Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears

by Michael Gardner

  A cleric made his way up the stairs with a number of books under his arm and his nose in another. He barely noticed Kidd emerge from the alcove. Kidd coughed politely and the cleric raised his head. A swift blow made his eyes roll into the back of his head. Kidd dragged the man back into the alcove and exchanged their robes. He was relieved to be rid of the pilgrim’s cloak, as the coarse wool irritated his skin. The cleric was breathing evenly, but Kidd rolled him onto his side to prevent him from swallowing his tongue. There was a time when he wouldn’t have cared if the cleric had lived or not, but he would honour Vllen’s request as best he could.

  Kidd made sure his hands were completely covered by the cleric’s sleeves and gathered the fallen books. He set as swift a pace as he could through the corridors. The collection of sculpture and art was astonishing. Entire halls were dedicated to ancient tapestries, paintings, or artefacts. Many still bore the scars of invasion. Some of the Germanic marauders had immortalised themselves by carving their mark into these treasures. Many sculptures had also been defaced by sword pommels used to break off the nose.

  With the books under his arm, the Swiss Guard paid him no heed and he passed freely into the library. Fortunately, its contents weren’t similarly vandalised, books having no importance or value to the illiterate. It was a massive collection of documents and texts, miles upon miles of titles stacked on shelves two storeys high. The only sections of the hall not covered by books were the windows, an occasional portrait, and the frescoed ceiling.

  At a glance, Kidd noticed works that dated back hundreds, if not thousands of years. Even in myth, the Great Library at Alexandria would have been a small collection compared to this great repository of information. While he stood in wonder at the sight, he understood why Vllen had been so keen to break in. More to the point, it was little wonder Cardinal Cresci had prohibited him the opportunity to explore. He could only guess at the secrets that might be discovered with time and access to the more secure sections.

  A brass plaque classified every row. He abandoned the cleric’s books on a desk and began to search the shelves, pausing occasionally to avoid the attention of the librarians.

  “Saluto,” whispered a priest in passing.

  Kidd nodded and brushed his sleeve across his chest in the shape of a cross and quickly moved on before more words could be spoken. It was entirely possible the residents of the Vatican all knew each other to some degree or another. He took some stairs to the upper walkway and was rewarded with a promising sign on the third set of shelves—Curatio Antiquitas—medical history. He took a candle from a wall sconce to shed more light on the titles. On the bottom shelf amongst a series of large tomes was a volume that took his interest. It was a register of all the physicians employed by the Roman Emperors. He prised it from the shelf and gently blew away the thick layer of dust that had settled on the spine. The book hadn’t been handled for quite some time. He tucked it under his arm and found a reading desk away from prying eyes. He opened the book carefully, wary that the paper might be brittle from age. It was a painstaking process to turn each page. Finally he reached the register of physicians serving in Rome at the time of Jesus Christ.

  The list was long. The Romans were fastidious record keepers, entrusting every detail of their great empire to stone and papyrus. As many as a hundred practitioners were listed for each year. He read through the list of names for some time. Eventually, he found a reference to Jabez by his Latin name. The date recorded against the entry was 24 AD.

  Jabes, Physician to Emperor Tiberius

  Subura, XIV Vicus Patricius

  Jabes appeared every year after that, with various commendations about his skill as a healer. He served a number of Emperors until 46 AD, when he was listed as deceased. The book seemed to be of little help and Kidd was about to close it when the directory for the following year caught his eye.

  Jabesh, Pharmacist to Emperor Claudius

  Subura, XIV Vicus Patricius

  Kidd unfolded the page from Vllen’s book of names and spread it out beside the tome. He continued to work through the pages. Again, he saw the same address. This time it was for one Jabus, Surgeon to Emperor Trajan from 110 AD, also described as a healer of skill. He followed the trail, and cross-referenced each name. Sometimes the names recurred, sometimes they were new, but all were versions of Jabez, and all lived at the same address. If indeed this was the same man, he had lived to be over a hundred years old. Or perhaps Jabez had sons, taught them his art, and hopefully passed on his secret, the location of The Tears of Christ.

