Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2)

by Hogarth Brown

  ‘Illy, enough!' shouted Hermes, pointing at her. 'I’m sorry for what has happened to you, but you’re going to listen to ME for once.’ Illawara made a move to speak, but Hermes' finger shot into the air to silence her. ‘It’s time to go home.’ Cook reached down into her apron to fish out the Professor’s note. Illawara clung the bedsheet to her body before skulking sideways to return to the bed. She sat down and tucked her short hair behind her ears.

  ‘What’s the point of going home, Hermes?' She said, 'this place feels more real to me now then what we’ve left behind.’ Hermes felt his body quaking: he had never felt so angry in his life.

  ‘I mean your true home Illawara' he said grinding his teeth, 'where you belong, where we belong.’ She pulled a face.

  ‘What true home? This is true’ she said, gesturing to the walls of the room, ‘these experiences we've had here are true Hermes. “Home” wasn’t real for me, or you. This place - everything about it - this life here is real.’ But Hermes shook his head.

  ‘No, Illawara, listen to me. Yes, this place is real, but it's not everything.’ Illawara flapped her hands.

  ‘I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to go back to that life. What do you think we’ll do if we go back to Hawaii?' She said, looking at her friend. 'Set up a diner? Or go to New York and get jobs in the city? There’s no future for us there, and I don’t think Dad will ever come back anyway - what's the point?’ Hermes took a deep breath, closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He prayed for patience. He took several minutes to compose himself.

  ‘Illy, the Professor is NOT your father.’ Illawara flinched as if tossed into an icy river. Her face became blank. Cook leaned forward.

  ‘What did you say?’ said Illawara, her voice starting to shake as her eyes welled up, ‘what are you talking about?’ Hermes coughed and tried to make his voice steady - after unburdening himself of the secret, he was forced to keep for years. He cleared his throat several times, as Illawara trembled where she sat.

  ‘C’mon Illy, surely, deep down you must have known?’ Illawara’s chest began to convulse as she tried to keep her emotions inside.

  ‘Why are you telling me this… and after all this time?’

  ‘I tried to tell you at the courthouse, but you wouldn’t listen. I've wanted to say it my whole life, but the curse would not let me. You know this. But now I can speak. Think about it: you look nothing like him: have you ever wondered why?’ Illawara shook her head and wiped her eyes. Her nose started to run.

  ‘But we’re so similar - we... we think the same - I can understand him, I helped him with his research, I contributed: before I was even twelve. I couldn’t do that if I weren't his daughter… if part of me wasn’t just like him.’ He shook his head.

  ‘You don’t get that talent from the Professor, trust me I know.’ She clenched her fists.

  ‘You’re wrong, you're wrong' she cried, before wiping her face, 'who else then? Maybe I got my mind from my mother? I’ve never known her… Dad never said.’ But Hermes shook his head again.

  ‘You get your looks and your passion from your mother - and you look just like her.’ Illawara’s mouth opened in silence. She struggled to breathe.

  ‘Iona was like a mother to me - yes, yes, she was the closest I ever had, I'm just like her.’ Hermes shook his head again.

  ‘You have a real mother, Illy, and she's called Firuzeh - Azar, she's a priestess.' Illawara's eyes bulged in disbelief at what she was hearing, 'and trust me, Illy, you do look just like her, she was from Persia. That is why you have dark hair; it's the same as your mother's.' Illawara thought she was going to pass out. She struggled to take in what Hermes was saying. 'Your mind you get from your father, Abdi-ili, and he was a brilliant man from Babylon and high priest at the Temple of Serapis in Alexandria: I was his best acolyte.' Hermes stepped forward, 'I'm fluent in four other languages.’ Hermes then began to say sentences in ancient Greek, Egyptian, Latin and Persian. Illawara raised her hands to her head. Unable to believe what she heard. Hermes lost control of his emotions, overwhelmed by the release. He then shook Illawara by the shoulders till her head shook with his efforts.

