The Devil's Library

by Tom Pugh

  He went back to the shelves. “First, we have to make sense of their cataloguing system,” he was speaking to himself, attention fixed on the scrolls. Longstaff left him there.

  Aurélie stood before a wall of books. Actual books, displayed face up on sloping shelves, leather bindings set with inch-long metal studs to keep them elevated. Longstaff had been acquiring books long enough to know the codex had been invented by early Christians, while Romans, Jews and Greeks persisted with scrolls.

  “What have you found?” he asked.

  “The Gospel of Thomas,” she pointed. “The Gospel of the Egyptians, The Gospel of Truth, The Second Treatise of the Great Seth. Origen mentions some of them.” She stared at the rows and rows of books. “They don’t exist,” she said, shaking her head. “These books have not existed for over a thousand years. Do you know what we’ve done, Matthew? The world will never be the same again.”

  Longstaff took her hand. It was the first time he’d seen her look scared.

  “Quickly,” shouted Durant. “I’ve reached the centre.”

  The centre of the shell.

  A circular room with a lead statue of Saturn in the middle, surrounded by six massive candelabra. Durant placed a candle in each, hardly breathing as light crept across the chamber.

  The God was old and ugly, leering from the top of a slender pedestal, tall scythe gripped in one gnarled hand. And there, propped on Saturn’s right hand – held low, palm facing the entrance – was the book Spina was so desperate to find.

  Vescosi appeared at the entrance. He hardly glanced at the sacred book of Aal, but walked instead around the hardwood cases, reading the names on the golden plaques.

  “Epicurus!” He moved along the shelf. “There must be fifty scrolls by him alone.”

  “There are works here dating back seven and eight centuries before Christ,” said Durant.

  “I still can’t understand the cataloguing system,” continued Vescosi, pulling at a tuft of hair. “We don’t know which of these volumes they truly valued.” His voice dropped an octave. “Can they ever have imagined, in the days of the Roman Empire, what a treasure this would become?”

  Durant opened his bag. “We have to decide what to take.”

  “Take?” Vescosi stared at him.

  “You’re not planning to read them here?”

  “It might be dangerous to move them. We should wait, raise money from the Otiosi. Buy this land and catalogue the collection properly, methodically.”

  Durant shook his head. “With Spina and the entire Roman Church arrayed against you?”

  Aurélie stood before the statue of Saturn and stared at the Book of Aal, modestly bound in brown leather, protected from contact with the god’s hand by untarnished silver bosses. She reached out and touched the flat spine.

  “We can’t just leave,” she opened the volume and turned the pages, running fingertips across the strange glyphs. “The parchment has hardly swelled at all.”

  She looked at Vescosi, who rested a hand on one of the tall bookcases. “That river is full of sulphur. These shelves seem to have petrified with the passing of the years.” He shrugged helplessly. “Who knows what secrets were lost with the men who built this library.”

  He cross to stand beside Aurélie, staring at the sacred book. “It must be the copy St. Benedict made. The high priests guarded access to the ancient script, producing a copy every century and destroying the previous incarnation. It took him three years, copying and studying until understanding finally dawned.”

  “Can you read it?” asked Aurélie.

  “Not a word,” Vescosi closed the book. “But Spina may be able to; he has St. Benedict’s key.”

  They each chose ten scrolls from the shelves. Longstaff picked at random. He didn’t recognize any of the names, didn’t know whether they were works of poetry or politics or history. He was finished first, remaining with the bag while the others brought him their selections. Durant chose six of the thickest scrolls by Epicurus and four previously unknown works by Lucretius. Aurélie’s quick eyes found lost texts by Pythagorus and Aristotle.

  “And the forbidden Gospels,” she grinned, running back along the corridor.

  Vescosi selected works by Euripides, Sophocles and Menander, greatest playwrights of the ancient world.

  Longstaff smiled at him, quoting, “To preserve the last remaining scraps of the past. The Otiosi will need a new task, signore.”

  Vescosi stared at the Book of Aal. “What should we do – take it with us or destroy it now?”

  “Your decision,” Longstaff gestured at Durant’s bag, already dreading the journey back to the surface. “I’m just the pack animal.”

  Aurélie screamed.

