Devil's Lair

by David Wisehart

  “Don’t call me that!” the man shouted. “I don’t know you.”

  “You know me too well.” His voice broke on the words.

  His father turned to leave. The heavy bag swung pendulous, the rough string sawing at the nape of his neck. His head, bent low, disappeared behind the mountain of his shoulders. This was how he had looked when Giovanni was a little boy standing behind his father’s desk, waiting for the old man’s attention, searching for a head behind those shoulders, a face bent low over the ledger. “Go away. You’re not my son.”

  Dark air shimmered above the sand. Giovanni sat with William on a rocky promontory above the dunes, watching miasma ripple in the heat. The air stifled him. He could scarcely breathe.

  “God has no heart,” Giovanni said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “He is impotent or He is evil.”

  “God gives us what we ask for,” William replied.

  “My father never asked for that.”

  “Didn’t he?”

  Giovanni felt his heart squeeze itself into a stone. “Look down there and tell me God is love.”

  “‘Deus caritas est,’” William said. “Love is the motive force. It moves the universe and every soul within it. What we love most, our soul will seek. If you love a woman above all else, your soul will seek hers. If you love God, your soul will seek God. Those men down there, what did they love?”

  “Gold.”

  “We are not punished for our sins, but by them.”

  Giovanni said, “Leave me alone.”

  William stood and slapped the sand from his robe. “We’ll wait for you. Take as long as you wish.” He walked off, disappearing into the gloom.

  When the poet was alone he covered his face with his hands, and for the first time in his life he wept for his father, who got everything he ever wanted.

  CHAPTER 29

  The river flowed to the edge of the cliff, where it formed a cascade of blood. Giovanni stood back with William and Nadja as Marco used the lancelight to look for a way down.

  Marco said, “There’s a place to the right where we might descend by rope. The drop is too far, but the cliff looks rougher over there. We may be able to climb down.”

  Giovanni agreed, and secured one end of the rope to an outcrop of rock, tested the pull of his weight against it, and tossed the loose end of the coil into the abyss. He saw something move in the shadows below.

  Nadja joined him at the edge. “What do you see?”

  Giovanni knew what it was before he saw it clearly. “Geryon.”

  An enormous beast flew up to meet them. He pawed the air like a man swimming up from the bottom of a lake. The manticore resembled Nadja’s sketch: a man’s face, but the body of a lizard; lion’s paws, but the tail of scorpion. At first his face seemed avuncular, but when he wheeled to confront the pilgrims his features transformed into those of a devil. Smoke poured from his flared nostrils. When Geryon opened his mouth, Giovanni saw that the monster’s tongue was not flesh but flame.

  “Go back!” Geryon commanded. The air quivered at his words. “You do not belong here.”

  Giovanni muttered, “Mater Dei,” and crossed himself.

  “Behind me,” Marco said to the others, and stepped forward with the Lance to meet the beast.

  Geryon flew above the knight and circled, wary of the Lance, seeming to gauge the strength and speed of his opponent.

  “Geryon!” William exclaimed. “We are here to meet your master.”

  “Meet him in death,” Geryon replied.

  The manticore swooped. Marco jabbed at him, but with a forepaw Geryon knocked the shaft aside. The knight kept his grip and ducked as Geryon flew over him. He turned to meet the second pass and was knocked to the ground. When the monster returned, his scorpion tail struck at the knight, who rolled away, sweeping the Lance in a wide arc. He scored the tail with a glancing blow. Geryon bellowed in pain, faltered in the air, and landed roughly across the river. The monster inspected the injury. Black fluid wept from the wound.

  “We mean you no harm,” said William. “Take us down, and we will leave you in peace.”

  “You will find no peace here.”

