He wound the crank at the back of the machine. Once it was charged, he quickly typed a message. The light from the crystalline rod flickered over his anxious face. Halfway through his missive, the device ran out of power. ‘Come on, come on!’ Nathan shouted as he wound up the machine again.
Jake looked down at the shining black breastplate. It was lightweight, slightly battered, but forged from some strong metal. In its centre, picked out in silver, was the symbol of a snake twining around a shield. Jake heard noises from along the quay and looked out into the gloom. His stomach turned to liquid.
‘Nathan, they’re here!’ he gasped.
Nathan turned to see a group of figures approaching. ‘Let’s go!’ He picked up the Meslith machine and limped across to the side. As he climbed over the ship’s rail, his injured leg clipped the top. He yelled in agony and the machine slipped from his grasp. It crashed onto the flagstones below, and flew apart.
Nathan had no time to despair: the cloaked figures were fast approaching. He jumped down onto the quayside and kicked the broken machine into the water. ‘This way – or we’re both dead!’ he hissed, then limped off towards a shadowy passageway.
‘Do I need to bring anything?’ Jake was rooted to the spot.
‘Yes – your overnight bag and a toothbrush.’
Jake was momentarily confused – before realizing that Nathan was being sarcastic.
‘Now, you idiot!’
Jake jumped down and followed Nathan along the alleyway. Footsteps were approaching fast. Nathan pulled him into the shadow of a tree and motioned for him to be silent. They watched as twelve men came to a halt beside the Campana: all were tall and athletic, all had swords clanking at their sides, all were wearing the same crimson-hooded cloaks and black breastplates.
One of the men was accompanied by a dog, a strong, savage-looking mastiff. He issued an order in German, and six of the men boarded the ship, searching every inch and throwing anything in-consequential over the side.
Nathan winced and shook his head as his precious clothes were deposited in the water. ‘Philistines,’ he muttered.
The man with the mastiff turned towards the dark alleyway where Jake and Nathan were hiding. As he slipped down his hood, Jake gasped: he was tall and thick-set and his head was shaved; a deep, livid scar ran the length of his face. He wore a leather coat and high, mud-splattered boots. The man turned back towards the ship, but his dog, also battle-scarred, continued to stare into the darkness, sensing that something was there.
Nathan nudged Jake and whispered, ‘This way – as quietly as you can.’
As they retreated and turned a corner, the dog started to growl. The two agents quickened their pace. They made their way along the side of a canal, Nathan clenching his teeth against the pain in his leg. He stopped and turned to Jake. In the moonlight Jake could see that his companion was as pale as a sheet, and he was gasping for breath.
‘I’ve lost too much blood … You have to go on alone.’ Nathan sat down and tightened the tourniquet around his leg.
‘Go? Where?’
‘Listen to me – it’s our only chance.’
They could now hear the dog barking not far away.
‘Those men back there – they’re soldiers of the Black Army. The man with the dog is called Friedrich Von Bliecke. He and the others all work for Prince Zeldt.’
‘Zeldt?’ Jake exclaimed. ‘The one my brother went to find?’
‘That’s right. We thought Zeldt was dead. In three years, not a single sighting of him. But he’s obviously here in Europe somewhere. Whatever is happening, he is behind it.’
It was a terrible revelation for Jake, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
‘When I saw those red cloaks following us’ – Nathan grimaced – ‘I knew it was him!’ He indicated the bundle in Jake’s arms. ‘This once belonged to one of them. This is Zeldt’s symbol.’ He pointed to the snake and shield.
‘I saw a man in a cloak like this when we arrived,’ Jake confessed. ‘I mentioned it to Charlie, but then the man disappeared.’
Nathan looked Jake straight in the eye. ‘Zeldt is pure evil. Do you understand me? Pure evil.’
Jake tried to nod, but he was transfixed with fear.
‘You don’t understand! Think of the most depraved killer you have ever read about and multiply his depravity by a thousand – then you will understand!’
‘Who is he?’
‘Too much to explain now. There’s a family, a royal family. He is not the worst …’ Nathan was drifting out of consciousness, but he was roused by the sound of the dog barking again, much closer now.
