“Of course!” Malagigi slapped his forehead. “We never saw its spirit leave its body and depart for some other place! Why didn’t I think of that! Bad, Maugris! Mal!”
“Perhaps, you should attend more,” Erasmus chided mockingly.
“Ah! Touché!” Malagigi made a show of clutching his heart as if he had been stabbed.
“Is that what would usually happen?” I asked. “We would see the spirit depart from the body?”
“If a living creature died, yes.” Malagigi sat down beside me. “Unlike the kronosaur, however, the sea monster may not be a creature that swam, living, from Earth. It may be one of those nightmares that serves the demons and preys upon the Lustful. If so, then it is bound by the rules that govern the damned. When spirits are damaged here, they lay in a stupor for a time and then regenerate to suffer the same torment again—or to inflict it, if they are one of the torturers.”
“So, what do we do now?” I asked, readying my fan.
“Easy enough,” Erasmus declared. “We ‘kill’ it again!”
Mab frowned. “This place gives ‘kill’ a whole new meaning.”
Putting his hand on the hilt of Durandel, Erasmus lifted the crimson robe. Then, the world turned upside down. We were all thrown willy-nilly, bouncing off my brother’s garments and slamming repeatedly into the gondola, until my head, back, and shins were all stinging. From all around came thuds and shouts of pain. Erasmus, who had been partway out, nearly slid over the edge of the skull, but Gregor managed to grab his foot and yank him back in. Eventually, all of us were able to grab on to the seats.
“Malagigi!” I shouted, once I had wedged my feet under the far seat, so that I now flopped around with the skull-boat rather than in it. “Go up and see what is going on!”
The blue-robed Frenchman flitted away, reappearing soon after.
“La! I believe the creature is trying to disgorge us.”
“Finally,” Gregor croaked hoarsely.
“That answers any questions about its vomit reflex.” Erasmus clung to the upside-down gondola seat. “Quick! Cut the ties that are holding us to the ribs!”
Around and around, we spun, like fair-goers trapped in a children’s ride. I managed to open my fan and slice through the rope securing us to the ribs nearest to me. I could only hope that the others had done the same.
Then, we were right side up again, rushing along on a river of bile. The crimson robe had pulled free in several places; it fluttered wildly. Through the openings, we could see that we were in the mouth rushing toward the creature’s teeth. The wet roof of the mouth was only a little ways above our head, and the teeth were now only the size of fence posts—nowhere as large as the sharpened columns we had passed on our way in, but still big enough to pierce us through the middle. As we careened toward them, the jaws began to close.
We were heading directly toward a picket fence of death. The river of stomach fluids that bore us forward poured over the lower teeth, but the gleaming tips of the upper teeth descended rapidly.
“It’s going to bite us!” I cried.
“Down in front!” Erasmus cried. “Everybody duck!”
Erasmus drew the sword Durandel. Rising in a place where the ropes had come free, he balanced on our unsteady craft like a surfer, the blade raised behind his head.
We shot forward just as the jaws descended. Shouting, Erasmus swung. His sword struck through two teeth with the full force of his strongest blow. They cracked, spraying splinters of ivory enamel right and left. Erasmus threw himself down onto the crimson robe, squashing the rest of us, and we sailed through the gap to freedom.
The force of our ejection from the kronosaurus propelled us some distance across the scum-covered swamp. Luckily for us, the plesiosaur had surfaced before disgorging us, so we could breathe. However, there was no way for us to escape, should it decide to pursue us. As it dived, we held our breath, waiting to see if it would resurface. Our skull-boat bobbed lopsidedly, but it did not sink.
“Any sign of it?” Mab peered off into the gloom, looking this way and that.
“None,” Erasmus replied after another tense minute had passed. “I see our other friend over there, the sea monster. It’s floundering about, but it looks as if its eyes are healing. Perhaps, we should run before it recovers more fully.”
“Run, how?” I asked. “Our pole-oar is broken.”
“Ah! As to that!” Malagigi pulled free the two pieces that had been used to support the tent. Closing his eyes and bringing his hands together, he prayed over them. When he lifted his head, he was holding the full-sized pole again.
