Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2)

by Hogarth Brown

  ‘Then I’ll hear it, and be the judge of it’ he said, sitting up, alert and expectant in his chair as the Professor began to speak.

  ◆◆◆

  Venice

  Lucia had spent most of Monday visiting the poor prostitutes of her district, and offering what care and advice she could give to them. How tragic they had all seemed to her, and she felt the injustice the times foisted upon her sex keener than ever.

  ‘I’ll find a way to end all of this’ she had said to herself. Lucia listened to stories of abuse, or seduction, or desertion and destitution so often from the stricken women, that one story sounded much like another: their fates all the same. The futility of it all had grated upon her mind, and she itched to change the fortunes of the women she met - and to change the fate of all women, before and after her.

  She walked back from the market through the wind to the tavern she shared with the Professor, Casa alla Fava, and pondered when he would return.

  His letter had said that he would be a day, but as the weak sun crept higher into the sky a sense of unease passed over her. He did not look well upon his bed the last she looked at him - so drained of his vigour. Lucia ignored the merchants and pilgrims that shuffled past her in the tavern stairway as she walked to her room. She opened her door, glided in, and then locked it behind her.

  She looked at the confined spaced, sighed, and mused at how she had once had a whole convent under her command: her means thus so reduced.

  The previous night she had used the Professor’s key to let herself into his room and collect his share of Soul-lanterns and Golden Orb spiders. Some remained to be charmed and contained within the glassed brass lanterns that Levin Glanz had made. She thought of the jeweller, countless times a cuckold, and wondered how many horns must have begun to sprout from his head.

  Her mind then sharpened upon Giaconda - the Professor’s undoing - and jealousy jabbed at her: Giaconda may have left him diseased, but she had won him without force: the noblest of victories. But as much as she wrangled within at the pollution of her prize she could not blame the woman; she had enjoyed the Professor herself and would be willing to do a lot to do so again.

  She closed the shutters of her window, generated a flame with kindling and flint and lit a candle before she pulled the canvas down to extinguish the daylight in her room. In the act of routine, Lucia anointed her hands with a nub of unguent and rubbed the waxy oils into her skin. Into two of the remaining Soul-lanterns, she placed the dream catchers the Madagascan tribesmen had given to her and whispered a sweet charm over each spider as she inserted it into its space. Lucia’s hands glowed.

  Each delicate spider obeyed the command given to her and spun for herself a golden web upon the dream catcher before resting.

  Lucia closed the hinged doors of the last two Soul-lanterns and held them up in the candlelight. There the spiders rested as if in sleep, their legs wide upon webs of golden silk. The strands caught the light, and she marvelled at the strange beauty of the creatures in their gilded cages. She put the charmed Soul-lanterns back in their custom-made velvet case and rested it upon a table.

  Lucia ruminated over the Professor’s request for her to locate the missing Hermeporta and chewed her lip when she considered the means for finding it.

  She considered invoking Hekate, which would save time, but she shivered at the prospect: only in emergencies Lucia said to herself, not wanting to cross paths with the mighty Goddess for some time.

  She consulted the simple ingredients that she picked up from the market: salt, almond oil, a scrap of coloured silk, and incense.

  She then drew a circle upon a piece of paper with a quill, and, with great care, filled the circle with symbols, the letters and signs she had learned from Qabalah.

  Lucia invoked the Hermeporta that she wished to find by combining the names of the Professor, and Illawara with the caduceus she drew there. She folded the paper.

  She then moved over to her washing bowl and poured some water into it from the jug in her room, and whispered a prayer over the liquid.

  She then took her paper talisman, sat on her bed, and spoke with her eyes closed. ‘Oh, holy and most high Ophanim, I invoke thee to impart me with your knowledge of all things, be they apparent or hidden.' The paper in her hand then warmed and glowed as she concentrated in her prayer - the letters and symbols illuminating for a moment before dulling back to ink. She then lit her stick of incense upon the candle, and wafted her talisman through the scented smoke: ‘I purify this talisman with the emanating power of fire that it may find Hekate’s Hermeporta in the Venetian lagoon.’ She anointed the talisman with drops of water from her bowl and repeated her invocations, adjusting each utterance for salt and earth, before placing a single drop of almond oil upon the talisman and invoking the Hebrew God.

