by Stuart Daly
At the edge of the light cast by our lanterns, we see a wall of water surging along the corridor – moving impossibly fast and coming directly towards us. Our eyes wide with terror, we clamber hurriedly up the steps. Just as Captain Blodklutt, the last of our company to complete the climb, drags himself free of the staircase, the water hits it with tremendous force. The next instant, the entire staircase is swept away.
‘That was close,’ Blodklutt says, looking down into the raging water as it cascades down the central stairwell to the lower decks.
‘We just made it,’ Francesca remarks, drawing alongside the Captain. ‘Fortunately, the water won’t rise until the lower levels have been flooded. But, mark my words, it will come after us. We may only have a few minutes before it starts to rise again. So it’s best we keep moving.’
‘But what of von Konigsmarck?’ I ask, still struggling to believe that he was taken by the torrent.
Francesca shakes her head, her eyes devoid of hope, and pats me on the shoulder in commiseration. ‘You saw what happened to him. Nobody could have survived that. I’m sorry, Jakob, but we have lost him. And we must keep moving into the capsized Ark lest we suffer the same fate.’
Knowing that Francesca has spoken the truth, I shake my head, grudgingly accepting the grim reality that we have lost yet another of our companions. Then, upon Francesca’s insistence that we must continue, I pay one last glance down into the flooded stairwell, say a hasty farewell to von Konigsmarck, blink back the tears welling in my eyes, and follow after my companions.
We race along a central corridor just like the one on the floor below, but with several smaller passages spanning off it. Having covered the entire length of the corridor and found no stairwell, we are forced to explore the side passages.
Some five minutes pass before we find a narrow flight of upturned stairs at the end of one of the passages, giving access to the level above. But just as we move to climb the stairs, Armand stops dead in his tracks.
‘That can’t be good,’ he says, drawing our attention to the water that has just started to spill across the inverted ceiling of the central corridor.
‘The levels below must have flooded.’ Francesca observes the water as it spreads into our passage. It’s only a finger’s-breadth in height, but it races forward to lap around the soles of our feet in a matter of seconds. ‘And it won’t be long before this level floods too. We need to climb higher – and fast.’
‘What happens when we run out of levels to climb?’ Armand asks, leading the way up the stairs.
‘I’m hoping by that time the air bottled inside the upper levels of the Ark will stop the water from rising,’ Francesca says.
Armand pauses at the top of the ladder and looks down at Francesca. ‘And if the water doesn’t stop?’
Francesca’s eyes narrow. ‘Then we have a problem.’
Time after time we climb to a higher deck, only to find, after a period of several anxious minutes, that the water inexorably rises after us, forcing us to go up higher. Finally, after having climbed a ladder – which, being made of rope and not fastened to the floor, flipped through the opening in the inverted roof when the Ark capsized – to the fifth level, we find ourselves in a wide corridor that stretches into unknown darkness. We discover, much to our relief, that the water has stabilised, having stopped at a height of two feet in the deck below us.
Deciding that this is as good a spot as any to rest – from here we can monitor the level of water below, and climb up to the next deck if need be via a ladder located only three yards further down the corridor – we slump to the floor. Staring up at the ceiling – or rather, the upturned floor – it’s only now we realise how high the corridor is, being over twenty feet high, perhaps to accommodate larger animals, such as elephants and giraffes in the past. We may have escaped the rising water, but every few minutes the Ark shudders and groans like a dying beast, making us stare fearfully about the vessel, praying that its ancient wooden beams can withstand the pressure of the outside water.
Several minutes pass before Francesca gets to her feet. ‘I’m going to have a quick inspection of this level.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’ Armand asks alarmingly and starts to rise.
Francesca raises a hand to calm his fears. ‘There’s no need to worry, Frenchman. I’m merely being cautious.’
‘Is it all right if I come?’ I ask, wary of Francesca wandering off alone.
Francesca smiles. ‘Of course.’