He clutched Jake’s arm. ‘You have to go to St Mark’s Cathedral. Find out whatever your parents discovered. Confess, St Mark’s, Amerigo Vespucci – find out what it means.’
Jake’s head was swimming.
‘You wear the cloak to protect you. To disguise yourself as one of them.’
Jake nodded, blinking with apprehension.
‘You have those scissors?’ Nathan asked.
Jake held them up.
‘Cut your hair short, as soon as you can – otherwise you’ll stand out.’
Again Jake nodded. Everything felt like a dream.
Nathan reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small leather pouch. He opened it. Golden coins glistened inside. ‘There’s plenty of money there.’ He gave it to Jake. ‘And take this – it’s a flint lighter,’ he said as he pressed a small ebony device into Jake’s hand. ‘Keep it with you. History gets darker than you could ever imagine.’
‘I don’t understand … What about the others?’
‘I don’t know about the others! Listen to me – I’d slow you down, so you have to continue on your own. It’s our only hope.’
The barking grew closer still. Nathan put his hands on Jake’s shoulders and stared at him gravely. ‘Look, Jake, you seem like a good man. They say your parents were two of the best agents this service ever produced. So you must be special – do you understand me?’
Jake assured him that he did – but they could hear men’s voices now.
‘I’ll make sure no one follows you. They won’t kill me – I’m too valuable to them.’ Nathan managed to draw his sword. ‘Look at my poor doublet,’ he said, fingering a bloodstained rip. ‘Florentine brocade, the best that money can buy … What a criminal waste.’
Jake looked along the canal at the route he would take to escape.
‘One last thing …’ Nathan panted; Jake stopped to hear what he had to say. ‘What we do is important. Do you understand me?’
Jake nodded.
‘No, you don’t,’ hissed Nathan impatiently. Once again Jake could hear his Charleston burr as he searched for the right words. ‘History holds everything together – it’s the glue that keeps everything intact. Everything! It keeps civilization civilized. And we save history – us, the History Keepers. We really do. It’s not just talk. We are vital.’
‘I understand,’ Jake told him with calm certainty.
Nathan knew that he was not lying. ‘Now go. Go!’
Just then the mastiff rushed round the corner, its mouth frothing, barking savagely, followed by the guards. Jake took to his heels, following the canal, then disappearing down one of the many alleyways.
Nathan got to his feet and stoically raised his sword. But the dog sprang up at him and knocked him to the ground. Moments later he was surrounded by the red-cloaked guards. Nathan looked up into the scarred face of Captain Von Bliecke before he slipped into unconsciousness.
Jake ran without thinking, without looking back. He hurtled down passageways, up steps, over bridges. After fifteen minutes he came to the Grand Canal and stopped. He was in a small campo edged with cypress trees and littered with half-cut blocks of stone destined for a new building. In his arms he still held the crimson robe, the breastplate and the scissors Nathan had given him.
His chest heaved up and down as his eyes scanned the little square. No one was fo
llowing. The Grand Canal shimmered in the moonlight as it snaked its way through the city, the majestic palaces asleep on either side. To his left Jake could see the distinctive arch of the Rialto Bridge.
He sank down at the base of one of the trees. The full horror of his situation now started to dawn on him. He remembered how once, when he was eight, he had got separated from his parents on a trip to a huge shopping centre. He recalled the fear that had gripped him as he frantically searched through the maze of neon-lit shops. On that occasion, reason had prevailed and calmed him down: he knew he could find his parents, he knew where he lived in London, he knew everyone spoke his language.
This was different. He was alone. As alone as a person could ever be. In an unknown city, in a foreign country, in another era, abandoned by his parents, separated from his friends by a deadly enemy. Jake took out his parents’ passports and looked at their pictures again. But he couldn’t focus on them; they were a blur – panic was making him dizzy, his terror spiralling out of control. He opened his eyes wide and made a resolution to himself. He would not sink into despair. He would fight fear with reason.
Nathan had told him: Go to St Mark’s Cathedral … It is our only hope. Right, he would go there; he would discover a way to find his parents, to find the others. Nathan had said he was too valuable to be killed. So they would all be too valuable. They would all be alive somewhere.
