The Devil's Library

by Tom Pugh

  He climbed the church tower at first light, shading his eyes for a view of Villa Spina. The gates lay open, half obscured beneath a cloud of dust. Longstaff ran down the stairs, jumped on Martlesham and set off across country.

  The abandoned village lay south-east of the Villa, while the horsemen rode south at an easy canter. Longstaff galloped hard to intercept them. He left Martlesham in a stand of trees, hurried up a small rise and threw himself down in long grass, listening for the rumble of hoof-beats.

  There were fifteen men in total. Most of them were in hard-wearing leather boots, jerkin and coat, and carried short, double-edged swords and long pistols in the manner of light cavalry.

  Longstaff’s eyes lingered on the horseman at the head of the column – tall, thick shouldered, with long black hair and skin the colour of mud, wearing a great-sword tied slantways across his back. A musket hung from his saddle.

  Longstaff blinked in the bright sunshine. He saw two familiar faces. Gregorio Spina, who’d passed himself off as Giacomo Vescosi, mounted on a tall stallion, and beside him, the lawyer from Lübeck. Longstaff shook his head. He hadn’t given Mathern Schoff a thought in weeks, but how else could Spina have found out about the palimpsest? Schoff had grown thinner, dark rings beneath his eyes.

  The riders were nearly past, a couple of well-laden pack animals bringing up the rear. Aurélie had described Vescosi, and Longstaff looked for a man in his mid-fifties with a high forehead and aristocratic nose, but the Otiosi’s leader was nowhere to be seen.

  The drum-roll of hoofbeats faded into silence. Longstaff spent the next hour cantering in their wake, until it became clear they were planning to bypass Florence. Was Vescosi dead? From the smile on Spina’s face, he could only conclude the philosopher had given up his secrets. Longstaff hesitated, uncertain whether to keep following. Durant and Aurélie were waiting in Florence. Longstaff could see the tower of the Signoria in the distance. He turned aside with a curse, spurring Martlesham towards the city walls.

  Longstaff had paid the landlord to turn a blind eye to his comings and goings; the man kept his expression carefully neutral as he swept past.

  He hurried up the stairs and opened the door of his room without knocking. Empty. He saw a blanket and pillow on the wide couch. The sheets on the bed didn’t look as if they’d been changed in days. He heard voices on the stairs. Still arguing, he thought to himself, just as they had been when he left. He sat in a tall armchair facing the window, knowing they wouldn’t be able to see him when they entered. He closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep.

  The door opened. Longstaff heard something tossed casually onto the bed.

  “You cannot reason with them,” said Aurélie. “No point in trying. Last year, Mateo Columbo demonstrated that blood draws oxygen from the lungs. The proof is irrefutable. And how did the so-called doctors of the Church respond? They talked about the prophesies of St. John, who saw an angel lead the Devil away in chains and condemn him to a thousand’s years in exile. They reserve their most terrible punishments for the people doing most to advance the cause of human knowledge, and insist they’re serving the will of God.”

  “I agree,” said Durant. “They fit their beliefs to their desires instead of striving for the opposite.”

  “But they can’t stop people discovering the truth,” said Aurélie, “Not forever. Our numbers grow, victories accumulate. More people are learning to see as we do.”

  Durant laughed. Longstaff had never heard such enthusiasm in his voice.

  “You remind me of Montpellier. I wanted to shake the professors, force them to see the world as it truly is, rather than as it appears in the pages of ancient books.”

  “Exactly. Think of Miguel de Servet. Burned at the stake in Geneva, with green wood to prolong the agony. He was one of us, you know. And so are you, my friend. A servant of the truth.”

  Longstaff yawned loudly, stretching his arms as if he’d just woken. Aurélie appeared at his side. She wore a sober grey dress with a high collar. It was a size too small and he tried not to notice the way her breasts pushed against the fabric. She was beautiful, despite the fading bruises.

  “I must have dozed off.”

  “What have you discovered?”

  Longstaff rubbed a hand across his face. “Spina has left the villa. He’s riding south with a dozen men at arms.”

  Durant frowned. “You should have followed them, Matthew. Sent word to us when you were able.”

