The Book of Thomas - Volume One: Heaven

by Robert Boyczuk

  The priest gestured towards a door behind him so small even I would have to stoop to make it through. “The choir-master waits in there.”

  Lark, uncertain, looked at Kite. But Ali strode over to the door and pushed it open. It gave onto the Chapel whose locked doors we’d passed outside.

  “Not you.” Father Jean’s bony finger pointed at Kite, who hadn’t stirred. “Only the boys.”

  Kite shrugged. “As you wish.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Not Thomas, who’s been unwell. His voice is not fit for singing.”

  “Thomas, you say? Isn’t he the one Ignatius—”

  “Yes.”

  The Priest pursed his lips for a moment. “Then perhaps,” he said slowly, “you should return when Thomas is better prepared.”

  “The others are ready.”

  “A strong recommendation from a disgraced soldier.”

  “It is true that I am no judge,” said Kite, brushing away the slight. “However, Ignatius said so.”

  “Ah, well, if a disgraced Jesuit says so, too . . .”

  Kite looked irked—I say looked, because I’d never really seen him discomposed, save when he deliberately did so for effect. “They can audition or not as you please,” he said sharply. “And by the talent of the other two you may judge whether or not Thomas should return. However, if I leave now, with these two unheard, my pride would force me to barter elsewhere.”

  The Priest snorted. “Your pride?”

  “Then call it the exigencies of my circumstance, if you will.” The Priest blanched at these words. Kite stepped nearer, towering over him. “Perhaps you may find some empathy for my situation, Father, as I know you’ve had your own exigencies in the past.”

  The Priest looked as if Kite had just made him swallow poison. “Yes, well,” he said, hesitating, licking his lips while he weighed his options. He glanced at me and Ali, likely wondering if we could be trusted with what Kite might reveal. “Perhaps the two today,” he said, “and we will see about the third.”

  “As you wish,” Kite said, motioning Lark and Ali to the door.

  But Lark froze, as frightened as I have ever seen him, even though of the three of us he’d been the most enthusiastic to get here. Ali took his hand and pulled him through, Lark misjudging and barking the top of his head on the frame. In the next room I heard someone order them to shut the door, which they did. All we heard was the murmur of a soft voice until they sang, first Lark, then Ali, then both together. It was hard to say how well they performed because the door, though small, was thick and closely fitted to its frame, effectively muting their high voices. As best I could tell, Ali did a credible job, likely as good as I had heard her sing, while Lark, easily discombobulated, faltered, warbling in and out of key, as I feared he would. Soft words followed, questions from the choir master, if I read the intonations correctly, and answers from Lark and Ali. The door swung open. Ali stuck her head out. “He wishes to see Thomas,” she said to Kite, “and would speak with you, too.”

  Kite looked at Father Jean, who waved a contemptuous dismissal. So I ducked under the door. On the other side I straightened to find myself in the choir at the side of a chancel; Ali and Lark sat in a pew at the front of the nave. Directly in front of them, on the altar steps, stood an elderly man dressed in a black cassock, a gold cross on a chain around his neck. On his head he wore a Cardinal’s red zucchetto. He smiled benignly. Behind me, Kite prodded me to move out of his way. I did so—and realized on either side of the door through which Kite was passing, stood two more Gardes, halberds at the ready. As soon as he was through, they barred the door, then escorted Kite to the altar rail. It struck me that they treated him more like a prisoner being brought to the gallows than a petitioner to the altar. I followed meekly, and sat myself next to Ali. The Cardinal waved the Gardes back a step, blocking my view. I sidled over so I might see better.

  “Commandante,” the Cardinal said, “how nice to see you again.”

  “And you, Cardinal Adolfo,” Kite replied. “But not commandante. Just Kite now, if you please.”

  “Of course.” The Cardinal looked contrite. He raised his hands in mea culpe; jewelled rings glittered on every finger. “Please, forgive me if I offended, Kite.”

  “You did not, your Eminence.”

  “Good. Yes.” He let his hands fall to his sides. “I would like you to know I took no pleasure in your censure. But I could not back away from my duty, nor my obligation to the Ecclesiastical Court.”

