The Book of Crows

by Sam Meekings

  ‘I returned to my brethren in the Order of Eternal Light back in Palermo after that night, and never again set foot in my uncle’s village. The next three years brought more rich experiences than I have time to recount to you now. Suffice to say that over these years I learnt more of the Last Gospel. We were certain, in those days, that its discovery was imminent, and there was a palpable sense of excitement running through the great house, each room filled with men poring over ancient maps and forgotten tomes.

  ‘They were giddy, blissful times. I was drunk on books and drunk on faith and drunk on secrets, and, as every drinker believes when intoxicated, I thought that we were invincible. Though Alessio and I continued on secret missions under the auspices of Father Teodoro – stealing into mosques, talking ourselves into the stately abodes of princes, bribing guards to let us slip into the fetid subterranean dungeons beneath the city to meet with men whom the world had abandoned, all in pursuit of keys to that great puzzle – I was never again asked to take a life. We lived as a great brotherhood ought to, holding everything in common and breaking our bread not only with the usual flood of exotic visitors but also with the destitute and ragged poor who each day milled about our doors.

  It was therefore one of the darkest days of my life when I set about razing the grand old building to the ground. ‘It was before dawn on a dull autumnal day during my twenty-first year when I was roused by the clatter of hurried feet outside our room. I opened my eyes to the sound of worried shouts, and already I knew that something was terribly awry, for before that day I had never heard even a raised voice inside the walls of our complex. It was still dark, though from the light of a single candle I saw that Alessio was fully dressed and sitting at our shared desk, studying an old map so attentively that I wondered whether he had heard the sounds of panic and alarm spreading throughout the building. Since members of the Order were often sent upon twilight assignations, I did not think to question the fact that his bed did not appear to have been slept in.

  ‘“What’s happening?” I stuttered.

  ‘Alessio’s nonchalant shrug worried me almost as much as the frenzy I could hear all around us. I leapt out of bed and threw on a dirty shirt before opening the door. Streams of people were rushing through the hall. Most of the men were, like me, in a state of undress, wearing looks of shock and confusion on their unshaven faces. Despite the agitated flapping and the shrill cries of disbelief from many among us, it did not take long to ascertain what had happened.

  ‘A little earlier that night, Father Teodoro had been seized on his way to a clandestine meeting by the royal guard and charged with the most heinous crime of treason. One of the Order had been on the way to the same meeting when he had witnessed Teodoro being marched towards the gaols. The rumours on the street told that Father Teodoro was accused of conspiring to overthrow the king and plotting to make an attempt on the life of the Supreme Pontiff. By the evening the inquisitors in His Majesty’s dungeons would have used their skills to force a false confession of the same from our leader.

  ‘“But … but what on earth will happen to us?” a bearded Greek priest beside me began to stammer when the news was imparted.

  ‘I am ashamed to say that most of our thoughts similarly turned quickly to the question of our own safety. We had all heard stories about men working for Frederick II or the Pope attending many of the guilds and churches in search of seditious plotting, yet we had thought ourselves immune. It seemed, though, that we had not kept our secret as well as we should have. And if Father Teodoro had been found out, then how long before the royal guard came for us?

  ‘All that could be seen for the next hour was the sight of my brethren hurrying about their rooms and flinging open cupboards, desks, shelves and drawers, and bundling anything they could into bags improvised from table cloths and old robes. By the time dawn broke through the windows, the building was almost deserted. After trying to find out all I could from the other monks, I had returned to our shared cell, where I sat speechless and scared, trying to work out what I might do. My friend, however, had already shoved his quill, his ink and his second shirt into a small leather bag and was hovering about the door.

  ‘“Come on, get up and get out of here. I won’t say it again. You should count yourself lucky that you haven’t got much to lug away with you. Come on! What do you think you’re waiting for?” Alessio shouted at me, jolting me from my thoughts.

  ‘It was then that I realised where I had to go.

