by Tom Pugh
“Kill her,” screamed a woman.
“Sister,” roared the priest, “The Master of the Sacred Palace put this girl into my care. I tried to protect her from the Lord of Hell. Locked her away in a monk’s cell. Brothers and sisters, what proof are stone and iron against the hordes of Satan, which stalk our towns and cities and feed on sin and win soul upon soul for their master? What proof is the kindness of priests against the wiles of Satan?”
He sank to his knees. “She spoke abominations. No daughter of Eve can conceive of such foul blasphemies except that the devil speaks with her tongue.” There was a storm of protest from the congregation. “She is possessed,” he screamed. “I took away her food and water, cut her hair, hoping to starve the demon out. She subjected me to such vileness I thought my heart might stop.
“We shall drive the demon out. Restore peace to this girl’s soul. Together, we shall do God’s work.”
The priest’s long shadow engulfed the young woman completely. He reeled back, as if resisted by unseen, supernatural forces. Two of the litter bearers dipped long strips of cloth in bowls of water and slowly bound the priest’s hands. The congregation began a low chant.
The priest stood over the bound woman – his eyes were narrow, jaw set – and struck her across the face.
Aurélie was still for a moment, then bucked against the ropes. Durant took a step forward, but Longstaff put a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” he said. “Close your eyes if you must, but use your head. They will tear us limb from limb if we try to get her now. You heard what the priest said. He has to keep her safe.”
“Burn her,” yelled a man.
“When Jesus went forth into the land,” cried the priest, “he met a man possessed by devils. Jesus demanded, what is thy name? And he replied, ‘My name is Legion.’”
He set about Aurélie’s face and body. She struggled against the ropes, hands clawing as the congregation chanted. Longstaff and Durant stood, stony-faced, at the back of the church.
The priest’s closed fist crashed against the side of Aurélie’s head, knocking the gag from her mouth.
“Ignorant pig,” she screamed. “Superstitious fool.”
“Do you hear? The demon rises to the surface! He feels the pain I inflict on the host. He runs from the song of her soul, as she learns what she will be spared in the next life. The horsemen ride and the Devil screams in fury, but we are stronger, brothers and sisters, we are stronger.”
“Out,” yelled another woman.
He struck the girl again. Blood ran freely from Aurélie’s nose and mouth. She raged, calling him a pederast, a disgrace to his maker. Longstaff saw fear on the priest’s face. He could not let the demon win. He set his feet and struck Aurélie such a blow her eyes rolled back until the whites were showing. She fell back on the board like an empty suit of clothes.
As the congregation pressed forward, Longstaff took Durant’s arm and drew him into the dark recesses of the church.
The priest was on all fours beside Aurélie’s unconscious body, panting like a dog, greasy hair hanging nearly to the floor. The litter bearers crowded anxiously around, helping him to his feet, leading him towards the door at the rear of the church. He shook them off, seeming to find new strength.
“God praise you, brothers and sisters,” tears streamed down his cheeks. “God is generous. He has seen our struggle. He has answered our prayer and released this poor woman’s soul from Hell.”
He seized a flaming torch, stamped it out and drew a sooty line round Aurélie’s body.
“Her sleep must not be disturbed,” he half shouted. His movements were clumsy as he drew a lopsided labyrinth on the floor, to confound the demons. The congregation fell into an uneasy silence. The jagged lines grew and grew, forcing them back against the door. The priest stumbled, the bearers hurried forward to catch him, leading him away.
Longstaff listened to the muttering, but the congregation wouldn’t enter the labyrinth. One by one they turned and made their way into the square, leaving candles burning on the high altar.
Longstaff and Durant emerged from shadow into the silent church. Aurélie lay in a heap, the blood dry on her face, a bruise around her left eye.
Longstaff knelt beside her. Even caked in blood and dirt, she was beautiful. Delicate hands emerged from the sleeves of her robe and he could see blue veins beneath the skin. He lifted her in his arms; her breath grew rapid, but she did not wake. The nightwatch were walking the streets of Florence, enforcing the curfew, and it took them over an hour to reach Longstaff’s inn on the Piazza del Peruzzi. The Englishman gave the night porter a coin and carried Aurélie up to his room.