  She wrapped her talisman in the coloured silk she got from the market, pressed it to her forehead and lay back upon her bed. ‘Divine Ophanim’ she said, ‘show me where the Hermeporta lies. I beseech thee.’

  No sooner had Lucia spoken her words then she felt herself lifted out of her body and rushing, as if she were upon her broomstick, through the air above the Venetian lagoon. She flew over the rectangular island of Isola di San Michele, recognising the church there before she sped on over the water. One or two of the islands she identified along the way, but in moments, guided by blurred figures shrouded in light with wings that beat about her like those of dragonflies, she reached a remote island deep into the lagoon.

  There, upon a scrap of land, her companions placed her. Lucia felt as if she was upon a doomed raft in a vast ocean - so total the water that encircled her - and she, a speck of humanity upon a mirror of water and sky.

  Even in the daylight the sinister atmosphere of the place almost overwhelmed her. The air of the island hung low with the smell of death, and Lucia, even in her state, felt the spiritual coldness of the place where her companions had placed her upon the ground close to the water.

  She looked back to where the angels hovered.

  ‘We leave you here’ one of the beings said, ‘this is Poveglia, the island of death, thereon we shall go no further.’ Lucia nodded, and looked ahead at the desolate island barren save for some scrub and the dilapidated, and abandoned, medieval church of San Vidal in the distance. Lucia then remembered the talk, amongst the witches, of an islet filled with the corpses of the victims of leprosy and plague. Her body shivered upon its bed.

  ‘Will you wait for me?’ she turned to ask her companions.

  ‘We shall wait for thee’ they said in unison, the beings shimmered while hovering, and stirred and bent the light around them.

  Although her physical body lay back in her tavern, for she had left it many times before, Lucia still felt the weight and pull of the place. She sensed the many dead that lay around her, remembering then, in a clear flash, the lurid stories her mother had told her about a plague pit in the lagoon. Her mother’s stories had intrigued and frightened her as a little girl. Hekate could well have made a place for herself here thought Lucia as she progressed, choosing to float just above the ground and yet feeling pulled to it by the gravity of great suffering.

  She made her way to the church in her disembodied state, feeling, in ever greater waves, the foreboding of the place: the pains and cries of anguish and desolation rippling through her. Upon reaching the doors of the thirteenth-century church, Lucia hesitated before walking through the closed rotting wood of the main church doors - no physical barrier could limit her spirit.

  The roof had fallen in places, and she saw the milky winter sky above. The church stood devoid of sound save for the wheezing breeze that made its way between the eaves. The church, in its haggard state, had retained none of the peace a person would expect of such a place: filled only with longing and foreboding. Lucia spied a trapdoor, after crossing the nave and transept: navigating the debris of fallen stones and twisted vegetation, to reach an apse. The stained-glass window the arch offered had dulled with dir
t and cracked, and some panes had fallen out. The window took on the appearance of a welded patchwork quilt of smashed holes and filth. Lucia looked up and tutted at the degradation.

  But instinct, not pity, gripped her when she looked at the half-hidden trapdoor - nestled behind a gnarled wooden carving of a saint. ‘It must be down there’, Lucia said to herself, as if talking to her motionless body that lay back in her room.

  She paused upon the threshold of the trapdoor, its rusted iron lock had grown frail with time, before gliding through the narrow crack of two planks of wood that had fallen heavy with rot - and the passing years.

