A shade sat up from his resting place. “I am here, William.” A smile masked his suffering. “And so are you.”
The friar scampered over a dozen screaming shades to confront his nemesis. “I came to watch you suffer.”
“Then let us entertain each other. Sit here, old friend,” said the accursed pope, pointing to an empty coffin beside his own. The lid was unmarked, waiting for a name. “I reserved a special place in Hell for you. Come, join me.”
“Never.”
“I am still your superior.”
“You were never that.”
“Disobedience is a sin.”
“You made a virtue of my disobedience.”
“You made a vengeance of your virtue.”
“Your love of property earned you property in Hell.”
Pope John laughed. “You charged me with the wrong heresy, William. I’m not here for making the church wealthy.”
“You have many sins to answer for.”
“True enough,” said John. “I taught that those who die in grace must wait for the last judgment before they can see God. For that heresy, the vision of God is denied me.”
“You wounded me, John.” He could not keep the sadness from his voice.
“Happy to hear it.”
“I forgive you.”
“You do not have that power,” the pope said in a mocking tone. “I stripped you of your priesthood.”
William made the sign of the cross. “Ego te absolvo te a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sacti.”
“Ha! See? I’m still here. You are beaten, William. I have beaten you.”
“Congratulations on your victory.”
William led his friends through the fields of heresy, past the burning tombs of Arians and Manichaeans and Bogomils, keeping to the well-marked path until they found the way out.
There were no stairs down to the seventh level, only broken debris and treacherous stones. The slope was steep. Through the rubble Marco improvised a path to the left. He tested the surface with each step before shifting his full weight forward. Loose rocks betrayed his trust, but Marco managed to stay upright. The pilgrims followed, copying his caution.
Marco spotted a beast on the path ahead. It had the body of a man and the head of a bull.
Giovanni whispered, “Minotaur.”
The Minotaur watched them approach. Marco felt the weight of its stare. Wary, the knight gripped the Lance in both hands and stalked forward. The Minotaur’s chest heaved angrily. Steam puffed from flared nostrils. The beast tilted back its head and bellowed a warning. It was a raw animal sound, not human at all.
A bull is no match for a man, thought Marco, preparing to counter the monster’s charge.
But it did not charge. Instead, the Minotaur bent low to the ground and with its human hands picked up a large stone. It raised the stone high over its head and threw the boulder at the cliff. Marco ducked instinctively, but the rock sailed high over his head.
Strong, Marco noted. Stronger than a man.
The stone rolled past Marco, gravel tumbling in its wake.
The beast tried again.
“Hurry,” said Giovanni.
“We cannot run,” Marco answered. “The ground is not —”
He heard the rumble of rocks above, and turned quickly to the sound. The cliff was collapsing in a surge of stones. The pilgrims scrambled from the danger. Marco leapt to his right, but the avalanche caught him at the calves, knocking his legs out from under him. He sheltered his head with his arms. Stones pelted him, bouncing off his arms and shoulders, but the danger passed.
Struggling to his feet, he heard Nadja call out, “Marco!”
He glanced her way. She pointed behind him. He turned back to see the Minotaur charge. Marco gripped the Lance tight and met the beast in battle. The uneven footing threatened and thwarted him. He stabbed the Minotaur in the shoulder, but the monster knocked the knight off his feet. Marco tumbled down the slope to a steep drop. With one hand he caught himself, gripping the ledge. His body swung out into emptiness, then back against the cliff. His legs dangled in the murky air. He kept his grip and did not fall. One hand held the ledge, the other the Lance.
Glancing up, he saw Giovanni’s head peek over the ledge. The poet reached out a hand. Marco saw the beast loom over Giovanni.
"Down!" Marco yelled.
Giovanni ducked his head. Marco threw the Lance. It pierced the Minotaur between the horns. The beast stumbled, went limp, and fell into the abyss.
The Holy Lance fell with him.
After descending to the seventh level, the pilgrims found the fallen Minotaur. Marco pulled the Lance from the monster's head. He felt a soft tap on his shoulder, then on his sleeve and on his head. His clothes were stippled with blood. He looked up and saw the red drops falling, tentative at first, then a torrent. Warm blood rained down from a scarlet nimbus that scudded through the gloom. None fell on William. The pilgrims ran for the cliff and hid beneath a jut of rock, waiting for the bloodstorm to pass.
Later, they followed the curve of the cliff and came upon a group of naked men who were shackled hand and feet to the rock wall, facing it as blood ran down their bare backs and buttocks. Marco saw no demons.
“Where are your tormenters?” he asked.
“Go away,” said one of the sinners.
“Don’t look at us,” said another.
“Our demons flew,” said a third man. “Something happened above.”
“The wall was breached,” Giovanni informed them. “No doubt your jailers will return.”
“Who are you?” Nadja asked one of them.
“Prince Amnon.”