A hand resting on the pommel of my Pappenheimer, I follow after her, the darkness warded back by the lantern hanging from her belt.
‘So what are we looking for?’ I ask after we have travelled some distance down the corridor.
‘Signs of water leaking through the walls or the inverted floor,’ Francesca says. ‘This vessel is ancient. I just hope that it can hold together long enough for us to get out of here.’
I shake my head in amazement. ‘I don’t understand how you always appear so calm. Even now, after all we’ve been through, I’ve barely seen you break a sweat.’
‘I’m not much older than you, but I’ve been doing this for a long time now,’ Francesca says. ‘And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you have to remain calm. When people panic they make rash decisions – and rash decisions get people killed. I try to distance myself from the predicament I’m in and train myself to watch the events through the eyes of a casual observer. That way I don’t lose my focus, and I can see every possible solution to a problem.’
‘Well, I’m terrified,’ I confess.
Francesca’s eyes arch inquisitively. ‘Then why put yourself in this situation? Why did you join the Hexenjäger?’
‘Because I believe there is a war coming,’ I say. ‘And it won’t be fought between the dynasties of Europe. This is going to be a war between the forces of good and evil. There is too much at stake for me to be complacent – to merely carry on with my life as normal, believing that I will be safe and secure.’
I pause. From somewhere up ahead in the darkness, the Ark groans. I cast an uneasy eye at Francesca, observing her reaction, but she doesn’t appear concerned.
‘Many believe that this year will mark the arrival of the Antichrist,’ I continue. ‘I’ve only just started my career as a witch hunter, but I’ve seen enough to convince me that the rumours are true and that the Devil’s servants are amassing. But I also believe that they are only the scouts of a much larger force, paving the way for a legion that will declare war on Christendom. Everywhere you look there are signs of the Devil and its forces. I’m not sure what role I will play in this coming war, but I’m not going to sit idly and wait for it to engulf me. It’s best to take up the sword and fight in the name of Christ – to take the fight to the enemy. I know this is dangerous work, and I often find myself scared out of my wits, but I have never felt more alive than when I’m doing this. My father was a cavalry officer in the Low Countries, and soldiery is in my blood. All I’ve done is add a religious dimension and answer its call.’
Francesca stops walking and considers me for some time, her eyes full of admiration. But there’s also sadness, almost as if she is lamenting some aspect of her own life. ‘That’s a noble cause. I wish I could say as much about my own life.’
I tilt my head, confused. ‘There’s nobility in what you do. You are entrusted by the Vatican to secure the secrets of the past.’
‘Although the Custodiatti are sanctioned by the Church, we are nothing but glorified tomb-robbers,’ Francesca says, her eyes downcast. ‘The Custodiatti are all but vultures. We pick at the bones of the dead.’ She pauses, and her eyes look up to search mine with envy. ‘Your life has meaning and purpose. What you do will affect the course of history. What I do is challenging, but it has no meaning. I merely collect history – I sift through its burial sites to find the remnants of ancient ci
vilisations. And for what? To see the relic, which I have risked my life to collect, stored away in the Vatican, where it will remain locked away for another thousand years? Where is the reward in that? This is the only mission I have ever been on where I’ve firmly believed that the reward far outweighed the risk. And that is because I have done something that has had worth and meaning. We have become God’s champions, fighting to prevent Armageddon. Seeing the Milites Christi and the Hexenjäger in action has made me acutely aware of how meaningless the work of the Custodiatti is. I am the pawn of greedy cardinals and bishops who long to reap the world of its ancient treasures and add them to the Church’s collection.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say. ‘You’re being too hard on yourself.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Francesca smiles sadly. ‘Where you have answered a calling, I haven’t had a choice. Ever since I can remember, I have followed my father from one treasure-hunt to another. And then I was recruited by the Vatican to join the Custodiatti. This is the only life I’ve ever known. It would be nice to live in the land of the living for once – to escape the tombs and burial sites that have been my home since the age of five. It’s interesting that you say you never feel more alive than when you fight for the Hexenjäger – I’m so accustomed to being in tombs it’s as if I already live amongst the dead.’
