The Devil's Library

by Tom Pugh

  *

  Gaetan Durant refused to leave the city. He could understand Vescosi’s anger – Durant had broken with protocol and put the Otiosi leader in danger – but surely he would calm down in a few days’ time, when Durant planned to return and plead to be allowed to continue in the search for the Devil’s Library. Lucretius was the key and the Frenchman knew the poet’s work inside out. Surely, the Otiosi leader would relent.

  In the meantime, he sought distraction from his own company, but the novelty seats in the Boboli gardens only made him angry. He went to see one of the famed Florentine plays and was disgusted. Actors dangled from strings. Heaven spun about the earth on revolving discs. Angels descended on ill-painted wooden clouds. Fraud, deception and artifice.

  It was noon. Durant lay on his unmade bed in a dirty tavern on the outskirts of the city, trying to concentrate on Lucretius.

  But mind is more the keeper of the gates,

  Hath more dominion over life than soul.

  For without intellect and mind there is not

  One part of soul can rest within our frame

  Least part of time; companioning, it goes

  With mind into the winds away, and leaves

  The icy members in the cold of death.

  But he whose mind and intellect abide

  Himself abides in life. However much

  The trunk be mangled, with the limbs lopped off,

  The soul withdrawn and taken from the limbs,

  Still lives the trunk and draws the vital air.

  He tossed the book aside. One day, claimed Lucretius, man would comprehend the hidden structure of the universe. Too late for Durant – wife dead of plague, daughter God alone knew where. With all the resources at their disposal, the Otiosi had discovered no trace of her. Stupid to have allowed himself to hope. He should have demanded more information. What leads had Vescosi pursued? It would have been useful to know, if only to help him concentrate his own search. Durant stared at the ceiling and accused himself of cowardice. So much time had passed – had he grown afraid of what she might have become? Was his desire to find the Devil’s Library a way of distracting himself from the fact he’d given up?

  No. He remained convinced – the lost works of Epicurus had the power to remake this world. Durant did not know how. He only knew what he’d read.

  Nothing but words on paper, black spiders on bleached bone, but Columbus had carried a copy of Lucretius’ poem with him when he discovered the Americas. Copernicus had kept a copy in his observatory in Frombork. Both men adding chapters to the poet’s tale of a journey to freedom as Man uncovered the secrets of the universe, learned to protect himself from disease and natural disaster, and his own dark nature.

  Durant fell into a restless sleep. He dreamed of his daughter, Laure, smiling in a linen dress with short, bunched sleeves and trailing hem. Her hair loosely tied at the nape of her neck, except where a single lock had escaped to fall across her face.

  Tears rolled down Durant’s cheeks. In the years since Laure’s disappearance, he’d dreamed her death a thousand ways, and played the same role each time: the man who abducted her, seduced her, sold her into prostitution, murdered her. A cruel trick of the mind, which drove him from his bed. Angrily, he pulled on his boots and hurried into the streets of Florence, making for the notorious warren of alleyways behind the old marketplace.

  It was mid-afternoon and the streets were quiet; the ground floor shops closed, counters covered with sheets of oiled paper or sealed with wooden shutters, a few sallow-faced whores lingering in the dark doorways. A cow’s skull mounted on a wooden pole marked the entrance to a tavern. Inside, a handful of men played cards at a battered table. Durant sat with his back to the wall as the landlady brought him wine. She had painted lips and skin like bark. He caught a glimpse of her withered bosom as she set the bottle down. She saw him look and winked. Durant felt sick. The wine was foul. God’s teeth, but when he thought of the wine they’d produced on his old family estate, it was enough to make him weep. Durant remembered the colour; a single flame glimpsed against the curtain of night, the taste of love and comfort. He saw warm stone, cool water welling up from natural springs, and well-trodden paths between neat rows of vines. His home before the plague.

  Durant thought of his daughter, and the young whores he saw every day on the streets of Florence. “What a world we’ve made.”

