The Religion

by Tim Willocks

  Tannhauser held the torch and helped Bors dismantle the profusion of bolts and buttresses securing the wicket. They were half done when Tannhauser grabbed Bors’s shoulder to stop him and cocked an ear down the passageway. The portcullis winch was well-greased—they’d seen to it themselves that evening—but there was no doubt: he could hear the faint creak as it was cranked back open.

  “Can you finish this in the dark?” said Tannhauser.

  Bors took in the remaining bolts. “Count on it,” he said, and set to.

  There was a sentry’s alcove built into one side of the sally port. Without ceremony Tannhauser herded Carla and Amparo inside it and mimed sealing his lips. He turned and threw the torch. It flew in a guttering arc and landed in a fountain of sparks beneath the murder hole. He returned and took up his rifle and went down on one knee. With the pistol in his belt and Bors’s long gun they had three rounds. He didn’t relish shooting some poor watchman who blundered in on them by chance; if the fellow kept his wits they could merely subdue him. Bolts clanked behind him. Bors grunted and the wicket creaked. A gust of brash sea air drifted in from the bay.

  “It’s done,” said Bors.

  “Hold,” said Tannhauser.

  He heard footsteps beyond the angle and saw the flicker of a second torch.

  Nicodemus stepped into the light. He was unarmed.

  Tannhauser lowered his rifle with relief. Nicodemus they could take with them. Perhaps they should have done so in the first place. Had he followed them or had someone told him of their flight? He looked at Bors, who cradled his gun in the shadows.

  Bors shrugged, “I said not a word.”

  There was no point quizzing the women.

  Nicodemus stopped by the torch. He peered into the gloom. “Mattias?”

  “Nicodemus,” said Tannhauser. He spoke in Turkish. “What news?”

  “You are betrayed,” said Nicodemus.

  Tannhauser’s bowels shifted. “Not by you, I hope.”

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do we tarry?” said Bors, from the open wicket.

  “Peace,” said Tannhauser. He turned back to Nicodemus. “Explain.”

  Nicodemus waved his torch toward the Kalkara Gate. “There are men on the wall above the mantlet, with muskets and humbaras. You must surrender.”

  The gesture must have been a signal, conveyed via someone at the portcullis to the blockhouse and thence to the outer wall above, for a moment later a fire pipkin exploded in the mantlet outside the wicket door. Bors cursed and ducked back inside. He shouldered the iron door closed against the flames.

  “Surrender to whom?” asked Tannhauser.

  Nicodemus said, “Fra Ludovico.”

  Tannhauser glanced at Carla in the alcove. Her eyes were wide with dread.

  Bors unlimbered his satchels and let them drop. “Ludovico? How many allies can he boast? Let’s go take them. Ten minutes and we’re on our way.”

  They heard more footsteps and Nicodemus turned to watch their approach. He was terrified. The steps stopped just short of the shallow turn in the wall. Ludovico’s bass voice rolled down the passageway.

  “If you choose to fight,” said Ludovico, “the women will not be spared.”

  “We’ll surrender to Oliver Starkey or the Grand Master,” said Tannhauser. “No one else.”

  “The Grand Master is ignorant of your treachery,” replied Ludovico. “For which fact you should be grateful. In his hands you would face the gallows.”

  “And in yours?”

  “A chance to keep the riches you’ve extorted and to earn the freedom you crave.”

  “How so?” said Tannhauser.

  “The Holy Office does not bargain. You stand in my power.”

  Tannhauser sensed a gesture. The barrel of a musket protruded from the murder hole in the roof. Flame lanced from the bore with a deafening roar and Nicodemus was thrown to the flags with a shattered leg. He lay stunned with pain. The blood gouting from his wound hissed with a sudden pungent odor as it pooled around the fallen torches.

  “The Greek had the chance to choose his friends wisely, and was foolish,” said Ludovico. “I urge you to be more prudent.”

  “Show your face, you filthy blackguard,” roared Bors.

  Carla emerged from the alcove. She called down the passageway.

  “Ludovico,” she said. “Give me your word you will let them go, and I’ll willingly stay here, with you.”