Durant removed her robe, pulling a clean shirt over her head and slipping her between the sheets of the wide bed. Together, they cleaned her face. Durant checked the pulse; he peeled back her eyelids, then pressed his ear to her chest and listened to her heart.
“I’ll go for my things in the morning, but I think she’s going to be fine.”
Longstaff sat in one of the two armchairs, pointing Durant to the other. The Frenchman smiled, took out his battered copy of Lucretius and began to read. Within minutes, the book fell onto his lap. His mouth dropped open and he began to snore.
Longstaff sat through the rest of the night and watched the young woman sleep.
CHAPTER 21
Longstaff let his body go limp when he heard Aurélie stir, and dropped his head as if he were sleeping.
She woke cautiously, one eye at a time, wincing when she raised herself onto one elbow. She slipped out from between the warm sheets, padded silently to the window and peered round the edge of the heavy curtain.
The room was luxuriously appointed, with a dressing table in the window. Aurélie sat in front of the looking glass and glanced at her reflection, as if afraid to discover how much damage had been done. Longstaff’s shirt was several sizes too big for her, the cuffs falling away from delicate wrists.
Longstaff hadn’t intended to spy, only to give her a moment’s peace when she woke. He smacked his lips and yawned, stirred and stretched on the chair, giving her plenty of time to slip into the bloodied robe and run fingers over her shorn hair.
Longstaff rubbed his eyes. The girl was sitting on the dressing room stool, looking at him with a wary expression. “Good morning,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
She did not reply. He spoke softly. “Are you hungry? There’s food and water on the writing table.”
“I know who you are,” she stared at him. “Marco found you.”
“A man tried to cut my throat. Marco told me you’d know why. He wasn’t able to tell me more.”
Her face grew still.
“I’m sorry. A poor choice of words. Marco’s fine, as far as I know. He was terrified and disappeared as soon as he’d shown me where they were holding you.” Longstaff walked to the window and threw back the heavy curtains, flooding the room with bright sunlight.
Durant stirred in his chair.
“What is it?”
The Frenchman looked grey in the sunlight, eyes still red and glassy. He rubbed unshaven cheeks, lurched to his feet and walked unsteadily to the writing table. He lifted the water bottle directly to his mouth and took several long swallows, before handing it to Aurélie.
“Drink,” he said. “If my head’s pounding, I can only imagine how yours must feel.”
“At least offer her a glass,” Longstaff approached the dressing table, he and Durant getting in each other’s way. Longstaff retreated to the bed.
Aurélie took a long drink from the bottle. “Thank you.”
Durant dropped to one knee in front of her. “I am a doctor.”
“I know. I overheard Spina saying you were on your way,” she looked at their blank expressions. “Gregorio Spina. The pope’s censor. Master of the Sacred Palace.” She shook her head, then lifted her hands to her temples.
“Does it hurt?” asked Longstaff.
“It wasn’t difficult to convin
ce the priest I was possessed.”
Durant’s eyes went wide. “You did what?”
“What else could I do? Night and day, he kept me locked in a monk’s cell. I was planning to feign unconsciousness at the climax of the exorcism, then look for a way to escape. I wasn’t expecting him to hit me so hard. Where’s the palimpsest?”
She saw a look pass between the two men.
“Tell me you still have it.”
Longstaff spread his palms. “The man we gave it to told us his name was Giacomo Vescosi.”
Aurélie put her head between her hands and groaned. “Then he has them both. Spina has Giacomo and the palimpsest,” she pointed at Durant. “Bring me pen and paper, at once.”
Durant raised both eyebrows. “You’ll live, Aurélie. But you’ve been through a terrible experience. No need to tax your strength unnecessarily. We can talk about Giacomo when you’re feeling stronger.”
Longstaff saw anger flow along the high, clear lines of her face.
“I want to write a letter,” she snapped, “not climb a mountain.”
