The Devil's Library

by Tom Pugh

CHAPTER 26

  Four hours before dawn, Longstaff stood at the dark, second floor window and counted under his breath. He wore black, cheeks and forehead dark with soot from the fireplace, three knives hidden in his clothes. Sparrow watched, reproachfully.

  Onofrio’s guard appeared and Longstaff stopped counting. Forty-eight. The guard crossed the lawn and disappeared around the building. Climbing out onto the thin ledge, Longstaff said a silent prayer and stepped backwards into the empty night.

  His fingers found the window ledge below. Years swinging a double-handed war-sword had made his arms and shoulders strong. Longstaff dropped the remaining ten feet and crouched in shadow, as the guard made his weary circuit of the villa.

  He sprinted to the trees on the far side of the lawn. Branches swayed in the night breeze, an owl saluted the three-quarter moon. Come on, Gaetan. The Frenchman emerged beside him.

  “The grotto is this way.”

  “And the guard?”

  Dini’s man stood in moonlight, musket propped yards away against the grotto wall. Longstaff rose like a snake, one arm round the man’s throat to stop him crying out. He lifted him off the ground, ignoring the boot heels drumming at his shins. The man clawed at his hands, but Longstaff was implacable, choking him until the body went limp. He changed grip, sensing he would pay a high price for this life, then snapped the man’s neck.

  He opened the dead man’s shirt and traced the moonlit brand – pointed muzzle, two rows of long, jagged teeth – the same symbol he’d seen on the dead servant’s chest in Florence.

  From a distance, the grotto looked made from melted wax, but the stone was cold and hard to the touch. Longstaff dragged the guard’s body inside, leaving it in darkness. The passage narrowed, his shoulders brushed the walls as he groped his way forward. He lit a hooded lamp, revealing a heavy wooden door. Durant dropped to his knees and removed a scalpel and tweezers from a cloth roll.

  Tumblers clicked in the silence. Longstaff removed the lamp’s hood. Steps led down into darkness. At the bottom, three identical passageways led from an empty chamber.

  “A maze?”

  “God knows. The Romans had strange beliefs.”

  Torches were mounted above each of the doors. Longstaff took two, lit them from the lamp and handed one to Durant.

  “Always turn left if you want to beat a maze.”

  “Lead on, Matthew. It can’t be that big. As long as we avoid walking up and down the same passages, we should be fine.”

  They walked in the wavering circles of light cast by the torches. Five times, Longstaff turned left, before they came to one of Durant’s soot crosses. The Frenchman added a second mark to the first and turned right.

  Claws struck the stone floor behind them. Longstaff turned, stabbing with the dagger. He was beneath the creature, arms raised to protect his face, caught in its death throes. He kicked free and grabbed the torch. A dog lay at his feet, black and white with a broad head like a hammer.

  Durant spat a curse. “Let’s find Vescosi and get out of here.”

  The centre of the maze. Longstaff peered through an iron portcullis and saw a second gate on the far side. He heard movement, coming from a nest of filthy straw in a corner of the chamber.

  “We’re friends,” he called. “Here to get you out.”

  Durant picked the lock. “Can you walk?”

  Wide, fearful eyes peered back at them, long limbs curled up tight, tufts of grey hair behind each ear.

  “Who are you?”

  “Your book finders.”

  Vescosi moved like a wounded animal. He was tall, with narrow shoulders; one arm hung uselessly at his side. There were burns on his chest and four of his fingernails had been torn away. He blinked in the torchlight, staring at them in turn.

  “Matthew Longstaff and Gaetan Durant? I fear one of you will have to support me.”

  Barking filled the chamber. Another dog threw itself at the second, locked portcullis.

  “Time to go,” said Durant.

  Longstaff hauled Vescosi over one shoulder and ran for the open gate.

  “How many are there?”

  “Four.”

  Vescosi groaned in pain as they sped down the narrow passageways. Longstaff clutched his dagger, hand aching for the katzbalger under lock and key in the villa.

  “Take him, Gaetan,” he dropped Vescosi and turned. Three shapes hurtled out of the darkness, paws slapped the hard stone. The leader leapt. Longstaff stabbed with the knife and struck the animal a fatal blow though the eye.