  “Is Giacomo with them?” demanded Aurélie.

  Longstaff didn’t have the courage to tell her Vescosi was probably dead. He didn’t need to; she read his thoughts as easily as words on a page.

  “They won’t have killed him,” she said. “Giacomo knows too much. He is too valuable alive.”

  Longstaff looked at Durant for help.

  “We have to be realistic, Aurélie,” there was pain in the Frenchman’s eyes. “If Giacomo is as valuable as you claim, they’d hardly have left him behind.”

  Aurélie shook her head. “Why didn’t Spina kill me? He could have, but instead he had me locked in a monk’s cell. He doesn’t kill indiscriminately; that’s not how he works. He keeps his enemies alive as long as he thinks he might need them.”

  Longstaff and Durant exchanged a look. “I hope you’re right,” said the Frenchman, “but we have to assume Vescosi has told Spina everything he knows.”

  Aurélie glared at him. “You want to follow Spina.” It was an accusation, not a question.

  “A company that size is bound to attract attention. If we leave now, there’s a chance we can pick up the trail.”

  “I’m not a fool. I know they’ll have tortured him, but it won’t do any good. You can’t understand because you haven’t met him. Spina doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He’s desperate, and Giacomo’s mind has more twists than a labyrinth.”

  “You’re saying he’s sent them on a wild goose chase?”

  She shook her head. “I’m saying he’ll have withheld something vital. He knows more about the Devil’s Library than any man alive.”

  “And if you’re wrong? What if Spina has killed him?

  “Then none of us will find the library. Deciphering the palimpsest is only the start.”

  Longstaff glanced at Durant, but couldn’t read the Frenchman’s expression. “How did you get on here?”

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on the Strasbourg merchant. He tried to leave yesterday, terrified Vescosi will reveal his name before he’s back in protestant lands. I persuaded him to reconsider.”

  “We’ll hear from him today,” interjected Aurélie. “Tomorrow at the latest.”

  Longstaff looked at her.

  “Onofrio’s bound to send for the muskets, now his guests have gone.”

  “What do you think, Matthew?” asked Durant.

  Longstaff stared at the ceiling. “Giacomo Vescosi is a man of flesh and blood; I’m still not convinced this library is anything more than a myth.”

  Durant shook his head. “Michaelis may have served the Otiosi in the past, but he wants no part of this.”

  “We don’t need him any more,” said Aurélie. “No one left at Villa Spina knows what you two look like.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Aurélie was proved right three hours later, when Michaelis knocked at the door of their room clutching a message from Onofrio Spina – Houseguests having finally departed, I await your arrival with pleasure.

  The Strasbourg merchant looked tired, the collar of his shirt damp with sweat. He stood for the duration of the visit, keeping a wary distance from Durant and not attempting to disguise his relief when told he was free to leave Florence.

  “I’ve modified the crate according to your specifications and stripped the bills of lading,” Michaelis looked at his hands. “I wish you didn’t have to use my name.”

  “Keep yourself in the public eye until you leave,” Aurélie pressed his arm. “You’ve been of great service.”

  The guns were in
a warehouse on the banks of the river Arno. They couldn’t collect them at once; they needed some kind of cart, and horses for Aurélie and Vescosi. Longstaff chaffed at the delay, pacing back and forth while Durant took charge of the negotiations.

  “You drive a hard bargain, signore, but I find I can live with it,” Durant snapped his fingers. “Pay the man.”

  Longstaff bit back a curse. He counted coins into the dealer’s hands as Aurélie mounted a white mare. The cart was a makeshift affair – two wheels and two planks of wood. He gave it a kick before hitching it to the second horse.

  Aurélie took the lead. She seemed to know every street in the city, taking them unerringly to a warehouse by the river. The supervisor was expecting them – Michaelis had been as good as his word. Aurélie signed for the plain wooden box while Longstaff and Durant hauled it onto the cart. Longstaff cracked the lid to make certain of the contents. The image stayed with him as they rode north. He reached out a hand, resting it for a moment on the unmarked box. It was all the protection they had: twenty-four wheel-lock muskets, made in Suhl to the latest designs, and three dozen bags of powder and shot.

