Devil's Lair

by David Wisehart

  “Solomon’s temple?” Giovanni asked.

  She nodded. “The lesser vessels were made of orichalcum, but the great vessel was the Holy Grail, carved from the stone of Heaven. For many years it protected Israel. But a thief stole it from the temple, and the temple was destroyed.”

  “Who stole the Grail?” Marco asked.

  “Who indeed?” She cackled. “You will find him in the den of thieves. Look in the water. That is the man you seek.”

  Giovanni saw in the fifth trench a bickering horde of shades sunk in boiling pitch. Some were buried to their knees, others to their noses. Many were entirely submerged. When they tried to surface, demons tore them to pieces with grappling hooks, sharp claws, and carnassial teeth.

  One man stood aloof, up to his knees in black pitch. The demons left him alone. He was garbed in a simple robe, and had a nose like a flying buttress. On his head he wore a laurel crown. With eyes closed, he chanted:

  I am defeated at this pass, much more

  Than any other bard who failed to find,

  By use of art, a line to match his lore.

  For as the eye that sought the sun is blind,

  The memory of my sweet lady’s smile

  Is now obliterated from my mind.

  Giovanni recognized the verses, and the man who spoke them. “Dante?”

  The enmired poet turned. “Who calls my name?”

  “Are you...?”

  “Dante Alighieri.”

  Giovanni dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Magister!”

  The laureate approached, trudging through the pitch. The demons, busy torturing other shades, showed little concern. Dante put a cold, spectral hand under Giovanni’s chin to lift his gaze. “Who are you?”

  “Giovanni Boccaccio. The poet. Boccaccio.”

  “I know your work,” Dante said. “You have quite a following in Hell.”

  “Why aren’t you in Paradise?”

  Dante sighed. “Poetry has great power, but not the power to absolve sin.”

  “But you’re a great man.”

  “Hell is filled with great men.”

  “What was your sin?”

  “Barratry. Bribes. The sins of politics.”

  “False charges.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Giovanni shook his head. “I don’t understand. You went to Heaven. You saw the face of God. Even that did not save you?”

  “Did it save Lucifer? We rise, we fall.” Dante glanced around. “It’s not too bad here, from the knees up.”

  “With what you knew, with what you saw of Hell, you must have confessed your sins. Surely you repented.”

  “One would think.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Dante shrugged. “Florence offered to rescind my exile if I gave a public confession. I insisted the charges be dropped. They refused. So did God.”

  “You’re still an exile,” Giovanni said, “suffering for your art.”

  “No. My art gives me the one thing most coveted in Hell.”

  “What is that?”

  “Hope.”

  “Of what?”

  Dante asked, “Did you recognize the poem I was reading?”

  “Paradiso. Canto thirty.”

  “Yet I have no book.” He showed Giovanni his empty hands. “How could I have read it?”

  “You remember it.”

  “Down here, we remember only our sins. Whatever good we did in life is lost to us. We are denied that consolation.”

  Giovanni thought he understood. “You can see the future.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your poetry lives on.”

  Dante nodded. “I remember little of my life, and nothing of my love. But some of it I wrote down. When you walked by and heard me reading those lines, I was looking at a man reading a book. He lives in the future. I do not know when or where. But when he reads my book, so can I. When anyone reads it, I am there. It is all I have left of who I was. It is all I know of Beatrice.”

  “But if people stop reading your work?”

  “Then I am lost.”

  Giovanni mulled this over. “Is there any hope for me?”

  “You still have life.”

  “What life? There’s nothing for me up there.”

  “There is,” Dante assured him. “If you cannot find it, make it. You are a poet, a maker. Remake yourself.”

  “How?”

  “That I cannot tell you.”

  “Show me the way.”

  “Any way I might show you would not be yours.”

  Giovanni hesitated, then asked the question he most dreaded. “Will my work survive?”

  Dante closed his eyes, seeing something Giovanni could not. “Your stories will be popular.”

  “But my serious work? My poetry?”

  “What of it?”

  “I lost my patron. I lost my muse. I am becoming the failure my father predicted.”

  Dante clucked his tongue. “True poets are sired upon themselves.”

  “I am a poet because of you.”

  “My way is not your way, Giovanni. You have walked in my shadow long enough. It is time to step into the light.”

  Giovanni left reluctantly, but knew he could not stay. Before departing he promised Dante he would do what he could to keep the master’s work alive.

  In the next ditch he saw shades who moved slowly, weighed down by heavy lead robes which were painted gold. Their faces were cloaked in cowls.

  The nearest shade said, “Take me with you. I do not belong here. I was a holy man. Everyone said so.”

  “What holy man were you?” Giovanni asked.

  “If you know scripture, you know my story. I picked up a few sticks, and for that Moses had me stoned to death.”

  Giovanni recalled the story. “You broke one of the Ten Commandments. You dishonored the Sabbath.”

  “Even Jesus worked on Saturday.”

  “For which he, too, was killed. Yet you are here and he is not. Why is that?”

  “Moses punished me for my industry, God for my piety.”

