by David Wood
“Yes, but I have no idea what else went on.”
“Well, that’s where it gets particularly interesting. Depending on which version of the legend you read, as there are several slightly varying accounts, Rudolf II was to either expel or execute the Jews in Prague. Either way, things were not looking good for them. So to protect the Jewish community, the rabbi took clay from the banks of the Vltava River and used it to construct the golem. He then used a variety of rituals and Hebrew incantations to create the shem which would give the golem life.”
“Shem?” Crowley asked.
“A golem receives its life and powers from a powerful... spell, if you like, written on paper and put into the golem’s mouth. The more powerful the practitioner, the stronger the shem, therefore the more capable the golem, you see?”
Crowley nodded. “Right, okay. So this rabbi, this Maharal, he was powerful?”
“By all accounts, almost divinely so. He is the hero of the piece, after all.”
“Right. Go on.”
“So the Maharal’s golem was called Josef, but more commonly called Yossele. The legends say that Yossele was able to make himself invisible, and that he could summon spirits from the dead to act out his will. A powerful golem, you see, from a powerful rabbi. The only care Yossele required from Rabbi Loew, the Maharal, was to ensure he wasn’t active on the day of Sabbath.”
“That’s Saturday, right?” Crowley asked.
Damek nodded. “The golem had to rest on the Sabbath so that it would do nothing to desecrate the holy day. Rabbi Loew would remove the shem from Yossele’s mouth on Friday evening and return it on Sunday morning.” Damek looked up from his book and smiled. “Now, here’s where it gets particularly good. One Friday evening, Rabbi Loew forgot to remove the shem, and the golem Yossele did indeed desecrate the Sabbath. There is one version of the story where Yossele fell in love, and when rejected, became a violent monster. Other accounts have the golem finally free on the Sabbath to act out a murderous rampage against those who would persecute the Jews. The popular accounts go that the rabbi finally managed to pull the shem from Yossele’s mouth and immobilize him in front of the Old New Synagogue, whereupon the golem fell in pieces. The body parts were stored in the attic genizah, a secret hiding place, from where it could be restored to life again if needed. Some legends say the body of Rabbi Loew’s golem still lies in the synagogue’s attic, but when it was renovated in 1883, no evidence was found. Other versions of the myth state that the golem was stolen from the genizah and entombed in a graveyard in Prague's Žižkov district, where the Žižkov Television Tower stands now. A more recent legend tells of a Nazi agent finding the golem in the synagogue attic during World War II. He tried to stab Yossele, but he died instead.” Damek grinned at them.
“Good stories,” Crowley said. “But you’re holding something back.”
Damek’s grin became a laugh. He pointed to the page again. “A film was made in the attic in 1984, but that crew found no evidence either. And besides, the attic is not open to the general public, so we can’t corroborate any of this.”
Crowley grew impatient. He felt as though the archivist was toying with them. “So this is all very fascinating, but what does it have to do with Rudolf or the Devil’s Bible?”
Damek raised one forefinger dramatically. “You asked for the whole story as if you knew nothing. So that’s most of it. But remember, I said we know something of the legend that others don’t?”
“We remember,” Rose said, sounding a lot more patient than Crowley had. “So what’s the special angle you have?”
“Well, the suppressed part of the legend is that when the Rabbi forgot to remove the shem that Friday night, the golem took its opportunity to come after Rudolf. Remember, Yossele was charged with protecting the Jews in Prague, so what better way than by destroying the Holy Roman Emperor himself, the man in charge of that persecution? And here’s where it connects back to the Devil’s Bible.
“That Sabbath day, the golem came after Rudolf, who, fearing for his life, took shelter in a secret place where he kept his most secret possessions. The parts of his private collection that he wanted to keep the most private. Among them, the Devil’s Bible.”
“I thought it was common knowledge that he possessed it,” Crowley said.
