Nekhbet watched closely as the mechanical creature began to move forward, mimicking the movements of a real horse but steadily gaining speed until it was galloping along at a considerable pace. “Where did it come from,” she asked. “What powers it?”
Easton smiled. “I use it but I don’t know all that much about it,” he admitted. “I gather that we stole the initial designs from the celebrated inventor Leonardo da Vinci, and then our people refined them into this. As for the power—I think the Academy of Secrets helped us with that.”
Nekhbet soon tired of asking questions when it became obvious that the pirate had very little idea exactly how the mechanical marvel operated. There wasn’t much to see on the journey either, just mile after mile of tunnel, barely illuminated by the horse’s candle-powered head.
In the end, Nekhbet sat back, closed her eyes, and exchanged mind-messages with her fellow Darke Warriors.
Several hours later, the pair arrived at New Phoenicia.
FORTY-TWO
Underwater City of New Phoenicia, 8 a.m. Saturday April 10 1610
Even the supposedly blasé inhabitants of New Phoenicia, the impossible underwater city, were startled by the arrival of a real-life demon. They scuttled out of the way as the Darke Warrior Nekhbet emerged from the coach that had conveyed her to the city. She was so tall and so threatening in her all-encompassing armor that her mere presence—along with the pungent brimstone stench—served to clear her path, no small accomplishment in a city populated by the world’s lowlifes.
Captain Easton ushered his guest into the main corridor that connected the coach terminal to the city center. “The coach-tunnel network is not much more than a hundred years old, but the city itself is far older. It dates back nearly two thousand years—” Easton paused for the usual expressions of disbelief that first-time visitors always muttered at this point. Nekhbet was not so easily impressed—she merely raised an eyebrow.
The pirate captain, caught by surprise by his guest’s minimalist reaction, attempted to rework his usual tour guide pitch. “Yes, I know, it’s, umm, interesting. But the first part of the city was originally built as a refuge around 300 B.C. by the race that the ancient Greeks called the Phoenicians but who were better known to our Oldest Enemy as the Canaanites.”
This latest announcement elicited polite murmurings from Nekhbet. She had heard all about those battles from other Darke Warriors.
Easton continued. “New Phoenicia was originally founded by the descendants of the people driven out of the so-called Promised Land in the thirteenth century B.C. by the Jews. The Canaanites resettled on the coast and over the next thousand years became brilliant seafarers and traders. Unfortunately, they were cruelly attacked by Alexander of Macedon—Alexander the ‘Great’, so-called—in 332 BC, and driven from Phoenicia as well. That’s when they built the first part of this city.”
Nekhbet was mildly interested. “How could the Phoenicians build an underwater city, with the few tools that they had two thousand years ago?”
Easton parried this common objection. “You only have to look at the pyramids to see that the ancients weren’t as helpless as we modern-day citizens believe them to be. From what our records show, the Phoenicians started with hollow, bell-shaped devices that they lowered into the water from their ships. The diving bells, open at the bottom, contained plenty of air, so that divers could use them as a basecamp, to dive deeper, and stay down longer while they looked for a suitable trench. They wanted a new home that their enemies could never discover.”
“Obviously they found their trench,” said Nekhbet. “Then what?”
“Then, according to our records, they hauled enormous rocky slabs from the shore and lowered them into place to create a roof over the first trench. From what we can gather, it took as many as ten Phoenician ships harnessed together to haul some of the slabs in place. Quite a few of the Phoenicians’ ships were lost to Mediterranean storms, but after about ten years, they finally had the trench covered over. They then sent down divers to plug the gaps between the slabs, to make the trench as watertight as possible.”
“Very inventive,” said Nekhbet. “But then all they’d have is a covered-over trench full of water.”