  ‘I've waited for nineteen years to tell you all that! I should be slapping you in the face’ he said, before standing back as Illawara cried. She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Your parents are incredible people' Hermes continued, striking his finger through the air, unable to hold back. 'Together, with the gods, Hermes and Hekate combined, they created the Hermeportas, and you’re their only daughter.’ Illawara shook her head. ‘Yes, they did, Illy. They made them. The Professor and Iona only discovered the Hermeportas. He awakened them. Iona did not want him to do it - she thought it was wrong, that it could lead to anything. He forbade her to speak about it. But he shut her out of his research. She couldn’t bear to keep the secret and not be part of it anymore. He was obsessed: and you know what he's like.' Hermes paused to look at an awestruck Illawara, 'first he neglected her, so she had to leave, and then he abandoned you. He couldn’t tell you who your mother was because he doesn’t know. How could he?' Illawara looked down as she fussed with her hands in her lap. 'But I know Illy. I know both your parents.' She nodded and sat in silence as she listened to Hermes. 'I made a vow to them to protect you before I was cursed as I was. I baptised you in the new faith as they wished, to further protect you in the future. I brought you out of the Hermeporta in my arms in Hawaii before I changed.’ Illawara covered her face with her bedsheet, her eyes streaming. Cook looked on agog as Hermes' story played out. She crossed herself and recited a psalm under breath. Hermes uncovered Illawara’s face.

  ‘So, my dreams. The flashing lights. The water, everything, that was you; so, you were with me all along?’ Hermes nodded. Illawara reached for his hand and he sat down next to her.

  ‘I tried to say as much as I could to the Professor, at the time, in Greek, I didn't know English then. But I was changing, and it was too late. You were born in my city, Illawara. You were born in Ancient Alexandria.’ Illawara looked as if someone had hit her with a plank of wood, and Cook shook her head.

  The slumped body of the Henchman, long since pushed by Orsini into a corner, moved somewhat under his blanket. The new reality of what Hermes said to Illawara burst into her consciousness with the strength of a river unleashed from a dam. The truth flooded every part of her being, and she felt as if a mighty drought within her had come crashing to its end.

  ‘You don’t belong here, Illy. We don’t belong here’ said Hermes. Illawara nodded before she flung her arms around Hermes, unable to contain herself.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Hermes. I should never have struck you, forgive me. I’m sorry for everything, how I've behaved with you. I don’t know how you’ve put up with me. When I was in my cell, I was a bitch to you. But I was so angry with Da... The Professor' Illawara corrected herself, 'that I wanted to die just to spite him, to hurt him, to mess him up. Forgive me - please, please forgive me’ she pleaded. Hermes nodded, and wiped at his eyes unable to speak, as Illawara embraced him again and kissed his face. Cook stepped forward with her wobbling arm outstretched.

  ‘This is for you’ she said, as she looked at Illawara. Illawara wiped her face clear of tears and snot before she thanked Cook and took up the note.

  ‘It’s from Da… I mean, it’s from Winston’ she said correcting herself once more. Her eyes widened as she read the note written in English. ‘It has directions to another Hermeporta… in the lagoon: Poveglia’ she said. Cook groaned when she heard the name.

  ‘Sweet children, must you go there?'

  'Do you know this place?' said Illawara and Hermes in unison. Cook nodded.

  'My dear father, God rest his soul, was a fisherman, among other things. He used to tell me it’s a place of death. Since ancient times they took every diseased person there: dead or alive. They were tossed and limed into their graves unmarked and unblessed, like rubble down a well.’ Hermes and Illawara exchanged looks with one another as they composed themse
lves.

  ‘Seems like the right sort of place for a Hermeporta’ said Illawara, with resignation.

  The body of the Henchman began to stir again, and this time the ruffle and movement of the man alerted the others. ‘Oh no, I forgot about him. He seems to be waking up’ said Illawara.

  ‘Then the both of you must hurry away’ said Cook, ‘He’s a nasty piece of work - I hate him’ she added, pointing her rolling pin at the figure. Hermes and Illawara gathered their senses.

  ‘We need to get you dressed; Illy’ said Hermes.

  ‘But my dress is burnt, and all cut to pieces’ she said pointing to a scorched heap of fabric in a corner. Illawara then glanced at parts of her skin to see how she was healing, the pinkness of her former burns was still evident, but the pain had gone.

