by Tom Pugh
The Master of the Sacred Palace strode past clerks and secretaries, nodding to acquaintances without pausing, up three flights of stairs to the Papal apartments, leading Chabal through the Hall of Constantine and the Room of Heliodorus, where the Pope’s secretary met them.
“Your Eminence,” he bowed. “We’ve missed you recently.”
The young man ushered them into his office, pointing to a hard bench. “His Holiness begs your patience,” he said, sitting and bending over his work. “He is at prayer and loath to interrupt his devotions.”
Pius IV kept Spina waiting for nearly an hour; a typical politician’s trick. A bell rang behind the secretary’s desk. “His Holiness will see you now.”
“Stay here, Chabal.”
Pius stood with his back to the door, staring through a narrow window at the pilgrims flocking in St. Peter’s Square. He was in his mid-sixties, the body still strong, filling the cassock with power.
He turned as Spina approached, fixing his subordinate with pale eyes.
“Your Holiness,” whispered Spina, black hair grazing the Pope’s pectoral cross as he bent to kiss the Ring of the Fisherman.
“So you’ve reappeared at last. Where have you been?” Pius didn’t wait for an answer. “I knew the Booksellers’ Guild would be furious, I knew the returns would be slender, but I never dreamed it would cost so much. Look!”
He snatched a piece of paper from his desk and flung it at Spina.
“Patience, your Holiness. The booksellers will soon grow weary of protesting, while we build a comprehensive picture of our enemies.”
“Weavers and tailors? A merchant purchasing schoolbooks for his children? These men are not our enemies.”
Spina smiled. Pius had given the same excuse for curbing the power of the Inquisition, winning favour with the people and diverting funds to his precious building projects.
“Your Holiness, many of these booksellers work with illegal printing presses. They use passwords, distributing banned works to trusted customers. In the last month alone, we’ve seized new editions of Lucretius, Zeigler, Cornarius, the works of Mateo Colombo… ”
“Don’t bring him up again, Spina. I warn you.”
“It was a mistake to spare him, your Holiness.”
“Should I execute a man for believing the evidence of his own eyes?”
“Of course. When it contradicts God’s word,” Spina shook his head in frustration. “Halt this programme and you blind us to the Devil’s actions.” He saw the Pope’s lips twist in distaste. “The Last Days approach… ”
Pius raised his voice. “Let me remind you, it’s a sin to speculate on the End of the World.”
“On the date, your Holiness. Not the fact.” And not a sin to bring it about; the further this world was allowed to fall into depravity, the more souls would be lost to the pits of Hell. Spina drew himself up to his full height. “I hear you’re planning to countenance interpretations of Scripture other than your own?”
Pius narrowed his eyes, brows meeting above his long nose.
“I won’t ask where from.”
“Are the rumours true?”
“Of course not. I’m simply offering to accept advice. In return for unequivocal condemnation of Luther’s doctrine.”
Spina inclined his head. It had been a mistake to come.
“Compromise is unbecoming in God’s anointed.”
The Pope lost his temper. He listed Spina’s faults in exhaustive detail. The Master of the Sacred Palace remained silent, thinking of Raphael’s glorious paintings in the Room of Heliodorus: the tax collector flogged by angels in the Temple of Jerusalem; blood leaking from the sacrament to wash away men’s doubts; Peter and Paul, swords drawn, framed against a sunlit sky. God always intervened when His Church was threatened.
The artist had understood – the Lord rewarded faith, not intrigue, and guided the true defenders of His Church towards salvation – whereas Pius was a talented man undone by worldliness, unable to exalt faith above reason, uncomfortable at the mere mention of Satan. Let the Pope make his tawdry deals. Hadn’t God put Benedict’s book into Spina’s hands? Sent Mathern Schoff to Spina with news of the Devil’s Library? Chosen Spina to discover the Book of Aal and undo Satan’s work? Scour God’s enemies from this world and lead the faithful into battle at Christ’s side.
“I hardly expect you to understand,” concluded Pius. “A member of a monastic order, withdrawn from the world… ”
“Of course, your Holiness,” interrupted Spina.