“Of course,” Longstaff rose to his feet. “Gaetan, why don’t you fetch your things? I’m sure we need to clean her wounds, so they don’t get infected.”
Durant gave the young woman an uncertain look.
“I’ll get some clothes for her, as well. Make sure she rests.”
He closed the door behind him. Longstaff looked at Aurélie.
“We’re trying to help.”
“Then bring me pen and paper. It may already be too late.”
*
Durant hurried across the city, making one short stop at a dressmaker’s on the Canto di Nello, another at a street vendor to eat a trencher of tripe smothered in lurid green sauce. The Florentine speciality was disgusting, but effective against a hangover.
It took him less than an hour to reach his inn. He packed quickly, settled his bill and strode back through the busy streets. He wanted a glass of wine, perhaps a bath, but kept remembering how Aurélie had struggled as the priest beat her. He’d come across such mad courage before and knew it always led to trouble. It wouldn’t take her long to wrap the Englishman around her finger. Longstaff would say something, in that awkward, gallant manner of his, and she’d laugh, and that would be the end of him.
Durant threw open the door. The girl was at the writing table, dipping a quill into a glass inkwell. She did not look up, her hand tracing a calm line across the surface of the paper.
“She should be in bed,” he said.
“I am right here, Signor Durant,” she replied without turning. “You can address me directly.”
“We talked while you were away,” said Longstaff. “She knows where they’ve taken Giacomo and the palimpsest.”
Aurélie described a house on the summit of a hill, built around an old watchtower. It was less than a day’s ride from Florence and belonged to Spina’s older brother, Onofrio.
“We can’t storm the villa,” said Longstaff, “and Spina knows what we look like, which rules out trickery. One of us will have to ride out to look at the place.”
Durant crossed the room and stood peering over Aurélie’s shoulder.
“You’re standing in my light,” her voice was soft, musical. She leaned to one side, offering him an uninterrupted view of her work. “Please.”
Durant picked up the paper. “Who are you writing to?”
“A Strasbourg merchant by the name of Michaelis, who wants a buyer for two dozen muskets.”
“What use are guns with only two of us to fire them?”
“Giacomo has always made a point of studying his enemies,” Aurélie smiled. “Spina’s brother has a weakness for modern weapons. Michaelis sent him letters of introduction a week ago. He might be able to get you in.”
Durant stared at Longstaff. The Englishman shrugged. “I can’t see any harm in talking to the man.”
“It’s suicide, Matthew. We’ve never heard of this Michaelis. Even if he can get us in, how do you propose we find Vescosi and the palimpsest?”
“No need to worry about the palimpsest,” said Aurélie. “They’re bound to have shown it to Giacomo. He knows more about the Devil’s Library than any man alive; that’s why they took him in the first place.”
Durant rubbed his face. “It isn’t our fight. This is Otiosi business.”
“The Otiosi?” Aurélie shook her head. “Clerks, not soldiers. Diplomats, courtiers, a few timid priests, sharing a weakness for new ideas and a loathing for the Inquisition. But only in the safety of their own homes. Why do think they need men like you?” She looked at Durant. “I saw you this morning, asleep with a copy of Lucretius. I know what drove you to deliver the palimpsest in person. What do you think will happen if the Library falls into Spina’s hands? He’ll use it to destroy us, then lock the collected knowledge of centuries away in the Vatican.”
“What library?” demanded Longstaff.
The young woman stared at him, eyes wide in disbelief. “What do you think we’re looking for? A few old books?”
“The complete works of Epicurus,” said Durant.
Furiously, the girl shook her head. “The Devil’s Library is more than just Epicurus. Giacomo Vescosi has spent his life searching for it, ever since he learned about St. Benedict. The saint’s family were members of an ancient cult dedicated to the accumulation of knowledge,” she paused, as if determined Longstaff and Durant should grasp the full importance of her words. “Their church was a library, constantly improved and expanded over the centuries. Works of philosophy and history, ethics, politics, dialectics, economics, poetry, engineering…” She stopped, frustration written in every line of her face.