  ‘There are plenty of clothes in that chest’ said Cook, ‘they’re men's clothes, but I’ll not have a stitch that’ll fit you.’

  ‘Never mind, it’s probably for the best, and it is better if no one can recognise you’ said Hermes. Illawara agreed. She then walked forward like a Geisha, wrapped in a Kimono, and started to rummage through the chest one handed as she held the blanket to her body. Cook made haste downstairs to find spare shoes and cloth. She returned with a swathe of fabric and some rags to help bind Illawara’s bust. Illawara then hid behind the closet door, and dressed as best she could, wearing the smallest of the men’s clothes she could find in the chest including a hat. When she finished she looked like a page boy.

  'Wear these' said Cook tossing the shoes to Illawara. 'They're too small for my master, my mistake, maybe they'll still be too big for you, but it's better than nothing.'

  ‘I’ve got big feet.’

  Illawara put on the shoes, they were not snug but stayed on her feet when she wiggled them. With her cropped hair, men's clothes, and bound bust, Illawara gave an androgynous impression. She was still too pretty to pass for a man, but passable enough as a boyish youth.

  She looked at herself in the mirror, and remembered theatre recordings she had seen of Dick Whittington, and mentally adjusted herself to her new role. The Henchman made a groan, and another stir, as he began to awake. Cook raised her rolling pin in the air.

  ‘Be off with the both of you before he rises’ said Cook, ‘I’ll not let him come after you if I still have a breath in my body.’ The pair nodded. Cook walked to the side to stoop down to pick something off the floor. ‘Take this’ she said, tossing Hermes a heavy bag of coins. He put them in Illawara's satchel which he carried. ‘I think it must have fallen off the master with his struggles.' Cook sighed when she thought of the scenario, 'I’ll tell him that one of the Guard must have picked it up, or that he lost it’ she added. ‘You look after her’ said Cook with a gesture to Illawara, ‘a young woman, even disguised, is vulnerable. Now off with you both before that ugly devil wakes up.’

  Hermes and Illawara nodded eagerly before thanking Cook, as the Henchman began to groan louder and writhe. Together they made their way downstairs, and Hermes snatched up some dried fruits from Cook's kitchen table. He saw the kitchen door at the back of the palazzo. He stuck his head out to check the passageway before they left closing the door behind them and walked out into the street. Illawara felt a new sense of freedom stepping into the world with her new identity. She raised her chin, and puffed out her chest, and tried to take on a manly swagger. Astonished but galvanised by Hermes' revelations. Her mind raced with the new possibilities. With her hair cut short, her body un-corseted, and her former dress in tatters, Illawara no longer felt like a trophy: a prize to be won. For the first time in her life, she thought that she had begun to discover her inner herself, and who she truly was.

  Chapter 31

  Four Walls

  Padua, afternoon, Sunday the 24th of December 1611

  Orsini sat in his cell, in a small courthouse, disgusted with himself.

  ‘How has all come to this?’ he said under his breath before he ran his fingertips over the Graffiti notched into the wooden holding cell. Short prayers of hope lay etched in verse, other writings slashed, swearing and defiant, yet others, by more talented former inmates, depicted flaming hearts or elaborate crucifixes. A corner of the cell still lay damp with the former captive’s urine, the wetted straw contributing its musk to the air, and added to the sharp reek of other, older, bodily contributions. Orsini’s nostrils watered. He covered his nose with his sleeve for a moment to sniff the freshness of his shirt, but could not maintain the pose. Another captive in a cell two doors along started talking to himself and then tried to strike up a conversation with Orsini. The Cardinal ignored the man, as he looked down into the straw that lay strewn about the ground and watched beetles pursue their food and work - content with themselves, while he sat disgusted and wretched.

  As if to comfort him his mind then flashed with images of his earlier triumph. Orsini soared through the air to rescue Illawara, before recalling his passionate night with her when he felt that every sin and vice he had committed had rolled away - like the stone from Christ’s cell - and his soul had emerged reborn, burnished and transfigured. He stared at the cell walls: ‘I could lose everything’ he said. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

  The young Cardinal then bowed forward between his knees to hold his head in his hands, tugging at his locks, before he looked about his cell in disbelief. The questioning by the Guard had taken hours, and accusations had flown back and forth between him and Adriano at the legitimacy of his implausible claims.