The Pope frowned, sensing defiance: “I mean it. I won’t stand for meddling.”
“Of course, your Holiness.”
Spina collected Chabal from the secretary’s office. He paused in the Room of Heliodorus and stared up at the stars, fixed by Raphael’s art to the vaulted ceiling.
“Because thou art lukewarm,” he whispered, thinking of Pius, “neither hot nor cold, I will spew thee out of my mouth, who have fallen prey to Satan’s wiles.”
The true stars were fixed to an immobile sphere, beyond which Heaven lay. The Earth was an unmoving object at the centre of the universe, orbited in perfectly circular paths by the four celestial bodies – the Moon, Venus, Mars and Saturn.
Everything above the Moon was formed of ether. This world below of air, fire, earth and water. Four elements, corresponding to the four seasons, the four ages of man, the four humours and the four planets. Somewhere, deep beneath the Earth’s crust, lost souls twisted in Hellfire.
Spina closed his eyes, marvelling at the perfection of God’s design, pitying men like Columbus and Copernicus for claiming their discoveries as victories of reason over revelation. Satan’s dupes, led astray by Lucretian heresy.
These were the Last Days and the Father of Lies had slipped his chains, conjuring new continents across the seas, holding a mirror to the heavens while his servants stalked the fields and cities, to sow doubt and reap the souls which fell.
But it was not too late. The Book of Aal would show him how. Reach in among the seeds of things, undo the Devil’s lies and usher in the next great age of Godliness. Spina rested a hand on Chabal’s forearm. The Lord had placed a heavy burden on his shoulders.
CHAPTER 29
Longstaff closed the door of his room and walked downstairs to the dining room. It was barely dawn, but the landlord – a fat, wet-lipped man in his forties – was already up, serving a group of prosperous merchants. Longstaff waved him over.
“Good morning, Schiuma.”
The man eyed him warily; the Englishman paid well but he was an awkward guest who kept odd hours, inviting guests to stay and disappearing for days at a time.
“Are you breakfasting with us, signore?”
“I’ll take a slice of bread with me. I’m leaving.”
“Permanently? We shall miss you, signore,” Schiuma led him to a cramped office, sitting at a desk to make out the bill. Longstaff counted coins from his purse. “And my things?”
Schiuma opened the strongbox. Longstaff saw clothing, weapons, rolls of paper, musical instruments and several heavy moneybags. The landlord passed up his own possessions, wrapped in a length of canvas – a new pair of boots and Ivan’s book.
Martlesham was with Durant, Aurélie and Vescosi at an inn beyond the Porto al Prato and Longstaff had a long walk ahead, following the river east to west. It took him twenty minutes to reach the Piazza della Signoria. At the Fountain of Neptune, he scanned the crowds before striding across the square towards Giacomo Vescosi’s street. He slowed as he passed the house; as on the previous evening it appeared deserted. He picked up the pace and reached the enormous Piazza Santa Maria Novella shortly before nine o’clock.
No sign of his companions. A monk passed, in white habit and black cappa, and Longstaff lowered his eyes. They’d been stupid to meet here, a stone’s throw from the largest Dominican monastery in Florence.
Workmen were erecting two giant standards at either end of the square – Cosimo wanted coach racing here – a
nd Longstaff mingled with the crowds of onlookers until he caught sight of Durant, mounted on the chestnut. Aurélie rode beside him, side-saddle on the palfrey in her grey dress. Laughing, the Frenchman reached over to touch her forearm. The performance of man and wife so convincing that Longstaff’s fist clenched when he saw the fading bruise along her cheek.
The Otiosi leader walked ahead, dressed in a dark robe and holding the bridle of Aurélie’s horse; the faithful retainer accompanying his lord and lady into the city.
Longstaff fell into step beside them.
“Do you have it?” asked Vescosi.
Longstaff nodded.
“And the house?”
“Empty.”
“Is it being watched?”
“Not as far as I could tell, but I’m just one man, signore. I still say this is folly.”