  Tannhauser raised no objection. If Ludovico accepted, Tannhauser would be back before dawn to cut his throat, but the monk had no reason to do so.

  “Do I hear no demurrer from the gallant bridegroom?” asked Ludovico.

  “She wastes her breath but I will not,” Tannhauser replied. “Give us leave to share counsel.”

  “As you will, but hurry. Poor Nicodemus ails.”

  Tannhauser looked at Bors and spoke in a low voice. “Any fight is suicide. While we’re alive, all things are possible.”

  “And if the snake cuts us down?” growled Bors.

  “If that was his purpose he’d have done so already. He has other uses for us, wherein lies our chance.”

  Bors grimaced, the pink diagonal scar twisting in ire. “After all this it would gall me to die in a torture chamber.”

  “It’s a poor time to ask you to trust me, I know,” said Tannhauser. “But will you?”

  Bors nodded. “When did I not?”

  Tannhauser took Carla’s wrists and pulled her close. Her face was pale in the gloom.

  “To find out what hand he holds, we must play ours one card at a time,” he said. “But don’t despair. If we have only one advantage, it’s a singular one. Ludovico loves you.”

  Carla blinked, uncertain of his meaning.

  “Do not play false. Don’t try to outwit him or to counter his intrigues and games. You’ll lose. Simply be true to yourself, no matter what threats he flaunts against the rest of us, no matter how cruelly he may treat us.” He saw her heart quail and squeezed her wrists. “The outcome depends on you, do you understand?”

  Carla nodded, still uncertain, but he knew she would rise to circumstance.

  He let go of her and turned to Amparo. Of the four of them, she was the least afraid. As during their night at Saint Elmo by the light of the forge, he sensed that the violence she’d suffered in her youth—whatever it was—had been so terrible that she’d been left immune to its threat. Her liquid eyes looked up into his and, as before, he had the sense that she saw only him, and not what he represented, or what he might appear to be, or what the world imagined that he was. And he knew that no one else would ever look at him so, and that he’d never know such love again, and that she was the woman of his life and that he’d not dared know it. He took her in his arms in a tight embrace, for he knew she’d need the memory of its comfort.

  “Amparo,” he said, “they will use you as their bluntest weapon.” Carla made a muffled sound of dismay. He ignored it. The next words caught in his craw, for none could have shamed him more. “And I cannot protect you. Tell me you will endure.”

  She looked into his eyes for a moment, and even in the shadows her own were bright and clear, and full of an infinite love that he didn’t deserve.

  Amparo said, “The nightingale is happy.”

  His throat constricted and he stifled a surge of emotion that rose from he knew not where. He kissed her on the lips and she melted against him. Then he let her go and turned at once away, lest he lose his resolve and draw his sword and charge down the passage to doom them all. He called out to Ludovico, hoping his voice was steady.

  “We’ll surrender our weapons in the blockhouse, not before.”

  “Very well,” Ludovico agreed.

  Tannhauser looked to his companions. “Courage,” he said.

  They started down the corridor and they covered the murder hole with their guns while the women passed by. Ludovico was gone. They hauled Nicodemus t
o his feet between them, the youth’s head lolling in a faint, and carried him through the portcullis and into the blockhouse.

  From oilettes on the three external sides of the roofless structure, five arquebus muzzles pointed at them. If massacre was to occur it would be here, but better than in the dark passage, for at least they could see the stars as they passed on. But the villains held their fire. Tannhauser and Bors laid their guns and blades on the floor. Nicodemus came too from his faint and Bors took his arm across his shoulders. They walked back into the town they’d so recently vacated.

  Ludovico and his cohort of familiars circled them about. The monk was in the robes of the Religion and, true to the grandiose madness that lurked in his eyes, he was unarmed. To the shame of their Order, three half-armored knights flanked him. One was Bruno Marra, of whom Tannhauser was distantly aware; the second also looked to be of the Italian langue. The third was Escobar de Corro, whom Tannhauser had crossed on Gallows Point.

  Of the remaining four, two were gentlemen adventurers from Messina, Tasso and Ponti; one was a Spanish tercio named Remigio; and the last was Ludovico’s factotum, Anacleto.