  Geryon took to the air once more. This time, he came for William. Marco interposed himself, fending off repeated attacks, but Giovanni saw that the knight was starting to tire while Geryon seemed to gain strength and confidence with each new attack. As the beast flew over, black blood dripped from his wound, making the rocky shelf at Marco’s feet more treacherous. Twice Marco was knocked down as his feet slipped out from under him. The second time he regained his footing slowly. Geryon came at him from behind. Nadja screamed a warning, and Marco spun in response, only to meet the full brunt of Geryon’s tail, which swung and knocked him back. Marco’s head smacked hard on the stoney ground. As Geryon made a final pass, Giovanni picked up a rock and threw it, hitting the beast in the flank, but the manticore seemed oblivious to the blow, and stabbed Marco’s thigh with his stinger. The knight did not scream out. He did not seem to feel it.

  Geryon circled and advanced on the others.

  William saw the lancelight dying.

  Devil be damned.

  Ducking Geryon’s attack, he ran to Marco and picked up the Holy Lance. He felt a sudden energy surge through him. Turning, he saw the monster fly at Nadja. He called out, “Geryon!”

  The manticore seized Nadja and swept her into the air, but Giovanni grabbed her foot and held her. Geryon struggled to rise, hampered by the corporeal weight. He let go of Nadja. Giovanni caught her in his arms as they both fell to the ground.

  The beast turned and came for William, who had seen all this before. He knew what came next, and welcomed it. He ran straight and fearless at the monster.

  We die together.

  Geryon seized William by the shoulders, claws puncturing flesh and scraping bone. The friar thrust the Lance upward, running the beast through the belly. William felt his feet leave the ground. His stomach lurched. He saw the red river below him. He pushed harder on the shaft until Geryon’s reptilian belly glowed from the lancelight within. Black blood dribbled down the shaft, coating William’s hands and forearms.

  The beast fell back into the river. William held his breath as hot red blood engulfed him. Man and beast fought in the river, which hurled them both toward the abyss. They tore at one another as they neared the nappe. The roar of the bloodfall grew louder.

  At the last possible moment William let go the Lance, broke free of Geryon, and swam for shore. He reached it, exhausted, and looked back to see Geryon swept by the rapids over the edge.

  Too tired to move, William closed his eyes and waited. “Pater in manus tuas commendo spiritum meum.”

  Giovanni saw William crawl ashore as Geryon was carried over the brink. For a moment the poet’s heart rejoiced. But as the creature fell, his long scorpion tail whipped out from the darkness, striking William. The stinger pierced the old man’s back. It plunged through his heart and out his chest. Giovanni watched in horror as William was yanked high into the air, skewered on the tip of Geryon’s tail, and fell into the abyss.

  The poet crawled to the verge and looked down. A pinprick of light receded and went out.

  Through tears Giovanni saw a new light below. It glowed in the deep, abating the darkness. The Lance, he thought at first, but the glow grew brighter, rising from the inky depths.

  “Look!” he said.

  The friar’s radiant shade, adorned in a luminous robe, ascended.

  Giovanni cried out, “William!”

  The bright shade seemed to recognize his name. William slowed his ascent, tarrying at the red cascade.

  “Marco da Roma,” he said, “open your eyes.”

  Marco shuddered awake, coughing blood, and sat up slowly. He blinked against the angelic light.

  Nadja stood. “Don’t leave us.”

  The shade answered, “I am summoned.”

  “What do we do now?” Giovanni asked.

  “Complete yo
ur quest.”

  “We can’t,” said Marco.

  “You swore an oath to defend the Grail.”

  “I’m not the man you thought I was.”

  The bright shade smiled. “You are the one, Marco. You must take hope into the heart of Hell.”

  “Without you we have no hope.”

  “You have each other. That is hope enough.”

  William’s soul ascended through the tenebrous vault, returning to his source.

  Dominus vobiscum, Giovanni thought. Another thought murmured, like the whisper of an angel: Et spiritu cum tuo.

  CHAPTER 30

  Weary with grief, they slept by the bloodfall until Marco roused them. The knight seemed restored beyond all reason. Is it the Holy Lance that heals him? Giovanni wondered. It did not save William.

  The pilgrims consumed the last of their food and wine, checked that the rope was still secure, and started down. When they reached the floor of eighth circle of Hell, they abandoned the rope where it hung and went to find their friend.

