by Tom Pugh
A woman knelt beside the man in chains, holding a cup of water to his chapped lips and supporting his head. Durant approached, working the padlock, heard the satisfying click and fall of tumblers. The woman turned when he smiled at her, hiding the scar on her cheek, and pulled the long chains through eyelets on the man’s iron collar.
*
Longstaff stood beside Aurélie at the edge of the square, watching a middle-aged man place hands either side of his wife’s face and stare into her eyes, smiling at what he found. Others were less fortunate, seeing humiliation in the eyes of wives, parents and children. They turned away in shame, eyes falling on the bodies of the dead monks.
Durant drew near. “We should leave.”
The woman with the scarred cheek straightened, mouth twisting as she caught the scent. She gestured with hands still smeared in Schoff’s blood.
“Take the children to the beach.”
Mothers caught her meaning first, herding their families towards the water. Then fathers, laughing with the children, trying to make a game of it, until only a handful of men remained. They worked in silence, stripping the dead, stamping on the heads and genitals, gutting them with fish knives. Aurélie buried her head in Longstaff’s chest.
It wasn’t blind fury; the men chose their victims, remembering instances of cruelty from the days of captivity. Longstaff shuddered, imagining such an end must mark the life that came before, a shadow to make mother’s shiver, playmates run away and hide.
The woman approached, standing so she blocked their view.
“We’re sorry for your suffering,” said Durant.
“There are six missing.”
“All dead,” said Longstaff. "No one is going to come looking for them.”
She stared at him. “We owe you nothing.”
Aurélie attempted to explain, about Gregorio Spina and the Devil’s Library. She lapsed into silence beneath the woman’s contemptuous stare.
“We’re leaving,” said Durant. “There is no debt.”
CHAPTER 39
Night was falling when they reached their campsite of four days earlier, turning tired horses at the brow of the hill and looking back across the Phlegræn Field, red in the setting sun. Longstaff dismounted, unsaddled Martlesham and led him towards the stream. Sparrow loped into the trees. Aurélie followed, pausing to wash her face and hands in the cold water.
Longstaff took care of the horses, removing the packs and rubbing them down. Durant collected the saddles and threw them in a rough circle beside the stream. He looked through their bags, assembling the last of the food – sour apples and a loaf of hard, black bread.
“We need supplies.”
Longstaff nodded. Should they take the narrow shepherd’s path in the morning, or turn south for Naples?
Aurélie returned with an armload of wood. They built a fire, leaning on the saddles, sharing the dry bread.
“They do wonderful things with roe venison in Grenoble,” said Durant. He looked exhausted. “In Bordeaux, there’s a place cooks bream in butter sauce with nuts and seeds.”
Sparrow appeared, dropping a rabbit at Longstaff’s feet.
There wasn’t much flesh on the animal but it gave them something to do, skinning, gutting, spitting, watching it cook on the low flames. Longstaff divided the meat into four meagre portions.
“And?” he asked, looking at Durant.
The Frenchman forced a wan smile. “I’ve tasted worse, though never in Bordeaux or Grenoble.”
Aurélie rose to her feet and dragged Durant’s heavy pack to the fire. The scrolls had dried in thick clumps, breaking apart in her fingers like rotting wood. The forbidden Gospels had fared better – a careful abbot might want the parchment for his novices – but the ink had washed away. She went through the bag, piece by piece, before finally raising a hand in defeat. Papers scattered on the breeze.
“I don’t know what I was hoping.”
She turned to Longstaff, not meeting his eyes. “I have nothing, Matthew. Giacomo was my home, the only person who ever cared about me.”
Longstaff raised her chin. “You have courage and intelligence – more than anyone I’ve met. And you have me.”
She touched his face. “But your dream. Returning to England, regaining your family home,” she walked away from the fire, digging at the base of a withered oak to recover Vescosi’s Otiosi papers from their hiding place. “He always said the Devil’s Library was a dream. This was his true work. He told us to take them to England. Sir Nicholas is a man of honour, he’ll keep the terms of your agreement.”
Durant sighed, shaking his head in the firelight.
“That’s not all you have to offer him,” he held a thin scroll, dry and perfectly preserved. “On Freedom and Conscience, according to the plaque. It’s by Epicurus, probably the very copy Lucretius donated all those years ago.” He saw the look on Aurélie’s face. “Old habits die hard – I hid it in my shirt before Spina arrived. I imagine Sir Nicholas will understand its value.”
“You’re willing to let us have it?” asked Longstaff.
Durant smiled at him. “Vescosi told me about Saturn as we rode south, the God of Melancholy who devoured his children in a fit of anger. The Book of Aal was Spina’s dream. A dream for men who want to be gods,” he raised the scroll. “I’m more interested in what it means to be human. You’re welcome to it, Matthew, but please, let me read it first.”
Longstaff put a hand on his shoulder. “You can read it on the way to London, Gaetan. The forests round Martlesham are full of deer.” He smiled. “We’ll stock the ponds with bream.”
“As long as we travel via Calais.”
Aurélie stopped leafing through the papers. “Giacomo’s last word. What did he mean?”
The Frenchman didn’t reply. He seemed to be struggling for words.
“Your daughter?” whispered Longstaff.
“A woman called Laure Barthes. It might be nothing.”
“Vescosi knew where she was, and wouldn’t tell you?” Aurélie sounded shocked. “I’m sorry.”
Durant shook his head. “He told me with his dying breath. I hardly understand it myself, but I’m grateful he waited so long.”
They threw the scrolls on the fire, adding wood to build a great blaze in memory of Giacomo Vescosi. In a low voice, Aurélie described the man who’d raised her, smiling as she remembered the way he used to pace in his scriptorium, weighing arguments in his open palms.
Joints snapped in Durant’s back as he sat cross-legged on the ground, and carefully unrolled Epicurus’ text. Aurélie crouched at his side, leaning forward to trace the words. On Freedom and Conscience. Longstaff glimpsed her delicate wrist, blue veins beneath the skin, saw the familiar wrinkle appear between her blue eyes as she began to read.
What a creature is Man. Incomparable in reason, infinite in faculties. What need has he of angels, who can move and feel as angels do? What need of God, who has it within himself to penetrate the deepest mysteries? How perfect he is, the beauty of the world; how short-lived and fearful, the terror of his fellows. Man is dust, made of the four elements of earth, air, fire and water, and animated by the fifth, the quintessence...
Longstaff watched the ashes rise; last scraps of the Devil’s Library, winking into darkness.
_____________________
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The Devil’s Library
ISBN: 978-1-909979-35-2
First published in the United Kingdom in April 2016
Text © Tom Pugh
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