I know that Francesca has led a life devoid of friendship, having been dragged from one burial site to another. In essence, she has led the vagabond life of a gypsy. But it’s only now I realise that she also feels trapped, and she desperately wants to escape from her life – a life that she feels has no worth. It is a cruel irony that the greatest tomb-robber in the Vatican cannot break free from the chains that have shackled her own life.
‘Then why don’t you leave the Custodiatti?’ I ask. ‘It’s not too late to start your life anew.’
Francesca shrugs resignedly. ‘I don’t have much – this is all I have. How else can I employ my skills? There isn’t exactly a great demand for professional tomb-robbers.’
‘Earlier this year I thought I was destined to become an apprentice farrier,’ I say. ‘But look where I am now – a witch hunter, stuck in Noah’s Ark, beneath the Dead Sea. Life presents us many roads to follow. It’s just up to us to decide which of those roads we will take, and which we will ignore.’
Francesca looks deeply into my eyes, considering my words for a moment. She smiles softly. ‘Maybe you’re right. Perhaps there is another path for me to follow. But we should leave that discussion for another time. We need to head back. The others might be worried.’
We make our way back in silence, relieved that despite the constant groaning made by the Ark it appears to be holding together.
Blodklutt is sitting near the descending ladder and he stirs at our approach. ‘Did you find anything?’
‘Apart from the rising water, we have little to fear at the moment,’ Francesca says, and positions herself near the Captain.
Armand is lying several yards off to the right, his arms and legs splayed out. He laughs to himself. But it’s a laugh devoid of hope, like that of a condemned man.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask as I sit down beside him.
‘I can’t believe it has ended up like this,’ he says, his voice lowered so that the others can’t hear. He raises a hand to gesture at our surroundings. ‘It’s a fine mess we’re in now, young Jakob. I had always thought I’d end up dying by some duellist’s blade, many years from now, for that matter, when old age would have taken its toll on my reflexes. I also thought that it would happen somewhere in Paris.’ He closes his eyes and a sad smile crosses his lips, his thoughts evidently drifting to the city of his birth – but also from which he has been banished. ‘The Place Royale, for instance. Yes, that would have been a nice place to die. It would have drawn a large audience and been well received.’
‘But there is still hope,’ I say, not wanting to hear such thoughts, my voice likewise lowered. ‘Francesca is the most resourceful person I have ever met. She’s got us this far, and I’m sure she’s going to get us out of here yet.’
One of Armand’s eyes flick open and he raises an eyebrow sceptically. ‘Is there really hope? If there’s one thing I like about you, it’s your eternal optimism. But me – I’m more of a realist. When it’s just up to me and my sabres, I have little doubt that I won’t walk away. I have complete faith in my ability to wield a sword. But in situations like these, when my blades are sheathed uselessly by my side and I have no control over events, I just feel hopeless. It eats away at me.’
‘Then you must learn to have greater faith in your companions.’
Armand shakes his head. ‘I trust in my companions to do their best. But the Dead Sea is spilling into this chamber, and we are stuck aboard a flooding, capsized vessel. I agree – Francesca has experience that belies her age and she is indeed resourceful. But she cannot stop this vessel from flooding.’
I purse my lips in thought and nod. ‘Then you should have more faith in our Lord.’
Armand sits up and rubs his eyes wearily. ‘No offence intended, Jakob, but I prefer to make my own destiny. I firmly believe that there is a sense of providence guiding your life. Of that, I have no doubt. God is watching over you. But God doesn’t have much time for libertines, even those who have abandoned their hedonistic ways and wish to seek His forgiveness. I’ve drunk, gambled, cuckolded and duelled my way through Paris and Venice. I’ve committed so many sins it would make a priest’s ears ring to hear my confession. It’s actually quite befitting that this should be where my life ends – in Sodom, the city destroyed by God for the lecherous behaviour of its inhabitants. I believe our Lord is merciful, but there are some sins for which we can never be forgiven.’ He reaches into a fold of his shirt and produces his handkerchief. Raising it to his lips, he closes his eyes and kisses it tenderly, as if it were the cheek of a loved one.