  At the base of the cascade, near where the blood pooled before draining again, they discovered William’s body beneath Geryon’s. Marco pulled the Lance from the manticore’s carcass and withdrew the stinger from William’s chest. Then he and Giovanni rolled Geryon into the bloodstream.

  Marco gathered William into his arms and carried him to a level place beside the pool. They collected stones to cover the body. When they had built a cairn they stood over it together, joining hands, and bowed their heads.

  Giovanni saw Nadja and Marco glancing at him, waiting for him to say the right words. He did not know all the words, but he knew some of them. “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Te decet hymnus Deus, in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Ierusalem. Exaudi orationem meam. Ad te omnis caro veniet. Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison. In paradisum deducant te Angeli. In tu adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Ierusalem. Chorus angelorum te suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem. Amen.”

  “Amen,” they answered.

  Then, in a broken voice, Giovanni sang a threnody:

  Dies irae, dies illa

  solvet saeclum in favilla,

  teste David cum Sibylla....

  Nadja could see that Malebolge was divided into ten concentric ditches that ringed the abyss like successive moats of a castle. The ditches were connected by stone bridges which were staggered along the circumference so that the pilgrims had to trace an arc of each ditch to reach the next crossing.

  Nadja walked behind the others as they continued left, toward the nearest bridge. Below her, naked shades passed in two files along either bank. She saw more women than men. They faced opposite directions, driven by horned demons who urged the laggards forward with cracking whips. The nearest line of shades faced the pilgrims, coming toward and moving past them. Nadja studied their faces in the lancelight.

  A woman looked up at the light and approached. “Won’t you join us?” she asked. “We can fulfill your every desire.”

  The poet paused. “My only desire is to get to the bridge.”

  “Cross here. I’ll take you. I’ve taken many men.”

  “Do not tempt me, woman.”

  “I am no temptress. But my daughter...” She turned and called out, “Marozia!”

  A younger woman in the opposing line joined her mother. Nadja saw that Marozia was naked, with a body built for lust.

  “Look upon my daughter, Marozia. Is she not lovely? Do you not love her?”

  “Theodora,” Giovanni said, stepping closer to the edge.

  “You know me.” The mother smiled. “Would you like to know me better?”

  “You ruled the pornocracy of Rome. You pandered your daughter to princes and popes.”

  “Give me that bright weapon, and my daughter is yours.”

  “The Lance is not mine to give.”

  “Give me the lance between your legs,” Theodora said, “and you could have us both.”

  Marozia danced, swaying her naked hips to unheard music, running her hands over phantom flesh, caressing her neck, her breasts, and the place between her legs. Nadja tried to look like she wasn’t looking as Marozia arched back and stood on her hands, spreading her legs apart. Theodora stroked her daughter’s legs, moved her hands down her daughter’s thighs, to the wet fold between, and inserted a finger.

  Giovanni slipped. The ground gave way. He nearly fell into the ditch, but Nadja caught his hand. Theodora and Marozia seized him by the ankles.

  “He is ours,” they said.

  Nadja said, “Leave him alone!”

  Mother and daughter clawed at the poet’s legs, up his thighs, climbing onto him. Marco plunged the Holy Lance into Theodora’s mouth. She fell back screaming. The knight stabbed Marozia in the left breast and the daughter tumbled.

  Nadja pulled Giovanni back to the ridge. The poet brushed himself off, trying to hide his embarrassment.

  “Thank you,” he said, and they spoke of it no more.

  As they crossed an old stone bridge to the next embankment, their senses were assaulted by the odor of piss and shit. Nadja saw hundreds of souls swimming in a brown stream that looked like drainage from a privy.

  “Harsh justice,” she said.

  They reached the next bridge and crossed over. Giovanni paused at the apex and looked down.

  “What are you doing?” Nadja asked.

  “Seems as good a place as any.” He lowered his hose and pissed into the sewer. “Wine into water. One of the lesser miracles.”