“True,” agreed Easton. “But while the main group was covering over the trench, another group was digging connecting tunnels from the mainland. Now that was an engineering feat to compare with the pyramids! I know they lost thousands of men during the digging, and many tunnels simply collapsed from the water pressure. But eventually, I have no idea how, they managed to dig down deep enough, or maybe found the right sort of soil to dig through, to avoid the tunnels flooding with water. They would have had to dig through solid rock in many places, using primitive tools. Finally, after about thirty years of continuous tunneling, they broke through to the trench. Unfortunately, when the breakthrough came, the water from the trench poured out into the tunnel, drowning more than fifty of the Phoenicians working on the excavation—including the man who had dreamed up the whole idea.”
Easton shrugged. “Still—they succeeded. Once the survivors had drained the tunnel and the rest of the trench, they were able to use that as a base for the city. They dug out a number of shafts around the trench, most of which we still use today. In fact, here—” Easton had timed his speech to perfection, reaching a fork in the corridor at precisely the right point. “—here we find ourselves in the oldest part of New Phoenicia.”
The left-hand corridor led to a section carved out of solid rock. Easton paused a few moments to point out where the city’s original excavators had excelled themselves. “You’ll notice these gaps in the walls, where the Phoenicians placed oil lamps to light the way. They carved out the gaps using chisels made of Damascus steel—if we get the chance, I’ll show you some of the chisels, we have a couple in our archive on Level Six.”
“Steel?” asked Nekhbet, “In 300 BC?”
“It came from India,” replied Easton. “The Phoenicians were amazing traders. Supposedly they had regular dealings with India and had acquired some very useful resources as a result.”
The tour continued through the older part of the city, arriving next at the original trench. Nekhbet looked up at the roof with some trepidation. Easton reassured her. “We’ve replaced the rock slabs with more durable materials over the centuries. No need to worry, we’re no longer one seaquake away from catastrophe.”
Because of the manner in which this part of the city had been built around the trench, Nekhbet could look both up and down from her current vantage point, three layers deep.
Easton explained what they were seeing. “The coach terminal connects with New Phoenicia at the third level. The city itself now goes down six levels and we have room to descend beyond that if that should become necessary. Level One is the Command Level, Levels Two and Four are for living quarters, Level Three, which we’re currently on, is for offices and work areas, as well as transportation. Level Five is for—” Easton paused, unsure if he should mention the prison facilities which dominated that level. He quickly decided against doing so.
“Level Five, as I was saying, is for administration, and Level Six, that’s storage and archives, along with our alchemic facilities. That’s where we take water and turn it into two types of air. One we use for breathing, the other for—well, let’s just say that we use it to make our enemies burn.”
“Burning air? Isn’t that dangerous down here?” asked Nekhbet.
“I don’t pretend to understand what’s involved,” admitted Easton. “If you really want to know the details, I’m sure I could get one of our alchemists—”
“No need,” said Nekhbet hastily. “It’s not important. One question I’m sure you’ll be able to answer for me, though,” she added. “Is New Phoenicia still connected to Naples, Spain, France, and England through various tunnels?”
“Of course,” said Easton, “that’s how we can send our people where they need to go so rapidly.”
“Good,” said Nekhb
et. “Those tunnels will become vitally important in the Lost War.”
Satisfied that she had seen enough, Nekhbet turned to her companion. “Now take me to your leader.”
FORTY-THREE
Ten days later
Leaning Tower of Pisa, Duchy of Tuscany [Italy], midday Tuesday April 20 1610
The summit of the famous Leaning Tower of Pisa bustled with people, all seemed to be chattering loudly at the same time—but even so, Chrymos heard Father Carracci clearly enough. She simply couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She looked back at the priest, stunned. “You’re asking me to push Galileo off the top of this tower?”
“I’m not asking you, Chrymos, I’m ordering you,” said Carracci. “What’s the matter? Squeamish? I thought you said you were prepared to do ‘anything’ to become one of the Alchemae?”
Chrymos nodded, still in shock. Yes, she had indeed indicated that she would take on any task, no matter how onerous, to become one of the chosen. But she had never expected this.