  The passage was narrow, the remaining pair could only attack singly and he kept them at bay with torch and dagger, walking backwards past Durant’s crosses, waiting for the dogs to recover their courage. They attacked as he reached the entrance chamber. Longstaff took the first through the throat, blinded the second with the torch, before stamping savagely on the wide head.

  Durant was on the stairs, Vescosi across one shoulder. Longstaff hurried past, found the dead guard’s corpse and threw it down with the dogs. Durant closed the door and started working the lock.

  The Otiosi leader slumped to the floor, face ashen in the torchlight. Longstaff put a hand on his arm.

  “We must keep moving.”

  They extinguished the torches, waiting as long as they dared for their eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Longstaff crept to the entrance and listened to the night, scanning the silhouettes of trees and bushes. Minutes passed before he felt safe to move.

  They ran between the trees, supporting Vescosi between them. He was clearly in pain, holding the injured arm to his chest and breathing hard. They lay flat at the edge of the lawn and watched the guard amble among the statues, peacock feather flat against the slouch beret.

  “We don’t have long,” whispered Longstaff, outlining their route to the stables. Vescosi nodded.

  “Now,” hissed Durant.

  Longstaff prayed the young servant had been right when he said the stables lay empty at night. Leaving Durant and Vescosi, he slipped round the side of the building. Horses stirred, but no sign of guards. He opened the stall where their crate had been left. Durant appeared, half carrying Vescosi inside. Longstaff closed the stable door.

  The Otiosi leader shivered in the clean straw.

  “Aurélie found you?”

  “She’s waiting nearby.”

  The two men worked quickly, prizing open the lid, putting the muskets aside. Durant removed the false bottom, revealing a tiny space beneath.

  “It’s an hour before dawn, signore. Onofrio Spina will insist on giving us breakfast, but with luck we can leave in four hours.”

  Vescosi stared at the crate. “There’s no other way?”

  Longstaff spoke harshly. “Kill the guards and ride away?”

  “Very well,” Vescosi lay down in the crate. Longstaff wedged a horse-blanket above his head. “Stay awake. Keep silent.”

  Durant turned Vescosi’s head to one side.

  “Four hours and you’ll be free of this place. Good luck, signore,” they replaced the rough wooden planks, flush against the side of his face, then the muskets.

  “Can you get back to your room?” asked Longstaff.

  Teeth flashed in the darkness.

  “See you at breakfast, Herr Lammermeier.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Longstaff slept for an hour, Sparrow curled against him on the wide bed. He woke at dawn, washed in cold water and removed his clothes from beneath the mattress, brushing them to erase traces of the previous night. Standing in the window, he listened for sounds of movement in the house, watching as the early morning sun burned away the clouds. Onofrio and Durant emerged on the lawn, strolling among the statues. The Frenchman looked fresh in pale grey doublet, gesturing purposefully at the ruined targets. Onofrio threw back his head and laughed.

  Longstaff walked to the terrace. Dorothea and her two companions were sitting at one end of the table. The music teacher was nearby, picking at a plate of bread and cheese. His curls had
lost their bounce and there were dark rings beneath his eyes.

  Longstaff nodded to them. He was helping himself to food when Onofrio and Durant appeared.

  “If you ever reconsider, Signor Spina, I hope you’ll think of me first.”

  Onofrio clapped him on the back.

  “Do you hunt, Michaelis? We should ride to the park after breakfast.”

  “Alas, signore, business calls. My associate and I are expected in Genoa.”

  Longstaff stood. “I helped myself. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. Maria never rises before midday and Dini sent down word that he’s indisposed.”

  “Nothing serious, I trust?”

  Onofrio laughed. “God is rarely so kind,” he turned to Durant. “A ten-point stag, Michaelis. Sure I can’t tempt you?”

  “Save him for me, signore. I hope to hear from you again,” he smiled. “Three muskets won’t change the world.”

  “Look around you, Michaelis. The world is fine as it is.”

  Longstaff followed the sweep of Onofrio’s arm across the quilt of fields and vineyards, down to the hunting park in the valley. It was beautiful in the morning light, but he felt no need to linger. “It’s time we were on our way, Michaelis.”