  Below, after a long succession of steps, Lucia could see the mighty foundation stones of the building. In the dim light, she could just make out Latin inscriptions upon some of the rocks. Lucia tried to trace a finger through the letters to compensate for the lack of light but could feel nothing. 'Roman blocks’ she said to herself, looking around at the space, nodding. ‘The new covers the bones of the old - and the old reminds the new where it came from’ she mused, as she explored the remains of the Roman temple. Lucia felt no fear upon seeing the human remains that lay strewn about her: an amalgam of bodies tossed away to die. But the mangled corpses did make her pause - their twisted poses lacking the placid resignation of the others. Toward the back of the broad space, and just perceptible in the low light lay the object she was seeking. There, like an antiquated ruin, lay a Hermeporta.

  Lucia’s body caught its breath when she recognised marble snakes, from their shape, which encircled the wide bowl. She then recalled the Professor’s description of the device when he was with her in Arcetri. Her body tensed, where it lay upon the bed when her spirit looked upon the Hermeporta. ‘This is Hermes' and Hekate’s work’ she said, looking at the intricate sculpting, and the iron zodiac that girdled the device, ‘I don’t doubt it for a moment.’ Lucia cast her gaze about, ‘this place has lain undisturbed for hundreds of years.’ She walked closer to the device, eyeing the thing with caution, but her excitement grew when she realised in entirety what she had found and pondered the powers of what it could do.

  The sorceress raised her hand into the air: ‘hereon’ she said inspired, ‘I can cure every ill and injustice foisted upon my sex.’ Lucia’s spirit walked around the device, taking note and gesturing with admiration. ‘With you’ she said speaking directly to the desolate Hermeporta, ‘I can right every wrong, and correct every error that has harmed my kind. With you, I can end woman’s suffering. With you, I can extinguish all those that perpetuate every injustice against my sex, and with you, Eve will be forgiven.’

  Lucia stood back with triumph to esteem the object once more: 'mighty, mighty Hermeporta' she espoused, 'you are the genius of the God's manifest, a sculpture of their magnificence and wisdom - terrible yet sublime.' She put forth both her hands to revere the Hermeporta, 'you lay here in ruin and neglect, but this woman' she said pointing to herself, 'THIS daughter of Eve will respect and restore you to the veneration and glory you deserve.' Lucia shimmered with light, illuminating the device, as she made her vow. She said a silent prayer before she turned and walked away - satisfied that she had seen enough.

  Once outside she returned the way she came and walked back to the shore, where her companions, the Ophanim, glittered with light.

  ‘So, you have made your vows’ said the Ophanim, 'your cause is noble, but a dangerous one.' Lucia nodded.

  ‘I accept this; it is my choice' the glowing beings acknowledged her decision with a tilt of their heads. 'Divine Ophanim, I’m ready to return’ she said, after a flash, Lucia fell into her body with a gasp. The incense had perfumed every corner of the room in her absence. She stood to bow and offered prayers of thanks and praise to the Ophanim for the aid they had granted, and marvelled at the possibilities that unfolded before her. She drank some water, thinking about what she had seen, but it did not take long for her mind to drift back to the Professor.

  Unable to ignore her unease, and curiosity, that arose within her Lucia fetched up her crystal ball, placed it in her lap, and focused on the Winston. Turning her hands with grace above the globe her mind’s eye began to race across the water to Padua - as she expected. Lucia’s illuminated eyes penetrated an elegant house and saw a middle-aged Cook pausing in her work to listen, ear turned upward, at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes grew wide, however, when her mind’s eye penetrated the room in which the Professor lay. Lucia caught her breath when she saw the Professor bound upon the floor, looking even worse than yesterday: his yellowing skin bore a raw welt near his brow where he had received a blow.

  She did not recognise the room, but a chill stabbed her heart when she saw the man that paced around him as the Professor spoke.

  ‘Impossible’ she said under her breath, ‘IMPOSSIBLE.’

  But her eyes did not deceive her when she looked at Orsini, who gesticulated at the Professor. She observed the Cardinal from her silent vigil, with a furrowed brow, he acted as if he did not believe what he heard.

  She saw the Cardinal gesture to his Henchman, a man whose eyes she had used before, who then toyed with rolling his iron implement up the Professor’s leg. The pointed ball pierced Winston's flesh in several places. 'Bastards!' Lucia exclaimed and winced as she saw the Professor give out a silent howl, but the Cardinal was quick to wave his Henchman off. ‘So, you torture him’ added Lucia, her voice loaded with anger, ‘you're still dark, still cruel’, but she could not turn her eyes away from the scene.