  Anacleto’s gaze was fixed on Amparo and Tannhauser’s blood ran cold, and again he suppressed the rage that would have killed the one-eyed bastard on the spot. He thought to ask who’d betrayed them, but it would serve no purpose here. The monk would no doubt let him know in good time. From his pocket Tannhauser took the letter that Starkey had provided weeks before, and which he’d preserved in the auberge for such a moment as this. With a flourish that belied his lack of faith in its utility, he held it out toward Ludovico.

  “This is our passe porte to Mdina, authorized by Brother Starkey. It proves we are no deserters.”

  Ludovico took the letter. Without breaking the seal he passed it to Anacleto.

  “I will give it close study in due course,” said Ludovico.

  “Do you place yourself beyond the Grand Master’s authority?” said Carla.

  Ludovico looked at her and bowed his head. “In the affairs of the Inquisition, the Grand Master has no authority.”

  Tannhauser gave Carla a glance, for this was futile, but she ignored him. Her lips were pale and her scorn was unrestrained. Tannhauser looked at her with new eyes. He’d not known her capable of such anger.

  “Then tell me,” she said, “are we arrested as deserters or as heretics? Or will you admit that any treachery here belongs to you alone?”

  Ludovico said, “These matters too will be addressed in their right time and place. For now it would be better if no more is said.”

  Carla seemed about to defy him further.

  Tannhauser said, “Carla.”

  Carla looked at him and bit her tongue. Ludovico inclined his head to Escobar de Corro, who prodded Tannhauser aside from the rest. Tannhauser found himself surrounded by the three knights. He exchanged a look with Bors to calm him. Nicodemus had passed out again and the Spaniard, Remigio, took his other arm. The two Italian adventurers, who’d collected the surrendered firearms, corralled Carla and Amparo together. Ludovico motioned to Anacleto, who led the entourage down the street.

  Escobar de Corro pushed Tannhauser in the opposite direction.

  Amparo looked back at him and stopped. She broke away to run toward him.

  Anacleto grabbed her wrist and dragged her back, and Amparo stumbled, and whatever rage Carla contained exploded. She slapped Anacleto hard across his mutilated face. He reeled back with a cry, and Bors looked at Tannhauser, urging him to give the signal to go. Tannhauser shook his head. Anacleto’s mouth twisted in agony. He started to draw his sword and he took a step toward Carla and Tannhauser shouldered Bruno Marra, shoving him aside. As he did so he palmed a dagger from the knight’s belt and started forward.

  “Anacleto!”

  Ludovico’s voice, always so even, stunned Anacleto with its force. Anacleto froze, staring at Carla with murder in his eye. Tannhauser stopped too, but close enough to take Anacleto down if needs be. Anacleto returned the sword to its sheath. Amparo, mute with shock at what she’d almost unleashed, grasped Carla’s hand. Ludovico looked at Tannhauser, at the knife in his hand. Tannhauser was close enough to kill him. He gave it some thought.

  Ludovico’s voice leveled again. “What will it be, Captain?”

  Tannhauser said, “Where are you taking them?”

  “They’ll be held under my jurisdiction at the Courts of Law. You need not fear for their well-being.”

  “And your dogs—can you control them?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Ludovico, please,” said Carla. “Let Mattias keep our company.”

  “I will come,” said Tannhauser, fearing more ado. “Be strong and don’t lose heart.”

  Tannhauser turned to Ludovico. “Where do these villains take me?”

  “A man like you can’t abandon Hell without sounding its nethermost circle.”

  “That would be a pity,” Tannhauser agreed. The monk’s face was inscrutable. Yet somewhere behind it lay a purpose. Tannhauser said, “And there you and I will meet?”

  Ludovico nodded. “And there we will meet.”

  “Good enough.” Tannhauser tossed the dagger at Marra without looking at him.

  Then he turned his back on Ludovico and walked away.