“Well … that’s convenient!” Erasmus declared. “Nicest thing that’s happened all day!”
* * *
MALAGIGI poled us through the swamp. Mab held the silver star, grinning like a jack-o-lantern. The swamp was horrible, ugly, and stank, true, but it beat being digested by an ancient dinosaur.
“Now we are back where we were,” Malagigi said cheerfully as he poled, “seeking the Greatest Swordsman in Christendom. Ah, what a fighter he was in his prime! Come, Erasmus, distract us from the horrors around us. Tell us more of this famous duel that your brother fought.”
Erasmus obliged, describing the duel between Mephisto and Cesare in some detail, adding, “It was a great rivalry. Both young men were handsome and talented. They moved in the same circles and were fighting over a beautiful girl. Antonio set the whole thing up. He made a mint off the match. Everyone had bet on the higher-ranking, better-known Cesare, of course.”
“Higher-ranking?” Mab paused. “Wasn’t Mephisto’s father the Duke in an independent Duchy?”
“Cesare’s father was pope,” I replied.
“Pope!” Mab exclaimed. “I thought popes weren’t allowed to be fathers … except in the spiritual sense, of course.”
“That is the normal way of things,” Erasmus replied airily. “This pope was different.”
A deep inarticulate noise made me glance Gregor’s way. Slowly, my brother rose until he stood precariously in the gondola, his red cardinal’s robes billowing about him. He glared down at the rest of us, his face so suffused with wrath that his normally olive complexion appeared ruddy.
It was the old Gregor again, the Gregor from before his imprisonment, the harsh and brutish man I could never bring myself to like.
“Are you telling me”—his hoarse voice sounded softer and more menacing than I had ever heard him—“that the Cesare Mephisto fought was Cesare Borgia?”
“Didn’t you know?” Erasmus asked in surprise.
“No! No one mentioned it.”
“I take it you’ve heard of this Borgia guy?” asked Mab.
“Heard of him? Borgias!” Gregor spat, his eyes glittering with the memory of countless hateful offenses. “If ever there was a family I abhor, it is the Borgias! Everything that went wrong in Western Civilization since the fifteenth century was the fault of the Borgias! All this…”—he spread his arms, indicating the Swamp of Uncleanness beyond; the silver star wobbled about on his hand—“harkens back to them!”
“That seems a bit extreme,” Mab said cautiously.
“When people speak of the abuses of the Church,” Gregor continued, “they are referring to the reign of the Borgias! The Reformation was brought on by the excesses of the Borgias! No wonder the blackguard broke his word to Mephisto and continued fighting after first blood! A blacker scoundrel never walked the earth, except perhaps for his father! I hope Pope Alexander burns in Hell!”
The wrath in Gregor’s eyes flickered suddenly and drained away as he glanced around at our surroundings. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I wonder if we’ll see him here.”
“I suspect he is farther down, in a lower Circle,” Malagigi replied graciously, his eyes watching the star and the rocking motion of the gondola. “I could inquire if you like.”
“No … no matter.” Gregor sat down again, leaning on his staff as he did so, his hoarse voice steady again. “These Borgias corr
upted the Church with decadence, performing every imaginable offense. Cesare was the man after whom Machiavelli modeled his book, The Prince.
“And the greatest irony?” Gregor continued sadly. “Several Renaissance artists used Cesare Borgia as their model when painting Jesus. Because of this, to this day, portraits of Our Lord continue to resemble this unscrupulous villain! He was a murderer who threw his rape victims into the Tiber, and his is the face of our Savior!” Gregor shook his head at the tragedy of it. “This is the kind of man with whom our brother consorted? This sword partner of Mephisto’s was even accused of having committed the heinous crime of incest, fathering a son upon his own sister.”
“Gregor, my lad, maybe we Prosperos shouldn’t throw rocks at other glass houses,” Erasmus cautioned gently.
Gregor gave Erasmus a puzzled glance, and I realized that my brother, the former pope, had not understood whose children Teleron and Typhon were. The argument between Titus and Logistilla back on Prospero’s Island must not have made much sense to him, but then, having just returned from three decades of imprisonment upon Mars, probably much that we said did not make sense to him. I wondered if Titus would have married Logistilla if he had known Brother Gregor was still alive.