  “For your hypocrisy.” Giovanni had no love for hypocrites. He picked up a rock and tested its weight.

  The hypocrite said, “He who is without sin should cast the first stone.”

  “This is not the first,” Giovanni said. “It will not be the last.”

  He threw the rock at the shade, who tried to dodge it, but the heavy cloak slowed him. The stone struck the man’s face. Marco, too, picked up a stone, and Nadja another, and soon they were all throwing rocks at the hypocrites.

  The poet could not have asked for an easier target.

  Giovanni led his friends to where a skulk of naked thieves were chased by serpents. Their hands were tied behind them by snakes, which extended between the sinners’ legs and coiled around their testicles. When the serpents on the ground bit a bandit on the ankle, his human form burst into flame, then fell as ashes. The ashes spiraled like a dust devil, gathered in a new form, and became a snake. Meanwhile, the attacking snake melted like wax and transformed into a human. He then ran the other way, chased by a nascent serpent eager for revenge.

  As he watched this, Giovanni heard a man whisper in his right ear, “Who are you?”

  Startled, the poet turned, but saw only Marco standing a little ways off, staring down into the ditch.

  “Did you say something?” he asked.

  “What?” Marco replied.

  “Did you just ask me who I was?”

  “No.”

  A whisper in his left ear: “That was me.”

  Giovanni turned, but saw no one. “Show yourself.”

  The shade of a man winked into view. He fiddled with something in his left hand, then hid both hands behind him. “Hello there. My name is Gyges. King of Lydia.”

  “Is that a magic ring?” Giovanni asked.

  “Very observant.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Don’t know if you can. But you may.” Gyges held
out his left hand to show Giovanni the gold band on his finger. In the collet was a bloodstone.

  “Heliotrope?” Giovanni asked.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Is it the stone or the ring that makes you invisible?”

  “When I turn the ring like this...” He turned it so the stone faced his palm, and disappeared. “But if I turn it the other way...” He reappeared.

  Marco said, “How long have you been following us?”

  “Since you crossed that last bridge. We don’t get many visitors. I was curious about that spear.”

  “Are you a thief?” Marco asked.

  “I was. But no more. I have everything I want.”

  Giovanni asked, “Where did you steal the ring?”

  “Found it. I was a shepherd boy then. One day, while I was feeding my flock, an earthquake opened a hole in the ground. I was curious, so I looked inside. I climbed down, deep into the earth, and found this ring.”

  “And what did you do with your new power?”

  “What would you do?” asked Gyges.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I could. First I seduced the queen of Lydia.”

  “How did you do that?” Nadja asked.

  “Took her in her sleep.”

  “You raped her?”

  “She liked it well enough, once she caught the spirit of the occasion. Then I murdered the king and took his place.”

  Nadja shoved Gyges into the ditch. He yelped and landed hard. The ring slipped from his finger. Gyges scrambled on all fours in search of his lost treasure, sweeping his hands over the ground, this way and that, but the ring had rolled beyond his reach. A group of bandits, fleeing snakes, saw the gold trinket. They all made a grab for it.

  Gyges screamed, “No!” But it was too late. The bandits scuffled for possession of the prize, then one of them disappeared.

  Despondent, the King of Lydia sat alone in the den of thieves. A snake slithered towards him and bit his ring finger. Gyges burst into flame, then fell back in a heap of ashes that gathered and twisted into serpentine form.

  Gyges slithered off, hunting invisible prey.

  The pilgrims climbed up a narrow and difficult ridge to the next crossing. Marco could not see the floor of the fosse. It was veiled in darkness. The stone bridge was cracked; much of it had already given way.

  Marco turned to the poet. “How did Dante get across?”

  “He and Virgil climbed into the ditch.”

  The pilgrims did so, too, and when they reached the bottom Marco saw fruit trees huddled around a pool of water, like an Eden in the midst of Hell.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Dante doesn’t say.”

  Marco, feeling a thirst, led his friends to the oasis. Branches sagged from the weight of ripe pears and pomegranates, apples and figs. Giovanni plucked a golden apple and took a bite. The grin on his face was comical. Marco laughed and dehisced a pomegranate. Nadja gathered figs.

  “Go away,” said a man’s voice.

  In the pool of water stood a shade submerged to his neck.

  Nadja asked, “What are you doing in there?”

  “I thirst.”

  Giovanni spit an apple seed into the pool. “You’re wetter than John the Baptist.”

  “I can’t drink it.” To prove his point, the man bent his head to the water, extending his tongue, but the water level dropped and denied him a taste. “I am cursed.”

  “Cup your hands, like this.” Marco showed him how to make a bowl of his fingers.

  “No use.” The sinner cupped water in his hands, and raised the liquid to his lips, but on the verge of satisfaction the water slipped through his fingers.

  “You’re not doing it right.” Marco knelt at the water’s edge and drank from the pool. “Mmm. Delicious.”

  “Go away.”

  Marco stared at the silvered surface, into the eyes of his own reflection. For a moment he was transfixed.

  Nadja broke the spell by saying, “Who are you?”

