The Devil's Library

by Tom Pugh

  The two siblings could not have been more different. Onofrio Spina was a braggart. Schoff recognised the type; jealous of his younger brother’s accomplishments and ashamed of his own pettiness. How could it be otherwise, when Gregorio Spina treated him so graciously?

  The chapel door swung open. Schoff looked round in alarm, conscious he’d allowed his concentration to waver. Spina stood in the doorway. Schoff stared at the dark eyes, the neat features and hands, the large diamond on his forefinger, which glowed in the gloomy interior. “Do you have need of me, Master?”

  “Presently,” Spina sat on one of the low wooden benches. “You look tired, my son.”

  Thoughts occurred to Schoff during the long hours he spent at prayer. Insights, granted by God. He saved the best of them for Spina, hoping to impress, but his mind betrayed him whenever he came into the master’s presence. Tears appeared in his eyes; he blinked them back angrily. What was wrong with him?

  “I thought you might be Dini or Chabal,” he hated himself for the note of petulance in his voice. “They often interrupt my devotions.”

  “On my command,” Spina nodded. “Solitude is a wonderful teacher, but his lessons must be tempered with the society of brothers.”

  Schoff hung his head. “Of course.”

  “Do you doubt, my son?”

  He could not meet Spina’s eyes.

  “Do you doubt our mission?”

  “No!”

  “Then you doubt yourself.”

  “I am weak,” said Schoff. “I cannot concentrate.”

  Spina’s voice was soft. “God expects so much of us. You have to make yourself strong and fierce, Schoff. Do you remember the painting in our church in Florence – the Triumph of the Church, dogs marching at the head of the procession of saints, martyrs and priests?”

  Schoff nodded. He had found the dogs terrifying – close-set eyes, teeth like needles.

  “The dogs are us, Mathern. Domini Canes. The Hounds of the Lord,” he gestured at Schoff to rise. “Come with me. There’s something you need to see.”

  Schoff forced himself to his feet, knees screaming in protest after so many hours at prayer. He’d lost weight and his robe filled with the light breeze as he followed Gregorio Spina across the lawn, hands folded and head bowed, towards a dense stand of trees.

  “Only the battle is real,” warned Spina. “Christ needs your strength and the Devil revels in your weakness. Guard against pity, my son, with as much vigilance as you guard against lust or greed.”

  A man called for them to stop. The administrator, Dini, strode towards them, a sheet of paper above his head.

  “A rider from Rome, your Eminence.”

  Spina’s expression darkened as he read the message.

  “It’s as you feared?” asked Dini.

  “The fool. To bring such disgrace on the holy office.”

  “He’s a pragmatist… ”

  “Then he should have become a banker.”

  Schoff felt the colour rise in his cheeks. They were discussing his Holiness the Pope.

  “Send the rider back,” continued Spina. “No message. This is something I will have to attend to personally. Soon.” He looked towards the trees. “Are you joining us, Brother Dini?”

  The administrator shook his head, “Chabal is already down there.”

  They walked down cold stone steps. Spina claimed to have no idea of the labyrinth’s original purpose. “A pagan shrine to superstition, but perfect for our needs.”

  Giacomo Vescosi awaited them in the central chamber. Schoff stared at the Otiosi leader, grateful for Spina’s warning. The devil had disguised his servant well, hiding his true nature behind round cheeks and wide, red-rimmed eyes.

  He’d been defiant at first, pawing the palimpsest for hours as if his surroundings were a matter of complete indifference, demanding a reading glass and candles. Sitting, apparently lost in thought, for a whole day.

  “There is something,” he’d said eventually, “but my memory is not what it was.” He’d written out a list of books. “It’s not a code in the usual sense of the word. Lucretius was writing to a friend. I need to immerse myself in their world.”

  Dini and Chabal accused the humanist of stalling for time, but Spina was patient, sending his hounds to the library at the monastery of Santa Maria Novella. A week had passed since then and the days of fear and darkness had taken their toll on the humanist. He shrank from the damp walls of the chamber, flinching when the dogs barked, watching with wide eyes as Chabal prepared a small brazier. The broad-shouldered monk arranged his tools on a low table. Vescosi tried to hide in his nest of filthy straw.