The archivist shrugged. “It’s just a story and this makes it more exciting, no? Just because people knew Rudolf had the Codex, that doesn’t mean they knew where he kept it.” He looked back down to the pages of his book. “Anyway, the golem found Rudolf’s hiding place easily. It says here Yossele ‘discovered Rudolf along the pathway to hell’. When it also found the Devil’s Bible there it decided it had also discovered the source of Rudolf’s evil. So the golem, rather than simply killing the King, consumed the Devil’s Bible, thus purging the evil from Rudolf’s heart and ensuring the ongoing safety of the Jews. However, the act cost the golem its life and it was never seen again.”
Damek closed the book with a smile. “Only we have that particular legend, and it is fanciful, I know. But it’s the only story of which I’m aware that connects Rudolf to the disappearance of the original Codex Gigas. And perhaps that’s why any existing version, such as the one in Sweden, is a copy.”
Crowley took a deep breath, determined not to let his annoyance show. It was fanciful indeed and he wasn’t sure all this journeying and time had been worthwhile. Had they hit a dead end?
Rose stood and reached a hand across the desk. “Thank you so much for your time, Damek. It’s been truly enlightening.”
Damek shook but looked a little crestfallen. “You’re leaving so soon?”
“We have a lot to see and do.”
Damek frowned. “Well, you should look around some more here first. Much of Rudolf’s artwork is preserved.”
Rose pursed her lips, quite convincingly feigning a real interest. She smiled at Damek and leaned on the desk. “Are there any works of art or literature from Rudolf’s collection that aren’t on public display? Perhaps because they were too controversial or something. Maybe the Voynich Manuscript?” She winked and the archivist flushed.
“There are, in fact, a number of paintings that haven’t been on display in decades, but not because of their content or subject matter. Simply because their quality is not up to snuff. The displays are kept to those items that are best preserved.”
“You think we could have a look?” Rose asked. “I like things other people don’t get to see.”
Damek laughed and stood. “It’s really not very interesting, but for you, of course.”
He led them from the office along a stone corridor and then to a heavy metal door with an electronic keypad beside it. He tapped in a code.
There was a soft hiss as the door opened. “Climate-controlled storage,” Damek said back over his shoulder as he led them inside and closed the door behind them.
The room was large and cool, dancing in halogen light as Damek flicked a switch and several overhead bulbs flickered into life. Row upon row of shelving held all manner of treasures. The shelves were differing in size, small ones holding books and scrolls and piles of paper. Larger ones with boxes and bags. Larger still had paintings that stood facing out.
Rose and Crowley strolled back and forth among the shelves making appreciative noises, Damek proudly following, but sticking most closely to Rose. Crowley wasn’t sure what they were looking for, if there was even anything of interest to be found, when one dark and faded painting caught his attention. He grimaced, the image eliciting a deep and visceral reaction inside him, simply from observing it. He didn’t like it at all, but couldn’t take his eyes off it. The work was fine and intricate, showing a round tower, with a staircase beneath descending past people in torment. The stairs led down to a flame shrouded figure that looked vaguely like an ape. Inside the belly of the figure squatted a horned, clawed figure that Crowley recognized immediately as the devil from the Codex Gigas, the very drawing that gave the Devil’s Bible its name.
Noting that Rose and Damek had their backs to him, Crowley quickly snapped a photo with his phone, then called the archivist’s name. “What’s this tower here?” he asked. “Is it a real place?”
“Most definitely. That’s Daliborka, or Dalibor Tower. It stands at the eastern end of Golden Lane. Dating back to 1496, it served as a prison until 1781. It’s named after its first inmate, Dalibor of Kozojedy.”
“What a grim looking place,” Rose said. She leaned close and Crowley knew she had spotted the tiny image of the devil inside the ape-like creature at the bottom. She didn’t say anything.
“A prison, eh?” Crowley said. “Cells and dungeons and things?”
“Oh, yes. There’s a dungeon with monumental vaults, and a circular opening in the floor through which offenders were lowered into the oubliette via a pulley.”
“From the French oublier,” Rose breathed. “To forget.”
