Nephilim

by Barrowman, John; Barrowman, Carole;

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a black man?’ he challenged.

  Apollo silenced the woman playing the violin, who let her instrument fall to her side. He reached for the hanging pipes, then walked behind the twitching satyr and faced Rémy where he slumped against the tree.

  ‘I will play,’ said the god. ‘Then you will play.’

  Rémy’s pulse raced. He took three quick breaths and tried to calm himself. He squeezed his fingers into a fist. Minerva’s pipes had better play just like a harmonica.

  ‘Who will be our judge?’ he asked with an effort.

  Apollo leaned close to Rémy’s ear, his breath cold on Rémy’s cheek. ‘I am the son of Zeus, the god of music,’ he said. ‘I will be the judge.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem fair,’ mumbled Rémy. ‘But hey. One more thing.’

  ‘What?’ said Apollo, placing the pipes to his thin pink lips.

  ‘If I win, I keep the pipes.’

  62.

  WHO’S BURIED IN HADRIAN’S TOMB?

  ‘Of all the places to fade to,’ said Matt to Caravaggio, his head resting on a tiny round wrought-iron table outside a café across from the Vatican, ‘you went for the Sistine fucking Chapel?’

  An American family at the next table tutted loudly, scraping their chairs closer together on the narrow strip of pavement and as far away from Matt and Caravaggio as possible.

  The artist shrugged, leaning back on his chair-legs, arms crossed. ‘Neither of you knew any exit paintings in Rome. I did.’

  Em brought out a tray with three lattes and a tomato and basil pizza and plonked them on the table. ‘Why not one of your own pieces?’ she said. ‘Somewhere less obvious?’

  ‘Most of my other works displayed in Rome are much more visible than you think,’ said Caravaggio. ‘And the security is often more efficient than in the Vatican.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure the Vatican has state-of-the-art security,’ said Matt, diving into the pizza, his shades back on. ‘Look at it. The place is a fortress.’ In front of them, the Vatican’s wall was as high as any castle’s.

  Caravaggio rolled a slice of pizza and ate it in three bites. ‘But the men and women who do the security for the Sistine Chapel have more levels to get through if anything unusual occurs,’ he said through a mouthful. ‘They would need to go higher up their chain of command before sending in guards to arrest us. I knew that would give us more time to escape. The Vatican is well aware of our kind.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Em, mid-slice. ‘Because they’d have to find guards aware of what we were.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Next time, give us a heads up,’ said Matt.

  Caravaggio bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry that I did not consider your unique abilities when we faded, or how they make you both more susceptible to Michelangelo’s work.’

  Em flipped through her sketchpad to the figure she had copied from the fresco. She slid her pad under the others’ noses. ‘We need a plan,’ she said. ‘Look at this.’

  Matt reared back from the sketch. ‘That’s Ferrante!’

  ‘He tried to take me in the Chapel,’ said Em, returning her pad to her bag. ‘But I think it struck him that he needs your canvas, Caravaggio, before he … dispenses with us.’

  ‘Either that or he’s playing with us,’ said Caravaggio. ‘Pleasure was always in the forefront of his mind … and his other parts.’

  ‘How did he track us to Rome so quickly?’ Matt asked.

  Caravaggio threw some money on to the table. ‘Does it matter?’ he said. ‘Right now we need to save your friend.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Em after a moment. ‘So where exactly is Hadrian’s tomb?’

  ‘The Castel Sant’Angelo. Not far from here.’ The artist stood. ‘Shall we?’

  He strode ahead of Matt and Em, down the hill and into the crowds of tourists milling around the streets.

  ‘You know he’s holding back?’ said Em, jogging to keep up with Matt’s long stride. ‘Again.’

  ‘I know,’ said Matt.

  ‘And he may be leading us into a trap?’

  ‘I know.’

  63.

  BE CHILL

  Acting lessons had begun when Rémy was a boy. He’d come home from school and his Tía Rosa would be waiting outside the apartment door, ready to pass his mother’s care to him so she could go to her evening job at the Chicago Public Library.

  ‘She had a rough day,’ she’d say, kissing the top of his head and slipping him his mother’s bedroom key in case he needed it.