  Onofrio accompanied them across the lawn. Longstaff glanced at the watchtower, half expecting to hear the crack of musket fire. The stables were crowded with Onofrio’s men, four of them carrying the crate into the yard. A single cough or groan and they were doomed. Durant removed the lid, taking out three muskets and presenting his host with as many bags of powder and shot.

  “Gratis, signore. A token of my esteem.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, Michaelis,” Onofrio took Durant’s rapier from a waiting guard, handing it to the Frenchman and kissing him on both cheeks.

  He flipped Longstaff’s katzbalger in the air, catching it by the blade, offering it hilt first, then shook his head over the match-lock musket.

  “It’s a poor salesman who won’t use his own product.”

  “So Michaelis keeps telling me,” Longstaff pulled himself up onto Martlesham’s broad back, holding his breath as the crate was loaded on their makeshift cart. “Farewell, signore.”

  The cart rumbled into motion. Remembering Vescosi’s injuries, Longstaff winced each time they struck a pothole. Sparrow ran alongside, barking at the crate, but Onofrio’s men waved them on through the tall gates.

  Giacomo Vescosi began whimpering long before they cleared the brow of the nearest hill. They threw the muskets aside, yanking away the false bottom. Vescosi covered his eyes with one arm and blinked in the sunlight. He was sweating, cheeks stained with tears.

  “Do what you can, Gaetan, but hurry,” Longstaff looked back – still no sign of alarm at the villa. He kicked the crate to pieces, throwing the guns into a nearby copse of trees.

  Durant smiled. “Michaelis would have a fit if he knew.”

  “To Hell with Michaelis. Can Vescosi ride?”

  The Otiosi leader had passed out. Longstaff mounted Martlesham.

  “Pass him up, Gaetan.”

  They galloped down the road, Durant leading the third horse. Longstaff rode with his knees, using his arms to keep Vescosi in the saddle.

  Durant looked back when they left the road, making for the hill where they’d left Aurélie.

  “What do you make of that?”

  Longstaff saw a thin column of dust on the horizon.

  “It’s a public road. Might be anything.”

  “Or it might be Onofrio’s men.”

  They urged tired horses up the slope. Aurélie was waiting. She led them further into the copse, pointing to a bed of leaves. Vescosi stirred as Longstaff laid him down. Aurélie passed Durant his medical kit.

  “Do something.”

  Longstaff ran back through the trees, lying flat in the long grass, staring down at the road. Three young noblemen rode past with a servant; too well dressed to be out hunting, they were probably on their way to Florence. Longstaff grinned. He and the Frenchman had dovetailed seamlessly, each man playing to his strengths, knowing the other would compensate for weakness.

  Durant joined him an hour later, opening a water-skin and washing his hands and face.

  “Any sign of Onofrio’s men?”

  Longstaff shook his head. “How is Vescosi?”

  The Frenchman stretched.

  “I’ve treated the burns, re-set his shoulder and given him something for the pain. The missing fingernails are painful, but hardly life-threatening.”

  “Can we move him?”

  “He needs rest, Matthew. It will be dark in a couple of hours. We can’t go any further today.”

  “Tomorrow may be too late.”

  “Can’t be helped. He’s awake. Says Spina is looking in the wrong place,” Durant made himself comfortable in the grass. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Vescosi was thin and balding, with a soft belly and sloping shoulders. He was covered in bandages, eyes more red than brown in the pale face.

  “How are you feeling, signore?”

  The Otiosi leader managed a weak smile.

  “Wiser. Older.”

  Longstaff glanced at Aurélie, sitting with her hand on Vescosi’s forehead.

  “I’ve seen men tortured,” he said. “Even the strongest reveal their secrets.”

  “You’re right, Longstaff. I soon as Spina showed me the palimpsest, I realised where the Library must lie, and when he threatened me with torture, I told him. Fortunately, he didn’t press me on how to find it. If he had, I’d have sent him after you.”

  Longstaff looked at Aurélie. Had the old man lost his wits?

  “Me, signore?”

  “Ivan’s book,” continued Vescosi. “You do still have it?”

