Niccolo and Salvator watched nervously as Odaldi mixed another batch of Exousía potion and handed it over to Bartholomeo. Chrymos also watched carefully. Bartholomeo is so bold when he has the backing of his Napoletano classmates, she thought. Will he be able to manage this on his own?
Remarkably, Bartholomeo proved equal to the task, barely hesitating before imbibing the spitting, violent potion. He tipped the goblet high, drained it with a single, fierce draught and then thrust the goblet back into Odaldi’s hands.
All eyes were on Bartholomeo. At first, he simply stood, unmoving. After a minute or so, his torso writhed, his face briefly contorted in pain. And then, then—he stretched out one long arm, palm open, towards a wooden shelf. The shelf—shuddered, wavered, then from several knotholes came swiftly-growing tendrils, reaching out to Bartholomeo, expanding into branches and even blossoming with leaves and buds as they grew towards him. The branches touched Bartholomeo, thickened, grew more and yet more branches until it seemed as if there was a forest around the young student.
Odaldi clapped with delight. “A wood wizard, we have a wood wizard among us, one who can manipulate the timbers of buildings and forests to do his bidding! Respect, Bartholomeo, you are welcome indeed into the Alchemae. Now rest, wood wizard, and let others learn their own fate.”
Bartholomeo relaxed, stood down and went to chat quietly with Niccolo and Salvator while Odaldi went back to his paperwork. Chrymos walked over and examined the new branches that had somehow grown from centuries-old wood. They looked indistinguishable from normal tree branches, except that they protruded from ancient knotholes.
“Ruben,” called Odaldi, “you’re next.” Again, the two warring ingredients were combined. Again, the designated student consumed the tempestuous brew. Again, all eyes turned to the subject of the experiment. Again, the object of their attention stood motionless.
And then, almost without warning, Ruben—flickered. His shape—changed, reduced, flowed. His blond hair darkened, lengthened, straightened. His face, normally almost cherubic, narrowed, became old and wrinkled. In short, Ruben had become a mirror image of Doctor Odaldi—facial features, hair color and length the same, identical in every physical aspect. Only his clothing remained unchanged. Ruben had even become the same height as the doctor—slightly shorter than Ruben’s normal height. Ruben opened his eyes, which were now identical to Doctor Odaldi, and smiled—but his smile was no longer Ruben’s but rather Odaldi’s. Ruben even has exactly the same mannerisms as the Doctor. He’s like an identical twin, thought Chrymos.
Odaldi—the real Odaldi—froze. He was clearly both delighted and appalled. Finally, the delight overcame any concerns and Odaldi clapped, even more heartily than before. “Bravo, Ruben, bravo, you have become a chameleon. Oh what a talent that is! Welcome, cousin, welcome to the Alchemae.” He paused. “But do,” he added hastily, “do change back to yourself, before we become completely befuddled and forget our respective places.”
Ruben looked, as surely Odaldi might in similar circumstances, momentarily confused. And then he did indeed change back, his appearance flickering briefly as he reverted back to himself. Chrymos and Adric hustled over. “Well done, Ruben,” offered Chrymos, while Adric pounded Ruben’s back. “How much control do you have over your mimicry?” asked Chrymos.
“Enough to choose my target, so long as I have a clear image of that person fixed in my mind,” advised Ruben. “But,” he admitted, “I doubt that I can maintain the impersonation for very long, it does require a large amount of energy to copy someone so exactly.”
Whilst the trio talked, Salvator was chosen as the next candidate. He proceeded to down his potion enthusiastically, having seen the results in evidence thus far.
Alas, like Adric, Salvator was destined to be disappointed—his new power stubbornly refused to manifest itself. Odaldi muttered reassuring words. “It will come, in due course, no need to worry, Salvator. I bid you welcome to the Alchemae, we will uncover your new skills in due course.”
Niccolo was next. He too swallowed the turbulent potion, awaited the arrival of his new power. At first, nothing seemed to be happening. And then Salvator spoke up, irritated. “Niccolo, get out of my head!”