  ‘Since the stables had been vacated, there was nothing to do but run, retracing the route from memory, for I had been there once many years before. It took me close to an hour, running barefoot through the backstreets, over the hunched stone bridges and cutting across the private herb gardens of Palermo to reach the site of our secret library. The stone house was just within my sights when I felt a hand grab my arm and haul me suddenly back into the fetid alley behind me. I stumbled backwards, and would have fallen into a stream of caliginous brown water had it not been for the steadying grip of the hooded figure who stood before me. I pulled away and raised my hand to fend him off when I suddenly caught a glimpse of the pasty white chin and rubbery lips protruding from beneath the fall of his cowl.

  ‘“We must be quiet, my friend. You should not have come here,” the Carthusian hissed.

  ‘It was a shock to hear his high voice so far from our sanctuary, and for a moment I did not know what to think.

  ‘“I have to do something, brother,” I whispered.

  ‘He nodded, his eyes darting distractedly around us. He led me further down the alley and pulled me into the doorway of a downtrodden carpenter’s workshop.

  ‘“It is not safe. The royal guards are watching this area carefully. They must have followed Father Teodoro from here. They are probably waiting to see whether anyone comes to claim the books. I have been waiting here to make sure that none of our brethren get caught in this trap.”

  ‘“But what about all our writing, the maps, the correspondence? They will find our secrets.”

  ‘The Carthusian shook his head.

  ‘“No. Knowing what you already know, Tommaso, you cannot seriously believe that any of us left anything that could be used against us. The old books will have no meaning for them if they do not know what they are looking for, and the private documents are all written in a code that it will be impossible for the royal guards to decipher. Father Teodoro was well aware that this might happen one day. It is a minor setback, nothing more. Are the others gone from the great home?”

  ‘“Yes, they fled as soon as they heard the news,” I replied bitterly.

  ‘“Do not think badly of them. They were only doing as instructed. We must lie low, Tommaso, we must let them believe they have won. We shall scatter ourselves across the continent, and gather again once the danger has passed. You must not give up the search. We will find it, be certain of that. I know of a place you may go – but first, you must do something for me.”

  ‘And so it was that, only a few hours later, I stood holding a flaming torch aloft outside the great complex where I had come to understand my calling. I had checked the stables, the kitchens, the hall, the studies, the library and even the black room with the ceiling of stars. All I found was a clutter of parchment and worn rags, books warped with damp and scrolls whose fine lettering had faded and bled beyond comprehension. Yet the Carthusian was right: we often hid our most important parchments in secret places in case of an unexpected visit from the royal guards, and in their haste my fleeing brethren may have forgotten to remove them. They could have been stashed in any spider-webbed nook, amid the straw padding of any of the beds, behind any shelf or cupboard. And unlike the missives collected in the Order’s private library, few of them were in code. A single one of those hastily scribbled notes might implicate any number of us. The risk was too great. The building had to be destroyed.

  ‘I had just lit the torch from the embers of the kitchen fire and was moving round to the back of the complex
– so that the blaze would not be seen from the neighbouring houses until it was too strong to be stopped – when I caught sight of something moving inside. Fearing that it was one of the local beggars come for the daily distribution of alms, I ran back in. My calls produced no response, and it dawned on me that it might be one of the royal guards hunting for conspirators. I sprinted through the dining hall, weaving between the long benches where we had once shared our supper and our hopes. I held the burning torch aloft as I darted from room to room. It was only as I passed the staircase that I heard the sound of a warped floorboard moaning beneath someone’s step. I spun around and saw him. He was standing at the top, his stocky shadow thrown onto the bleeding Christ outstretched upon the landing wall.

  ‘“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. But you ought to know better. Why don’t you put out that torch and get out of here?”

  ‘He pushed a hand through his greasy hair. He was sweating, despite the mild weather.

  ‘“Alessio, come on. We don’t have much time before the royal guards and the Pope’s spies start rooting through for evidence.”

  ‘He laughed and, as he fingered his belt, I noticed that he was wearing a dagger.

