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Acknowledgments
I’m very grateful to my agent, Luigi Bonomi of Luigi Bonomi Associates (LBA); to my editors, Sherise Hobbs at Headline in London and Peter Wolverton at St. Martin’s Press in New York; to my former editor Martin Fletcher, and to Ann Verrinder Gibbins; to Jane Selley for her copyediting; to the rest of the teams at Headline and at St. Martin’s Press, including Emily Gowers, Patrick Insole, and Jennifer Donovan; to Lee Gibbons for his excellent cover art for my books; to Alison Bonomi, Ajda Vucicevic, and Danielle Zigner at LBA; to Nicki Kennedy, Sam Edenborough, Katherine West, Simone Smith, and Alice Natali at the Intercontinental Literary Agency; and to my many foreign publishers and their translators.
In my previous novel, Testament, Jack Howard and his team discover an amazing shipwreck of Phoenician date off the west coast of Cornwall in England. That wreck was fictional, but their exploration was closely based on my own diving over the past few years on shipwrecks off Gunwalloe Church Cove on the west side of the Lizard peninsula. In Inquisition, Jack moves even closer to real life, as the wreck that he finds in the first chapters of the novel, the Schiedam, is one that I myself rediscovered with Mark Milburn in 2016—a Dutch merchantman captured by Barbary pirates and then by the Royal Navy that was used in the evacuation of the English colony at Tangier in 1684. I’m very grateful to Mark and all the divers with Cornwall Maritime Archaeology, the organization Mark and I set up that parallels Jack’s International Maritime University. The Schiedam is a protected wreck under UK law, and I’m indebted to Historic England for authorizing us to carry out archaeological work on the site and to the National Trust for their support, as well as to the British Library, the National Archives, and Cornwall County Archives in Truro for facilitating documentary research on the wreck.
Just as Jack’s discoveries always excite press interest, so did ours in late 2016, when the BBC and many other news media featured our discovery of the Schiedam as a top story. You can read all about that on my website, www.davidgibbins.com. Thanks go to Mark Milburn and Jeff Goodman for their excellent video and still photography on the site. I’m very grateful to my brother Alan for taking the photo of me underwater that appears on the cover of this novel, and to our mother Ann—indispensable proofreader of all of my novels—and my daughter Molly for joining me on a diving expedition to the wrecks of Tobermory in Canada to mark the completion of this novel, and the beginning of exciting new adventures ahead.
Map showing the main places mentioned in the novel, including the site of the persecution of Christians in 4th century Rome, the 17th century shipwreck off Cornwall in England, the Court of the Inquisition at Coimbra in Portugal, the English colony at Tangier in North Africa, the pirate city of Port Royal in Jamaica and the Spanish silver mines at Potosi in South America.
And he took a cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, Drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is shed for many unto remission of sins. But I say unto you, I will not drink henceforth of this fruit of the vine, until that day when I drink of it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.
Matthew 26: 27–29 (King James Version)
The table was not of silver, the chalice was not of gold in which Christ gave His blood to His disciples to drink, and yet everything there was precious and truly fit to inspire awe …
St. John Chrysostom (late fourth century AD), on the Gospel of Matthew
By the King’s Direction there were buried among the Ruins a considerable Number of mill’d Crown Pieces of his Majestie’s Coin, which haply, many Centuries hence when other Memory of it shall be lost, may declare to succeeding Ages that that place was once a Member of the British Empire …
Josiah Burchett, A Complete History of the Most Remarkable Transactions at Sea (1720), on Tangier
Prologue
Rome, the Catacombs of Callixtus, AD 258
The man with the sword stumbled along the rock-cut tunnel as fast as he could, the dull echo of his footsteps resounding down the passageways filled with burial niches that extended off on either side. He had entered the catacombs by a secret portal, pausing only to glance one last time at the shooting stars that filled the sky to the northwest before plunging into the sepulchral gloom of the tunnel. The skylights that had lit his way by moonlight since the entrance had ended some way back, and the only light now was the smudge from a distant oil lamp in the darkness ahead. A few minutes later he reached it, and stood panting, hunched over with his hands on his knees. He had only been this deep into the catacombs once before, when he had been shown the secret place. Beyond the lamp the tunnel split, one passage veering off to the left, the other to the right. His mind had gone blank, paralyzed by the horrors he had witnessed on the execution ground only hours before, and he had forgotten the way. He knew that his choice would make little difference to his chance of escape from those who were following him. They would come like a rushing torrent through the catacombs, filling every passage, every space. But it made all the difference to the task that he, Proselius, legionary of Rome and soldier of Christ, had sworn to undertake that day, that the others had entrusted to him as they were led off to martyrdom. The very future of the Church was at stake. He had to remember.