Jake was galvanized, but his head spun. As far as he knew, the other agents – who all had far greater experience than him – had been captured. What chance would he have? How would he know what to do? This Prince Zeldt, whom Nathan had spoken of, was evil incarnate. He was guarded by an entire army of soldiers. Jake was a solitary schoolboy, lost and alone in the sixteenth century. How could he possibly survive?
Stop it! Enough! Jake said to himself. You have no choice.
He defiantly seized the silver scissors and started to cut his hair. The thick brown curls that he knew his mother loved so much dropped silently onto the dirty ground. Within a minute his hair was cropped: he had transformed himself from a romantic into a young soldier.
He took a deep breath, stuffed the scissors into his pocket, scooped up the cloak and breastplate, straightened his shoulders and started to make his way along the canal towards the bridge. Keeping a sharp eye out, he carefully ascended the steps of the Rialto.
On the apex of the bridge, a group of people huddled together, drinking from flagons and talking in gruff voices. As Jake passed them, they all fell silent and stared at him.
He stopped and smiled uncertainly. ‘Cathedral? Duomo? San Marco?’ he asked in his rudimentary Italian.
For a moment no one responded. Then a lady with a black eye and matted red hair pointed her finger southwards into a dark labyrinth of streets.
Jake nodded and carried on across the bridge. Silently, the group watched him go, then the conversation started up once again.
As Jake came into St Mark’s Square, the bells struck five. The piazza was huge. On one side stood the Campanile watch tower; nearby, the golden, fairytale domes of the cathedral. Leading up to these was a long arcade of imposing, dark ochre buildings. At intervals along these, from arched first-floor windows, hung canvas awnings, billowing softly in the morning breeze, their stripes bleached and weathered by the sun and the salty Adriatic air.
Dawn was breaking, and sleepy-eyed Venetians were starting to go about their morning business. Jake looked around cautiously as he crossed the piazza. He passed an old bearded man in torn robes, who watched him through narrowed eyes; Jake quickened his pace towards the church and ran up the steps.
He was surprised to find the doors wide open; inside, the cathedral was full of activity. There were no rows of seating – it was an open space, with sawdust scattered over the marble floor and geese and sheep wandering around – even a cow munching its breakfast. There were people too, some bartering and exchanging battered coins for goods – cloth, spices and earthenware – chatting animatedly; others still sleeping in shadowy corners.
On one side, a timber scaffold clung to the wall. At the top of the precarious structure, a man in a square hat was working on a fresco. Jake could see that he had already drawn the outline of figures and was now painting brilliant blue sky between them. Jake was drawn towards the scaffold, wondering if this painter was someone famous. Perhaps it was Leonardo Da Vinci or Michelangelo, he thought.
The painter seemed to sense Jake hovering below him. He looked down and winked at him, then turned back to his painting. That was when Jake caught sight of someone out of the corner of his eye – someone who made him gasp in shock.
A figure in a deep crimson cloak was walking diagonally across the church. Jake lowered his head and turned away a little, but continued watching the man, who disappeared into a dark wooden structure by the far wall.
As Jake cautiously crossed the marble floor, a thought suddenly struck him: his parents’ message had stated: Confess, St Mark’s, Amerigo Vespucci. That wooden structure was surely a confessional box.
Jake edged around a stone pillar to get a closer look. The confessional was made up of two compartments. On one side there was a booth with a closed door where the priest sat. Next to it was an open booth with a curtain half drawn across. Behind this, Jake could clearly see the man’s crimson robe.
Then it disappeared.
‘What?’ Jake said out loud as he craned his neck round the pillar to get a clearer view. He could see right to the back of the box: it was empty.
‘Per piacere.’ A thin voice spoke right into Jake’s ear, making him start. He turned and came face to face with a wrinkled old woman holding out her hand. He saw that one of her eyes was dead white. ‘Per piacere,’ she repeated, nudging him with gnarled fingers.
Jake smiled politely. He remembered the pouch that Nathan had given him. He cautiously took it out of his pocket, produced a single gold coin and gave it to the old woman.