  ‘“The Pope’s spies, as you call them, already know everything about this place. And now that I have finally unearthed the hidden maps those foolish monks left behind in their panic, the entire brethren are going to face the wrath of our most Holy Father. And to think, all I needed was a few hours alone here! We should have done this much sooner! Now, I was going to let you go, runt, but you’re beginning to give me serious doubts. Go on, get out of here and I might still find a way to forget your name when His Eminence asks.”

  ‘I felt dizzy, my grip on the torch slipping.

  ‘“What kind of a game is this?” I stuttered.

  ‘But even as I spoke, I understood. I understood the nervous energy with which he had gone about every task, I understood his guarded manner with the other monks and priests there, I understood why he had always appeared to be suppressing a sneer when he talked of Father Teodoro, and I understood why he had given the poisoned wine to the old monk, Emiliano. And I understood why he had been up and dressed and so calm when the terrible news had come through that morning.

  ‘“All this time?” I asked, my voice close to breaking.

  ‘“All my life!” he bellowed. “I made a most Holy vow to ensure that no man ever finds that book. I would rather die that let it be looked upon by mortal eyes!”

  ‘There were things I could have said. Explanations I could have sought, recriminations I could have shouted. A calmer man might have found a way to engage him and dig out the details of how he had betrayed us, of how much they knew. But all I could think of was the years we had spent in the same room, our thoughts and fears stripped down and exposed before each other, and I felt a rage stirring my senses – the same feeling that must have stung the mighty Samson when he was betrayed.

  ‘It was one of the only times in my life when my emotions have overcome me. You know, Rosso, I sometimes wonder whether what we speak of as possession isn’t really something quite else. Could it be that some men just become so overwhelmed by rage, by bile, by anger, that they can no longer hear the voice of the Lord guiding them, and so are easy prey to the whirlwinds of their emotions? Was it really demons that Our Lord cast out from that afflicted man and into the herd of swine, or was it simply that he freed the man from the chains of his rage? I know only that, as I swiped the torch at the nearest tapestry, I felt as if everything was happening to someone else and I was merely an observer. Yet there was no Devil guiding my hand – it was spite and malice alone that drove my actions.

  ‘I was amazed at how quickly the ratty old tapestry caught, for the greedy yellow flames were suddenly chewing their way up the walls. Alessio let out a shout and began to charge down the stairs towards me. I swung the torch down, pressing it to the lowest of the wooden steps, hoping the dry tinder would crackle up before my roommate made it to the bottom. I heard him free his blade from the leather sheath and I straightened back up to see that he was almost upon me, the red at the heart of the fire dancing between us reflected in his eyes. I had seen him fight before, and knew I could provide no match to his wiry strength. Perhaps I should have turned my back and fled, but my feet would not bear me away, and so instead I braced my left arm in front of my face and waved the flame blindly ahead, a beacon of hope held out against the inevitable.

  ‘Was it my faith that saved me? It would be comforting to think so, Rosso, but I am afraid I cannot say that it was. I am no more devout than others who die in earthquakes, in shipwrecks, in needless wars. Why should I be saved and not them? Though I would like to think that it was fate that led me from the blazing building without even a single mark upon my flesh, it would be more prudent to say that I was lucky. Who can explain the strange mathematics of chance? I heard a sudden thump and pulled back my arm to see that Alessio had tripped on one of the steps. His leg buckled beneath him and, as he tumbled forward, his arms flailing hopelessly at the fiery tapestries, I caught his eye. His look spoke only of hatred, of the black bitterness that gnaws at hearts.

  ‘I flung myself aside as he crashed to the floor beside me. His arm was twisted beneath his body, and I had to fight hard to suppress the urge to kneel beside down and help him up. A faint murmur from his lips was the only sign that he was still conscious, though his closed eyes told that this state was far from certain. By then the smoke was beginning to peel tears from my eyes, to cloy upon my tongue. I had to leave. Before I fled back I bent once more and set the torch down on the floor – then left my former home forever.