“On the contrary, Longstaff, they’d never believe we’d be so...”
“Stupid?”
“Spina and his men are in the Bay of Naples,” replied Vescosi. “We’ll never have a better opportunity.”
They walked on in silence, Longstaff in front of the riders, Vescosi dropping behind. The old man was recovering well from his injuries.
Durant provided cover as Longstaff pushed a blade through a crack in the heavy gate. He flicked open the latch and ushered the others inside. The empty house still hadn’t been discovered by thieves and everything was as he’d seen it last. A layer of scrum covered the surface of the water trough. Longstaff kicked it over, filling it from the pump so the horses could drink. He crouched beside Sparrow. “Stay here, girl. Warn us if someone comes.”
Durant and Vescosi were already inside, climbing to the scriptorium. Longstaff followed with Aurélie.
“Botticelli,” she said, seeing him look up.
“Who?”
“The painter, Sandro Botticelli. This house has been in Giacomo’s family for generations. It was his grandfather’s brother who started the library. Niccolò had a mania for collecting. Not just books, but statues, medals, cameos, tableware. People thought he was mad, placing value on ancient stones, but the collection was famous by the time he died. People still talked about it when Giacomo was a boy,” she pointed at the ceiling. “The stonemason has Niccolò’s face.”
Longstaff looked at a man covered in dust, who met his gaze with eyes steady as a spirit-level.
Vescosi stood amidst the wreckage of his life’s work – shattered vitrines and torn books, ruined alembics and crucibles, exotic plants ground underfoot and spotted with dried blood. It reminded Longstaff of the corpse mouldering in the cellars below.
“Bastards,” the Otiosi leader dropped to his knees beside the worktable, high spots of colour in his cheeks. He held up a small glass disc, squinting at it in the dim light.
“Weeks of hard work went into this. Remember, Aurélie? All that grinding and polishing.”
He lifted a wooden box onto the worktable, keeping the injured left arm tight against his chest, placed the disc into a small hole at one end. Before Longstaff could stop him, he crossed to the window and pulled open the heavy drapes.
Somehow, the box trapped sunlight and threw it in concentrated form onto the empty bookshelves, reproducing the tall tower of the Palazzo Signoria and every one of the crenellated battlements, but rotated through one hundred and eighty degrees.
Vescosi laughed, seeing the expression on Durant’s face.
“It’s a wonder we’ve discovered so little about our world over the centuries. The earth is a treasure chest, signore. The keys are patience and an open mind. Create a hypothesis, think of all the different ways it can be tested and set to work. What could be simpler?”
“We don’t have time for this,” Longstaff stood in the window, scanning the Piazza della Signoria for signs of danger.
“Durant,” Vescosi pointed at the heavy worktable. “Tip it over.”
The Frenchman set his feet and heaved. The box slipped from the scarred surface and the image of the Palazzo disappeared from view. The table fell with a crash. Vescosi pushed Durant aside, drew a knife from his robe and pressed the tip into a hairline crack. Longstaff saw panels on the underside. Vescosi removed a dozen thin pages from the hidden compartment, cross-written in tiny handwriting.
“Lists of Otiosi members and safe-houses, sympathizers, donors, printers and distributers. Spina neglected to press for this information; he’s obsessed with finding the Library. And rightly so – it poses a far greater threat than our small organisation,” he smiled at Aurélie. “We do what we can to keep the flame of curiosity alive, but we’re no match for the Church, with its vast resources and willingness to crush dissent with torture and execution. If Spina finds the Library, he will make certain those volumes never see the light of day. The accumulated knowledge of centuries will disappear into the Vatican cellars. Instead of setting Man free, they’ll be used to keep us in chains. With such an advantage, the Pope’s theologians will find it child’s play to conceal the truth, ensuring our achievements continue to emerge deformed, still-born victims of their perverted concern for our souls.”
“We should leave,” interrupted Longstaff from the window. The piazza looked peaceful, the door of the scriptorium was open – and the door of the reception room, where the windows were filled only with silk. They would hear Sparrow bark if anyone came in by the gate, but it was madness to linger.
