Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series

by Carney, Michael

  “”

  “Charming,” muttered Chrymos.

  Carracci looked over at her for the first time. “What did you say?”

  “I said ‘charming,’ the way that you’re talking about me. I’m not dead yet, you know.”

  “,” asked Della Porta.

  “I may be dying but I’m not deaf.” Chrymos broke off, noticing how shocked the pair looked. “Oh—you were speaking in your secret Mystikó language, weren’t you?”

  “We were,” said Carracci, “but somehow you understood us. How is that possible?”

  “Oh, didn’t I mention it before?” Chrymos tried not to grimace as a fresh burst of pain shot through her. “I swallowed a little dose of Exousía potion while I was up in the Tower. Turns out I can now understand languages.” She coughed and shuddered simultaneously. “Not for long, I guess.”

  Carracci and Della Porta exchanged glances that were simultaneously incredulous and hopeful. “The manuscript?” said Carracci.

  “Perhaps,” said Della Porta cautiously. He turned to Chrymos. “I need to evaluate your supposed ability. If it proves valuable to us, then you just might survive after all.”

  “I thought you said that there isn’t a cure,” said Chrymos.

  “That was before I realized that you might still be of some slight use to us,” replied Della Porta.

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, night, Monday, June 21 1610

  Della Porta reached over to a nearby shelf, selected a book, and opened it on his desk. Then he took out a fresh piece of parchment and carefully wrote a note, referring to the book as he did so.

  Then he closed the book and turned to Carracci. “Bring her to the desk.”

  The priest walked over to Chrymos and reached out to help. She shrugged off his assistance. “I can do this myself,” she said and slowly, painfully, stood up and shuffled over to the desk.

  “Read this back to me,” said Della Porta, pointing to the newly-written parchment.

  He moved aside and watched intently as Chrymos began reading from the parchment. “Natural Magick by Giambattista Della Porta”. She looked up at the Master. “You’ve translated your own book into Mystikó. I never did get around to reading the book in class, so let’s see if it’s any good.”

  Chrymos lifted up the piece of parchment, supposedly to see it better—but in reality so that she could see what other documents Della Porta had on his desk.

  She resumed reading aloud, pausing occasionally as if stumbling over words, in reality snatching brief moments to look down at another piece of parchment on the desk that carried tantalizing notes.

  “What is the Nature of Magic? There are two sorts of Magick; the one is—” The parchment on the desk is headed ‘Possibilities in the tomb’.

  “—infamous, and unhappy, because it has to do with foul Spirits, and consists of incantations and wicked curiosity; and this is called—” There’s a list. ‘The Thirteenth Chronicle.’

  —Sorcery; an art which all learned and good men detest; neither is it able to yield an truth of reason or nature, but stands merely upon fancies and imaginations, such as vanish presently away, and leave nothing behind them; as—” ‘The pathgem.’

  “—Jamblicus writes in his book concerning the mysteries of the Egyptians. The other Magick is natural; which all excellent wise men do admit and embrace, and worship with great applause; neither is there anything more highly esteemed, or better thought of, by men of learning—” ‘The Key to the Abyss.’

  Before Chrymos could read any further, Della Porta walked over, took the parchment out of her hand, and placed it back on the desk, obscuring her view of the list below.

  “Enough. You’ve demonstrated your ability sufficiently. Go and sit down.”

  Disappointed that she wasn’t able to read more of the mysterious list, Chrymos slowly returned to her chair. By the time that she was seated again, Della Porta held a loosely-bound pile of papers in his hand.

  “We call this the Medici manuscript, because of where it was found. We want you to translate the document for us. If you agree to the task, we will give you a medication to dull the pain. If you complete your work successfully we will provide you with another medicine that will cure you completely.”

  Chrymos was finally in a position to do something for Olivia, Sirus, and Madalena. “Your offer is an acceptable starting point. But I will only translate the document if you free the children.”

  “What children?” asked Della Porta, genuinely puzzled.

  “The ones in the mortality room—those three on whom you are about to experiment.”

  “Oh, those—the brats that you were living with. Very well, then, if that’s what it takes to get you to carry out the translation, certainly we will spare them.”

  “I need you to release them,” demanded Chrymos. “Tonight. Right now. I haven’t much time, you know.”

  “I said ‘Yes,’” snapped Della Porta. “My word is enough.”

  “No it’s not,” said Chrymos. “I want Adric to take them into the city and set them free. He’s the only person here that I trust.”

  “Alas,” said Carracci, “Adric—isn’t available.” Before Chrymos could protest, the priest held up one hand. “He’s on a mission. But I do have an alternative. Sister Maria Benedetta—the nun who brought you back from Paris—could take the children into the city. Do you agree?”

  Chrymos had fond, if foggy, memories of the nun who had cared for her while she was entranced, including a few hazy and extremely one-sided conversations. “Yes, she is acceptable.”

  “Very well,” said Della Porta. He turned to Carracci. “Make it so.” The priest nodded and left the Master’s office.

  Della Porta crossed to a side table and poured some purple liquid into a goblet. He handed the goblet to Chrymos. “Drink this. It will give you some relief from the pain. Then get started on the manuscript. As you said, you don’t have much time.”