  “A Minister of God could not have done otherwise.”

  “Thank you for saying so,” Cardinal Adolfo said. “I have already offered my prayers for Ignatius. May I add my condolences?”

  Kite nodded stiffly.

  “He was a great magister capellae, and set a standard that I fear I shall never equal.” The Cardinal paused, as if waiting for Kite to disagree, but he didn’t oblige. “Yes. Even in death Ignatius contrived to send us these wonderful voices,” the Cardinal continued. “No small thanks to you, Kite. And for that we are grateful.”

  Kite essayed a short bow.

  “There is no question they both have talent enough. The one,” he nodded at Ali, “is ready. The other lacks control—or perhaps confidence. But I can hear what Ignatius must have heard in his voice.” He rubbed his chin as if in thought, then nodded to himself. “Yes, I will recommend both to the schola for examination.” Then, he looked at me. “They told me, Thomas, that after Ignatius’s death you took over their tutelage. Is this true?”

  “Yes,” I answered in a raspy voice, then coughed for good measure. That I had been perspiring freely only strengthened the illusion of my illness.

  “Remarkable,” the Cardinal said. “They also told me your voice exceeds theirs in every regard.”

  Perhaps it was only false humility, but I was taken aback at the compliment. “I wish it were so, your Eminence,” I said without a word of lie.

  “Humility, too.” The Cardinal clasped his hands behind his back. “I will advance all three to the schola. Yes.” I wondered if the Cardinal’s habit of agreeing with himself were a purposeful affectation. “Now then, Kite, on the matter of your compensation . . .”

  “Ignatius shared the terms of your agreement, your Eminence.”

  “Ah, well, there’s the problem, yes? It was a contract with Ignatius, not you. And circumstances have changed. The Vatican’s resources are stretched perilously thin. Every piece of gold is now counted.”

  Kite didn’t feign anger as he had with Father Jean, probably because he knew the Cardinal was better acquainted with prevaricators. He merely said, “Your Eminence?”

  “The Church would look upon it kindly if you were to forgo the fee you believe you are owed. Think of it as an offering, the sort a good Christian might make. It wouldn’t hurt you any to build up some credit with God, would it?” The Cardinal smiled beatifically.

  “God gave us free will so that we might choose to do right,” Kite said. “I suggest you pay me so that I might have the chance to earn that grace myself.”

  The Cardinal laughed, and I have to admit I liked him for that. “If we had someone with your good sense in the treasury, we might not be in such a predicament.” He extracted a purse from his robe. “The boys will remain in Vatican City until Thomas is ready for examination,” the Cardinal said. “If any boy fails to be taken up by the choir, you may retrieve him and see about finding him a place elsewhere.”

  “Yes, your Eminence.”

  The Cardinal tossed the purse at Kite and, as he snatched it from the air, the Garde to my right plunged the tip of his halberd into his back. Kite grunted and staggered forward against the communion rail; the second Garde then thrust his halberd into Kite’s side for good measure.

  I have heard people describe similar moments in which they think time slows, so much so that later, they claim to be able to describe the minutia of what transpired. However, I believe this to be the trick of a mind struggling to make sense of things. This has never been my
experience. I see what I see, and I can play it back a thousand times. It never fades, but never grows any clearer.

  I did not see Ali falling upon the first Garde from behind, nor her planting a dirk in his back. His startled cry, however, drew my attention, and so I saw her withdrawing the blade, then sticking him twice more directly behind the heart, as Kite had taught us. He fell away still clutching his halberd, and, with a sucking sound, its point pulled free of Kite’s back.

  Lark shrieked and threw himself to the floor.

  Kite, all colour drained from his face, absurdly gripped the shaft of the other Garde’s halberd. At first I thought he was trying to pull it out, but then realized he was, with a monumental effort of will, struggling to keep the Garde from withdrawing it. Ali flew past me and flung herself onto that Garde, seizing his collar and pulling her knife across both the arteries in his neck, exactly as Kite had done to the young sailor. She sprang away nimbly as the Garde collapsed, blood jetting from his wounds. As he twitched on the floor, Ali wiped the knife on her trousers, stuck it in her belt, and looked at me. “Close your mouth,” she said.