  Annie’s daily struggle with reality meant Rémy and his Tía Rosa had worked hard to keep the household on a balanced emotional keel. No drama. No conflict. No friends. Rémy would stand with his back to the door and watch his aunt disappear down the stairs. Without fail, she’d stop and turn and say, ‘Be chill,’ then blow him a kiss. And no matter how awful his day had been, he’d plaster a smile on his face and go inside.

  When Apollo began to play the pipes, Rémy realized he was in even deeper trouble than he’d thought. He needed to call on all those lessons he’d learned as a boy, pretend he wasn’t scared. He had to imagine what the music sounded like and respond accordingly. But inside the painting, it was becoming more and more difficult for him to hear anything except his own raspy breathing. Apollo’s music was a faint trickle of sound, washing over him. He forced himself to smile. He nodded. He rapped his fingers on his knees as the god of music played. He needed to appear alert and engaged. He could not let Apollo know that his senses were muted.

  64.

  THE CASTLE OF THE HOLY ANGEL

  ‘If these walls could talk,’ murmured Caravaggio, glancing round the courtyard inside the high walls of the Castel Sant’Angelo on the right bank of the Tiber. The castle looked like a medieval prison with a cylindrical tower. Its dark, impenetrable walls stood in stark contrast to the white stone of St Peter’s Basilica behind them on the Via della Conciliazione.

  ‘They’d say “run for your life”,’ said Em. ‘This courtyard used to flow with the blood of martyrs and fill up with the heads of princes.’ She shivered. ‘It reeks of death. Let’s find the tomb, see what Zach was trying to tell us and why, then get the hell out of here.’

  Em was reading the brochure they’d bought at the entrance kiosk. It was still early and the castle, now a museum of ancient artefacts, was not at the top of Rome’s list of must-see spots. There was no queue and inside the walls there was only a smattering of tourists.

  ‘The castle is not that old, at least by Roman standards,’ she said. ‘Emperor Hadrian built it on the foundation of a pagan temple as a mausoleum for his family.’ She peered at the map. ‘The burial chamber was built underground, directly beneath a hearth flame that burned in a garden at the top of the tower.’

  Matt gazed up at the statue that topped the tower. ‘A strange place for a garden,’ he said. ‘Who’s the statue?’

  ‘The Archangel Michael,’ said Caravaggio. ‘There is a story about him and this castle. During an attack on Pope Nicholas’s life, witnesses saw the angel draw his sword, swoop into the courtyard and slaughter every member of a cabal about to assassinate the Holy Father, thus saving the Pope’s life. The Pope interpreted this as a sign that his reign was blessed, and he renamed the castle for the Holy Angel Michael and reclaimed it as a fortress.’

  ‘It was a sign all right,’ said Matt. ‘A sign that the Pope had an Animare on his side.’

  A tour guide holding a flag on a stick high above her head positioned herself in the queue behind them. Caravaggio smiled at her. She eyed his unusual dress, unkempt hair and mischievous eyes with interest. Caravaggio was about to take her hand and kiss it when Matt cut between them.

  ‘He’s busy,’ Matt said, and yanked the artist towards the shade of the far wall.

  ‘You can’t help yourself, can you—’ Em began in exasperation.

  The wall behind them exploded, a ball of light flying through the brick. Caravaggio and Matt were tossed into th
e air, landing on a patch of shrubbery bordering the courtyard. Em screamed. The small cluster of tourists gathering near the gates fled for the street, the last one barely making it through before the fireball tore across the courtyard. The gates slammed shut behind them, throbbing red hot, hissing and sending smoke billowing upwards.

  ‘Are you both OK?’ gasped Em, running to where Matt was helping Caravaggio to his feet.

  ‘Scratches only,’ panted the artist. ‘But we need to get inside.’

  65.

  MUSSOLINI’S SAFE ROOM

  The massive fireball struck what had once been the Castel Sant’Angelo’s portcullis gate, now sealed off within a casing of Plexiglass. The fireball pressed up against the plastic, shifting and stretching itself like a flaming transformer that couldn’t decide what shape to become.

  The security guards were rushing the tour guide and her party down the emergency-exit stairs. A second wooden door to a downward stairway was barricaded and roped off: Privato. No Way Out.