“You’re coming with us, Signor Longstaff?” asked Vescosi.
“What?”
“I’m sure Aurélie has spoken of Mateo Columbo, who demonstrated that blood draws oxygen from the lungs? Did she mention why the Church threatened the anatomist with torture and condemned his discoveries to the Indices Librorum Prohibitorum? They fear his work shows that Christ was still alive when Longinus pierced his side with a spear.”
There was a long silence in the scriptorium.
“You see what’s at stake, signore. I’m not a fool. I have no plans to storm the Vatican, waving a copy of De Re Anatomica above my head. The Pope would nod his head and the common people tear me limb from limb. But the accumulated knowledge of the ancients? A cleansing tide, my friend, powerful enough to dowse the flames of Hell.”
Vescosi smiled, producing a letter from his robe.
“You’ve earned your reward a hundred times over. The volumes in the Devil’s Library offer freedom. Ride with us in the same spirit or return to England and claim your birthright with our blessing.”
Longstaff took the letter, turning it over in his fingers. Home. Walk away, ride for Genoa. He’d be in Dover within the month. He had faced Ivan the Terrible and Il Medeghino, survived murderous attacks, posed as a dealer in muskets, all in order to reach this moment. Why then, did Vescosi’s offer feel like a punch in the gut?
Aurélie measured him with bright blue eyes. He looked at Durant.
“You know what it means to me, Gaetan. I vowed I’d never set foot on English soil unless I could do so under my own name. This might be my last chance.”
Durant sighed. “We can’t stop now, my friend.”
Longstaff stared at him – the word carried heavy obligations. He closed his eyes, thinking of the boyar he had killed in Livonia. The dead guard at the Villa Spina. The assassin he’d killed in this very room. He’d always known there would be a price for so much blood.
CHAPTER 30
Mathern Schoff grew stronger on the journey south. He was no longer a blur, loose aggregate of features and characteristics. The lawyer was all angles and sinew now, a coherent whole formed in pursuit of a single goal, predestined for heaven, exempt from the common laws of man.
He slept with the Hounds of the Lord beneath the stars and rode with them by day. They changed horses daily – no one dared deny the Master of the Sacred Palace – and kept up a fierce pace from dawn to dusk.
Schoff hardly ate or slept; the pleasures and demands of the body were nothing to him now. He barely saw the people they passed on the road, poor souls with no clue of what was at stake. L
ong hours in the saddle took no toll on his energy; his skin felt translucent, the spirit shining through, a pulsing globe, illuminating the blasted landscape.
Not far from Naples, the Phlegræn Field was a barren plateau running straight into the sea. A place where fire burst from the rocks and clouds of sulphurous gas hung over the fissures. It required no imagination to understand why the ancient men of Cumae had called this place the entrance to the underworld.
They reached the ruined temple an hour before sunset. It was just as Vescosi had described; a cone-shaped hill in an otherwise flat landscape. On the summit, a temple consectrated to Jupiter, god of the skies.
They picked their way through the rubble. The roof had collapsed, but a dozen marble columns still stood. Jupiter sat on his throne, one hand stretched out before him. Once, the great, stone fingers must have held his lightening bolt, but the precious metal had long since disappeared. He faced an avenue of ruined statuary, all that remained of the lesser residents of Olympus. The Hounds of the Lord spread out, searching for the goddess Luna.
“The moon shows them the way,” muttered Schoff to himself, standing apart, staring out to sea. He could see the flat summit of Vesuvius and, far across the bay, a faint smudge that must be Sorrento. To his right, a tangled forest of stunted trees bordered the plateau. Schoff looked down at the fishing boats pulled up on the black beach below. It was strange to think that life continued in this hellish landscape. He heard a shout behind him. Chabal and several men raised the statue of the moon-goddess onto a plinth. She was robed, face hidden beneath a thick layer of moss, and held a scroll in her left hand. “The scroll stands for knowledge,” snapped Spina. “Follow where it leads.”