  Longstaff whipped his sword free and ran into the corridor. Figures appeared, walking in pools of torchlight: the muddy-faced monk, wearing leather trousers and jerkin; Spina, carrying a plain, rosewood box; and Mathern Schoff, his knife pressed against Aurélie’s throat. The Lübeck lawyer held her tight, forearm crushed against her throat. She was clearly in pain, biting her lip to keep from screaming.

  Longstaff gave way before them. Durant appeared beside him, rapier in one hand. Sparrow crouched on the right, teeth bared.

  The big monk drew a broadsword from the scabbard on his back. Heavy-lidded eyes glinted with pleasure.

  “I know who you are, Matthew Longstaff. I’ve been hoping our paths would cross.”

  “No need for that, Chabal. We’re all men of the world here,” Spina looked composed, robe unmarked by sweat or exertion. “Did you really think I wouldn’t post a guard in the temple?” He shook his head. “A rider arrived two days ago to say you’d been seen in Florence. What were you doing there, I wonder?”

  He turned dark eyes on Longstaff. “The messenger also brought word of Dini’s fate. A heavy blow for the Dominican Order and a great personal loss for Chabal; he and Dini were close. You owe us a debt, gentlemen, and it’s time to pay.”

  Longstaff looked at Aurélie. “Let her go.”

  Schoff twisted the knife against her flesh.

  “Drop your weapon, or the whore dies.”

  Longstaff looked for doubt or pity in Schoff’s face. Finding nothing but madness, he dropped the katzbalger, Durant’s blade following his onto the stone floor. Chabal threw him a length of rope.

  “Tie the dog to the statue.”

  Slowly, Longstaff looped the rope round Sparrow’s neck and led her to the pedestal. Vescosi emerged from the far side, holding a candle and the Book of Aal.

  Chabal gave Longstaff no chance to react, backhanding him across the face and seizing Sparrow’s rope, making her fast.

  Spina stood at ease. “I have six men on the bridge, Giacomo. There’s no way off the island.”

  Vescosi opened the book, candle-flame inches from the pages.

  “Let her go.”

  Spina ambled round the statue. “That book will show us the way to paradise.”

  “Bedtime stories, Gregorio. If there ever was a magic book, it was Lucretius, appearing after so many centuries and opening our eyes to the true glory of God’s creation.”

  “Devil’s magic,” said Spina. “But every poison has its antidote.” He pointed at the lead statue. “He was known as Aal once, Lord of knowledge. The Romans named him Saturn… ”

  “And the Church renamed him Satan,” yelled Aurélie.

  Spina merely smiled. “Precisely. For who else but Satan tempted Man to leave the Garden of Eden? Perfect, don’t you think, that the Dark Lord himself should provide us with the means of his destruction. Now do you begin to see the true glory of God’s design?”

  Aurélie closed her eyes. “He’s mad.”

  Schoff cut her, a single bead of blood tracing a path along the collarbone. Longstaff clenched his fists, staring across at the katzbalger. Chabal laughed, blocking his path, leaning easily against the broadsword.

  Spina withdrew a slim volume from the rosewood box, bound in red, gold-tooled leather.
/>
  “It was in Niccolò Vescosi’s possession for twenty years. It shaped his life, as it has yours, Giacomo.” Spina opened the book, reading from a page of finest uterine vellum. “The priests teach that Aal sent his people out of Paradise, telling them to return by the path of knowledge. Over time, his followers descended into foolishness, hoarding texts and wasting their lives in empty ritual.

  “There is a myth preserved among the Romans that Aal’s Age ended when the last immortals departed Earth. In truth, these angels did not leave, but only stepped behind a veil of illusion. The Book of Aal teaches us to see them; the seeds of things beyond – immortal, immutable, indivisible, infinite in number. The seeds are God.”

  Spina smiled at the Otiosi leader. “Do you think it was chance that led Gemistus Plethon to seek out Cosimo de Medici in Florence?” he replaced St. Benedict’s book and set the case on the floor. “The Last Days approach, Giacomo. God arms us for the coming Battle.”

  Vescosi raised the candle. A page of the sacred book began to brown, a coil of smoke rising from the surface.

  “The coming Battle? You’re a coward, Gregorio, terrified of a future you don’t understand.”

