Clemente had been shot. He had wandered through the narrow, dark streets of the harbour all night, fleeing for his life, until he finally reached the hills. At dawn, he pounded on the convent door, but now he lay helpless on the cot, feverish with delirium, tortured by his thoughts. “I’ll kill you, judge! I will kill you!”

The Prior flinched at Clemente’s fierce words, heavy with threat. “ Stay calm. Don’t get agitated…” he murmured, feeling utterly helpless. “I am the ‘King’! I demand the crown!”

Bro Luciano stepped into the room, halting in the doorway, struggling to hide his astonishment. What delusion was this poor soul trapped in?

“ And after you, Judge, I’ll take out the others too!” “ Father Prior…” Bro Luciano’s expression shifted to one of alarm. “ Yes, Bro Luciano: have you arranged for the doctor?” “ Absolutely, but shouldn’t we also notify the police?” “ Our Lord prayed for the sinners…” “ But this man is beyond a sinner!” “ Our Lord sacrificed Himself for him too, Bro Luciano!”

The Prior diligently continued his care for Clemente, who writhed in pain on his bed. He meticulously washed and disinfected the wounds, gently dabbing away the blood—an essential task that the well-meaning friar had yet to master. In previous instances, death had arrived in the monastery with a serene and expectant demeanour. But now, it approached with a ferocity that was almost hateful, as blood flowed freely, warm and crimson. “

Let me handle this, brother,” urged Brother Luciano, stepping in with confidence. He expertly applied damp cloths to the wounds and bandaged the torn flesh with a skill that suggested years of practice. At last, the relentless bleeding came to an end.

Clemente remained unconscious, the blood lost during his escape plunging him into an unbearable despair. Memories of his flight and the judge’s murder collided in his mind, creating a vivid nightmare of terror. In this moment, fear consumed him. “ Enough!” he shouted, his large hands thrashing in the air as if he could grasp and destroy the haunting spectre before him. A grimace of agony contorted his face. Bro Luciano quickly made the sign of the cross. “ Bro Luciano, you must pray for him,” the Prior implored.

Bro Luciano knelt in a quiet corner, clutching his boxwood rosary beads as he began to recite the Rosary. Every prayer he uttered resonated with such genuine heartfelt emotion that it felt as if his sighs were striving to reach Heaven itself. At the same time, Clemente’s condition continued to deteriorate.

Clemente harboured dreams of kingship, envisioning the grandeur, glory, and honours that accompanied such a title. He imagined a lavish banquet laid out before him, an enticing vision cultivated by the simple desires of the hungry, humble, and impoverished. Delirium, in its strange way, can conjure these dreams; it was as if Clemente were experiencing the magnificent illusions that had shaped his life’s aspirations.

In that fleeting moment, he found a smile breaking through. “ Thank you, Lord, for keeping him from blaspheming,” he murmured to Luciano, releasing a deep sigh. The Prior gazed at him, his eyes glistening with emotion. The innocence of the friar’s devotion was profoundly moving. “ Behold the King!” Clemente’s voice rang out, a hint of delirium returning for what would be the final time. “Clear the way for Clemente, the ‘King’! Present him with a treasure chest of diamonds and precious gems, a red velvet cloak, and a crown—a golden crown, as grand as Clemente himself, as powerful as he is…” “ Brother… how am I to procure such a crown?” Bro Luciano’s worry deepened, lost in uncertainty. “ No crown is necessary, Bro Luciano. This humble king needs your prayers far more than he needs a crown…”

And so, from the confines of that small cell, the sincere prayers of the devoted friar and the heartfelt desires of Clemente Fontana ascended to Heaven, perhaps both embraced with equal grace by the Lord. “Have mercy on us, Lord…” “Oh, my golden crown! Where can I find my golden crown?” “ Forgive us, O Lord, for our misdeeds... Bro Prior often reminds us that sometimes the most righteous among committed our sins unknowingly...”

At that very moment, the doctor rushed in, swiftly lifting Clemente under his arms to support his head. He gently laid him down on the bed and closed his eyes. “ I’ve arrived too late... he’s gone.” It was 3 pm on Good Friday, the same hour and day when our Lord Jesus Christ, the ‘King of Heaven and Earth,’ gave His life on the cross. Outside, the doctor encountered the Carabinieri, who had been dispatched to track down the fleeing suspect. “ Go inside,” he directed.

The officers entered, urgency in their steps. “We’re searching for an escaped prisoner, a murderer...” they informed the Prior. “ Rest in peace.”

The Carabinieri, unaware of the solemnity of the moment, lunged forward with their guns drawn. Inside the cell, Luciano was a storm, commanding attention. “ Put those weapons away!” he ordered firmly. “ That man is dangerous!” one officer insisted. “ That man is dead!” Luciano declared, his voice steady.

With their resolve shaken, they entered the cell, heads bowed, and holstered their weapons. Clemente Fontana lay there ready, cradling a wreath—the boxwood crown of Bro Luciano—woven delicately in his hands, a symbol of respect and remembrance.