For a moment she did not react, but disbelief soon turned to joy. Her face cracked into an extraordinary smile. ‘Dio vi benedica,’ she whispered as she ran her ancient hand across Jake’s glowing cheeks. Then she bowed, edged away and disappeared into the throng of people.
Jake turned back to the confessional. There must be a doorway on the other side of the booth, he thought to himself. An entrance to somewhere.
Although the idea terrified him, Jake knew that he must find his way through that doorway and see what lay beyond. His heart thumped: he looked down at the robe and breastplate in his arms. Now was the time to put them on.
The breastplate covered his chest and stomach. It was strong but light, and fitted him well. The long robe hung down to the ground. He lifted the hood over his head.
With a decisive step, Jake approached the confessional, pulled back the curtains and entered the booth. There were no obvious signs of a door. He pushed at the wall, but it wouldn’t budge.
‘Chi volete vedere?’ a voice hissed, and Jake’s blood ran cold. He could see the faint outline of a face behind the grille.
‘Chi volete vedere?’ Strangely, the person was smoking a pipe. The smoke curled through the vent into Jake’s compartment.
Jake had only the slightest grasp of Italian, but he was certain that chi meant ‘who’. Then it came to him: the phrase that his parents had written down. The man who had given his name to America.
‘Amerigo Vespucci …?’ he answered in his best Italian accent. There was silence for a moment. Then he heard a faint click and the back wall of the confessional slid open, revealing a passageway beyond. Jake stepped through, and the wall slid across behind him.
13 THE SHADOW OF EVIL
THE PASSAGEWAY THAT lay ahead of him was gloomy and damp, with walls of thick stone. Jake saw the cloaked figure disappear through an archway at the far end and followed cautiously.
He came through the opening into a large, dark ante-room, circular in shape with a vaulted ceiling. The dim light came from an identical archway on the far side of the c
hamber. Jake saw a silhouette vanish through it.
He crossed the space, his eyes fixed on the archway. He stumbled over a ledge and heard a trickle of falling stones. He stopped dead, looked down and gasped: below his feet was a gigantic circular borehole that descended, a shadowy abyss, into the ground. An ancient stone staircase spiralled down into the darkness. Inside, it was damp and mossy; the sound of dripping echoed up from the depths. Jake calculated that it must extend deep beneath the canals of Venice.
He quickly stepped back and skirted around the edge, still gazing down in awe. He went through the archway and into a large room: a double-height ‘studio’, with barred high windows extending from top to bottom. The cloaked man was crossing the chamber to another passageway beyond.
‘I can’t do this,’ Jake suddenly said to himself, turning on his heel. Then he stopped, thinking. You have no choice! he realized. He clenched his fists and went back into the chamber. For a moment he stood there, frozen.
The room looked out onto a narrow canal. Dawn was only just breaking, so it took a moment for Jake to accustom himself to the eerie gloom. There were rows of long trestle tables, each with its own rough oak bench. At intervals hung low chandeliers, none of them lit. To his left was another passageway, but this one was sealed off by a sturdy iron gate.
As Jake approached one of the tables, he stubbed his toe on something metal and saw that a number of iron rings were set into the floor there.
His attention was then caught by a series of large illustrations displayed on the tables, parchments inscribed with complicated diagrams. Next to these lay quills in pots of ink. Jake examined one of the drawings. The heading made him start – a word written in bold gothic type:
‘Superia …’ Jake whispered the name to himself. ‘Find the Summit of Superia.’ He clearly remembered the message his parents had sent to Point Zero.
Below it was a symbol like the one that was engraved on Jake’s breastplate – a snake twining around a shield. The parchment was covered with intricate plans and elevations, showing a building of awesome proportions. It was as high as any modern skyscraper – at least forty storeys, Jake estimated. Yet the style was ancient, with its succession of arched gothic windows and details of gargoyles. It looked like a dark vision of the future seen through sixteenth-century eyes; it made him feel inexplicably nervous. Jake looked more carefully and noticed that every single window was barred.
History Keepers 1: The Storm Begins Page 11