He tried to control his breathing, and closed his eyes. Despite all that he had seen as a soldier, all the horrors of war, he had not been able to watch what they were doing to Laurentius, his friend and teacher; he had turned from it and gone to prayer, but another of the brethren had sought him out and brought the message: passus est—he is martyred. Proselius had rushed to the catacombs as soon as it was dark, through the city walls and down the Appian Way, trusting his memory of the time he had been brought to the secret place by Laurentius and Sixtus all those years before, when he had sworn to undertake this task should the worst happen to them. And now, his mind devoid of direction, he felt that he had betrayed them, had betrayed Christ himself.
He forced himself to recall what Laurentius had taught him: in times of duress he needed to remember what had led him to Christ, what had given him the strength to reject the old gods and accept the new. He needed to remember his moment of revelation. He clutched at the crude metal cross that hung from his neck, forged from two Roman spear points he had picked up from the battlefield at Abritus. He, Proselius, standard-bearer of the Second Legion, had been the last of his cohort left alive, the sole survivor of the Scythian onslaught that had killed the emperor, Trajan Decius. As he had stood over his emperor’s body, sword dripping with Scythian blood, ready for a renewed assault and certain death, the clouds had parted in the shape of a cross and a sudden deluge had cast the enemy into disarray, a miracle from heaven.
As he remembered that moment, he raised the cross and kissed it, pressing the cold metal against his lips, then thought again of the shooting stars. Laurentius had said they were the tears of Christ himself, shed for those who would suffer during the persecution. And two days ago they had seen another omen, in
the place where Christians were executed as common criminals: the Colosseum of the gladiators was struck by a bolt of lightning that had left the wooden upper tiers of seating a smoldering ruin, as if God himself had smitten the place from heaven and lit the fires of martyrdom.
But they had not needed omens to know what was coming: that the new emperor, Valerian, would wish to stamp his mark on the Christians of Rome. From his beleaguered outpost with the Army of the East, hemmed in on all sides by the Persians, Valerian had issued his edicts, the words of an emperor terrified that in his absence the people of Rome would rise up against him, would cast away the last vestiges of the old religion and declare Christ supreme. At first, all who refused to sacrifice to the Roman gods would face banishment; senators and knights who professed Christianity would be dispossessed of their property and rank, servants of the imperial household would be reduced to slavery, and the treasures of the Church would be confiscated and locked in the imperial coffers. But everyone knew that these words were a smokescreen for what was to come, that banishment and slavery meant execution and slaughter. And everyone feared Valerian’s enforcers, the Altamanus, the Black Hand, so named for the image that was burned into the flesh of their palms. They were former Christians among the Praetorian Guard, men who had faced banishment for their beliefs but had been offered an alternative, for whom the dishonor of discharge from the Guard had proved greater than the draw of Christ; they combined the unswerving loyalty of the Praetorians with the special edge of men who had deviated from a military code but then recovered their way, who would drive themselves relentlessly to seek vengeance on those who had led them astray. Valerian had known how to shape them, and Proselius had seen the fear among his fellow legionnaires, many of them secret Christians but without the urge to martyrdom. They knew it was better for their own survival to join the persecution rather than risk revealing their true allegiance and suffering hideous retribution themselves.