Her tutor persisted. “Then follow orders. Carry out the task that I have given you. This is the one chance you have to remain in the Academy and receive the Exousía potion.”
Chrymos felt compelled to ask again. “You really want me to push that man off the top of this tower?”
“Silence, Chrymos! Whisper as if you were sharing sweet nothings with your lover. The people over there may not be able to see us but they are not deaf.”
One push is surely all it will take to push Galileo off the Leaning Tower to his death eight floors below. But am I actually prepared to kill anyone, especially this poor man? From what she had heard from the noisy students around her, Galileo Galilei was nobody special—just a mathematics professor from the University of Padua.
Chrymos and her tutor stood amongst the bells near the summit of the Leaning Tower, about a dozen paces behind Galileo and his students.
Father Carracci had abandoned his usual friar’s outfit for this journey and wore a loose-fitting, plain linen shirt and tan breeches over tall, narrow boots. His shoulder-length blond hair and his beard remained neatly trimmed. When they first began the trip from Naples, Chrymos had been extremely surprised to note that the priest was wearing a sword in his belt, a most unusual choice for a man of the cloth. Upon further reflection, however, she realized that the sword was an integral part of his disguise.
For the moment though, no protective camouflage was needed. Here on the top of the Leaning Tower, despite the midday summer sun, Chrymos and Carracci could not be seen, thanks to the tutor’s alchemy-gifted ability to make himself—and whatever he touched—invisible.
Chrymos continued to wrestle with the instruction given by Father Carracci a moment ago. He could see that she was struggling to obey the order, so he spoke firmly to her again. “Chrymos, you know that if you want to join the Alchemae, you must carry out your designated task. I can finally reveal that task: in a few minutes, when Galileo attempts to drop a cannonball and musket ball from the tower, you must ensure that he is the one who falls. It should only take you a single shove.”
Chrymos glanced over at the group of students clustered around Galileo. From what she had been able to gather from the students’ conversations during the disorienting climb to the top of the Leaning Tower, they were all from his university mathematics classes. When word spread that Galileo might be leaving the University of Padua to take up a post with the Grand Duke of Tuscany, the students had begged their professor for one final favor. Would he replicate his fabled experiment of twenty years prior: dropping a musket ball and a cannonball together from the top of the tower?
Obviously, Galileo had agreed. Unfortunately, that led to the here and now, where she was expected to kill him.
“Why?” Chrymos whispered to her tutor. “Why do you want this man dead? From what those students were saying, he’s simply a mathematics professor.”
“Isn’t that reason enough? Have you never been so angry with a teacher that you wished him dead? From what I can recall from some of my classes, I think you have.”
Carracci had an unexpected twinkle in his eye as he spoke, and Chrymos thought for a hopeful moment that the whole “kill Galileo” order was only a sick joke. Then Carracci continued talking.
“It’s not who Galileo is, it’s what he’s about to do that matters. Last year, he developed a spyglass that enables people to see clearly at long distances. The Contessa has predicted that he will shortly provide such devices to the Outcast Angels, which will aid them greatly in the Lost War. We need to stop him before—wait, the students are heading downstairs to watch the experiment. Get ready to make your move.”
The students were gingerly beginning to make their return journey down the Leaning Tower’s well-worn stairs, so that they could witness the cannonball and musket ball landing together in the courtyard below. Or at least that’s what they’re expecting to see, thought Chrymos. Instead—She could not bring herself to finish the thought.
The students gathered near the top of the stairs, laughing and gesturing as they waited their turn to descend the narrow stairwell. Shortly, Galileo would be alone. Chrymos looked over at the professor. Him or me, she told herself, I have to choose between his future and mine.
She tried to steady herself for the hideous task ahead—even though her every instinct cried out in protest.