  On the next page he found Jacob, Physician to Emperor Commodus from 185 AD, also at the same address. Then Jacoba, Pharmacist to Emperor Maximus from 237 AD, and then Jacobus, Surgeon to Emperor Gordian III from 242 AD. Again, each man was commended for his ability.

  The final listing belonged to James, Physician to Emperor Valerian in 258 AD. There was no sign of Jabez or his descendants the following year, or any year after that. There were no references to the address they held in common either. Kidd examined the paragraph again, translating the final cryptic comment.

  James, favoured of the Emperor, was declared missing in August. There are no known heirs to his estate. He is a sad loss to his profession.

  The candle had burned low, the yellow tapers spilling over the lip of the candlestick in long threads. This book had nothing more to reveal, and the risk of discovery was too great to seek answers in another. Kidd returned the book to the shelf, and stole out of the library with slow deliberate steps.

  The Swiss Guard remained oblivious to his passing. He returned to Saint Peter’s Square under the cover of darkened recesses. Those leaving the Vatican were given only the most rudimentary inspection. Kidd blended into the midday comings and goings of the street and took a lengthy route back to his lodgings to cover his trail.

  Solving the mystery of Jabez was going to be considerably harder than he had expected. A man who had lived so well for so long would not abandon his lifestyle and estate on a whim. As Kidd knew only too well, life-changing events could happen in a heartbeat. His self-imposed exile from England had also taken place as suddenly and swiftly as the thrust of an assassin’s blade. Something similar must have happened to Jabez. Something had caused him to vanish, willingly or otherwise. Kidd hoped Jabez had not been murdered in one of Rome’s dark alleyways for no more than his boots. If that was the case, he had little hope of finding The Tears before the year was out.

  ~ Chapter 8 ~

  ANOTHER (BLOODY) CHURCH

  The swift incursion into the Vatican Library had raised more questions than answers. Kidd summarised the key facts in his mind. Jabez had either lived for several hundred years or fathered heirs who had inherited his gifts. They’d all resided in the fourteenth house on the street known as Vicus Patricius. The last in the line had disappeared without trace in 258 AD.

  He would have to trust in books to solve the mystery, if indeed Jabez’s fate had been documented. Despite his lack of fondness for scholarly work, this meant extensive research within the Vatican walls, regular access to the library, and a disguise that could sustain him for numerous visits without causing suspicion. It would take precious time and money to arrange.

  He formed a mental picture of the identity he would construct, someone friendly to the Pope and his territories, a religious scholar from Florence perhaps. He would need a cassock tailored, and a number of documents forged. He hoped his contacts were still working and not under lock and key. More than that, he hoped his reputation was still as good as the florins in his purse. He would visit Giorgio the Needle first to have the cassock sewn, and Alfonso the Hand for documents with official seals. He hadn’t spoken to either for many years. There were others he could contact, but their loyalties were unreliable.

  Finding Jabez’s house and a list of occupants who had held the title was next. Without heirs, Valerian would have reclaimed the property and sold it. If Jabez hadn’t taken The Tears to his grave, they might remain hidden i
n the house, or have fallen into the hands of the next occupier. Almost certainly, the answer was buried somewhere beneath the streets in the bones of the ancient city.

  For now though, Kidd had to dispose of Reinhold, and ensure that the young pilgrim didn’t involve the authorities in a troublesome investigation. While cutting Reinhold’s throat would have been the Spymaster’s recommended course of action, Kidd felt honour bound to respect Vllen’s request. The situation felt peculiarly uncomfortable. He had been trained to act without conscience.

  Kidd turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open with a slight creak. Reinhold was conscious and struggling with his bonds. He froze when he heard the door close and the bolt slide home.

  “Do as I say if you want to live,” said Kidd in Prussian.

  Reinhold nodded.

  Kidd took a knife from the table and cut the pilgrims bonds. “Leave the blindfold.”