Pope Sixtus had gone readily to his death, beheaded two days ago outside the entrance to these very catacombs, as had Laurentius, roasted alive on a metal grille in the arena of the gladiators. Proselius recalled what the presiding tribune had told Sixtus as they had held him over the scaffold: “You have drawn together men bound by unlawful association, and professed yourself an enemy to the gods and religion of Rome; the most pious, most sacred and most august Emperor has endeavored in vain to bring you back to conformity with the rites of Rome, but you have persisted as chief in these crimes. You shall be made an example to those who have associated with you, and the authority of the law shall be ratified in your blood.” Sixtus had looked up toward those gathered around, then smiled, raised his arms to the sky and declared: “Thanks be to God.”
Earlier, as his followers had tried to stop him from giving himself up, as Proselius himself had begged and implored him to go into hiding, Sixtus had reassured them that in recompense for being the first to offer his neck to the sword, Christ would reward his merit as a martyr, and would preserve the rest of his flock. Proselius had known that this would not be so; that with the first sight of blood the crowd would be baying for more. It was the Roman way, and would be so until Christ was ascendant in Rome. He had watched as the executioner hacked at Sixtus’s neck with a blunt blade, and then butchered his servants and family, unleashing an orgy of blood-letting that he had only ever seen before at the end of a triumphant battle.
And now the men of the Altamanus were back at the gates of the catacombs, having purged the streets of Rome and returned to the last refuge of the faithful, to the place where two centuries earlier the followers of Peter and Paul had gathered in secret for the first time to worship under the noses of the emperors, in the burial grounds of their ancestors. Both Sixtus and Laurentius had been willing martyrs, knowing that Proselius would carry the torch forward, that the light that shone through the tears of Christ would not be diminished, that their greatest treasure, their covenant with the Lord, would be spirited away to keep the forces of darkness at bay until Christ should come among them again. Proselius felt as if the weight of the world rested on him now, and yet he felt immobilized, unable to remember which passageway to choose.
A violent tremor shook the ground. He opened his eyes and thrust the cross back under his tunic. He heard distant echoes, an unearthly, terrifying sound, and then a high-pitched shriek. He had known that they would not be far behind him, that the death of Laurentius would lead to a murderous rampage, to the wholesale slaughter of anyone found in the catacombs. He suddenly had a vision of Laurentius before him, peering ahead as he had done when he and Sixtus had first brought him here, and all at once he remembered: it was the right-hand passage. He whispered a quick prayer of thanks, sheathed his sword, and took the lamp from its holder, shielding the flame with his hand and making his way forward.
The reek of recent death was overpowering, a sickly sweet stench that had filled the catacombs over the past few days. Here in the deepest recesses they had brought the executed and the slaughtered: Sixtus’s decapitated body, Laurentius’s roasted corpse, and innumerable others, mangled and mutilated, retrieved from where they had been dumped outside the city walls, brought here under the cover of darkness by grieving relatives. This was the true smell of martyrdom; not the smell of blood and burning flesh, the reek of the spectacle, but the stench of decay, of people whose sacrifice would be forgotten as quickly as they had been condemned if he did not fulfill his mission, if he did not carry it forward.
He passed musty piles of bones and rags on the floor, pulled from the niches and dumped unceremoniously to make way for the hastily laid-out corpses of the last few days, their bloody shrouds still visible where there had been no time to seal them in with fresh plaster. Rats scurried by, feasting on flesh, and then a bat brushed his face, swooping low from its perch on the ceiling above. Another tremor shook the ground, this time closer, followed by a distant roaring sound, and he sensed the air draw back down the tunnel. Now he knew what they were doing. They were using Greek fire, pumping jets of burning naphtha through the catacombs to clear out anyone who had come from the city to take refuge in this place of the dead. He had seen Greek fire used in battle by the Persians, had watched his comrades burn like human torches, had felt the air sucked from his lungs. He knew that the flames would lick down every tunnel, seeking air, drawn farther by the piles of rags and bones that would ignite like kindling, suffocating anyone who had not already burned to death. He could hear other, more distinct sounds, eerie drawn-out cries, the noise of clashing. They were coming down the main passageway, clearing out the tunnels on either side. It could only be a matter of minutes before they reached the place where he had paused, where the tunnel split. He had no time to lose.