  That night, they camped on a hilltop six miles from the Villa Spina, and shared a cold supper of bread and ham. Aurélie was quiet. Longstaff had tried to persuade her to stay at an inn, but she was determined to wait for them here. It was a clear night – cold when the sun dipped below the horizon – and she began to shiver. Sparrow lay down beside her. The young woman smiled as she warmed her hands in the dog’s fur.

  Longstaff made himself comfortable beneath his long coat, wondering what Aurélie saw when she looked at him. A soldier? It was just a word to her. He raised a hand to his padded jerkin, feeling for the campaign medals sewn into the lining. For the first time in years, he thought of Metz. He’d been twenty-five; thought he’d seen it all when his regiment joined up with the Holy Roman Emperor’s army – one hundred and twenty thousand men in total. They’d expected to take the city in days, but the French had expelled the civilians and razed the suburbs, building high ramparts from the rubble. The weather turned and sickness swept the camp, killing sixty thousand in a month. The ground had frozen hard as iron; they’d left the corpses stacked in piles when the Emperor finally conceded defeat.

  Longstaff buttoned his coat to the chin, counting the stars until he fell asleep.

  They ate breakfast together in the pre-dawn light.

  “Bring him back safely,” said Aurélie. She was trying to hide it, but Longstaff could see how much she hated being left. She stood on the hilltop, watching as they eased the cart done the slope, back onto the road.

  No one at the villa knew their faces – Gregorio Spina had left and his servant, Clement, lay dead in Florence – but it still paid to be cautious. Durant wore new boots, an embroidered shirt and pale grey doublet.

  “Remember,” he said, as they approached the Villa Spina down an avenue of cypress trees. “I am the Strasbourg merchant Signor Michaelis. You are Mattias Lammermeier, German mercenary and military expert. A man of few words.”

  Longstaff shifted in his saddle.

  “Sure you’re ready for this? Less than a week ago you were drunk and dribbling in the stews of Florence.”

  Durant smiled. “We have to finesse our hosts, not bludgeon them to death. Your usual approach to problem solving will get both of us killed.”

  “Usual approach?”

  “Standing about, waving your sword.”

  They were less than a hundred yards from the gates. Two massive plinths supported statues of unknown men, both with one arm raised, stone fingers gripping the ends of an iron ribbon into which the Spina coat of arms had been woven.

  Longstaff assessed the guards. Like the villa itself, he thought. The costumes might be decorative, but their eyes were hard beneath the slouch berets, the hilts of the short swords worn with use.

  Durant dipped his head.

  “Michaelis of Strasbourg and my associate Herr Lammermeier. Here to see Signor Spina.”

  The senior man held out his hand for their weapons.

  “You are expected. Your personal arms will be returned when you leave.”

  Longstaff gave up his musket and katzbalger, Durant his slim rapier, but the guards did not insist on a more thorough search. Longstaff watched for signs of a trap, ready to spur his horse and cut a bloody path to the gates.

  They dismounted in the stable yard. Longstaff counted eighteen stalls, at least six lying empty. A man glided down the villa steps and strode across the lawn, in his mid-fifties, clean-shaven and paunchy, dark hair falling to his collar in loose curls. He wore a simple linen shirt, breeches and a thin gold chain around his neck.

  “Signor Onofrio Spina,” announced the senior guard.

  Durant bowed. “It’s an honour to meet you, Signor Spina. I am Michaelis of Strasbourg. This is Mattias Lammermeier, and his dog.”

  “A fine-looking animal,” declared Onofrio Spina, taking Longstaff’s katzbalger from the guard and swinging it through a few lazy strokes. “Seen plenty of action, I judge.” He looked at the musket. “You use a matchlock weapon, Lammermeier?”

  “You know how soldiers are,” interjected Durant. “Sentimental to a fault.”

  He removed a crowbar from his pack and pried open the wooden box, stepping back as if dazzled. The Frenchman was a natural salesman, determined to extract the best possible price. He seized a musket, letting sunlight play along the virgin barrel before pressing it into his host’s hands.

  “Note the craftsmanship.”