It soon became apparent that Niccolo had acquired the ability to bombard others with his thoughts—though it seemed he could send his thoughts to just one person at a time. And transmission was one-way. Niccolo could send, but if the recipient had no telepathic powers, Niccolo could not hear their thoughts.
Odaldi was pensive as he issued the traditional welcome. “Your power is an interesting one, Niccolo, we need to consider how best to harness it. Still, be welcomed, the Alchemae take pleasure in your company.”
And then, finally, it was Chrymos’ turn to receive the potion. But Odaldi hesitated.
“I have no papers for you, Chrymos. I’m sorry, I cannot administer the Exousía potion to you without proper authorization.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Moments Later
The Tower, Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, Morning, Thursday April 8 1610
Chrymos was shocked. “What? You can’t deny me! I have worked so hard for this.”
Odaldi was sympathetic but unyielding. “I’m sure it’s merely an oversight, Chrymos. Father Carracci probably has your papers but in all the haste of the last few days has neglected to pass them to Ruben. Salvator, would you be so kind as to slip downstairs and explain the problem to Father Carracci?”
Salvator looked unimpressed at being delegated this menial task but could think of no valid reason to refuse. He reluctantly headed downstairs to talk to the class tutor.
Chrymos had no choice but to wait. She sat in the laboratory, desperately unhappy, while Doctor Odaldi showed the other students more of his treasures.
She did pay careful attention, however, when Adric asked the doctor a question. “Doctor Odaldi, you mentioned earlier that there were two important points we should note, but you only talked about one of them.”
“Did I?” said Odaldi. “Which one did I mention?”
“The physical limits to our powers,” replied Ruben.
“Oh yes,” said Odaldi, “and that’s a very important limitation. That’s why we allow three weeks for you to learn all about your powers. Well—usually,” he added.
“And the second point, Doctor?” prompted Adric.
“Right, right,” said Odaldi. “Simply that most of the powers bestowed by the Exousía potion tend to have unwanted side effects of some sort. And it’s become apparent that the more potent the powers you receive, the worse the side effects are likely to be. Again, we usually explore those possibilities during the three-week study period.”
Chrymos looked over at Niccolo and Bartholomeo who were whispering animatedly to each other. I bet I know what they’re saying, she thought. They’re probably saying something like “they might have told us much earlier. Some of us might have thought twice about drinking the potion.”
To Chrymos the wait seemed like an eternity, but it was perhaps just twenty minutes until Salvator returned, accompanied by Father Carracci. The tutor did not look pleased.
He spoke harshly to the assembled students. “You were instructed to wait for me at the entrance to the Tower. Which part of ‘wait’ did you not understand?”
Odaldi came to the students’ rescue. “I fear the mistake was mine, Father. I invited them into the Tower, so that we might proceed quickly with the initiation ceremonies.”
Carracci looked at Odaldi, bit back what he had intended to say. Instead, he said “That is—unfortunate. I had planned to send up only five of the six students today. He turned to Chrymos. “In my opinion, you’re not ready. You will not be receiving any potion today.”
Chrymos had been shocked earlier. Now she was furious. “How can you say I’m not ready? I’ve worked every waking hour to prepare for this. You’ve seen my performance—and my work!”
Carracci was unrepentant. “You’ve had just thre
e months’ training. These others—” He pointed to Salvator, Niccolo, and Bartolomeo. “—have had three years.”
Chrymos virtually shouted at him. “Adric and Ruben have also only had three months. They were brought here at the same time as me. Why am I the solitaryone held back? The Contessa herself predicted that I would play a vital role in the Lost War, once I have my powers. ”
“So I understand,” agreed Carracci, “but her prediction didn’t say exactly when. And you certainly won’t be given any potion until I decide that you’re ready. It’s my decision. Yes, your marks are adequate—but emotionally you simply don’t make the grade. You don’t have the killer instinct necessary to fight this war. In fact, I’m not sure that you ever will.”
Chrymos responded calmly, quietly. “Alright then, give me a test. Whatever you like. If I pass, I get the potion immediately. If not—” She shrugged, pretending a composure she did not feel.