  “Spina, this is madness. I don’t know how to find the library.”

  “You lie! You’ve known since the moment I showed you the palimpsest.” He turned to Schoff. “Don’t we perform God’s work?”

  The Lübeck lawyer nodded in reply. Was this why Spina liked to have him near? Had he become the master’s conscience; his cold, northern temperament water to the flame of Spina’s ardour?

  “Yes, we perform God’s work.”

  The brazier filled the room with heavy smoke. Chabal blew on the coals until they glowed in the half light.

  “And have I not been patient with him?” persisted Spina. “Have I not brought everything he asks for, though he wilfully obstructs our holy work?”

  Again, Schoff nodded. It was hot in the chamber. His flesh cringed as he looked at Chabal’s table. He took a deep breath. The air was rank down here. As a lawyer he’d seen men tortured, criminals still insisting they were innocent after their guilt had been established. Not the most pleasant part of his work, but necessary – punishment could not come before a confession.

  Chabal seized Vescosi by the hair, dragged him towards the table as he described the objects there. “Choke pear, knee-splitter, Heretic’s Fork. Those are for tomorrow. Too much too soon and you’ll grow to like it. I’ve seen it happen, people beg for more.”

  So had Schoff. The official examiner in Lübeck had been an imbecile, driving his subjects mad with pain when he should have been helping them see reason.

  “Strappado first,” Chabal tied the heretic’s arms behind his back and passed the rope through an iron ring in the ceiling. Vescosi was shaking his head, eyes closed. Chabal pulled the rope taught, lifting him off the ground. The Otiosi leader screamed, more from fear than pain.

  “Tell us, you fool,” yelled Schoff, hearing desperation in his own voice. “We’ll keep at you until you talk. We have no choice. Spare yourself the pain. Tell us what you know.”

  “Let me down.”

  Schoff looked round for permission before cutting the rope. The heretic scurried away from him, rubbing his shoulders, making for the low stone table in the centre of the chamber. He’d made a copy of Lucretius’ letter and stabbed it with a forefinger, leaving a dark smudge beside one paragraph. “Read it.”

  “And never does the shining sun look upon them,” said Spina, “but the moon does show them the way. And then, a single word: VITRIOL.”

  Vescosi swallowed. “You can torture me, Spina, but you won’t hold back the march of progress.”

  Spina laughed. “Tell me, Vescosi; what do you believe men will make of this world, if you convince them they can make it perfect?”

  Vescosi shook his head, fear and contempt battling for control of his expression. Spina gestured at Chabal, who selected thumbscrews from among his tools.

  “Vitriol isn’t a word,” said Vescosi quickly. “It’s an acronym: Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultam Lapidem.”

  He waited for Spina to translate the Latin. “Visit the interior of the earth to find the secret stone. What does it mean?”

  “The Library is hidden underground. You’re looking for a network of caves.”

  “And the rest?”

  Vescosi hesitated.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” said Spina softly. “I couldn’t myself; I value your learning too much. Under diffe
rent circumstances, I feel we might have been friends. That’s why I need Chabal, you see.” He paused. “Spare yourself, Giacomo. Once Chabal starts, he won’t stop. Not until you’ve revealed the name of every member of the Otiosi. I’ll destroy them all, one by one. Tell me where to find the Library and I will leave them in peace. You have my word.”

  Vescosi dipped his head, licking dry lips, burrowing among the pile of books on the stone table. “One of the texts I asked for,” he said, “by a Roman geographer named Strabo. Read from here.”