  Spina shrugged. “I haven’t come here to argue. Kill her, Mathern.”

  “Wait!” Vescosi stared at Aurélie, body sagging with defeat. He dropped the book, stepping away.

  “A wise decision.” Carefully, Spina wrapped the Book of Aal before secreting it in his robe. Schoff threw Aurélie at Durant, covering both with a pistol.

  “We passed your scarecrow, Gregorio,” said Vescosi softly. “Is that your idea of paradise?”

  “That old man? His death served a purpose greater than anything he achieved in life. God will reward his sacrifice.”

  Vescosi laughed.

  “What?” demanded Spina, eyes narrowing.

  “The idea that a man like you could work miracles.”

  “A man like me?” Spina smiled. He drew a dagger from his sleeve. With one swift move he buried it in Giacomo’s belly. “And how would you describe a man like me?”

  Vescosi collapsed to the ground, blood pumping from the wound.

  Durant reacted first, smiling at Schoff as he kicked the katzbalger. Longstaff rolled, intercepted the blade and rose into a fighting stance.

  “Nobody move,” shouted Spina. Durant shielded Aurélie with his body, to stop her from running to Vescosi’s side. Schoff had one shot in his pistol. The Master of the Sacred Palace looked at Chabal.

  “Your way,” he snapped. “Make it quick.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Longstaff attacked – cut right and left – slashed at Chabal’s knees, pivoted on the defensive stroke and struck hard at the broad chest.

  Chabal parried easily. “I expected more of you, Longstaff.”

  He drove at the Englishman, to land heavy blows without extending himself. Longstaff tried to counter. He parried, swayed left, feinted right – Chabal kept forcing him back, their blades blurred in the candlelight.

  Longstaff set a trap: deliberately repeating himself every sixteen strokes, then twelve, then eight. His aim, to draw the enemy blade into a straight thrust. He rose on the balls of his feet, ready to slip inside and strike at the face.

  Chabal disengaged and inclined his head in appreciation.

  “Better.”

  He beckoned the Englishman forwards, arrogantly repeating the pattern, inviting him to spring his own trap.

  Sparrow snarled, straining at the short rope.

  Longstaff couldn’t beat Chabal’s defence. He chopped from left to right. Chabal danced away, smiling. Again, the same diagonal slash.

  Sparrow lunged. The statue rocked. The dog sank teeth into Chabal’s boot, forcing him to glance down; Longstaff closed, already roaring in triumph.

  Spina darted forward, knife held low in one hand, stabbing him in the thigh.

  Longstaff limped backwards, stumbling as his heels struck Vescosi’s body. Chabal kicked Sparrow – a savage blow to the ribs – and raised his sword to finish her off.

  Longstaff lunged, forcing Chabal to re-engage. The broadsword whipped towards him and met the katzbalger – but the monk was stronger, better.

  Think, Matthew.

  Durant? Still covered by Schoff’s pistol. Longstaff tried to work his way towards the Frenchman. Spina appeared at Chabal’s side, dark eyes shining with pleasure.

  Longstaff cut at Chabal, conscious that his strength was fading. The big monk turned his blade.

  “Still think you can win?” Chabal shook his head. “It’s over.”

  Longstaff looked past him, eyes locking on Sparrow’s. Muscles bunched in the dog’s broad chest. She leapt, the rope snapped taut – statue slipped from the pedestal. Spina’s mouth fell open as Chabal seized his shoulder and shoved him clear of the god, too late to avoid the scythe. The lead point tore a hole in Spina’s stomach and pinned him to the floor.

  Chabal stared in horror. Longstaff thrust, took him between the ribs, kicked him to the ground, reversed his sword and opened the bastard’s throat. He sank to his knees and put weary arms around Sparrow’s neck.

  Mathern Schoff screamed and stumbled away from Durant. His pistol wavered as he looked at Spina. The Master of the Sacred Palace raised an unsteady hand from his belly, brows gathering in confusion at the sight of so much blood.

  Schoff fled.

  Aurélie cradled Vescosi’s head, stroking the high brow. “Live, damn you.”

  The Otiosi leader stared at the thousands of scrolls, ghost of a smile tugging at his bloodless lips.

  “I cannot imagine the world they’ll make,” his eyes came to rest on Longstaff. “Look after her.”