  The three knights escorted Tannhauser through the broken heart of the town. The younger knight, when asked, gave his name as Pandolfo of Siena, and earned a glare from Escobar de Corro for the courtesy. In the exhausted aftermath of the battle, and with the population so generally reduced, the town had never been so quiet. Squeaking swarms of rats, heedless of their feet, disturbed the tranquillity of their passage, but nothing else. Apart from a hollow-eyed mother, watching over her children in the ruins, they met no other humans. Had Tannhauser been alone in this misfortune the walk would have afforded opportunity to escape, for the trio too were exhausted and therefore careless. He could have butchered all three with their own weapons within a quarter of a mile. Would La Valette have backed him? He thought not. Killing brethren would unlikely endear him and the Inquisitor’s behavior, legally speaking, was impeccable. Sense dictated he submit to events and wait.

  They reached the bridge lately destroyed and which had formerly crossed the moat, and where the canal and waterfront both were wholly deserted. A crewless barge sat waiting. They climbed aboard and the knights punted Tannhauser across the still, black water to Castel Sant’Angelo.

  The water slid by and he dipped his hand and his cuts stung sharp in the brine. Pandolfo and Marra on the poles he could’ve pitched into the drink in a trice, where their armor would have seen them drowned. Corro he could take by hand. He contained himself to the fantasy alone. The barge docked and they disembarked.

  By torchlight they led him through the dark and abandoned precincts of the castle. Emptied of all pomp and hurly-burly, the fortress felt like a monumental tomb. They traversed a maze of hallways that sucked the sound of their footfalls into an oblivion brute and huge and shorn of echo, as if their destination were nowhere and none would reach it. Peculiar whispers, ambiguous and occult, rustled beyond the limit of their torches, and Marra and Pandolfo exchanged glances rank with fear. Tannhauser quelled his own fear, for it was useless. They descended a stair, and then another, and a third, and again Tannhauser fancied loping off into the uttermost blackness, then tracking them down and murdering them in these catacombs without name. He realized that wherever they were taking him a darkness without equal would form his world, and he resolved to make it his own, for if he didn’t, it would devour him. They reached a wide door studded with iron and a key was produced and the door was opened and he walked ahead of them, unprompted, into the gloom.

  The air was dank and cool and redolent of urine and desiccated shit, as one would expect of a dungeon as deep and dreadful as this one was. Inside the door, Corro told him to strip his clothes and he complied without a qualm. As he did so he palmed his last three Stones of Immortality. He stood
there nude as an egg in the flicker of the flames. He did not remove his lions’ head bangle and he looked at his jailers and they let that be. He could see that his calm unnerved the two Italians, and fanned Corro’s hatred, and since it came at no great cost he gave the latter a smile.

  By gesture they provoked him deeper into that subterranean cave, until a stark black hole gaped before him in the floor. They stopped, and his jailers held out their torches so he might examine it in the flames.

  The hole was nine feet across and eleven feet deep. It was in the shape of an inverted bell, carved from the base rock of the island on which Castel Sant’Angelo was built. The smooth perfection of its symmetry and the flawless circularity of its maw won Tannhauser’s amazement. Not even the largest and most athletic of men could get out of this pit unaided. And in this geometric punctiliousness lay the source of its power to terrify. Tannhauser might almost have applauded, for it was, without doubt, the most exquisite prison in Creation. It could only have been conceived and built by the Religion.

  Then in the flickering yellow light he saw that its integrity had been blemished in its lower reaches by a screed of markings, as primitive in execution as those left in caves by the vanquished races. The bald walls below were gouged by—he knew not what. Rings, fingernails, bones, or teeth, perhaps. The carvings were scattered in confusion random and wild, as if authored by a blind man gone insane: numerous crosses, often eccentric in dimension; the words “Iesus” and “God” and “mercy” in various tongues; scratches to mark the days, yet too higgledy-piggledy to serve; representations of tombstones; most artful of all, a portrait of a gallows, complete with a dangling man. They were the last marks left upon this world by the pit’s former occupants.

  Corro looked at Tannhauser, and Tannhauser looked at him.

  “This is the Guva,” said Escobar de Corro. “It is the dungeon reserved for false and wicked knights. Once delivered into its keeping, the only destination hence is the place of execution.”