“Son of King David?” William said.
The prince affirmed it.
Nadja asked, “Why are you here?”
“My sister was a temptress.”
“Incest?”
“No,” said William. “These men are rapists.”
Nadja stepped back and looked away.
Prince Amnon said, “I offered our father fifty shekels of silver for my sister, as the law of God requires. I humbled her. By rights she was mine.”
“Who is humbled now?” asked William.
For Nadja’s sake they did not linger, but found a cave in the cliff where they could rest, sheltered from inclemency.
William had already dozed off when he felt a tug at his sleeve and heard Nadja whisper, “Father, may I speak with you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Alone.”
He nodded and said to the others, “Excuse us a moment.”
Marco and Giovanni waited outside the cave. With the lancelight gone, William could scarcely see the girl.
“Father?”
“Yes?” William said.
“Will you hear my confession?”
“I cannot absolve you.”
“I know, Father.”
“Only God can do that. But the desire to confess is a gift of grace. Speak your heart. God will hear you.”
There was a long pause. He heard Nadja weeping. She leaned against him, and William folded her into his arms.
“What is it, Nadja?”
“You’ll hate me, Father.”
“No. That will never happen.”
“Those men back there,” she said. “What they did. It happened to me.”
“Yes.”
“More than once.”
“In Munich?”
She whimpered. William took it for an affirmation.
“The sin was theirs,” he told her.
“One of those boys is here. His sin is my sin.”
“This is not your place, Nadja. His was a sin of violence, of violation.”
Silence.
“Confession is never easy,” William said, “but it is necessary. Did you fight against what happened?”
“I was fallen in the road. When I woke, he was inside me.”
“Did you submit?”
“I fought at first. I don’t know.
There were lots of boys. Lots of times.”
“Are you worried you might have fornicated?”
She hesitated.
“What?” he said.
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“Say it.”
“I can’t.”
“Say the thing you will not say.”
“Don’t hate me.”
“I won’t.”
“I killed someone.”
William’s heart fluttered. “In self defense?”
He put a hand on her head. She shook her head no.
“Who did you kill?” he asked.
“A child.”
William’s throat tightened. “Yours?”
She nodded.
The friar had seen many women die in the attempt. It chilled him to think of Nadja poisoned by a midwife or bled to death by a surgeon. “This was the child you saw in Limbo?”
“No. God took my second because I took the first.”
“Do not presume to know God’s reasons.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Why did you abort your first child?”
She said nothing.
“Was it to hide your sins?” he asked.
“My sins were well known.”
“Why, then?”
Outside the cave, another bloodstorm began. William worried that Marco and Giovanni might return, but they did not. There were other shelters in the cliff.
“Nadja, tell me. Why did you do this thing?”
More tears. “How can I care for a baby when I can’t even care for myself?”
“You could be a good mother.”
“I lose time, Father. So much time. I thought, what if I fall when he’s in my arms? What if he dies before I wake?”
“You were afraid?”
She nodded.
“So you took an abortifacient?”
She nodded again.
“When was this?”
“Three years ago,” she said.
“What I mean is: after you became pregnant, how long did you wait?”
“A week, maybe. I don’t know. Is it important?”
William sighed. It was a difficult subject to explain to a weeping woman. “The early church fathers taught that in all cases abortion is murder, but Saint Augustine took a different view. His teachings are now canon law. He wrote that the human soul develops in stages: a vegetative soul, an animal soul, and a rational soul. This means that an early abortion is like killing a plant. A later abortion is like killing an animal.”
“When is it murder?”
“At forty days for a boy, or eighty days for a girl. That’s when the child becomes fetus animatus. Fully human.”
“But I committed a sin.”
“Yes.”
“A deadly sin?” Nadja asked. “One of the seven?”
“There is only one sin, Nadja. Turning away from God.”
“I thought sin was disobedience.”
“It is.”
“Then isn’t there a sin for each commandment?”
“There is only one commandment. Love God. All else is commentary.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If we love God with all our heart, and with all our soul, and with all our might, there is no question of obedience. There is only love.”
“What about the different punishments?”
“There is only one punishment.”
“Not down here,” Nadja said. “They’re all different.”
“Yes. But think of water. It may appear to be many things—a river, or snow, or ice, or steam—yet it is all one essence. These punishments, too, are really one.”
“What is the punishment?”
“Exile.”
“From life?”
“From love,” said William. “God is love. Hell is the absence of God. The torments you see are born of fear. But love drives out fear. We must carry love with us, like water to a desert, for we go to a place where there is no love.”
“To the Devil.”
“Yes. Lucifer, who was once the closest to God, is now the farthest. Whenever we turn away from love, we are doing the Devil’s work.”
“I don’t want to do the Devil’s work,” Nadja said, “but I’m not smart like you, Father. I can’t read the books you read. Saint Augustine or the scriptures. I get confused. I don’t know what’s right.”