“Very well.” Carracci smiled in anticipation. “Be ready—we leave tomorrow.”
“Leave? To go where?”
“You’ll see,” smirked Carracci. “You did say you would do anything.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
The Road from Naples to Pisa, Early Evening, Friday April 9 1610
Nekhbet smiled to herself as she caught up with the carriage carrying Chrymos and the Dominican priest Carracci to its mysterious destination. The carriage, emblazoned with the seal of the Kingdom of Naples, had been a gift to the Academy from a well-placed senior official at the vice-regal court—which will make him a good blackmail prospect in the future, thought Nekhbet.
Nekhbet knew exactly where the carriage was heading, although it was a mystery to Chrymos. Strange how much the Lost War depends on Chrymos and her choices, Nekhbet mused. If she has the courage to stand up for what she believes, we win—and she will lose everything.
Nekhbet smiled again as she looked down through the scattered clouds at the horse and carriage trotting along the road. Carracci sat in front, ignoring Chrymos, who was in the back seat, seeing but not really noticing the countryside. It will take ten days for them to get from Naples to Pisa by road. If the priest won’t speak to her, Chrymos is going to have a slow, unpleasant journey.
For the next few minutes, Nekhbet flew above the carriage, watching Chrymos as a lion stalks an antelope. Then Nekhbet stretched out her mighty black wings and flew off towards her next destination, a place she had wanted to visit for centuries, the underwater city of New Phoenicia
THIRTY-NINE
The Margus River, Moesia, early afternoon, pridie Idus Iulias (July 14) 285 AD
It was the calm before the storm. Machkiel sat quietly in the imperial tent, lost in thought. Diocletian dealt with the occasional messages that arrived from the front, where Carinus’s forces continued to hold out, but the emperor was much more concerned with what would happen when night fell.
The quiet of the afternoon was interrupted by a disturbance outside—a challenge from the guards, strenuous arguments from whoever was approaching. The flap of the tent opened and a guard entered and prostrated himself before the emperor.
“Yes, yes,” grumbled Diocletian, “what is it?”
“It’s the Christian leader, Bishop Januarius,” ventured the guard nervously, “requesting an urgent audience with you, mighty Caesar.”
Diocletian snapped back. “Tell him to go away, we’re not interested in him or his pestilent Christian religion.”
Machkiel, who a few moments earlier had received a mind-call from Jesse, intervened. “Wait. Jesse says—uh, said—that we should listen to Januarius.”
Two pairs of eyes stared at Machkiel in disbelief—Diocletian, surprised that the Outcast Angel would interfere, and the guard shocked that a mere commoner would dare to interrupt the emperor.
Then Diocletian relented. “Oh very well, let him in.” The emperor glared at Machkiel, as if to say “this had better be good”.
The guard withdrew and then, a few moments later, returned with Januarius. The Christian leader, dressed in a simple white robe, was carrying a white shield marked with a ragged red cross. With a little encouragement from the guard, Januarius knelt down and bowed low to Diocletian, muttering softly to himself “render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.”
Still irritated, Diocletian questioned the new arrival. “What do you want?”
“Mighty Caesar,” began the bishop, “forgive me for disturbing you. My mission here is not with you but with your companion. I bring him the shield of Evalach for his protection tonight.”
Machkiel’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t know what to say. Diocletian, however, wanted to know more. “What’s so special about this shield of—Evalark, you called it?”
“Evalach. He was a Saracen king who lived two and a half centuries ago. He was given the shield by Josephus of Arimathea, the man who provided his own tomb to bury the body of our Savior, Jesus Christ.”
An intense stare from Diocletian warned Januarius not to dwell on the subject of religious beliefs. The bishop quickly continued his explanation.
“It was Josephus who painted this red cross upon the shield with his own blood. It is said that this shield grants the owner heavenly protection.”
Machkiel finally found his voice. “No, Your Grace, I cannot accept this shield. I’m not worthy.”
“Are any of us on this Earth worthy? And yet the Lord gave this shield and the protection of Heaven to Evalach, a mere mortal who had also sinned and fallen short of the Kingdom of Heaven. Surely you must be at least as unworthy as a fallen human?”