  He hadn’t meant to speak out loud and the card players looked up. Durant forced a smile. “What are you playing, gentleman?” He patted the full purse hanging from his belt. “Is it similar to Landsknecht?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Aurélie was unharmed, apart from two fading bruises on the upper arms where Gregorio Spina’s men had held her, first to stop her fighting, then to drag her through the streets of Florence.

  Spina himself had stayed with Giacomo Vescosi, while his men had brought her to this Dominican House and left her in the charge of Brother Jerome. She’d been terrified; mind bursting with Giacomo’s tales of death by burning. Seeing Jerome had done nothing to reassure her – he was a tall man, gaunt with fanaticism, lank hair falling past his bony shoulders – but she’d been treated well at first. The preacher had shut her in a monk’s cell. A single, barred window beneath the ceiling let in air and light from the square. From the far corner, Aurélie had been able to glimpse the legs of passers-by and hear the shuffle of footsteps; muffled laughter; the price of a freshly slaughtered chicken. Heaven compared to her present accommodation. Her own fault – after three days of silently hoping for a miracle, she’d screamed so long and loud for help that robed men had come and taken her down to a punishment cell. She shivered in her thin dress, remembering rough hands on her back, forcing her down the steep stairs.

  She had no idea how long she’d been alone in the darkness before Jerome came, a burning torch above his head. She’d squinted in the glare, trying to see his face. He’d seemed to fear her scrutiny, thrusting the torch through a ring on the wall and retreating into shadow.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Sixteen hours.”

  A little after dawn. Aurélie could have sworn she’d been here twice as long. She pictured the bright sun rising over the rooftops of Florence.

  “Your vile behaviour is the talk of the quarter,” continued the preacher, “but I am prepared to forgive.” He’d taken a breath. “I’ve come to hear your confession.”

  Aurélie had bitten back laughter. She still had no idea what possessed her. “You want me to confess? To what? Causing you embarrassment?”

  “I’m offering you a chance to return to your former cell.”

  “If I promise to be a good little girl. You should be ashamed.”

  The preacher had recoiled in disgust. “Control yourself.”

  “Me?” Aurélie’s cheeks had burned with the thought of her earlier fear. “Coward,” she spat at him, groping blindly for words that would hurt. “I feel nothing but pity for you, do you understand? Duped into peddling the pope’s lies.”

  “Witch!”

  Now, Aurélie had laughed in earnest. She remembered the moment with pride, standing with hands on hips in the centre of the dark cell. “Would you like me to tell you about witches?”

  Jerome had crossed himself.

  “The Devil tempts us to sin, isn’t that right? Fall into one of his snares, and he takes possession of your soul? The Pope claims followers of the new confessions will go to Hell, and Lutherans claim he’s the Antichrist – that anyone who listens to him is similarly doomed.”

  “Silence, woman!” yelled Jerome. “What demon has you in his grip?”

  An idea had popped, fully formed, into Aurélie’s head. She’d slammed an open palm against her thigh and seen him flinch.

  “Don’t you see?” goading him deliberately now. “Whichever form of worship can produce the most witches must be the most pleasing to God. You’re always telling us how cunning the Devil is; he’d hardly waste his time corrupting souls that
already belong to him. It’s only a game,” she’d finished. “Just a way of keeping score.”

  Jerome had fled without a word, leaving her alone in the darkness. She’d seen him once since, just long enough to call him a fool and a coward. He hadn’t even crossed the threshold.

  How long had passed since then? Days? She shifted on the damp straw, just this slight movement enough to wake the hunger. It was an animal, quiet when she lay still, ready to claw at her belly whenever she moved. She pressed her tongue against the sweating walls. If they left her much longer she would be too weak to fight.

  The door swung open.

  A skinny, young acolyte, wreathed in a halo of fire. “You’re to follow me.”

  Aurélie rose slowly to her feet, forearm raised to protect her eyes. “A gentleman would offer his arm.”

  The boy recoiled, as if threatened by a snake. Aurélie sighed.

  “Of course. Lead on.”