  Two Garde lay dying at my feet, and Kite, leaning on the altar rail, slowly withdrew the halberd from his side and let it clatter to the floor. That he was still standing defied understanding. Pressing his hands over both his wounds, side and back, he croaked, “Where is he?”

  Ali pointed.

  “Help me.”

  We did, Ali taking one arm, and I the other. As we mounted the altar steps, I heard the clack of wood across stone, and I saw that Ali had picked up the halberd Kite had dropped and stuck it under her arm, the end of its shaft now tapping on each step.

  Behind the altar we found the Cardinal, scrabbling desperately at the trim on the wainscoting.

  “Your Eminence,” Kite wheezed through clenched teeth.

  The Cardinal turned, his expression oddly blank.

  Ali let go of Kite’s arm, and I sagged as his whole weight settled on me. Placing both her hands on the shaft of the halberd, Ali lunged, driving its point clean through the the Cardinal’s chest and into the dark wood behind, pinioning him. Jerking it free, she let go the shaft; the impaled Cardinal fell to the floor, eyes glazed, lips moving wordlessly, looking for all the world like a speared fish.

  Kite tuned his head to the panel the Cardinal had been pawing, and croaked, “It’s us.”

  There was the snick of a lock, and a narrow, man-sized panel swung inward on hinges; from the opening Meussin emerged, carrying a small lantern. She lost what little colour she had when she saw Kite’s wounds. Rushing over, she helped me sit him, crossed-legged, on the floor.

  “Quickly,” Kite hissed, “move the Cardinal there.” He pointed a bloody finger at the passage.

  Ali and I dragged Cardinal Adolfo over and laid him across the threshold; he didn’t stir, though I think he might still have lived.

  “Wipe the blood from the flags, and any marks you left dragging him.”

  We did this, too, I stripping off my shirt so that we might use it as a rag. Through bleary eyes, Kite examined the scene.

  “Halberd,” he said, and Ali laid it across his thighs. Then she pulled her knife and dropped it in his lap, too. Kite stared at it, looking confused for a moment; then he nodded. “Of course.” He shook his head, as if at his absent-mindedness. Then his shoulders slumped and his head sank. He muttered something that sounded like, “Go.”

  Meussin did not; instead, she cradled his head. As she had that day at the inn, she placed pale fingers on Kite’s cheek. This time Kite raised a trembling, bloodied hand away from his wound and covered her fingers. Meussin leaned over and kissed him once, on the crown of his head. Kite’s hand fell. “Go,” he said again, only this time there was no misunderstanding his intention.

  Meussin released him, and Kite swayed but managed to hold himself upright. She picked up her lamp. Turning, she lifted her long skirts, and stepped lightly over the Cardinal’s body as if she were avoiding an inconvenient puddle. Within the unlighted passageway she paused and turned, beckoning us to follow.

  Flight

  Throughout the Vatican there exist kilometres of ley tunnels and secret passages, and it was through these we fled. Meussin led, holding the lamp aloft. Most of the corridors were less than a metre wide, and so we were forced into single file, Meussin’s body often occluding the light from the lamp. If it was difficult for Ali to be sure of her footing in the chaotic, churning shadows, it was worse for me, for I was at the rear, that much farther from the lamp and contending with two interposing bodies. I found I had to focus on my feet, every bit of my attention on not tripping on uneven flags or displaced bricks. I was slowing us; Meussin and Ali paused several times to allow me to catch up. After proceeding thus for perhaps ten minutes, I realized Ali must have been aware of my predicament, for whenever she encountered the lip of a dislodged flagstone or a brick that had tumbled from a wall, she would straighten her arm to point at the obstacle as she passed over it, though she never once said a word or looked back. It was hard, at first, to trust her eyes more than my own, but as soon as I did, our pace quickened—

  —until I stopped dead in my tracks.

  I turned, and peered into the pitch of the corridor behind, trying to visualize the way back.

  A hand clasped my shoulder. “Thomas,” Meussin whispered, “we must continue.”

  “I cannot abandon him,” I said.

  “It is what he wished.”