  Spina held the book beneath a candle, his rich voice filling the chamber. “The people prior to my time made it the setting of the story of Odysseus' journey to the Underworld; and writers tell us there actually was an Oracle of the Dead here; and there is a fountain of drinkable water at this place, but people abstain from it because they regard it as the water of the Styx; and the nearby hot springs are supposed to come from the fiery rivers of Hades. And the people there live in underground houses, which they call ‘argillai’, and it is through tunnels that they visit one another, back and forth, and also admit strangers to the source of knowledge, which is situated far beneath the earth; and they live on what they get from mining, and from those who consult the source, and those who live about the source have an ancestral custom, that no one should see the sun, but should go outside the caverns only during the night; and it is for this reason the poet speaks of them as follows: And never does the shining sun look upon them.”

  “‘And never does the shining sun look upon them’,” repeated Vescosi, eyes closed.

  Spina snatched the palimpsest, comparing the two texts. “Where is it?” he yelled.

  Vescosi lowered his head. “Sooner or later, you would have solved the riddle without me.”

  “Where, damn you?”

  “At Cumae, on the Bay of Naples. Cicero had a villa nearby. Julius Caesar. Pliny. So did Lucretius’ patron. All gone now, buried by Vesuvius; a barren landscape known as the Phlegræn Field, or the ‘fields devoured by fire’.”

  “And?”

  Vescosi stared at him. “There’s a hill, where the plateau of volcanic rock meets the sea. A mighty temple stood there once. Look for the statue of the goddess Luna.”

  “The moon does show them the way.” Spina smiled. “Come along, Schoff. I need some fresh air,” he looked at Chabal. “You know what to do.”

  “No,” yelled Vescosi. “I’ve told you everything.”

  “Everything?” Spina turned on his heel. “You’re a fool, Vescosi – the scope of your ambition limited to a few scraps of parchment. There is only one book of any worth in the Devil’s Library; the rest merely clothe it, as our immortal souls are briefly clothed in flesh and blood.”

  Vescosi stared at him. “What book?”

  “There is no life outside heaven and hell,” Spina waved a hand “This is a dream, sent by God to help us find Him.” His dark eyes glittered as he shook his head. “Too many of us find Satan instead, the fallen angel who learned to twist the divine laws and lure us to damnation.”

  He leaned close to the Otiosi leader. “These are the Last Days, Vescosi. Righteous men will march at Christ’s side and sinners will be cast into the flames. The book is the key, and I mean to find it. Whatever the cost.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Aurélie insisted they visit Michaelis at once. Longstaff supported her through the streets of Florence; she was still weak, hiding her bruises in a deep hood. It was noon when they reached the Porta alla Croce. Longstaff ran his eyes across every doorway and widow. He strode into the tavern yard – a pair of merchants discussed the merits of a horse, potboys hurried back and forth – before gesturing for Durant and Aurélie to join him.

  “Which way?”

  She led them through the taproom, up a flight of stairs to a closed door. Durant raised his hand to knock. Aurélie beat him to it, turning the handle and putting her weight against the plain wood.

  The young Strasbourg merchant half rose from behind his desk, reaching for the knife at his belt. Aurélie threw back her hood.

  “You?” his mouth fell open. “What in God’s name have you done to yourself. Who are these men?”

  “Friends,” said Durant.

  “To myself?” said Aurélie. “This is Gregorio Spina’s work. Vescosi has been abducted.”

  Michaelis grew pale. “God’s teeth, girl. He knows who I am.”

  “He knows a thousand secrets. You can be sure he’s in no hurry to reveal yours. Did you write to Onofrio Spina?”

  The merchant narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  Shrewd, thought Longstaff. Despite his shock, he was already weighing the implications of her question.

  “That’s where they are holding Vescosi. You have to help us free him.”

  Michaelis did not reply at once, but flicked slowly through the papers on his desk. “This came from Onofrio yesterday. Delighted to discover news of my connoisseurship has spread so far. Regret to inform I have house guests at present. Expect them to leave in the next few days. Will send word as soon as it’s convenient to receive. Yours in anticipation, etcetera, etcetera.” He looked at Aurélie, face a picture of sympathy. Trying to hide his relief, thought Longstaff sourly.

  “I’ll help in any way I can. For the time being, however, there’s nothing we can do but wait.”