  Reinhold nodded again and pulled the gag from his mouth. He was panicked and fearful. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

  “I am Cardinal Cresci,” said Kidd, “and you are an enemy of the Catholic Church. We know you and your associates are Muslim spies.”

  “No, your eminence, we are faithful and true.”

  “Then what is your purpose in Rome?”

  Reinhold swallowed hard. “We came for worship, your eminence, and to attend the dedication to Saint Lawrence.”

  “Liar! You will be burned at the stake!”

  Reinhold quaked and hung his head. “Then I will die with honour if you choose to execute me in the same way Valerian chose to execute our patron.”

  Kidd paused. It was the second time he’d encountered that name today. “Emperor Valerian?”

  “Yes, your eminence. Surely you know how Saint Lawrence was put to death.”

  Kidd’s knowledge of Catholic Saints was poor at best. “Of course I do,” he growled. “Your loyalty is on trial, not mine. If you wish to avoid eternal damnation, you will answer my questions. First, tell me about Lawrence’s death.”

  The pilgrim chose his words carefully. “When Christianity was declared illegal, Lawrence prevented many of the Church’s treasures from falling into the Emperor’s hands. Valerian tried to force Lawrence to reveal their location. Lawrence refused and was placed under house arrest for an indefinite period. When Valerian’s patience finally ran out, he delivered an ultimatum. Lawrence was to confess, or be roasted alive on a giant griddle. Still Lawrence refused to speak. Valerian’s rage was such that he ordered one of his most trusted servants to watch over Lawrence, to ensure his perfect health, so he would suffer all the more when he was cooked.”

  Kidd was intrigued. “Continue.”

  “On the tenth day of August in the year of our Lord 258 AD, Lawrence arrived at his execution with a collection of the diseased, blind and poor. He told Valerian that they were the treasures of the Church. Valerian was so enraged he burned them all. To this day nobody knows how Lawrence was able to protect such a large number of artefacts and pass them into safe keeping. It is a fitting tribute that the memorial you have built in his honour occupies the same ground that once was his home. Do you still believe me to be a Muslim spy, your eminence?”

  “I will grant you a reprieve for now, perhaps,” said Kidd, emulating the condescending tones of the real Cardinal Cresci, “but know that we will be watching you. As a test of your sincerity, when I release you, return to your hostel, and tell your companions that you fell sick and were bedridden. Say nothing else.”

  “I understand.”

  Kidd led Reinhold through the door by the scruff of his tunic and onto the street. They walked for some minutes in silence. Kidd maintained a strong grip on Reinhold’s arm. When he was satisfied the young man had no chance of remembering their route, he pulled him into a shadowy alleyway. “Count to one hundred before you remove your blindfold. Remember, we are watching you.”

  He released Reinhold and withdrew, joining a queue of people waiting outside a baker’s shop. He purchased a small loaf of bread and a cup of water and watched Reinhold surreptitiously while he ate. The pilgrim finished counting, removed his blindfold and blinked in the sunlight with a look of a frightened animal. He fled down the street as fast as his shaky legs would carry him.

  Kidd swallowed the last mouthful of dusty water and returned the cup. So, Lawrence had died in the same month Jabez, or his last descendent had also vanished. The monument to the Saint was worthy of brief investigation. It was also preferable to sticking his nose into books. He collared one of the many boys wandering the streets seeking to run errands for a coin. The boy claimed to know where the memorial was being built and skipped away with beckoning hands, eager for the reward.

  Lawrence’s memorial was a modern structure, plain, but with the numerous archways and columns now in favour with architects. The sandstone and brick walls gleamed, yet to be dulled by the relentless sun.

  Kidd inched forward to peer past the columns surrounding the entranceway. An enormous plaque with elegant chiselled letters was set in the courtyard: San Lorenzo in Forte.

  “Great,” he muttered under his breath, “another bloody church.”