  “Go away,” the shade repeated.

  “Give me your name and I’ll give you some fruit,” the girl offered.

  The shade glanced back at her. Marco watched as Nadja tossed the cursed man an apple. It went over his head, just out of reach. She tried again, but threw it too short. A third and fourth attempt were no better. Nadja frowned.

  “It’s no use,” Giovanni said. “He can never catch it.”

  “Why not?”

  The poet addressed the shade. “You must be Tantalus.”

  “Hantili, of the children of Heth. Named after a great king. I saw the Babylonians rise and the Hebrews fall. But yes, I was known to the Greeks as Tantalus.”

  “You stole the Grail cup?”

  Tantalus nodded. Water rose and fell at the level of his chin.

  Nadja asked, “What happened to the Grail?”

  “Sold it.”

  “To whom?” Giovanni asked.

  “The King of Babylon.”

  “Which one?”

  “Nebuchadnezzar.”

  “Why didn’t you keep it?” said Nadja.

  “What for? It was supposed to be a magic cup, but there was no magic in it. They said it would hold the nectar of the gods, which can make a man immortal. But the cup was empty. No nectar, no wine.”

  “No blood,” said the poet. He tossed his apple core into the pool. Water splashed, but no drops fell on Tantalus. “The cup awaited the blood of Christ.”

  Standing on the span above the eighth trench, Marco saw below him a field of flames, like an vast army at a twilight vigil.

  “The evil counselors,” Giovanni said.

  One of the flames climbed the embankment to meet the pilgrims, and Marco saw within it a human shade. He recognized the face of his majordomo.

  “Tancredo?”

  A voice from the flame: “Marco! Marco! Where are you going?”

  “Down to the Devil.”

  “Yes, yes. Very good. Plead my case, Marco. Make a deal. You and he might come to some arrangement.”

  “Why would the Devil listen to me?”

  “Oh, he’ll listen to you. Oh, yes. You two have an understanding.”

  “What are you—”

  “Is that a relic?” Tancredo asked.

  “The Holy Lance.”

  Tancredo’s flame brightened. “The Lance, too? I would counsel against it. Keep the Lance for yourself, Marco. What more can the Devil give you?”

  “What do you mean?” the knight asked. “Speak plainly.”

  “Yes, Marco. Good. It is wise to play the fool.”

  “You’re the fool, old man.”

  Tancredo chuckled. “Remember what I taught you.”

  Fear crawled up Marco’s spine, and with it came the hint of memory: he saw himself speaking with Tancredo in the pomegranate orchard behind his Roman villa. But the memory was all wrong. Tancredo was a young man and Marco was an old man, bearded, grey, and wrinkled. No. It wasn’t possible. It made no sense. Marco forced the memory back into darkness.

  “Get away from me!” He stabbed Tancredo’s flame with the Lance, and it flickered back down the hill.

  They were nearly across the bridge when a second flame approached. “Do you remember me, Marco? I am Guillaume de Nogaret. We did business together, you and I.”

  “What business?”

  “Dirty business, but profitable. More for you, I think. How is it you are alive after so many years?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were much older when I saw you last.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “And yet it is,” said Nogaret. “What’s your secret, Marco? Is it the Grail that keeps you young?”

  “What do you know of the Holy Grail?”

  “I know you promised it to me, and never delivered.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “We had a deal,” said Nogaret. “I did my part. Did you do yours? I destroyed the Templars. The Holy G
rail was yours for the taking. Did you take it?”

  “Liar!”

  Marco swept the Lance through Nogaret’s flame. The sinner screamed and fled down the scarp. When Marco glanced back at Nadja and Giovanni, they were both looking at him strangely.

  “Keep moving,” he said.

  Can’t take the bridge, Giovanni thought, seeing demons on the crossing.

  The unholy creatures brandished scythes, swords, and axes, which they swung at sinners who passed underneath, walking toward the pilgrims. Some of the shades were given glancing blows to the neck or shoulders; others were sliced from crown to crotch, guts spilling into their hands. As they cleared the bridge their wounds began to close, and by the time they rounded the abyss they were ready for another assault.

  Giovanni saw a shade beheaded in mid-stride. The man caught his tumbling nob by the hair and marched on. Swinging his head like a lantern, he sang in Occitan a paean to war, and from the lyrics Giovanni identified him as Bertran de Born.

  Maces and swords and colored helms

  And shields are breaking under blows.

  See how the battle overwhelms

  As vassals vie in bloody throes.

  Wild horses roam the earth

  Now that their masters are unseated,

  But once the enemy is greeted,

  All men of noble birth

  Fight on, till mortal blows are meted:

  Better to die than live defeated!

  To avoid the bridge the pilgrims climbed into the abattoir and joined the flow of cloven spirits. Finding a place to climb back up proved more difficult. The press of cold shades kept them moving forward, closer to the savage demons.

  The bridge was coming into view when a man whose ear was quickly healing turned to Giovanni and said, “Mordred’s lance?”

  “The Lance of Longinus.”

  “I’d never forget a weapon like that.”