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  Nearly one hundred and fifty years earlier

  Verrocchio’s workshop, Florence [Italy], September 1 1469

  Andrea del Verrocchio was behaving strangely that day, all his apprentices remarked upon it—but not until he was well out of earshot. Verrocchio was supposed to be crafting the golden palla for the Duomo, but instead he wandered around aimlessly, standing behind each apprentice in turn and peering silently over their shoulders at their latest painting or sculpture. The whole experience was most unsettling.

  Verrocchio came over and stood behind eighteen-year-old Leonardo da Vinci on four separate occasions, scrutinizing his work intently. Then, finally, a fifth time, Verrocchio bent low and whispered in Leonardo’s ear. “Come with me.”

  Bemused, Leonardo followed Verrocchio outside the workshop. “Leonardo,” said Verrocchio quietly once they were alone, “I have a very, very important job for you—but it must be completed in total secrecy and you must promise never, ever to speak of it to anyone. Are you willing to do this?”

  Da Vinci may have only been a teenager, but even so, he recognized the enormity of the vow he would be required to swear. “Is this a right and just task in the sight of God?”

  Verrocchio nodded briskly. “This is easily the most important task you will ever undertake—and in doing so you will totally serve the will of the Father.”

  “Then of course I am prepared to take on this assignment, and to swear total and utter secrecy, in the name of Almighty God.”

  Satisfied with his apprentice’s response, Verrocchio beckoned for da Vinci to accompany him and they set off through the streets of Florence, arriving shortly at a stately home. Leonardo recognized the property at once. “This is the home of your patron—”


  Verrocchio finished the sentence: “—Piero di Cosimo de’ Medici, the deeply revered Gonfaloniere of Justice. Indeed it is. And he has a vital commission that I have chosen you to fulfil.”

  A smartly-clad servant admitted the pair to the house, disappeared briefly to confer with his master. He returned a few minutes later to indicate that the visitors should wait in a lavishly decorated antechamber until de’ Medici was ready to receive them. Da Vinci looked about in wonder.

  Shortly, the two men were led into the bedchamber of the Florentine leader. The old man was clearly ill but his intelligent gaze was undiminished as he inspected his visitors.

  Verrocchio introduced his apprentice and then announced that he would leave the pair alone to discuss their business.

  De’ Medici waited until Verrocchio had departed before he started to explain exactly what was required. He beckoned to Leonardo to come closer and half-croaked, half-whispered into the young artist’s ear.

  EIGHTY-NINE

  The mansion of Piero di Cosimo de’ Medici, Florence, September 1 1469

  “I am dying,” de’ Medici whispered to his visitor, “and there is one secret that must not die with me—but which is too dangerous to remain in its current form.”

  De’ Medici started coughing, and Leonardo fetched a goblet of water, which the old man gratefully accepted. De’ Medici sipped some water and then resumed his tale.

  “This secret concerns a very special ‘book of the dead’ which has been in the possession of my family for nearly three centuries. The document itself is a thousand years old and the pages are crumbling away. I fear the document will soon turn to dust. Its contents must be preserved.”

  More coughing. Leonardo waited patiently until the coughing fit had passed and de’ Medici continued.

  “The document reveals the location of a tomb that is vitally important to the future of Christendom. No,” the old man said, holding up his hand to stop Leonardo from interrupting, “not the tomb of the Savior, but one nearly as important. This tomb holds secrets that could either destroy or save us all.”

  The old man paused for another drink of water. Leonardo had the impression that the elder statesman had not spoken so much since contracting his illness.

  “I asked Verrocchio to choose an apprentice he trusted, one who could copy the contents while concealing them behind an unbreakable code. Are you that man, Leonardo da Vinci? Do you have the skills necessary to protect these secrets from those who worship death and destruction?”

  NINETY

  The mansion of Piero di Cosimo de’ Medici, Florence, September 1 1469

  “Yes, of course,” Leonardo told the dying Gonfaloniere. “I will hide those secrets so deeply that only those with the key to the code will be able to decipher what is written. And even they may struggle, unless they are actually near the tomb itself.”

  # # #

  The young Leonardo worked for nearly three months on that sacred task, firstly developing and refining an unbreakable code and then using that code to translate the text of the Book of the Dead into impossible letters and symbols. He rendered the instructions that explained how to find the tomb within simplistic illustrations of plants and people and stars. The resulting manuscript, provided to a grateful Piero di Cosimo de’ Medici shortly before he died, bore no resemblance to the original book of the dead. Leonardo had personally fed that perilous document page by page into a raging fire.

  # # #

  Half a century later, as the sixty-eight-year-old Leonardo lay on his deathbed, he instructed his assistant Francesco to send a sealed package to the Vatican Secret Archive. The package bore a simple note. “This contains the solitary key to the de’ Medici manuscript. Keep it safe.”

  Unfortunately, the code that Leonardo had worked so diligently to create would not remain unbroken forever.