  He took the large iron ring on the door and pulled. It creaked as the new wooden joints were tested for strength, but remained closed. He examined the lock. It was solid, but designed to keep the doors closed to the elements, not to protect against thieves. Thankfully, it took no more than a poke with his knife and a firm bump with his shoulder to pop the latch. His days of picking more complex locks were well and truly over.

  The hair on his neck stood on end. He snapped his head over his left shoulder. His fingers might have lost their sensitivity but his instincts were still as strong as ever, especially the one that alerted him to the fact that he was being watched. He peered deep into the shadows, but there was no sign of malevolent or unwanted attention. Perhaps the instinct had been wrong.

  He passed through the door and into the dim interior. There were a number of crude rusty lanterns in the entrance, probably belonging to labourers. They would do for more light. He fumbled in his pocket for his tinderbox, removed a lump of flint, and struck a spark to ignite the lantern wick. The cord caught, began to smoulder and the smell of oil and beeswax filled his nostrils. He opened the air vents to increase the flame’s strength and soon the lantern filled the hall with a soft yellow light.

  The church was humble. It appeared the workmen were yet to finish decorating, as the floor was littered with wooden crates containing fabric, ornaments and paint.

  Kidd quickly surveyed the nave. Three antechambers extended from the altar to create the cross. To the left was the chamber of the Blessed Virgin, ahead was the chamber of the Immaculate Conception, and to the right was the chamber of Our Lady of Sorrow. He raised the lantern to cast more light across the floor. He saw nothing helpful. It was a functional place of worship. Wooden pews were stacked together for large congregations, as well as private alcoves for prayer, with narrow benches for candles, incense and wax tapers.

  Kidd circled the church four times. The construction was solid, with massive stone blocks for foundations, but there was nothing to be found of consequence.

  As he turned to leave, his foot caught a raised stone. It was square, smaller than the others, with chiselled words obscured by dust and debris. He knelt down to sweep the section clean. His hands grated against the stone and left tracks in the dust, so he gathered a wad of cloth from one of the crates and brushed the dirt away. The plaque was written in Latin.

  In Memoriam to Lawrence, Keeper of the Treasures of the Church. 225 AD to 258 AD. This house of God rests on the house of a Saint who died defending the faith.

  Kidd blew hard around the edges of the slab and was pleased to find it hadn’t yet been cemented in place. He spied a crowbar on the floor next to a stack of half-unpacked crates. He grabbed the tool and wedged it into the gap between the blocks. After a fair amount of sweating and grunting, he prised the slab out, and pushed
it to one side.

  There was open space underneath, a shaft descending into darkness, more than a storey deep at the least. He lowered the lantern, but could see little more than flickering light and shadows. There was a long wooden ladder at the altar where an artist had been painting frescoes. He lowered it into the shaft. It was just long enough to reach the bottom. Gripping the lantern with his teeth, he climbed down.

  There was an arched opening at the bottom, just large enough to crawl through. It was an old fireplace. He felt like he’d travelled backwards in time as he emerged on the other side. The air was heavy and stale, and the lantern’s flame shrank. Despite the dirt and debris, the ancient home was well-preserved, a testament to the skill of Roman builders. He held the lantern above his head and surveyed the room. The floor was littered with stone chips, and the bones of rats, men, and other creatures he didn’t recognise.

  He began to sift through the rubble, coughing and spluttering as the dust was disturbed. Apart from fragments of pottery, everything else had long since disintegrated. The next room was the kitchen, with a deep trough once used for storing pots and jars. It had been used more recently by the labourers as a toilet, and was littered with dried filth.

  Kidd continued into what must have been a bedroom. The evidence of Lawrence’s time spent under house arrest was plain. One wall was covered with tally marks. Kidd examined them closely. Lawrence’s incarceration had been long indeed. As the register progressed down the wall, the strokes had been chiselled into the stone with greater precision. Near the end they were worthy of a stonemason. Kidd found a curious symbol hidden amongst the tally marks, easily overlooked without close inspection. It was a square divided into four vertical strips with a thicker line projecting from the top.