  She followed him up the narrow staircase, through a low door and into blessed sunlight. Jerome waited in the courtyard. He’d donned a threadbare robe for the occasion.

  “Did she talk?”

  “She wanted to touch me.”

  The preacher nodded. “God will protect you, my son. Make her sit.”

  A chair had been placed in the centre of the yard. The acolyte forced her down, then picked up a pair of barber’s scissors and began to cut her hair. His hands were shaking; Aurélie concentrated on keeping her head still. She closed her eyes, unwilling to watch the long, golden tresses fall to the ground. This was a victory, she reminded herself – they truly believed that she was possessed.

  No one offered her a mirror. When the acolyte stepped back, Aurélie raised a hand, to run it across the shorn hair.

  A wooden board lay close.

  “Lie down,” snapped Jerome.

  Aurélie shook her head. She wasn’t being deliberately obstructive. She was tired and close to tears. The preacher nodded at the acolyte, who took her beneath the arms and dragged her across the flagstones.

  She stared at this boy, at his nervous eyes and spindle-thin limbs – the expression on his face was pathetic, as if he were somehow the injured party.

  “Tie her.”

  The boy reached for her wrist. Aurélie seized his forefinger and bent it back. Pain twisted his face and she felt a sudden glow of satisfaction. She bent the finger further, nearly to the wrist, waiting for the snap of bones. With his free hand, the boy back-handed her across the face. There was blood in her mouth and the terrible taste of fear. What in God’s name had she been thinking?

  CHAPTER 20

  Matthew Longstaff had a knife in his boot, two more in his jerkin, and wished he had the katzbalger. He didn’t like these alleyways; so narrow you could run fingertips along both crumbling walls. He was glad Sparrow was with him, the big dog climbing easily over piles of refuse.

  Voices approached. Longstaff slipped into the shadows of a doorway. A group of barefoot children came running round the corner, slowing when they saw the dog. Longstaff pinched his forearm before stepping into the alley, coins in his open palm.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  He described the way Durant swept his hair back from his forehead; the flat grey eyes, and the black doublet and hose. It was his description of the Frenchman’s clothes that snagged the boys’ attention. They nodded eagerly, leading him deeper into the warren of derelict streets.

  Longstaff stared at the cow’s polished skull. A low rumble of noise came from the tavern. He gave Sparrow a rough pat on the shoulder. “Wait for me.”

  Durant sat at a table with three strangers – local men, by the look of it, wearing coarse woollen smocks and wooden clogs – surrounded by a crowd of heavy-set labourers and rake-thin criminals. There was a lazy smile on the Frenchman’s face, eyes half-closed as he cradled a wineskin in his arms. A small pile of coins lay in the centre of the table, larger piles in front of the three locals. Nothing in front of the Frenchman, who stopped caressing the wineskin long enough to remove a thin gold chain from beneath his doublet. It bore a pendant – a heavy cross, set with precious stones. Durant studied it a moment, then tossed it onto the pile of coins in the middle of the table.

  Longstaff pushed through the crowd; there wasn’t time for this. “We have to leave. Now.”

  “Matthew!” The Frenchman slurred. “I knew I’d see you again.”

  “Now, Durant.”

  “Just one more hand. If I win, I’ll come meek as a lamb. If I lose, I fear you’ll have to kill my new friends,” he grinned. “That chain has sentimental value.”

  Longstaff yanked him to his feet, expression hard as he faced the crowd. “You have his money. Now let us go.”

  The first man gave way reluctantly. Longstaff kept moving, shielding Durant with his body. The Frenchman pulled free of his grip, wineskin still held beneath one arm. “I haven’t paid for the drink,” he turned in the doorway. “Keep the chain, dear lady, with my compliments.”

  Longstaff pulled him into the alleyway, whistling for Sparrow. They were almost at the corner before the doors of the tavern burst open.

  The landlady appeared. “Tin and paste,” she yelled. “I’ll have you flayed alive.”

