The Shadow Master (15 page)

Another short hand sign and an acolyte produced a gold chalice and together he and the priest filled it with the lamb's blood – as well as that of the wounded man. The priest held it aloft and then dipped his finger in and drew a bloodied cross on his own forehead, ignoring the way it ran into his eyes, leaving them red-rimmed and horrific.

“So shall those who are worthy be spared,” the priest said. “This mark is stronger than any wall built by man, and any who bear it shall not suffer fire nor flood nor plague nor any wrath of the gods.” He descended the stone steps in front of him and his congregation gathered into a close press about him. He dipped one finger into the chalice and then painted a cross on onto an elderly stout man standing before him. Then a young woman beside him. Then a young man beside her. He walked back and forward amongst the crowd, painting bloody crosses onto the foreheads of all who presented themselves to him. “You shall be saved,” he said in soft tones. “As shall you be saved.”

Some fell to their knees in thanks. Others threw their hands to the low ceiling of the vault. Others mumbled prayers they had concocted themselves.

“This mark will never truly be washed off,” the priest said in a loud voice. “It will remain and will be recognised after the destruction of the Walled City. But you will still be tested. ‘Have you burned all your earthly possessions and trappings of vanity?' they will ask. ‘Have you accepted the need for cleansing? Have you scourged yourself to rid your body of sin?'”

His congregation called back to him the answers that they had, they had, they had, their voices echoing around the cave-like chamber. Torches set into the walls flickered and sent shadows dancing around them. The priest returned to the altar now, where the bloodied corpse of the lamb lay, blood pooling around its still body, and the acolyte was wrapping cloth around his wounded hand.

“A day will come soon,” the purple-robed priest said, “when the blood of the sinners who walk the streets above us shall run red in the gutters like the blood of this lamb. The streets will be full of mayhem and fire and only we chosen few will walk amongst it unharmed.” Another hand sign and the acolyte with the bronze bowl stepped forward, carefully. The priest nodded and he placed it in front of him on the altar. Then he poured in a jug of oil and set a burning candle to it. Bright flames leapt up to the roof of the chamber, singeing the eyebrows of the acolyte. Those closest of the congregation felt the heat of it.

“Artefacts of the ancients themselves will be used to bring down a cleansing fire on the city,” he said. “And this will be the fate of those who disregard the warnings.” And he lifted up the corpse of the lamb. But he did not cast it into the flames and fill the small chamber with the stench of burning wool and cooking meat; instead, another acolyte brought forward a large book and the priest had him open it to a page filled with fine line drawings and coded words, and he smeared the blood of the lamb across its pages. Then he handed the corpse to the bandaged acolyte and took the book and held it above his head with one hand, his other waving back and forward through the flames as if as if taunting the fire to try to burn him.

“This will be the fate of all who have ever followed the false doctrine of science,” he hissed and cast the book into the flames. “Now come,” he said. “Cast your own trappings of doubt and sin into these flames and be spared the fate that awaits them.”

 

 

XXVI

The gag in Lucia's mouth was choking her, preventing her from screaming as she was carried through seemingly endless dark corridors. When she lashed out with her feet, they connected only with stone walls and twice she hit her head as she tossed her body about. Finally she was still and let herself be carried up stairs and down stairs, always in near total darkness. Occasionally they would pass a chink in the wall where light crept in, but never much, and her abductor bundled her past, quickly, before she ever had time to see any details of him.

So she tried to concentrate on learning something about her captor. He was a short stocky man and very strong. His build was different to the cloaked stranger who had entered her bed chamber. So who was he? And could he see in the dark, or did he just know these passages extremely well? Perhaps he was another deathseeker? But if so, he would have killed her, rather than carry her away. He was dressed in dark leather that she could feel when she struck him. But he paid her no heed, as if he had been wearing armour. He was too strong to fight, he knew where he was going in the darkness, and she was his captive. So she would wait until they reached wherever he was taking her to, she decided. She would wait for her chance to escape.

The dark tunnels seemed to wind around on themselves in a maze of twists and turns, but eventually he stopped and searched along a wall in front of him for something. Another hidden door she suspected. She heard the lever turning and the grind of stone upon stone, then they stepped into the light. Her captor placed her gently onto a soft chair and closed the door behind them. Then he turned and she was able to get a good look at him.

He wore a dark leather mask that covered his upper face, but this was a city of masks and she looked at the man beyond it carefully. He had grey hairs showing around the edges of the well-fitted black leather. Then she watched the way he worked his jaw, as if practicing saying something. Finally he spoke to her, and said, in a highly refined voice, “You will be quite safe here. You need not be afraid of being harmed in any way.”

“Who said I was afraid?” she challenged him. He gave a courteous bow to her. She turned her head away from him and looked around the room. The chamber was sparsely furnished but comfortable enough. There were no windows and she wondered if they were at ground level, above it, or below it.

“So I am your prisoner,” Lucia said.

“A guest,” the man replied.

“Guests should be introduced,” she said. “Who are you?”

“They call me the Nameless One,” he said.

She glared at him and asked, “What kind of a name is that?”

“A name that suits my purposes,” he replied.

“But you have another name,” she said. “A real name.”

“No,” he said. “In this chamber, I have only one name.”

“I shall refuse to use it,” she said.

“As you please,” he said. “You are my guest and are welcome to do this.”

“I shall call you the Abductor,” she said.

He smiled a little. “It is also a good name,” he said. “But I shall prefer my name.”

“Signor Abductor,” she said. “How long will you keep me here?”

“I do not know the answer to that,” he said.

“Signor Abductor,” she said. “Why did you abduct me?”

“I cannot answer that question,” he replied.

“Signor Abductor,” she said. “Can I see your face?”

“Alas I cannot allow that either,” he replied.