  Onofrio raised the stock, sighting along the barrel, taking aim at one of his men and miming fire and recoil. He held out a hand to Longstaff.

  “Powder and shot.”

  “Of course,” said Durant easily, “I’m sure you’d like to test the weapon’s accuracy as well as its power. Might I suggest your men construct a target on the lawn?”

  Onofrio gestured to waiting guard. “See to it. And bring wine. Our guests must be tired after their journey.”

  The wide lawn was dotted with statues. To their number, Onofrio’s men added a makeshift scarecrow. Servants appeared from inside the villa, carrying glasses and a bottle of dark red wine. Onofrio poured for his visitors.

  Longstaff gauged the distance between the table and the scarecrow. “Perhaps we might move a little closer, Signor Spina?”

  Onofrio barked, “If your machine’s as good as you claim, we should be able to hit the target from here.”

  “Load the musket, Lammermeier,” Durant smiled at their host, gesturing at the various statues. “You have a beautiful collection.”

  Longstaff was finished in seconds. There was no need to light a match – the wheel-flint lock would ignite the powder. He waited as Durant examined a marble statue of a boy falling backwards.

  “You have a good eye, Signor Michaelis,” said Onofrio. “There’s a story attached to that statue.”

  Durant smiled. “I would love to hear about it later.”

  Onofrio accepted the musket from Longstaff without looking at him. Sighting along the barrel, he fired and missed the target by several yards. He turned to Durant.

  “Hardly the weapon you led me to expect, Michaelis.”

  Longstaff stepped forward.

  “Signor Spina, forgive me, but perhaps you’re not accustomed to such power. Maybe you are overcompensating for the distance?”

  He took the musket from his host and reloaded, aiming and firing in one smooth movement. There was a moment’s delay, before a clump of straw flew up from the distant scarecrow.

  “Even at this range, it’s unnecessary to aim more than an inch above the head,” continued Longstaff. “This is a precision instrument. The trigger is sensitive. Keep your hands soft, fire on the outward breath.”

  Longstaff watched him closely. Onofrio stood upright, setting one foot far in front of the other – a hunter rather than a soldier – but he kept his cheek tight against the stock, placed his left hand at the very end of the f
orestock and controlled his breathing well.

  Not bad, thought Longstaff approvingly, unaware of the man approaching from behind until he cleared his throat. Onofrio jerked the trigger, missing the target by inches. He turned, face dark with anger. “Dini, you idiot, don’t you know enough not to sneak up on a man when he’s shooting?”

  Longstaff looked down, determined not to make eye contact with Durant. Aurélie had mentioned a Brother Dini, Gregorio Spina’s right-hand man, responsible for managing the finances of the sprawling Dominican Order. He was dressed in a dark robe of excellent quality, hair neatly smoothed to one side, the bland features oddly monochrome.

  “Forgive me, signore, but I thought you’d finished,” he turned to Durant. “My name is Bartolomeo Dini. I am a guest here.”

  Onofrio looked as if he might explode. He handed the musket to Longstaff. “Reload.”

  “Of course, signore.”

  Even with the interruption, Onofrio’s second shot had been better than the first. “The breeze is deceptive today,” murmured Longstaff. “Blowing more strongly from right to left than I had thought.”

  Onofrio snatched the musket and put the stock to his shoulder, closed one eye and pulled the trigger. Straw danced above the scarecrow’s right shoulder.

  “Just above the heart!” he shouted.

  “Congratulations,” said Durant smoothly. “But it is impossible to appreciate the true revolutionary potential of this musket until you’ve seen it deployed in numbers. With your permission, I would like to distribute a dozen among your men...”

  “Is that really necessary?” interrupted Dini. “I don’t know what Signor Spina has told you, but he has no need for so many guns, and no intention of paying your inflated prices even for one.”

  “My brother must hate me. Of all the men in his retinue, why in God’s name did he have to leave you?” Onofrio turned to Durant. “My men are already proficient with firearms.” He paused, as if seeking the solution to a particularly vexing problem. “I have a suggestion, signore. I’ll give your man six of my most useless servants. He can have them for three hours, then we’ll gather again, find out if your muskets are as good as you claim. What do you say?”