  Longstaff scratched his jaw.

  “It’s in Florence; in the strongbox at my inn. No one seemed to want it.”

  Vescosi began to laugh. “I hope you didn’t think I’d sent you all the way to Moscow for nothing.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Two miles north-east of Rome, thirteen men stood in a fringe of trees, waiting patiently for their master to return. Gregorio Spina had ridden ahead, taking only his enforcer, Chabal, for protection. Mathern Schoff was one of the men left behind, still in his lawyer’s robes. The others were dressed alike in boots, jerkins and long cavalrymen’s coats. Some were former soldiers. Others had been priests or Dominican monks. Some were highborn, destined for the Church, schooled in the scientific and martial arts and reluctant to waste their lives ministering to the poor.

  They were brothers now, each man wearing the dog-head brand with fierce pride. Spina had found them, educated them and freed them from the common laws of man. The Hounds of the Lord were predestined for Heaven, chosen by God to combat heresy and usher in the next great age of Grace.

  They stared at Rome, free of the sprawling shacks and lean-tos that grew like boils from most city walls. Here, the poor found space enough for their hovels among the ruined temples and palaces.

  Spina and Chabal rode through the Porta Pia, dismounting in clouds of stone dust as labourers swarmed above, rebuilding the old Aurelian walls. The two men led their horses away from the deafening ring of hammers, Chabal a step ahead of his master, making for the Via Nomentana.

  The traffic grew thick as they neared the centre. Lords and Churchmen in carriages, traders on carts or bent double beneath their wares, forced into two narrow lines on either side of a wide trench. More dust and hammers, sweating men at work on the old Roman aqueducts.

  Gregorio Spina curbed his impatience and shuffled past the obstruction. A rubble-strewn gap in the buildings allowed him a glimpse of the Angelus, where Mathern Schoff had appeared with tidings of the Devil’s Library.

  Had he been motivated by a desire to glorify God, the Pope’s efforts to restore this ancient city would have been admirable, but Pius IV built so people would remember him and dampened the fires of the Inquisition so they would love him. No
w, according to Spina’s spies, he was about to offer concessions to a clutch of rebellious bishops, desperate to prevent them making common cause with Luther’s heretics. Fury swelled in Spina’s chest. The greatest prize in Christendom lay waiting in the south, but conscience forced him to delay his journey to speak out against this unholy course.

  They reached the headquarters of the Dominican Order in Rome, rode past the church’s austere façade and entered the adjacent monastery. They were recognized immediately. A novice hurried forward to take their horses.

  The prior of Santa Maria sopra Minerva approached, mouthing the ritual greeting. Spina cut him off.

  “This isn’t an official visit. I need fresh clothes, appropriate for an audience with his Holiness. Send a boy; let the Apostolic Palace know I’m coming.”

  Spina had served his novitiate here. He strode towards the vestry. His journey towards the Devil’s Library had begun in these corridors. He remembered the hours of prayer and study, constant hunger and the jealousy of his peers.

  He changed out of his riding clothes, adjusted a freshly laundered robe and smoothed his dark hair around the tonsure. The prior would be waiting, readying a carriage and horses in the courtyard, but Spina had no patience for the trappings of rank. He beckoned Chabal through a hidden door and approached the church along a short passageway, to emerge opposite Michelangelo’s statue of the risen Christ, body unmarked by flagellation or crucifixion. The cross, and the whip he held, turned into instruments of triumph through the miracle of the resurrection.

  Beckoning for Chabal to follow, Spina walked silently across the polished marble, into the rutted streets of Rome.

  They took the most direct route, ignoring the broad boulevards, cutting down towards the Tiber through narrow, broken alleys. Spina heard movement behind the empty windows, footsteps on the flat roofs above. Chabal loosened the broadsword in its scabbard, eyes moving left and right beneath his heavy brow, as if hoping a group of robbers would attack. Spina smiled; none would be so foolish.

  The boy had delivered his message. Blue and orange-clad halberdiers lowered their weapons respectfully as Spina strode towards the arched gate. In the atrium, he replaced his riding boots with soft-soled shoes. Chabal did the same, unbuckling his sword and leaving it with the guards.