  ‘Please,’ a guard shouted at Em, Matt and Caravaggio, gesturing at the exit. ‘You must come.’

  The flames morphed from a manticore to a centaur in seconds, the human part of the beast naked and covered in scales made of fire. As Matt moved closer, the fireball became a Cerberus: a snarling flaming three-headed dog, a hound of hell. It slammed into the Plexiglass.

  Now the guard was yelling in Italian, gesturing at them to move.

  ‘He says a person named Mussolini built a bomb shelter in the lower level,’ Caravaggio relayed to Em and Matt. ‘This soldier would like us to go there immediately.’

  ‘The tomb is in the lower level too,’ said Em.

  Matt took his sketchpad from his pocket. ‘I’ll provide a distraction,’ he said, before darting across the stone floor and sprinting up a set of stairs towards the castle battlements.

  The guard reached out and grabbed Em, dragging her in the direction of the exit. Caravaggio wound back his arm and punched the guard in the jaw. More shocked than injured, the man let go and pulled his gun.

  ‘Stop!’ Em screamed. She took a deep breath and focused on the guard. ‘You do not want to shoot anyone.’

  The guard wavered. His hand trembled.

  ‘You want to get inside the bomb shelter as soon as possible,’ Em told him soothingly. ‘Don’t worry about us.’

  This time, when the amorphous fire slammed against the Plexiglass, hundreds of harpies were forming inside the flames. The surface was melting under the extreme heat. Whatever shape the fireball took, it would be inside soon.

  ‘Get to the bomb shelter and lock the doors,’ Em said in a soft voice to the guard. ‘And forget what you’ve seen up here.’

  The guard holstered his gun and fled.

  ‘This is Luca’s dark magic,’ said Caravaggio. ‘I may not have mentioned this, but nephilim can control and manipulate fire.’

  ‘Might have been good to know that sooner,’ Em hissed.

  The Plexiglass imploded. The wooden remains of the portcullis cracked and groaned and a hole opened above the lock. Three fiery harpies with snarling human faces, crow’s feet and bat-like wings whizzed through the opening, shooting up to the wooden beams on the ceiling and setting them on fire. Burning wood rained down on Em and Caravaggio before the harpies swooped towards them. One whistled past Em’s leg, its wing singeing her jeans. The other two hit Caravaggio straight on, their flaming claws gripping his shirt. He shrieked, clawing at his searing flesh. Em grabbed a chair and smacked the harpies, sending them screaming across the floor.

  ‘To the tomb!’ she yelled.

  They ran to the wooden door marked Privato. Caravaggio kicked hard on the old lock and the door flew open. The harpies screamed louder and charged the door, crashing into it the moment Caravaggio slammed it shut.

  ‘How did you inspirit the guard in English?’ Caravaggio panted as they sprinted down the first flight of stairs. The farther down they went, the narrower and more treacherous the stone staircase became. The harpies weren’t going to let a wooden door stop them for long.

  ‘It’s the message not the medium,’ Em replied breathlessly. ‘Keep moving!’

  66.

  GOING UP

  On his race to the battlements, Matt stopped at a landing and stared out through an arrow-loop. Police vehicles and two army units were already flanking the front of the castle. Across the Tiber, he could see a string of fire engines speeding their way here. Tourists were keeping their distance. After the initial explosion, most had fled across the pedestrian-only Pons Aelius and were watching from the safety of the left bank. The bridge was empty. The grassy knolls and the cobbled spaces surrounding the castle were cordoned off too.

  He gazed down at the courtyard. It looked like a flame-thrower had strafed it. The kiosks were smouldering shells and the burning flotsam of the tourists – backpacks, brochures, camera cases, maps and picnic coolers – lay strewn across the stones like small bonfires. There were no bodies. Yet.

  Matt bounded on up the stairs. The fires in the courtyard were distracting witnesses from the fact that although parts of the castle were burning, the fire was consuming nothing. If this was Luca, he was protecting this place for reasons of his own. Not for the first time since leaving Scotland, Matt wondered if they were being tricked, if a plan other than the one they were following to stop the rise of the Watchers and their Second Kingdom was in play.