“Besides,” Erasmus added, “Pope Alexander VI did get the trains running on time.” He waved his hand. “Or whatever it was that needed done back then. He ran a tight ship of state, which is more than can be said for Mussolini, who is credited with getting his trains to run on time, but never did.” When he saw me gawking at him, Erasmus added with a shrug, “Ulysses told me. You know what a train nut Ulysses is.”
Malagigi said, “Young Cesare was a follower of Antonio’s, I believe, rather than a friend of Mephisto’s. He looked up to Antonio because your uncle was reputed to be a sorcerer.”
I said, “Theophrastus believed that the stories of Cesare’s sister, Lucrezia Borgia, poisoning people were actually a cover for the spells that Antonio taught her and her brother.”
Gregor nodded. “Among the inner circles of the Church, it was well known that she practiced black magic of the worst sort.”
“But that might not have been Antonio’s fault,” Erasmus warned. “The Borgias were Orbis Suleimani, too. So—like Antonio and Father—they had access to the magic they were supposed to be stopping. How do you think the popes in Rome got all that loot we appropriated from them in 1623? The Spear of Longinus? The Ark of the Covenant? The two Borgia popes, Cesare’s father and his great uncle, robbed the Orbis Suleimani treasure house to get all those goodies.”
“Indeed. That was the reason I supported Father’s raid on the Vatican, despite my reservations.” Gregor spoke gravely. “Father was entirely correct. Access to unholy magic was ruining the Church. The quality of the churchmen improved greatly after we removed those accursed talisman. Only we should not have taken the Ark of the Covenant. I told Father this at the time, but he would not listen. The events that followed proved me right.”
I straightened, startled. Gregor believed that Cornelius’s blindness had been a punishment for our having stolen the Ark from the holy church? I wondered if there were any truth to his theory.
“Borgias!” Gregor shuddered. Despite the great heat, he chafed his arms as if he was cold. “They must all be down here somewhere, Cesare and Lucrezia, too.”
“She was a very lovely woman, Lucrezia.” Erasmus sighed.
“You knew her?” Gregor’s eyes flicked over him disapprovingly.
“Only in passing,” Erasmus murmured. “Though Mephisto fought a duel on her behalf when he was Duke of Milan. She married one of our cousins, you know.”
“The Harebrain was duke, once?” Mab asked.
“After our guide”—Erasmus indicated Malagigi—“and his siblings drove us out of Milan, our family regrouped and returned about fifteen years later. Both Mephisto and I had a chance to be duke for a bit, before the Hapsburgs finally threw us out for good in 1535.”
“Hadn’t realized that. Maybe I should be calling you, ‘Your Grace.’” Mab scribbled a note.
“It was long ago,” Erasmus allowed. “If you won’t call me Erasmus, please stick with Professor.”
“And this great duel between your brother and Cesare: it was all over a girl?” Malagigi asked eventually, when the going got easier for him. “How romantique!”
Erasmus chuckled. He leaned over the side of the boat and peered into the swampy waters below us. “Cesare claimed Mephisto had trifled with her and alienated her affections. Only it had not been Mephisto at all…”
“Really? Who was it?” I had never heard this part of the story.
Erasmus had the decency to look sheepish. “It was I.”
“You!” I scrambled to sit straight in my astonishment. “And Mephisto fought Cesare to cover for you?”
Erasmus actually blushed. “I was four years his junior and still clumsy with a sword. Mephisto knew I had no chance.” He chuckled again. “I was so innocent back then. Bianca and I had met by the Elephant Door, alone, and I had kissed her on the cheek. I thought myself so very naughty.”
“All these years, Mephisto never said a word!” I laughed.
CHAPTER
SIX
The Hellwinds Cometh
After we had poled our skull-boat for about a quarter of an hour, Malagigi pointed to a large island upon which succubi cavorted with the souls of the dead. As we approached the shore, horned women swept out of the sky, calling to Mab, Malagigi, and my brothers, smiling and cooing. They had naked breasts and long straight hair. One extended her long finger, with its blood-red nail, and crooked it at me, pursing her lips invitingly. I jerked back, revolted. Gregor placed his staff over his forearm, forming a cross. Hissing, she flew away.