“Indeed. Just a dark hole in the ground with only one way in or out, through that hole at the top. Where people were left and forgotten.”
“Horrible,” Rose said, and shook herself.
Damek smiled. “The Dalibor Tower is included in the castle tour. You should take the tour before you leave.”
“Thanks so much,” Crowley said. “We’ve certainly enjoyed this private tour.” He headed for the door, Rose in step beside him, and Damek hurried ahead to open up.
“Nothing else I can do for you?” Damek asked, though the question was directed to Rose.
“No, we’ve taken up enough of your time,” she said diplomatically, bestowing a warm and friendly smile on the man.
Damek’s features fell. “Well. I’ll walk you out then.”
Chapter 21
Dalibor Tower, Prague Castle
The tour of Dalibor Tower left less than an hour after Crowley and Rose had emerged from the Prague Castle archives. They’d had time for a coffee and a chat in a small café near Golden Lane to discuss where they might turn next.
“Not much help, really, that Damek,” Crowley had said.
Rose shrugged. “But those paintings in storage were more interesting, having heard the story of the golem. Let me see that picture again.”
Crowley tapped it up on his phone and Rose nodded.
“That image is definitely the devil in the Codex Gigas,” Rose agreed. “And the ape-like outline could be intended to represent a golem.”
“I’d say so.”
“But you do realize golems aren't real, yes?”
Crowley slipped the phone away again with a smile. “Legends and stories often have factual origins, though, so we can’t discount anything.”
Rose gave him a mock-withering look. “I am a historian, remember?”
They had quickly finished their drinks and joined a group of twelve or fifteen others for the Dalibor Tower tour. From the outside, it was a pale stone, rounded artillery tower, with a squat, pointed red tile conical roof. Small, square windows marched in a spiral up the sides, following the stairways inside. The interior was the same pale stonework, with heavy, dark wooden beams overhead.
The tour guide was an animated young woman with short, platinum blonde hair and bright red lips. She spoke with barely any accent, if anything sounding more American than European. “Daliborka, better known internationally as Dalibor Tower, is a cannon tower built into the slope above the Deer Moat of Prague Castle. It was constructed by Benedikt Ried in 1496. Originally it was higher, but only five stories have survived until today. Of course, it is most famous as a prison, named after Dalibor of Kozojedy, the first prisoner in 1498. He was imprisoned for his part in a nearby serfs’ uprising, and for harboring rebels on his land. Legend says he learned to play violin to earn his living in the tower. Daliborka was used as a prison until 1781.”
They were led down into the cool basement, the guide’s words trailing back to them. “Of course, everyone is most interested in the dungeons. There are four cells around this room, the walls over two and a half meters thick.’
The floor of the dungeon was a circular pattern of orange brick, rough stone walls rising to a high vault above. The center of the floor drew everyone’s eye, dominated by a raised stone circular opening like a well, with a metal grid over the top to prevent an accidental fall. And, presumably, to keep prisoners in assuming they ever managed to get that high after being lowered several meters into a dark hole in the ground. Above the opening hung a disturbing array of metalwork, chains and manacles.
“This is the famous oubliette,” the guide said with a wide smile. “The round hole you see is the only access to a large circular space beneath. Around the edges of the space are several smaller cells, where up to four prisoners would be imprisoned at a time and... left. After all, the name oubliette comes from the French word ‘to forget’, and that’s exactly what happened. Who knows what might have become of those people once they were thrown inside.” She leaned forward, eyes wide. “Or what they might have done to each other!”
The tour group made dutiful noises of amusement and disgust and Crowley zoned out the guide’s talk as he stared around. The whole room gave him the chills, not only because it was actually cold inside. The idea of the suffering endured here, especially down in the darkness of the oubliette below, made his insides churn. He had suffered some dark and seemingly inescapable internment himself in the Middle East and any kind of prison brought back painful recollections. Especially ones as medieval and horrendous as this one. He shook off the thoughts and shuffled closer to the oubliette.