FORTY-FOUR
The Margus River, Moesia, dusk, pridie Idus Iulias (July 14) 285 AD
Diocletian’s soldiers were dreading nightfall. As the last rays of the setting sun threatened to abandon the valley walls, they looked around fearfully. They were some of the Roman Empire’s finest soldiers, but they were facing a horror far beyond any of their experiences. It had already been a long day for most—Carinus’ soldiers had attacked in wave after wave, no doubt heartened by the demonic support that they had enjoyed the previous night.
The first sign that the demon had returned came quickly. At the furthest reaches of the valley, where Diocletian’s army had fought mostly fiercely to claim their ground, fresh sounds of fighting rang out. Shouts and cries of pain intermingled with the clash of swords and the unmistakable thud of the demon’s axe as it sliced through the bodies of too many Roman soldiers.
Marcus Augustus was as ready as any military man could expect to be in such circumstances. He had kept several hundred soldiers in reserve, in accordance with Machkiel’s instructions, and he dispatched two hundred of them, led by one of his most trusted centurions, to the scene of the latest outbreak.
While that was happening, Machkiel waited for more complete darkness. He and Diocletian had agreed that, if Diocletian’s soldiers had seen the Outcast Angel fly from the emperor’s tent, they might become even more unsettled and perhaps abandon the fight.
Machkiel was dressed in a light mail shirt that one of the emperor's guardsmen had provided, which he had slipped on over the top of his usual calf-length grey robe. His two concessions to the battle ahead were a gladius—a simple sword sheathed in a belt that dangled over one shoulder—and Evalach’s shield, strapped to the Outcast Angel’s back.
By the time the reservists had reached the battle scene, Ezequeel had slaughtered most of the soldiers holding that position and was preparing to move further up the valley. Instead, the arrival of fresh victims gave him pause. The Darke Warrior wiped his blood-soaked blades on a nearby corpse and prepared to welcome the new arrivals.
Machkiel quietly slipped past the sentries guarding the imperial tent and found a spot from which he could depart unobserved. He summoned his wings, launched himself into the night air, and flew swiftly around the edge of the valley, aiming to attack Ezequeel from the demon’s flank. From the screams and shouts below, Machkiel could hear that the battle was going about as badly as could be expected, given its one-sided nature. Machkiel hovered in place, ready for the next phase.
The centurion gave the prearranged signal and the surviving soldiers swarmed towards the demon, each carrying flaming torches that
would illuminate the area. As a result Machkiel could see the demon clearly.
Machkiel timed his descent carefully, aiming to arrive just before the demon concluded that there were too many soldiers and decided to disappear.
Machkiel very nearly missed his chance. The Darke Warrior began to fade as Machkiel reached him. Fortunately, the Outcast Angel was close enough to seize Ezequeel’s arm, and Machkiel too began to fade.
A moment or an eternity later, both arrived together in Nowhen.
FORTY-FIVE
Nowhen
Nowhen—a place outside of time, outside of space. An infinite environment inhabited by Kingdom Angels, from whence they could observe the whole of Creation and then travel instantly to any day, any place, to fulfil the Word. A human description of Nowhen would necessarily fail—but think of it, perhaps, as an endless Garden of Eden. Trees and plants of every shade and hue, watched over not by a few meagre stars but by boundless light pouring in from the entire universe.
After the failed Rebellion, all the rebels had been barred from Nowhen, and if they lingered for very long, both Ezequeel and Machkiel would soon be evicted.
Ezequeel was stunned. He found himself facing a full-blown angel. “How did you—?” he began, then instantly realized. “Of course, you’re one of the Outcasts. I should have realized that someone like you would be hanging around a loser like Diocletian. You’ve chosen the wrong side, Outcast, Diocletian will be history when I bring back the true emperor.”
All the while that he was speaking, Ezequeel was preparing to jump again. He had simply been waiting to allow the healing environment of Nowhen to minister to his various bruises and cuts, including one particularly deep slash that a lucky soldier had inflicted after slipping past Ezequeel’s defenses.
Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series Page 14