  With the threat of being discredited Adriano had thrown caution to the wind in his interviews with the Guard: yes, Cardinal Orsini was indeed his friend, but his whereabouts were now unknown to him. The youth seemed convincing, there was a family resemblance, but he had not heard the Cardinal once mention having a nephew before after knowing him for almost ten years, and so forth.

  Orsini had no antidote to such logic and honest reasoning when the Guard presented Adriano's arguments to him. How could he answer such truths? Adriano, the Orsini you seek is in front of you: but turned back into his younger self by a man from the future with a magical liquid. Such answers would not do. They would either lead him to the asylum or a burning at the stake - let alone for all his recent deceptions and transgressions against The Church. The merchant had the upper hand. Orsini was no match for his friend’s seasoned years of debate, cajoling and haggling. The merchant knew the Cardinal's older self better than he realised, and he found every answer he gave to defend his position as a nephew challenged.

  He sighed in his cell and reflected, before considering himself a fraud and his whole life a giant deceit.

  A life that only struggled for status and power, a life of brutal ambition that sought to remove every rival. Orsini admitted, then, that he lacked scruples: anyone, innocent or experienced were all treated the same in his grasping efforts - the backstabbing and the lies, the removal of rivals - yet everything before Illawara and the Professor seemed trivial and futile.

  Orsini tried again to comfort himself and wondered at how he had flown, mere hours ago, through the air upon a winged steed of his creation - as if he were a god. The birds had recognised and honoured him. He had praised them, and they responded. Now he could swap words with Saint Francis. Orsini had risked his life for a beautiful woman that inspired him and set his barren heart alight. Yet, there he sat in a urine-stained cell, treated as an ordinary man, and trapped like a filthy dog. The Cardinal stared into blankness and the yawning void within his heart.

  ‘It doesn’t have to end like this’ came a voice that spoke to him through the barred hatch of his cell. Orsini had not noticed Antonio’s approach. ‘I can vouch for you, speak up for you - and help maintain that spell you have cast upon yourself’ he said. He struggled to keep the tickle of mirth out of his voice. The sinews rose in Orsini’s jaw.

  ‘I suppose it gives you great pleasure to see me like this?’ Antonio’s lips quivered before he took a moment to compose himself,

  ‘I don
’t think pleasure can adequately describe it’ he purred, tracing a circle with his fingernail upon the cell door. The scratch vibrated its sound into the cell. ‘They say the wheel of fortune forever turns, your Eminence: if I should still call you that? For the ripples of life's pond reach the sides and return. What we throw in, will come back to us.’ Orsini gritted his teeth.

  ‘So, you’re the sage now, are you? Have you come here to gloat and taunt me with wisdom? You're just a man for rent.’ Antonio pursed his lips.

  ‘I didn’t put you here.’ Orsini could see Antonio’s teeth smiling through the grate, ‘but even if I’d wanted it, I couldn’t have imagined a better lesson to instruct you.’ The Valet then tapped one of his knuckles against the bars: proving their strength, and smirked. ‘Oh? They're cast iron.' Antonio tittered before he gave out a delicate cough. 'The Guard is figuring out what to do with you, and your merchant friend is very angry. Attempted murder he says.' Orsini choked. 'I think he’ll take some convincing to drop his charges - this could end badly for you.’ A chill ran up Orsini’s spine as he thought of his predicament. He stood still in his cell.

  ‘What do you want?’ he hissed, ‘a man like you is always in want of something.’ Antonio dipped to lower his eyes to the level of the hatch. To Orsini, his eyes seemed to pierce the oily air of his confines with their icy blueness: and float suspended without a face. Antonio's gaze narrowed to pinpricks, to jab, scratch, and scrutinise Orsini. The Valet’s voice seeped into to the space with glacial calm.

  ‘Men like you take pride in inflicting suffering. Men like you give no thought to the consequences for others. Men like YOU take every advantage they have in life for granted. And men like you always get the worst when it’s their turn for suffering.’ Orsini swallowed. ‘You know what I want. It’s what I’ve wanted for years. And if you ever want to leave here, then you must make sure that I get it.’