  Durant started laughing. Longstaff forced him into a shambling run. Christ and his Saints stared at them from niches in the walls. Shouts reached them from nearby streets, but their luck held. “This way,” hissed Longstaff. “Hurry, or I’ll gut you myself.”

  He didn’t let up until they reached a modest square, tenements along three sides, a squat parish church on the fourth. He let go of Durant and looked around with satisfaction.

  “You’re a miserable bastard,” muttered Durant. “No sense of humour.”

  Longstaff marched him to the fountain in the centre and ducked his head beneath the water.

  The Frenchman retched. His breath came in ragged, wine-sodden gasps.

  “Get away from me,” he slid down the side of the fountain and took a long drink from the wineskin. “Don’t look at me like that, Matthew. And do not make me drink alone.” He pushed the skin into Longstaff’s hands. “Drink with me to my daughter’s memory. It’s seven years ago tomorrow since I saw her last.”

  Longstaff drank deeply, dropped the skin and stamped on it, sending a spray of cheap wine across the cobblestones.

  “Bastard,” said Durant, eyes fogged with drink. “I worked it out, you know. Can’t believe it took me so long. King Henry killed your father for promoting Luther’s ideas, but when Il Medeghino fought at Marciano, he fought for the Emperor,” he sneered at Longstaff. “You fought for the Catholic champion, though your father died for Luther’s faith.”

  Longstaff grabbed Durant by the hair and forced his head under the water. He counted to ten, slowly, before letting him up.

  Durant took a great tearing breath. His eyes were red, but steady now. He sat himself down on the fountain wall.

  “They lied to us,” said Longstaff. “Are you listening? The whole thing was a performance.”

  Durant groaned. “You’ve been thinking. Nothing good ever comes of you thinking.”

  “Your precious letter,” continued Longstaff. “Who do you think you gave it to? Not the leader of the Otiosi. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Gaetan Durant ran a hand through wet hair, his face puffy with alcohol. “What are you talking about?”

  “I went back. The place was deserted. You remember Clement, the servant? He tried to cut my throat! You understand? Rewards and money to see us on our way. An assassin lying in wait if we proved suspicious and returned to the house.”

  “Matthew. You’re not making any sense. Who has the palimpsest?”

  “Someone with no intention of rediscovering Epicurus, you can be sure of that.”

  Or of helping me return to England.

  “But who?” insisted Durant.

  “That’s what we’re here to find out.” Longstaff raised a finger to his lips.

  Eight
women holding torches appeared in the corner of the square and walked towards the squat church. They were followed by a Dominican priest in threadbare robe, tall and painfully thin, with an outsize head and large hands.

  A crude litter bobbed uncertainly into view. A young woman in a shapeless robe lay on the hard board, struggling against the ropes that held her fast. Possessed, according to the rumours, held captive in the Dominican House these past few days.

  “Her name is Aurélie,” said Longstaff. “She sent a boy to watch for us.”

  The procession paused at the entrance to the church. The bound woman raised her head and Longstaff caught a glimpse of fierce blue eyes, pale face backlit by the torches. She was gagged, her white blond hair cut nearly to the scalp.

  The litter was followed by thirty men and women, crowding after it up the church steps, but shrinking away whenever they came too near.

  Longstaff half dragged the Frenchman with him. “We have work to do.”

  The lowering church was a poor, tumbledown thing with a pitched wooden ceiling. Longstaff and Durant stood at the rear, looking at the labourers and small traders in rough, homespun smocks; careworn women, fingers thickened by years of toil. Longstaff shrank from the low groans of excitement.

  The priest’s face could have been carved from stone. His shadow fell across Aurélie, still tied to her wooden board. Raising his arms, he spread long, grey fingers.

  “Brothers and sisters, now is the time to stand firm against the injustices of this world, which are Satan’s greatest trap. The final battle nears and he knows his time of influence is coming to an end. Imagine the bitterness he feels. Soon, there will be no new souls for him to torment in the fires of Hell,” the priest’s tone became confidential. The congregation leaned in. “We have been blessed. The Master of the Sacred Palace came to me and laid a holy charge upon my shoulders.”