  The face darkened, body arching in pain. Durant pressed a forearm across his chest, holding him down, applying pressure to the wound. “Tell me,” he yelled. “Don’t die on me, you bastard.”

  “Calais.”

  The body went limp. The head fell sideways in Aurélie’s lap. The Frenchman hung his head. Without looking, he reached out and closed Vescosi’s eyes.

  Spina still lived, pinned to the library floor, muttering through blood and mucus.

  “My body is weak, my spirit is strong,” slick palms on either side of the scythe. “My spirit is strong, this wound only a precipitate of my thoughts. A pure mind sees what it chooses to see. A pure soul can remake the world.”

  Durant hurried to his side, hooked fingers beneath the statue and heaved. The Master of the Sacred Palace screamed as the scythe shifted back and forth, fresh blood pumping from the wound in his belly. The Frenchman collapsed against Saturn’s back, shaking his head.

  “Too heavy,” he said. “I can’t shift it.”

  “God brought me here,” sobbed Spina. “I mastered the ancient language. Where are my men? Tell them to look for the Book of Aal.”

  Longstaff spat. “Damn it, Gaetan. There are six men on the bridge.”

  They were dead, if Schoff caught them in the central chamber. Running hands along the bookshelves, they hurried down the black corridor until they heard the tramp of feet. Aurélie raised the musket as a man ran into view, fired and struck him in the chest. He sat down hard, staring at the burning torch while his companions took cover. His fingers opened, the torch rolled across the stone floor, stopping a sword-length from the precious scrolls.

  “Back,” shouted Longstaff.

  They crouched low, waiting in the silent corridor.

  “Where are they?” whispered Durant.

  Longstaff took Aurélie’s musket, edging towards the light.

  “Mathern Schoff?” he called.

  “I want the Book of Aal.”

  Longstaff remembered seeing Spina put it in his robe. He heard Durant running behind him, back towards the centre.

  “You can have it. When we’re safely away from here.”

  Schoff laughed. “Now. If you want to live.”

  Durant appeared at Longstaff’s side. The two men exchanged a glance in the smoky light, be
fore the Frenchman threw the Book of Aal. It landed beside the torch, sliced nearly in half by Saturn’s scythe, pages wet and heavy with Spina’s blood.

  “Come and get it, Schoff.”

  The Lübeck lawyer screamed in anger. Another of Spina’s men stumbled into the torchlight. Longstaff shot him in the head.

  “Not until we’re out of here.”

  “Look around you,” shouted Aurélie. “The Book of Aal is ruined, but it brought us here. Think of the knowledge, Mathern. The difference it will make.”

  “I was not; I was; I am not; I do not care,” Schoff’s voice was strangled. “You want to spread this filth? Teach men the soul dies when the body dies, have them grub around in the earth like insects when their eyes should be on God?” They heard him laugh. “These works belong in Hell.” They heard the sound of breaking glass, caught the faint scent of lamp oil. Flames appeared in the corridor, darting greedily from scroll to scroll. Trailing torches down the shelves, Spina’s men ran for the bridge.

  CHAPTER 37

  Death by burning, flesh black as coal at the centre of a bonfire. Longstaff had seen men burned at the stake, struggling at the top of tall pyres, hair moving in the waves of heat, choking to death on thick coils of smoke. He caught the scent of burning paper – burning hair, the sickly sweet smell of cooking flesh. The flames came dancing down the corridor, blocking any chance of escape. Aurélie ran towards them, determined to sacrifice herself if it would save the books. Longstaff put her over his shoulder and sprinted to the centre of the shell.

  They were all going to die, unless he could think of a way to get them out of here.

  The bookshelves were the height of three men, three yards wide. Longstaff tracked bloody footprints through the chamber, gathered speed and barrelled into the shelf. Nothing. He climbed, pigeonhole to pigeonhole, threw himself over the top and turned in the air, hooked fingertips against the lip. He didn’t think it would move. He heard a crack, rocked forwards, heaved back again. Slowly, the section began to topple. Longstaff hauled himself up, a second before it crashed against the far side of the corridor. And now they fell like dominoes. Smash after booming smash echoed across the cavern’s high roof, as they forced a paper lined path to the island’s edge.