Only when I hear Armand say this do I realise how heavily he carries the stain of sin on his conscience. He may have left Paris and joined the Hexenjäger as a way of seeking atonement for his past life, but he is encumbered by guilt. Perhaps it’s just that he has given into despair, this mission pushing him to his limits, and being trapped inside the Ark has been the final straw. I also know that he had been terrified at the mere thought of entering the Drebbel, and the upturned Ark has essentially become a larger version of the submersible contraption. But whatever the cause of his melancholy, I know that he must remain alert and firm in his resolve; to do otherwise may cost him his life, for we are not yet out of harm’s reach.
‘None of us are beyond the Lord’s grace,’ I say. ‘And you have taken up arms in the name of Christ.’
‘But is that enough to atone for a life of sin? The Lord is merciful, but He also punishes the wicked. Will my name be included in the Book of the Living on the Day of Judgement? I don’t know. On that day we will be judged and made to answer for all the wrongs we have done. Just think of the undead we have been fighting. They were raised from Gehenna – the burial place of convicted criminals and murderers. I wonder how many of them tried to atone for their sins, only to find themselves rotting for an eternity. Perhaps that is what I am destined for.’
‘You’re being too hard on yourself,’ I say. ‘You are a Hexenjäger – one of Christ’s soldiers. I’m sure your name holds a position of great importance in the Book of the Living. Besides, if you firmly believe that God watches over me, then stay close by my side.’
Armand smiles and chuckles softly to himself. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘That’s more like it,’ I say, and pat Armand encouragingly on the shoulder.
Blodklutt has been keeping a careful watch on the water in the deck below, and he now draws our attention. ‘The water has remained at the same level for some time now,’ he announces. ‘So I don’t think we need fear drowning any longer.’
I n
udge Armand. ‘You see. There is hope for us yet.’
Armand shrugs. ‘But what will we do when the air in here gets stale? It’s not as if we’re going to be able to open a window to let in fresh air.’
‘I’m sure you don’t need me to point out to you that the decks on the Ark are enormous,’ Francesca says. ‘It will be days before we run out of air.’
‘So what do we do now?’ Armand asks.
Francesca folds her arms across her chest. ‘We’re going to rest for a few minutes. Then I’m going to find us a way out of here.’
‘And how do you plan on doing that?’ Armand stares hard at Francesca, seemingly frustrated by her calm – indeed, almost nonchalant – acceptance of our predicament.
‘Can you hear the distant roar of falling water? That’s the Dead Sea,’ Francesca says. ‘It’s still spilling into the Hall of Records, and I’m hoping that by the time it is completely flooded, the roof of the chamber would have fully retracted. Once that happens, the air trapped within the Ark should force it to float to the surface of the Dead Sea. And when that happens, all we will need to do is climb up the remaining decks and break our way through the bottom of the hold. We’ll then be able to climb out of the Ark and swim back to shore.’
‘I wish I shared your optimism. You make it sound so simple,’ Armand says.
Francesca smiles reassuringly. ‘That’s because it is. I’ve been in far worse situations than this, having been trapped for days in tombs and catacombs with little chance of survival. But I’ve always managed to make it out. So believe me when I tell you that our situation is not that dire.’
She then catches herself, as though remembering something. Reaching into her shirt, she produces the Tablet of Breaking, which she gives one final glance before passing over to Blodklutt. ‘This belongs to you. I’m sure you’re keen to have a look at it.’
Blodklutt accepts the artefact with some trepidation, almost as if he has been handed a box full of asps. Armand scurries over to his side, licking his lips nervously, his eyes wide with awe, and they examine the Tablet for some time.