The tour began to move on from the dungeon and Crowley snagged Rose’s sleeve. “You go on. I’ll meet you at the far end of the Golden Lane in an hour.”
Rose shook her head, and glanced nervously at the group moving away. “No way, I’m not leaving you.”
“It’ll rouse too much suspicion if we both disappear. This way, if someone notices I’m gone, you can say I wasn’t feeling well and went back the way we came. You can carry on with the tour and cover for me if necessary, so no one comes back looking.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Rose looked from Crowley to the tour group and back again. “Okay, but be careful. And good luck!”
She hurried to catch up with the group and Crowley slipped to one side for a moment, ensuring no one could see him loitering if they glanced back. Once he was sure they were all gone and he was alone, he snuck back to the oubliette. If the place had given him the creeps before, it was magnified ten-fold now that he was alone.
He checked the large bolts holding the metal grid over the top of the oubliette and tested them with a finger. They seemed pretty solid. Frowning, he took out a pocket tool, opened it up, and started working at the fastenings. It took a while, and made some noise, but slowly he managed to loosen the two main bolts holding the grill in place on either side. With a smile, glancing nervously around, sure someone would appear to discover him any moment, he carefully lifted it aside.
On the way from the café back to the tour, they had passed an unoccupied work site. The tradesmen had presumably been on a coffee break of their own. Crowley had surreptitiously snagged a strong-looking nylon rope from a pile of tools and stuffed it into his jacket. He was glad of the find now as he unfurled the rope and tied it off to a sturdy metal stanchion nearby.
Crowley took a deep breath, scanned quickly around once more, then slid down the rope into the dark hole.
Chapter 22
Beneath Dalibor Tower
Crowley’s feet touched the flagstone floor and he stood in a narrow pool of light from the entrance high above. The oubliette was deep, the ceiling curving away from the hole and disappearing into darkness. The walls of the prison were lost in inky shadow. Looking up at the entrance, Crowley frowned. A person would have to be a spider or a cockroach to escape, clinging to the roof upside down just to reach the hole, let alone have the skills to undo the grill from the inside if it were closed up again. He shuddered at the thought. The sooner he got back out of this place, the better.
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The air was a damp chill in his lungs, dust and age penetrating his pores. He slipped a flashlight from his pocket and its beam pierced the darkness. The flagstones went flat to the walls, which curved all around to make a circular room some fifteen or so paces across. Then the stone walls rose, large blocks pressed close together. Four openings, like the cardinal points on a compass, marked the four individual cells. The room was otherwise featureless and austere. Crowley imagined multiple prisoners, colluding to escape. But even if one tall man stood on another’s shoulders, they still wouldn’t be able to reach the access hole high above. It would take three men standing atop one another to manage that, and only the best acrobats were likely to succeed. Certainly not starving, beaten, weakened prisoners.
He went to each individual cell and looked in. Four empty spaces, no taller than a man, only a few paces square. After the last one, Crowley stood back, exasperated. What now? The place was empty, as bare and cold as a desert at night. Frustrated, he went back into one of the cells and looked more closely, playing his torchlight slowly over the stone blocks of the walls. Marks and writing became clear when he took time to notice them, scratched into the rock presumably with small stones. Some were simply tally marks, maybe counting off days spent interred, though how anyone might measure the passing of days in the basement of a basement was a mystery. Perhaps they weren’t days, but something less innocent.
Other marks were words in an unpracticed hand, the language unintelligible to Crowley. All the cells had marks of some kind, some more than others. In the third cell he paused, heart rate fluttering slightly faster. Ever so faint, almost obscured by more recent carvings, was the outline of a devil. And not just any devil, but the strange, squatting creature from the Codex Gigas, crudely rendered but recognizable. Crowley pulled out his pocket folding tool and scraped at the image, and the surrounding stone. Sandy mortar rained down from a section softer than elsewhere. Frowning with concentration, Crowley carved deeper and revealed a kind of dip in the top of the brick beneath the mortar he had removed. A dip just big enough to slip in his fingertips and give some grip. Was it a handhold?