“If you give your heart to God,” said William, “your heart will tell you what to do.”
“You make it sound so easy, but it’s not.”
“When in doubt, always choose love.”
They listened to the storm. A rivulet of blood flowed in from the mouth of the cave and pooled at Nadja’s skirt.
“My sin is too great,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“God’s love is greater than our capacity to sin.”
“But His vengeance...”
“He wants to forgive you.”
Nadja clutched William’s hand in the dark. “Help me, Father. Please. I don’t know the way.”
“Have you prayed to God and asked for His forgiveness?”
“Yes.”
“Do you promise never to repeat this sin?”
“Yes.”
“Do you promise to love God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might?”
“Yes, yes, please, yes.”
“Then let this pilgrimage be your penance.”
She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, wetting his robe with her sorrow. William held her trembling body, stroked her hair, and whispered in her ear the words of absolution.
When the rains subsided, Marco led them to the left along the cliff wall until he came to a river of boiling blood. He wondered whose blood this was. Perhaps it flowed from the world above, from battlefields and slaughterhouses and graves. The riverbank was patrolled by centaurs with crossbows. Shades in armor wallowed in the crimson flux.
“Soldiers,” Marco observed.
“Punished for a life of slaughter,” Giovanni said.
Marco saw one of the soldiers rise out of the bloodbath. He was dressed as a centurion. “Who are you?” the dead man demanded. “Why do you have my lance?”
The knight bristled. “Your lance?”
“It belongs to me.”
“Are you Longinus?” Giovanni asked. “The centurion who killed Christ?”
“That’s a lie! I never killed him. Stabbed him, yes, but he was already dead.”
“How many men did you kill?” asked William.
“In battle? Too many to count.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“War is a noble calling,” the centurion declared.
“War is good for morale and bad for morality.”
“We were the greatest army the world had ever seen.”
“A solution in search of a problem.”
Longinus wiped the blood from his eyes. “We had every right to defend ourselves.”
“By raping villages? Sacking cities? Enslaving tribes?”
“Rome never fought a war of aggression. Only defense. If we had not attacked them, they would have attacked us.”
William frowned. “War is sometimes a necessary evil. But when it is not necessary, it is only evil.”
Nadja said, “Two thieves were killed with Christ.”
“Murderous bandits,” Longinus answered.
“Did you kill them?” William asked.
“They deserved to die.”
“We all deserve to die. Death is our birthright. But God will take us in His own good time.”
“They got their justice.”
“‘tibi hodie mecum eris in paradiso,’” said William. “True justice belongs to God, not man. It requires perfect knowledge and perfect love.”
Longinus seemed amused. “Love for criminals?”
“Without love, there can be no justice.”
“I followed orders. That was my duty as Roman soldier.”
“You should hav
e followed the commandment to love. That was your duty as a child of God.”
“Any man would have done as I did.”
“Not the man you crucified. Christ saved a woman who was about to be executed. You might have followed his example.”
“Set murderers free to kill again?”
“No,” said William. “Keep them in prison until God takes them. A man awaiting execution is alive, as we are, by the grace of God. Who are we to deny him that grace? If God wants a man to die, he’ll stop the man’s heart. God is all-powerful. He does not need us to do his killing for him.”
“But Father,” Giovanni interrupted, “surely a murderer should be put to death.”
“By whom?”
“An officer of the law.”
“And who will execute the executioner?”
“No one.”
“A murderer should be stoned,” said William, “yet stoning itself is murder: ‘si lapidem iecerit et ictus occubuerit similiter punietur.’”
“‘oculum pro oculo,’” Giovanni argued.
“‘mihi vindictam ego retribuam dicit Dominus,’” William shot back.
“I speak of justice, not vengeance.”
“An eye for an eye, Giovanni? Is that truly what you believe: that you should do to others what they have done to you? If a man plucks out your eye, you pluck out his eye? If he kills your family, you kill his family? If he rapes your daughter, you rape his daughter? That’s not justice. That’s a perpetuation of evil.”
As William and Giovanni argued, Marco saw three bearded knights step out of the bloodbath. They looked familiar. He had seen these men before, but could not remember where. They called to him in turns.
“Marco da Roma!”
“Marco da Roma!”
“Marco da Roma!
“Do I know you?” Marco asked.
“We know you.”
Marco said, “Speak your names.”
“Hughes de Payen.”
“Gerard de Ridefort.”
“Jacques de Molay.”
He remembered them now. These men were grandmasters of the Knights Templar.
“Our blood is on your hands,” said Jacques de Molay.
“No.” Marco looked down at his hands, scarlet and wet. He tried to wipe them clean on his tunic, to no avail.
“You tricked us—”
“Betrayed us—”
“Lied to us—”
Marco said, “You’re mistaken.”
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