  He sprinted out on to the castle’s ramparts, staying low to the ground until he reached the parapets. When he looked over the wall, he realized it didn’t matter if he was upright or not. He couldn’t see more than a hand in front of his face, thanks to the strange, billowing smoke. He stuck his hand curiously over the wall and into the cloudy mass. It felt hot and sticky, like spun sugar on his skin, and as he yanked his hand back, he saw a burn already blistering on his palm.

  The smoke cloud was getting darker by the second. Matt stared up at the great bronze statue of the Archangel Michael, who stood gallantly with his sword on the pinnacle of the tower. Tucking up his hair, Matt started sketching Michael’s majestically outstretched wings.

  The cloud rumbled angrily and the daylight diminished. Matt gave Michael’s chest and arms definition, his legs weight and volume. He captured the gladiator belt and skirt in thick rough lines and, seconds before the sun was blotted out completely, drew the archangel’s smooth boyish face.

  He scrambled to his feet and looked up at the statue.

  Nothing was happening.

  67.

  GO LOW

  The turns were tight and the stairway narrow, making it a challenge for Em and Caravaggio to descend any faster than an awkward jog. The flames raced behind them, but they weren’t as nimble as Em. She slowed a little to catch her breath. Caravaggio almost crashed into her.

  ‘If you were any closer, this would be a second date,’ she said, pushing him away.

  The flames put on a fresh spurt, swooping after them like red crows.

  ‘I hope you know where you’re going,’ Caravaggio said grimly.

  ‘I think so. Hadrian’s tomb is in a vault directly under the pinnacle of the tower.’

  A first wave of arrows whizzed round the curve above them. They flattened themselves against the walls as they whipped past. They waited, breathing hard, but no more arrows followed.

  ‘Your brother’s distraction must be working,’ Caravaggio said.

  They sprinted down the last three flights of stairs. At the bottom few steps, they slowed. The ceiling had dropped considerably and even Em, who was shorter, could no longer stand straight. With Em shuffling in the lead, they headed along a tunnel which opened up into a vaulted chamber. The ceiling here was high enough for Caravaggio to stand, but the top of his head was touching the barrels of the vault.

  Everything in Hadrian’s tomb was covered in concrete dust and screamed of desecration. Frowning, Em lifted the marble head of a gladiator at her feet and set it against the wall. Caravaggio ran his hands over walls
that once had been covered in white brick. Only one section hadn’t been stripped back to the clay, its gleaming bricks intact.

  The chamber was square, and its dirt floor was littered with broken travertine tile and the dismembered bodies of stone and marble statues. Em recognized a head of Zeus, his mid-section sitting in pieces nearby, half a goddess holding a water jug on her shoulders, and against the far wall, a centaur as big as a horse. A rat scampered out of a hole in the centaur’s haunches, across the floor and into a pool of water seeping into the ground.

  ‘How is Matt faring, do you think?’ asked Caravaggio anxiously.

  Em concentrated for a moment. ‘He’s got things under control,’ she said. ‘For now.’

  They moved reverently around the space, aware of its provenance and worried about what traps they might be walking into.

  ‘This tomb was constructed under the river,’ said Caravaggio. He pointed to the coffin in the centre of the chamber, in the middle of four broken columns. ‘And that was built directly beneath the vault’s keystone. The centre of the Pons Aelius is directly above us. The Romans liked order and symmetry and symbolism in every aspect of their lives.’

  The bottom half of the tomb had crumbled to the ground. It looked as if someone had tipped it over. Hadrian’s effigy had long since eroded, nose and mouth gone, the only recognizable part being the head wearing a crown of laurels. Caged off from the rest of the room by a rusting iron fence, Em decided the tomb was hardly befitting a Roman emperor whose imperial legions had marched all the way to Scotland.

  Her frustration spiked. Why had Zach wanted her to come here?

  68.

  WALK TO THE LIGHT

  Forks of lightning ricocheted from one side of the ramparts to the other. They became one long stream of light, spiralling round and round, rising from the ground at a dizzying speed, until they reached the pinnacle directly above Matt. A radiant mass lit up the heavens with such force it blinded Matt, throwing him backwards into the wall, sending his sketchpad and his shades flying.