  With anguish, she watched the Professor carry on talking, despite his pain, with earnest persistence. The Cardinal shook his fist at the Professor, incredulous, and shouted before making another gesture. The Henchman stood up to have a go at the Professor’s other leg, pricking shin and ankle as the Professor cried out again in agony and tried to pull away. The Professor yelled up to his captor, before the Cardinal waved his Henchman off once more, as it seemed a profound truth had touched Orsini. His movements slowed. His expression clouded. Doubt emerged. He rubbed his brow and shook his head as the Professor unburdened himself yet more with his information. Orsini bid his eager Henchman to stand back as he listened more to his prisoner: though not wanting to believe his ears.

  The Cardinal commanded his Henchman to put his torture implement down, he did so with great reluctance, and the fierce brightness in his eyes ebbed as the Professor's blood dried on the ball of spikes. The Cardinal unbound his captive’s hands. Lucia could not hear a word said as if she observed a play in mime, but she could see the ground-shaking effect the Professor worked upon Orsini. She imagined Winston's disclosures - and revelations - affected a change the in him, that she recognised. The Professor had changed her too with his knowledge, but this effect would be higher still in a man of The Church.

  ‘So, mercy comes to your heart’ said Lucia, frowning, ‘how you’ve changed… the blood is squeezed from the stone.’ The Professor with freed hands had become even more convincing, and the Cardinal sat down stupefied as the Professor poured himself out - his exposed legs drying to a sticky red glaze. Even the Henchman’s thirst for inflicting pain had seemed quenched, as the Professor carried on: regaining poise and dignity with his every word.

  Orsini sat motionless staring at the Professor with awe, as the Professor pointed to his carry case propped up in a corner. With his arms freed he spun the wove and weft into his story, to ensnare the minds of those that kept him captive.

  ‘So, you’ve told them the truth, and proved it’ said Lucia, feeling an unexpected swell of pride for the Professor. ‘I’ll see to it that they face another truth that can’t be denied.’

  And with that Lucia covered her ball and hid it in a chest, and then placed the case of Soul-lanterns next to it, secured the lid, took up her essentials and left her room. She locked the door. Once outside Lucia then paced through the narrow streets, ignoring all in her path, and took the first gondola she could find to the mainland.

  Chapter 22

  Resentment

  Pad
ua, morning, Bianca’s home, Wednesday 13th, December 1611

  Antonio sat, stony-faced, as he eyed the array of gifts lay strewn in the living room. He reclined in one of the throne-like chairs where his mother and Illawara had held court - as the puppeteers of desire. He gazed around in silence and shook his head. He looked at the new decorations that adorned the place, which had so shocked him when he had first returned: so much so he had thought he had walked into a stranger’s house.

  After the stench, cold, and squalor of the Doge’s dungeons his mother’s, once familiar, dwelling had seemed enchanted with magic.

  Antonio would never forget the dungeons. In comparison with his new surroundings, in his mind, he and Hermes had lived through purgatory, while his mother, and everyone else, had lived a life of bliss. It had shaken him to his foundations to see his home, his familiar retreat from the world, so changed.

  Hermes sneaked into the Living room, after hearing Grizelda’s movements in the kitchen as she prepared breakfast. He walked over to where Antonio sat and wrapped his arm around his lover’s shoulders before he slid into his lap with the ease of cream into a cup. Antonio’s arms, a constant source of comfort while imprisoned, were stiff when receiving him - reluctant. When Hermes hugged and then tried to kiss his lover, to soften his embrace, he found his lips unyielding: his mouth cold and unwilling - lacking all the passion that had sustained them both against the damp dungeon walls, the foraging rats, and the relentless cold.

  Antonio picked Hermes up, and plonked the bemused youth in the chair next to him: ‘not in my mother’s house’ he said.