  Marco roared with laughter. “Even Hell has its pleasures.” The knight lifted his tunic and joined Giovanni in the sport.

  “Well now,” said the shade of a woman swimming in the filth. Crap covered her to the neck. Her face was smeared with the issue of a stranger’s bowels. Nadja recognized her as the woman they’d seen at the edge of Limbo, cast down for flattery. The wheedling woman said to Marco, “Aren’t you a handsome devil? What have you got there, big boy?”

  The knight adjusted his aim and hit her between the eyes.

  “Hey!” she screamed. “Watch where you’re aiming that thing!”

  Marco nudged the poet. “See that one over there?” he said, pointing to a man treading urine ten yards off. “The bald one?”

  “Too far,” said Giovanni.

  “On my honor.”

  The knight was as good as his boast. The bald man spat curses from below.

  Nadja giggled. She walked to the end of the bridge, straddled the gap where the bridge met the bank, hiked up her skirt, and gave as good as the boys.

  In the third ditch, steaming holes dotted the stone floor. From each hole projected human legs. Flames jittered on the bare soles, skittering on skin. All down the valley, pairs of legs twitched with pain. Cries echoed from every well.

  Giovanni saw one shade whose flames seemed greater than the others. He asked the man, “Who are you?”

  “Pope Benedict the Ninth,” a voice echoed from the hole.

  Giovanni had studied church history, but remembered nothing of this particular pope. “Why are you here?”

  “Simony.”

  “What office did you sell?”

  “The papacy.”

  “For thirty pieces of silver?”

  “Fifteen hundred pounds of gold.”

  Giovanni was impressed, and a little disgusted. “You might have returned the gold and bought your way to Heaven.”

  “I never asked to be pope,” Benedict complained. “It was my family’s idea. My uncles were popes, but they died. I was next in line. They made me pope when I was only twelve. I wanted to make everyone happy, so I said okay. Later, I changed my mind. Was that so wrong? You can’t hold a grown man to something he said when he was twelve.”

  “You might have abdicated.”

  “I did. And made a tidy profit. Of course, I regretted it immediately.”

  “Did you repent?”

&nb
sp; “I went to war and got the papacy back.”

  “You were pope twice?”

  “Three times. If I’d been a little smarter, I might have tripled my earnings.”

  Crossing over the fourth ditch, Marco saw shades walking with their heads turned backwards. They walked in reverse to see where they were going. Tears streamed down their faces and through the cracks of their asses.

  An old hag cried, “Marco da Roma!” Her pinched face looked like a rotten apple.

  “Yes, woman?” Marco said. “What do you want?”

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “No.”

  “You came this way before.”

  “You’re being punished as a liar?”

  “I was a fortuneteller. You were a defender of the Holy Grail.”

  Nadja said, “He is the last Knight Templar.”

  “No need for Templars now.” The harridan cackled. “The Devil defends the Grail.”

  “What do you know of it?” Marco demanded.

  “I knew it of old, before the stone of Heaven was carved into a cup. I was there, yes, when the shepherd boy found the stone in the river. He brought it to me.”

  “A shepherd?”

  “David. The boy who would be king.”

  “You knew King David?” Nadja asked.

  “Oh, yes. And his father, Saul. I used the stone to summon the shade of Samuel.”

  “You are the witch of Endor,” Giovanni said.

  She laughed. “I am remembered, after all.”

  Nadja asked, “Did you see David kill Goliath?”

  “Of course, of course,” said the witch, with a playful grin. “And how did he accomplish that? I’ll tell you. When the stone fell from Heaven to Earth, and landed in the valley of Elah, five pieces broke off. David went back to the river where he found the great stone, and he gathered up the smaller stones. One of these he hurled at the giant, killing the last of the Nephilim.” She laughed again. “Killed him straight away.”

  “What did you do with the Grail stone?” Marco asked.

  “I gave it back.”

  “To the shepherd boy?”

  “Oh, no. He was the king by then. He commanded me to return the stone to the one who found it. King David wanted to make a chalice for the future temple.”