He stumbled on, ever deeper into the catacombs, and then rounded a bend and saw it, just visible in the smudge of moonlight from the end of the tunnel ahead that marked his escape route. In an alcove to the right was a larger niche, the plaster still mercifully intact. Those who had come here in the last few days seeking resting places for their loved ones had known to leave this one alone, to venerate the image painted on the plaster above it even though none of them could have known what lay sealed within. He reached the niche and raised the lamp for a better view. In the center, high above, was a crudely painted image of Christ, facing out, the reflection from the lamp seeming to radiate from his head over the others in the scene. It showed the Last Supper, the apostles ranged on either side beneath the semicircular curve of the niche, a table in front of them. The figure of Christ held a loaf of bread in one hand, and in the other a cup. Laurentius had told him that the image had been daubed into the wet plaster by the apostle Peter, when he had fled to Rome from Judaea bearing the relics of the Messiah. For a split second Proselius felt as if Peter were there still, standing beside him, united in the task of preserving what lay inside from those who would attempt to submerge the light of the Lord in a new darkness.
The whooshing sound of fire was closer, and the acrid smell o
f burning naphtha filled his nostrils. He dropped to his knees and placed the lamp on the ground. He could not risk using his sword to cut through into the niche in case he damaged what lay within, so he scraped at the plaster beneath the painting with his bare hands, grimacing as he broke his nails on it. Small pieces came off, and then larger chunks, stained by the blood that was dripping from his fingers. Beneath the outer crust the plaster was damp, permeated by the pigments from the painting, and he was able to drive his fingers in deeper. He broke through into the cavity beyond, reaching as far as he could and pulling out a swaddled package, bound in old leather. He saw the marks on the leather that Laurentius had told him to look for: the fish symbol of the Christians, with the Greek letter alpha on one side and omega on the other. He knew that he had found it.
He struggled upright with the package in his hands. As he opened the satchel on his belt, a figure came stumbling down the tunnel from the direction of the noise, a woman, her gown and hair smoldering and one leg dragging behind her, welted and blackened. She collapsed in front of him, retching and coughing up blood, and looked up imploringly, her gaze shifting from him to the image of Christ that was still intact above the hole he had dug in the plaster. For a moment he stood transfixed. His mind flashed back to that afternoon, when Laurentius had been brought before the tribunal and the prefect had demanded that he hand over the treasures of the Church. Laurentius had opened his empty hands and gestured to the crowd that thronged around them, kept at bay by the line of soldiers, and then proclaimed: “These are the treasures of the Church. The Church is truly rich, far richer than your emperor.”
The words had enraged the prefect and sealed Laurentius’s fate, but they had empowered all those who heard them, both the faithful and those still wavering in their beliefs. The woman in front of him now was one of those treasures; she was the richness of the Church, and yet she was also one of the multitude who knew, like Laurentius, that they might have to sacrifice their lives for the greater good of the Church. Proselius knew that he could not save her; she could barely walk, and the flames would be on them before they reached the end of the tunnel. He put the swaddled package in his satchel, then pulled the cross on its leather thong over his head and passed it to her, placing it in her palm and clasping his own hand around it for a moment. The cross was forged of the strongest steel, the steel of a legionary’s spear, and would survive the flames and the destruction, a small symbol of hope in this place just as the treasure he was carrying would be an inspiration for all who followed the sign of the cross in the future, those still alive and those not yet born.
Inquisition Page 1