“Then you shall not see mine,” Lucia said and turned her back on him.

He watched her for some moments, admiring the shape of her neck and the curtain of hair that half-hid it. She was as beautiful as she was brave.

He worked his jaw again, and then said, “And I will call you my little bird.” She did not respond. “And I will leave you here in your cage to get used to your new home,” he said.

Still she said nothing. “I will come and see you later and will bring a meal,” the Nameless One said and then, after a few moments, as if reluctant to actually leave her, he let himself out through a heavy door. Lucia heard the key turn in the lock and then turned around. She was alone. She walked over to the wall where they had come in, but she could find no way to open it. She stepped across to the door and tried the handle. It was locked tight. She turned and looked around the room once more. She had a feeling she was being watched. There would be peep holes into the room from somewhere in the ornate patterns around the edge of the ceiling, she was certain. He was watching her this very instant. She went across to the small bed by the wall and sat on it, folding her hands on her lap. She closed her eyes, wishing to deny him any possibility of looking into them and guessing what she was feeling.

She did not want him to see the fierce resolve in her eyes that she would escape. This had merely saved her the peril of climbing down the tower wall at night. The Medicis were undoubtedly behind this, and that brought her one step closer to Lorenzo. She breathed in and out slowly. Calming herself. Filling herself with resolve. She would play the part of captive as expected of her. But she would then show them that this little bird had claws.

 

 

XXVII

“Why don't you tell me your name?” Lorenzo asked the hooded stranger, as the stranger led him along an unfamiliar alleyway and then down a dim stairwell.

“You can call me Virgil,” he said.

“Is that your real name?”

“No. But I think you'd prefer that to calling me Beatrice.”

“I don't understand half the things you say,” said Lorenzo.

“But that means you do understand about half, which puts you up near the top of the ladder.”

Lorenzo shook his head. He was still uncertain if the stranger wasn't a little unbalanced, but if he knew that Lucia was in danger and knew how to help her, then Lorenzo was willing to follow him to this underworld he spoke of and back. At the base of the stairs there was a thick door. The hooded man pulled out an odd-looking key and inserted it into the lock. There was a whirring and buzzing sound like a small machine being activated, and the lock clicked open. “This is your last chance to turn back,” he said to Lorenzo.

“What is down there?” Lorenzo asked.

“Your destiny,” the hooded man replied. Lorenzo hesitated a moment and the hooded man said, “If you dare to face it.”

Lorenzo bristled at that, of course. Then he paused. Was the stranger leading him along by his emotions, like he was on a leash? He knew he should don an armour of logic to protect himself, as Galileo often advised him. But since logic would dictate that he did not follow the man into unknown dangers until he knew more, he conveniently ignored the many chinks in his armour. “Why should I fear my own destiny?” he asked.

“Most people do,” the hooded man said. “They spend their lifetime supposedly seeking it out, but then either hide from it when it confronts them or they fail to recognise it.”

“You talk like a teacher rather than a warrior,” Lorenzo said. “What are you exactly?”

“Why can't a person be both?” the hooded man asked. “Or many things at once?”

Lorenzo shrugged. He did not know the answer to that. “You said you knew me when I was much younger,” he asked the stranger.

“Yes,” he said. “You were little more than a babe really.”

Lorenzo wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. “Did you… Did you know my mother? Or my father?”

The stranger regarded him carefully and said, “These are not questions for today. The past is past and the future is what concerns us.” Lorenzo wavered a little, taking half a step back. There were too many things he wanted to know before he stepped through that door. But then the hooded man reached out and held Lorenzo by the upper arms. “Before we proceed,” he said, “Tell me – what do you believe your destiny is?”

Lorenzo chewed his lip a moment and said, “What man can ever know his destiny?”

“A good answer,” said the hooded man. “But too neat an answer. It's not what you believe, is it?” Lorenzo said nothing and the hooded man stood there waiting. “It is my destiny to achieve great things,” Lorenzo said in a soft voice. “And it is my destiny to wed Lucia.”

“And it is your destiny to save civilisation,” the hooded man said. He squeezed Lorenzo's arms tighter and then said, “You and Lucia are very special. On your own you each have an amazing ability you are not even aware of. But together, ah, that's something extraordinary.”

Lorenzo listened to the words as if the speaking of them was creating something. He wanted to know more, but the stranger said, “But first we are going to descend into the darkness of your soul.”

“My soul?” asked Lorenzo.

“It's just a metaphor,” said the hooded man. “It sounds a lot nicer than being told you're descending into the sewers of the city.” He turned a lever on the door and Lorenzo heard the whir of wheels and cogs as it lifted up and open.

“The sewers?” asked Lorenzo.

“Think of it as the darkness of your sole then, rather than the darkness of your arsehole,” the hooded man laughed. Lorenzo thought the word play in extreme bad taste but followed through the door and onwards, down another set of steps. Soon he could smell the stench. It was foul beyond description. Lorenzo pulled out a kerchief and held it against his mouth and nose. The hooded man did not seem to mind the smell.

And there were rats everywhere. There were rats enough in the city above, but he had never imagined there could be so many living here below them. The hooded man turned to Lorenzo and said, “Watch the rats.” He said it very slowly, as if it had a hidden meaning. Lorenzo nodded. “I will.” The vermin ran from them as they approached and that was when Lorenzo noticed the light. The hooded man held something in his hand that was casting a beam of light before them, but it was not the glow of a fire, it was a bluish-white glow like moonlight. But the rats ran from it as if its touch burned them.

Then, suddenly, the hooded man held out an arm to prevent Lorenzo going any further and shone the moonlight at their feet. There was a channel of filth there before them. The stench was overpowering. Undoubtedly when it rained the sewers would be flushed clean, but it had not rained for some days and the wet dark mass had been accumulating there from the many drains above.