Machkiel might have disputed the point, but a sudden mind-whisper from Jesse told him he should just accept the gift. Reluctantly, he did so, thanking the bishop for his thoughtfulness.
After Januarius had left, Diocletian couldn’t help but ask. “An angel needs a shield?”
“Apparently.”
Quiet returned to the imperial tent as both Diocletian and Machkiel lost themselves in thought. Each minute that passed brought the impending battle that much closer.
FORTY
Spinalonga, Crete, 2 a.m. Saturday April 10 1610
Nekhbet landed lightly near the blockhouse that guarded the northernmost point of the island of Spinalonga. She was on high alert, chakram poised and ready to throw, because the Venetian guards manning the blockhouse should have seen her clearly in the light from the full moon.
Nekhbet need not have worried. A minute passed and then a figure emerged from the blockhouse and crossed casually to stand in front of her, relaxed, deliberately unthreatening.
Nekhbet inspected the man who stood so unconcernedly facing her, where many would have quaked with fear. He seemed still relatively young in human years, perhaps four decades at most. His face, clean-shaven but for a pencil-thin moustache, was largely unlined.
The man’s dark curly hair, little constrained by his plumed hat, cascaded untidily to his shoulders where it met a billowing cloak and ill-fitting white shirt. Two pistols were jammed into a sash around his waist, accompanied by a loosely-suspended sword belt. Dark breeches and sturdy boots completed his wardrobe.
“Captain Easton?” Nekhbet asked the question, although she had little doubt about the answer.
“At your service, Darke Warrior.” The new arrival bowed low, removing his hat in an elaborate gesture probably acquired when the now-pirate was still in the service of Queen Elizabeth of England. “Welcome to Spinalonga, gateway to New Phoenicia. I regret that we cannot linger here. We need to begin our journey as soon as possible, we still have many hours ahead of us.”
“Lead the way,” replied Nekhbet, dissolving her wings and relaxing her hold on the chakram.
Together they walked down past the ruins of an old acropolis, arriving in due course at what appeared to be a sheer rock wall.
“ʿayinpē hēnūn dāletʿayin ʿayinrēš” Easton addressed the incantation to the wall, which responded by cracking open to reveal a towering stone door. The pirate captain pushed against the door
, which swung open quietly and surprisingly easily given its size and weight.
Nekhbet followed Easton inside, into a stone chamber lit by flickering torches. The room was empty except for a stairwell on the left that led downward.
The captain beckoned to Nekhbet to follow and headed over to the stairway. As Easton’s foot touched the first step, the entrance door began to move smoothly back into place, closing off access to the outside world.
FORTY-ONE
Spinalonga, Crete, shortly after 2 a.m. Saturday April 10 1610
Nekhbet followed Easton down the winding stairway, which descended further and further into the depths of the earth. Finally, several hundred feet down, the stairway opened into a large chamber.
Easton walked briskly towards a horse-drawn coach that stood waiting at the entrance to what appeared to be a tunnel—evidently one large enough to allow the coach to pass through.
Nekhbet strode over to the coach and then stopped abruptly—the ‘horse’ at the front of the coach was not a real animal. Yes, it was roughly horse-shaped, but instead of limbs it had metal bars, cogs, gears, and wheels. Instead of a torso, it had a barrel. And its head was a glass jar with a brightly-glowing candle inside.
Nekhbet looked over at the pirate captain in confusion.
He was grinning from ear to ear. “Isn’t it great? It’s one of our mechanical horses. They’re much more practical for pulling these carriages through the tunnels. They don’t get tired or hungry or spooked by the darkness, and they can gallop at about three times the speed of real horses.”
Easton pulled open the coach door. “In you get. I’ll sit on the left, that’s where the levers are to control the horse. Not that it needs much controlling,” he added as the pair made themselves comfortable in the coach. “These carriages are designed to slot exactly into the tunnels, so there’s no need to steer. The ‘horse’ goes only one way, forward. Its body is fastened to the carriage, which in turn is guided by the slots in the tunnel walls.”
Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series Page 13