Landing, we followed Malagigi around a large boulder. On the far side, a great black demon lay stretched out on a couchlike rock. Rotting, emaciated women fawned upon him, kissing his marble-like limbs and performing acts I did not study closely enough to identify. Nearby, other women, equally repulsive, danced jerkily or sang. Their music was a horrible cacophony of nauseating sound.
Before I could avert my gaze, the demon turned its many-horned head and regarded me with glowing sapphire eyes. I recognized my brother.
“Ugh, Mephisto,” I cried in disgust, raising a hand to block my vision. “Really!”
“Mephisto?” Erasmus frowned, glancing about. “Where?”
“Sister?” The demon chuckled, half-rising, so that he reclined like a Roman. “Care to join us?”
Mab strode in to the midst of the revelers and grabbed the crystal ball from where a damned soul had been trying to commit an unnatural act with it. He crossed to where Mephistopheles lay and shoved the silver star near his face so that the true nature of his paramours became clear to him. Roaring with revulsion, my brother the demon leapt to his feet, scattering the fawning damned like mice before a lion. His staff, still handcuffed to his arm, swung about freely.
“Fool, Sorcerer,” Gregor shouted. “You have brought us to the wrong Mephistopheles. I warned you all that we should not trust Maugris.”
Gregor turned toward Malagigi. With calm determination, he raised the hand bearing the Seal of Solomon. I did not know if the Seal could harm a good shade such as our guide, but I did not want to risk finding out. I leapt in front of the Frenchman and spread my arms, blocking my brother’s way.
“No, Gregor! That is Mephisto!”
“‘Is’ in what meaning of the word?” murmured Erasmus, his brow furrowed. He stood poised, as if waiting for the situation to resolve into some kind of sense.
Overhead, the flying succubi screamed and reeled, dashing away into the lurid red sky in their attempt to flee the dreaded Seal of Solomon. Gregor, meanwhile, had turned his makeshift cross on our family demon.
“Come now, Brother. That will not work on me.” Mephistopheles laughed, though he winced and took a step back.
“What does this mean?” Gregor’s raspy voice was so harsh I coul
d hardly make out his words. “Why does this demon call me ‘Brother’?”
“Because that demon is the Harebrain in his alternate form,” Mab explained as he returned from poking around the stone couch, Mephisto’s clothing dripping from his arms. He handed the long royal blue surcoat to Mephistopheles, muttering. “Here. Don this to cover your nakedness. There are ladies present.” Mab glanced with disgust at the now cowering souls of the damned. “One, anyway.”
“So, our brother has an alternate form … rather like Bruce Banner and the Hulk?” Erasmus asked faintly.
Gregor stared at him blankly.
“Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” explained Erasmus.
“Yeah, only I don’t think any science experiments were involved,” Mab quipped.
Gregor was unable to follow their conversation. He scowled at them both. “I like this not! How did Mephisto become a demon?”
Mephistopheles stepped forward, now dressed in his surcoat. Malagigi and Erasmus both took a careful step backward. Gregor, Mab, and I stood our ground.
Looming over them, my brother the demon pointed at the crystal globe in Mab’s hands. “The Mystic Eye of John Dee can see into the depths of Hell. With it, I beheld dastardly deeds and black treacheries committed by the denizens who dwelt here. Demons are forever committing crimes they do not want their superiors to discover. By observing these crimes and informing them that they had been observed, I gained their support. In this manner, I moved up through the ranks until I had acquired the prestige and powers of a Prince of Hell. Once I had this power at my fingertips, I used it to forge new compacts.” He hefted his staff, which was a good foot longer than it had been in our youth. “To create new bindings so that I could summon more creatures.”
“Despicable,” hissed Gregor, his old churchman ways rising to the fore.
“Gaining power in Hell—by blackmail. Doesn’t God burn you twice for that?” Erasmus’s voice was light, but there was a tremor to it. Mephistopheles turned his many-horned head toward Erasmus. His sapphire eyes glittered icily. He took a menacing step forward.
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