  Aurélie shook her head. “His house guests… ”

  Durant nodded. “His brother Gregorio, along with God knows how many men.”

  Longstaff had heard enough. “It’s time we were going,” he stared at the merchant. “You’ll send word as soon as you hear?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wait,” said Aurélie.

  Longstaff took her arm and ushered her out of the room. “Keep walking,” he growled, afraid she might try to press Michaelis into smuggling them into the Villa Spina, keep the owner occupied while they ransacked the place for signs of a missing scholar – more than enough to send the merchant scurrying back to Strasbourg.

  “It might be days before he hears from Onofrio. We can’t afford to scare him.”

  In the street, she accused him of cowardice. At least she had the sense to keep her voice down until they reached his rooms. “We can’t just leave him there.”

  “Tell her, Durant.”

  The Frenchman sighed. “We need more information. It’s too soon to start involving strangers.”

  “Michaelis has been a member of the Otiosi for years.”

  “We don’t know him,” Longstaff’s voice was flat and hard. He reached under the bed for his sword and musket. “I’ll be back in a day or two.”

  “Where are you going?” she stood with hands on her hips, a fierce challenge in her blue eyes.

  “Durant’s told you already – we need more information.”

  Longstaff reined to a halt, the valley ahead an elegant quilt of vineyards, ascending into the gardens of the Villa Spina. There wasn’t another building in sight, except in the far distance, where a lone cross peaked between a fold in the hills.

  He followed Sparrow across a meadow and left Martlesham hobbled among the trees of a hunting park before continuing on foot. Aurélie had told him what happened here during the Italian War, about the bandits who’d attacked the villa shortly before Spina was born and held the family captive for more than a month. Onofrio was the older brother, a boy of six when it happened, and Longstaff wondered what kind of man would choose to remain in a place with such memories.

  The villa had been built around an old medieval watch-tower. Longstaff assessed it with a soldier’s eye. If the guards knew their business, an attacking force might reckon on losing two men in five before they reached the walls. A long, uphill slog into crossbow bolts and musket balls; at which point the defenders would retreat to the watchtower. Longstaff would bet every gold coin in his purse that it stood alone in a central courtyard, a killing field. One thing was clear; Vescosi could not be rescued by force of arms.

  His focus wavered in the late afterno
on. With a start, he realised that he’d been day-dreaming about the young woman. She had kissed him when he left the inn. Just a light, apologetic peck on the cheek, but he could still feel the soft caress of her breath. And her voice; honey and pain.

  Concentrate, you fool. He looked up at the villa, detecting guards on the walls. If tomorrow proved as fruitless, he’d have to move closer under cover of night. The prospect hardly filled him with cheer as he walked back through the trees to Martlesham. He mounted, remembering the church spire he’d seen from the brow of the hill, as good a place as any to seek a bed for the night and a decent meal. He’d have preferred to sleep beneath the stars, but the people there might be able to tell him more about Villa Spina.

  The village was deserted. No horses or cows in the nearby pastures, no smoke rising from the chimneys. Just a dozen empty homes clustered around a low wooden church, with no indication of why they’d been abandoned. Longstaff slid down from the saddle and made Martlesham fast to a hitching rail in front of the finest house.

  A shallow bowl stood on the dining table, filled with brown apples, withered to the size of acorns. Longstaff pulled a chair across the unswept floor and sat beside the fireplace, making a cold supper of the provisions in his saddle-bag. Coarse black bread and stringy beef, washed down with weak beer.

  There were years of honest toil in this house, and skill; the sort of competence in a dozen crafts that was slowly dying out. And love in the carvings and needlework, the notches made to record the growth of children. Animals would move in soon; foxes, rats and deathwatch beetles. It wouldn’t take them long to destroy the traces of a family life. The elm pipes would freeze when winter came and splinter with the arrival of spring.

  The mystery kept Longstaff awake long into the night. He thought of his family home in England. Was Jarrel still there, the man who’d sold his father to King Henry? Or was he long since dead? Was someone looking after the old place, or had it, too, been allowed to fall into ruin?