  “Not Kite,” I said. “Lark.” I had promised myself I’d see him to Rome, and so I had, but to desert him under these circumstances . . .

  “He will do better without us,” she said. “We are poison now.”

  She was right, of course. Ali had murdered two Gardes and a Cardinal, all within the heart of the Vatican. And I had knowingly abetted her crimes. I was convinced this had been their plan all along; that the Cardinal had the presence of mind to strike first changed nothing. If taken, it would go poorly for us—and for anyone found in our company. Lark, however, was an innocent and could reveal nothing, as any competent inquisitor would quickly realize (or so I tried to persuade myself). There was another less worthy reason, too, that weighed in favour of leaving him: I had a debt to Ali, and our chances of escape improved without Lark slowing us. Though I knew it to be true, it only made me feel the worse for thinking it.

  Meussin put a hand on my shoulder and turned me. “We had good reason for what we did, Thomas. Adolfo would have Rome go to war with Lower Heaven. By silencing his voice, there is a chance reason will prevail in the College.”

  “And so we leave Lark to his own devices and Kite to die?”

  “If the scene we set is to be believed, we must.” In the light of the lamp I saw all the melancholy of the world in her face. I thought then about Kite, head hung and sitting cross-legged in the Chapel, dying or perhaps already dead, and understood something of her sacrifice and pain. My own guilt paled in comparison.

  Kite had contrived to make it look like an act of vengeance. It was why he’d had us move the body, and clean the blood, and Ali surrender her weapons. And who would not believe it? First Kite’s disgrace, and the death of his lover at the hands of bandits, ones likely in the pay of Rome. Then there was Cardinal Adolfo, who presided at the Ecclesiastical Court that had tried Ignatius and Kite, afterwards taking for himself the honour of Ignatius’s post. Kite had more than enough cause to seek retribution, and the Cardinal made a suitable object for his outrage. Still, I did not understand why we had to leave both behind, and I said so.

  “For two reasons, Thomas. First, carrying a gravely wounded man through these passages would have been near impossible.”

  This I could not dispute. I also believed, wounded or not, Kite would never have left that Chapel.

  “Second, if we were to try to spirit Kite away, their pursuit would be relentless. And we’d likely be taken, too.”

  I have said before I do not think myself brave, and I knew that if I were to undergo
the tortures my father had endured, I would easily be broken. “You fear your fiction will come unravelled.”

  “Knowing that our act was a strike against the Church, Adolfo’s death would be used to rally those Cardinals still undecided.”

  “Surely they are intelligent men. Some will suspect.”

  “Let them,” Meussin said. “As long as there is uncertainty, it will make them more cautious.”

  I had already worked out most of this for myself, and hoped hearing her say it aloud would make it more palatable. It didn’t.

  Meussin must have read the indecision on my face. “It is up to you, Thomas. I will not compel you forward, nor will I aid you in returning.” Having said that, she turned, brushed past Ali, and set off again, leaving me the choice.

  Ali didn’t move, and with a sinking feeling I realized she would accompany me; my choice would be for us both.

  I watched Meussin’s light dwindle; Ali remained resolute.

  When her lamp was barely a speck, I followed.

  We caught her up at the top of a steep staircase; had she not waited, I believe Ali and I would have tumbled down the flight. Without a word, we descended and entered a tunnel. At regular intervals, other tunnels intercepted it; here and there were doors or darkened arches leading into unlit subterranean chambers. Sometimes I felt an opening rather than saw it, dank, telltale breezes wafting across my face. We climbed a second flight of stairs and stopped, finally, at what appeared to be a cul-de-sac, and I wondered if Meussin had lost her way. But she pressed something I couldn’t see, and the wall in front of her gave a few centimetres. She peeked through the crack, then swung the door wide, revealing a broad, gloomy corridor, light coming from leaded windows overhead. She pressed a finger to her lips, then swept across the corridor to a bas-relief of a recumbent lion—a mirror image of the door through which we’d just passed. Reaching behind its mane, she pulled on a catch, then swung the secret door away from the wall. She motioned for us to come. We did, but before I crossed, I pushed the first door closed until I heard a snick as its latch caught.