“Did you at least bring me something to wear?”
In silence, Durant gestured at his pack.
“Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind...”
Longstaff and Durant stood together in the narrow corridor. The Frenchman shook his head. “Gregorio Spina is not a man I want for an enemy.”
“He underestimated Aurélie,” said Longstaff, “he shouldn’t have left her with that fool of a priest. Just think; she encouraged him to think she was possessed.”
“You like her?”
“I like her.”
Durant rolled his eyes. “Look at us. Waiting here like a couple of serving boys.” He suppressed a sudden image of the girl, wriggling out of the Englishman’s shirt, bending over the basin to wash her face and armpits.
“It’s folly. It will never work.”
“There’s no harm in talking to the merchant,” Longstaff saw the expression on Durant’s face and shrugged. “Vescosi is my last hope of returning home.”
“She is going to get us killed.”
CHAPTER 22
Mathern Schoff knelt on the hard stone floor, at prayer beneath a painting of the crucified Christ. Since arriving at the Villa Spina, this small chapel had become his home. He shifted slightly and a bolt of pain ran up his thighs, into the small of his back. He tilted his head, breathing carefully. Pain is a teacher.
There was a cadaver tomb below the painting, carved from dark stone and bearing a short epigram:
I was once what you are, and what I am you will become.
It was intended to encourage reflections on death, but Schoff saw it as an exhortation to follow in Spina’s footsteps. He felt another stab of pain. I was not; I was; I am not; I do not care. Epicurus’ words ran through his head like a prayer – the ultimate heresy. Believe nothing, except that which you can test through observation and logical deduction. Pleasure and pain are the measure of what is good and evil, the soul dies with the body. Schoff shook his head, amazed he could recite these heresies like a children’s rhyme.
The painting of Jesus was larger than life; the shadows cast by the heavy limbs appeared to escape the limits of the golden frame. The physical world is constructed from our sins. To see beyond, deny the body.
Schoff hadn’t slept in days and hunger clawed at his belly. Spina’s
words ran through his mind like water. Construct a building in your mind, furnish it. Build a church. Clothe God in your thoughts, as the masons clothe him in stone.
Schoff joined his hands in prayer. He imagined they were a knife, cutting through the miasma of sin surrounding him. The denser the steel, the stronger the weapon. With God’s help he would pierce this world of illusion and see the truth behind. Epicurus called them ‘atoms’, from the Greek for indivisible. Lucretius described them as the seeds of things. St. Benedict promised that the Book of Aal, at the heart of the Devil’s Library, would give them power over these seeds of things, enough to rend the veil of illusion and ignite the final battle between Christ and Lucifer. Schoff tried to imagine the atoms in his hands, tried to see them with his soul.
This was the task Spina had set him – first at the monastery in Florence and now here – and Schoff could feel himself edging towards the clarity his master demanded. He was following St. Paul’s dictum – If you live according to the flesh, you will die. If you put to death the deeds of the body by the spirit, you’ll live – surviving on no more than a single hour of sleep at a time and just two pieces of fruit a day.
He resented every interruption, but mealtimes were an exquisite torture, wedged between Spina’s two most trusted lieutenants.
Brother Dini was a slight man with nondescript features. A bookmaker once, Spina credited him with having doubled Dominican revenues in little more than a decade. Brother Chabal was reputedly one of the best swordsmen in Italy. Schoff often saw him on the lawn in front of the villa, sparring with another of Spina’s men. Tall and thick shouldered, with skin the colour of mud, the monk appeared to take a perverse delight in mocking Schoff’s hunger, filling trenchers of bread with pork, roasted beechnuts, wild apples and pears.
The former lawyer would sit beside him in silence, transfixed by the sheen of grease on the man’s mouth, hardly daring to breath, afraid to release his hunger.
Gregorio Spina sat beside his brother, the remaining places taken by members of the household. Onofrio Spina would not allow any more of Spina’s men to sit at his table, insisting they ate with the servants in the kitchens.