  ‘By the time the rafters yielded to the fire and the building came crumbling down upon itself in a cloud of vicious black smoke, I was halfway across the city. The Carthusian had given me enough money to pay for board in the backroom of an inn for a few days. I stayed for Teodoro’s public execution, but by that very evening I had left Palermo, and was on my way to meet a craggy boatman who would ferry me to Messina. That was the beginning of a year-long journey, conducted for the greater part under the cloak of night and winding through the most desolate and pestilential regions, that would finally take me to the abbey in Ancona where – first as a novice and brother and then, thanks to my exemplary education at the sanctuary, a sacrist, obedientiary and finally prior – I was to spend the next twenty-five years of my life.’

  I am about to interject when a terrible scream reaches us from outside. Lovari’s eyes are still screwed closed, but his head turns wildly on the pillow, seeking out the direction from which the noise came. There is silence for a moment and then jeering.

  ‘Rosso, what is happening? Rosso?’ Lovari rasps as I rush out from his tent.

  It takes my eyes some time to focus through the shimmering golds, the burning yellows, the amber swells of the desert, and so for a minute it seems as if I am running blindly through pure light. It is not difficult to follow the sound of catcalls and bawdy shouts. When my eyes finally begin to pick out form and shape I see them: the mass of servants, translators, cartographers and guides huddled in a circle outside the supplies tent. I have to clear my throat several times before the group reluctantly moves aside to let me through.

  ‘Would someone kindly tell me what all this commotion is about?’

  I am unimpressed to hear a giggle coming from behind me. A stable-hand points a grubby finger towards something sprawled in the sand. It is one of the Tartars. I say a quick prayer under my breath. Not another one. I approach the inert figure, though I have difficulty identifying him, as most of our native helpers look identical. The man’s mouth is agog, and only the whites of his eyes are visible.

  ‘Surely you men have not forgotten your Christian charity? Who will help me lift this poor fellow up?’

  As I speak our men take a step backwards, with much crossing of themselves. Before I can lay a hand upon him, however, I notice Paul at my side.

  ‘Steward, what ails yo
ur man so?’

  Paul’s face is scrunched into a scowl, and he raises a hand to prevent me kneeling.

  ‘Evil. Do not touch. It has him now.’

  Paul will not look me in the eye.

  I push past Paul and bend down beside the fallen Tartar. I press at his legs and ankles, count the beat of his heart, listen to the fall and rise of his breath. Then I let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘The desert sickness!’ A Genoan voice rises from the crowd.

  ‘That’s number five!’ Another man calls out. ‘None of us is safe. We’ve been delivered into the valley of the beast!’

  ‘Silence!’ I shout, rising to my feet. ‘I will not tolerate such behaviour! Yes, he is clearly ill – the effects of this country’s remorseless sun are hard for any man to endure. But he has none of the symptoms shared by our brothers D’Antonio, Salvitici, Nazario or Prior Lovari. This poor man needs water and rest, that is all.’

  Paul finally stares up at me.

  ‘No, no. He screamed. He twitched. Look.’

  I stare down at the man. His face is a little red, yet any fool knows that to stay in the heat too long is a challenge to the flesh – even Our Lord managed only forty blistering days wandering the infested wilds. I myself have seen the whole horizon waver in the midday heat, have felt the hot air squeeze upon my temples until the whole world begins to move as a ship might, tottering giddily through frothing waves. These are Hellish tricks, but I have had the mettle to resist them. It is of no surprise that the natives are lacking in spiritual strength.

  I feel Paul touching my shoulder, and flinch at the indiscretion before carefully brushing his hand away.

  ‘We must go. The Thousand Buddhas will wash him clean. Spirit voices call us from our path. The call is too strong.’

  He nods gravely, and I begin to feel more than a little aggrieved that he is trespassing so upon my authority. Yet before I have the chance to put forth my case for staying and tending to this poor Tartar’s heat sickness, our own men begin to murmur in fervoured agreement.