  NINETY-ONE

  Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, night, Monday June 21 1610

  Chrymos was not willing to begin work on the manuscript until she was satisfied that the children were safe. Father Carracci returned with the news that they were in Sister Maria Benedetta’s care, soon to be taken into the city. Even then, Chrymos demanded to be taken to the balcony overlooking the main gate, from where she could watch the carriage that was taking the children to safety. Thanks to the lanterns mounted on the carriage, she could see all three children, sitting alongside the nun. Sirus looks okay, I guess they didn’t actually give him the plague.

  Chrymos waited until the carriage was safely out of sight before she returned to Della Porta’s office.

  “Thank you,” she said to the Master. “At least now the children are safe. But why would you give people the plague intentionally?”

  Della Porta frowned. “Foolish girl! We’re not giving anyone the plague. Doctor Odaldi is attempting to develop cures to help plague victims. How could you possibly believe otherwise?”

  Chrymos wasn’t convinced, but there was no point in arguing. She began to examine the document.

  “Can you tell me any more about this—what did you call it—Medici manuscript?” asked Chrymos. “Where did you get it?”

  “I can tell you,” said Della Porta, “that before it came into our possession, the manuscript belonged to the Holy Roman emperor Rudolf II. A short time ago, the emperor loaned it to some of our—enemies. As it happens, we were able to retrieve it from their care.”

  “How old is it, do you know?”

  Della Porta looked at Carracci. The priest answered reluctantly. “According to Vatican records, the best guess is that it is between one hundred and two hundred years old.”

  Chrymos thumbed through the document, surprised to find that there were already translation notes attached to most pages. She looked across at Della Porta. “You’ve already translated parts of this document?”

  “We’ve been working on this for more than a month,” admitted the Academy’s leader. “Father Carracci was able to call on some assistance from colleagues in the Vatican, who had access to certain documents in the secret archives. There are still a number of gaps in our knowledge with which we hope you will be able to help. In particular, there are very few directions to help us find—” Della Porta broke off, unwilling to share the secret with someone he knew was not committed to their cause.

  “I’ll find out soon enough, you know,” Chrymos pointed out, “once I translate the document. So you might as well tell me now, to speed up the process.”

  Della Porta and Carracci looked at each other. “True enough,” Carracci reluctantly conceded, leaving Della Porta to tell the story.

  “Thirteen hundred years ago, in the third century after the birth of Our Lord, there was a mighty battle between a demon and what we now understand to have been an Outcast Angel,” explained the Master.

  Chrymos listened intently as Della Porta continued. “According to contemporary reports, the demon was defeated and its corpse paraded in front of the enemies of the eventual victor, emperor Diocletian. The angel is assumed to have flown away.”

  Carracci chimed in. “However, we have learned otherwise. According to Church records, the angel perished as well.”

  “How is that possible?” asked Chrymos. “Aren’t angels immortal?”

  “Kingdom Angels are, according to Holy Scripture,” agreed Carracci, “but this was an Outcast Angel, one who had been exiled from Heaven after the Great Rebellion. Who knows what the rules are for those banished by Almighty God?”

  Della Porta continued. “Until very recently, all we knew about what might have happened to the angel were rumors and legends, most of them based on comments supposedly made by one of the Roman soldiers who took away the body. Father Carracci’s Vatican contacts have now discovered that the body was entrusted for burial to Bishop Januarius—better known to us all as the patron saint of Naples, San Gennaro.”

  “Normally, that would be the end of the matter,” added Carracci, “but one of the bishop’s assistants was secretly a member of the Broth
erhood of Judas.”

  “They’re part of the Council of Four, aren’t they?” Chrymos struggled to remember an old lecture that Carracci had given a few months earlier.

  “Ah, you were listening,” said Carracci. “Yes, they are—although they were much more powerful thirteen hundred years ago than they are now. Anyway, their spy followed an old Egyptian tradition and wrote a ‘book of the dead,’ supposedly to help the spirit find its way out of the tomb—but in fact to help the Brotherhood find the body and defeat any safeguards that the Church might have put in place to protect it.”

  “Ironically,” added Della Porta, “the Brotherhood’s spy was executed by the Romans before the ‘book of the dead’ could be handed over to the Brotherhood. Supposedly, Diocletian began persecuting Christians because Januarius wouldn’t tell him where the angel’s body was buried—yet one of the first few to be executed would have readily shared that information if anyone had listened.”

  “So what happened to the book?” asked Chrymos.

  “We don’t know,” said Della Porta. “It was lost from sight until the fifteenth century, when it was listed as part of the estate of Cosimo de’ Medici of Florence. When his heir Piero died in 1469, the book was gone and this manuscript was listed in its place.

  “We now believe that this is an encrypted copy of the original book. If we can decode it properly, it should reveal where the body is buried.”

  Chrymos was stunned. An actual angel, just like the one I saw in Pisa? She tried to think through the implications.

  Della Porta wasn’t finished. “From what we’ve translated of the manuscript so far, we’ve been able to confirm that the body was indeed buried here in Naples, in what’s now called the Catacombs of San Gennaro—our nearest neighbors.” He smiled. “We’ve been looking for the angel’s body for a great many years—my grandfather started the quest nearly a hundred years ago.