“If the Apocalypse is at hand,” said Brother Elias, “perhaps we should welcome it.”
Brother Leo concurred. “The righteous need not fear the end of the world.”
“A fine argument in favor of evil,” said William. “Why not do the Devil’s work, if it will speed the Second Coming?”
“I did not mean—”
“Of course not. I cast no aspersions. But Christ will return in His own good time. As for us, the matter is clear: if we can fight the Devil, we must.”
“But must we be fools? We cannot fight the Devil in his domain.”
“The world is his domain.”
“You ask too much,” said Brother Sebastian. “You risk too much. Are you prepared to lose everything?”
“Everything but my soul.”
“Even your life, Brother William?”
“I have given my life to God. He may claim it when He will.”
Giovanni sat by the hearth with William and Brother Elias after the others had gone to their rooms.
“There is a technique known to the contemplative masters of the north,” said William. “It is simply this: fix your thought upon a single word.”
“What word?” Giovanni asked.
“For some it is ‘God’. For others, ‘love’. It must be short, and have a deep and special meaning for you.”
Brother Elias nodded. “And what is your word, Brother William?”
“Hope.”
Without warning the church door opened, welcoming the wind and the leaves and a hermit cloaked in rags. The stranger closed the door and joined the other men by the fire. He kept his cowl up, his features hidden. Giovanni studied the stranger’s hands as they took in the warmth of the fire. They were soft hands, uncalloused by wheat fields or battlefields. The hands of a scholar.
The stranger said, “Are you the men who asked for Cola di Rienzo?”
Giovanni answered, “Are you the man we seek?”
“I am a man who can deliver a message.”
“My message is for Rienzo,” said Giovanni. “I must give it to him personally.”
“Who sent you?”
“Francesco Petrarch.”
The hermit considered this a moment before speaking. “When he gave you this message, what else did he say?”
“He quoted our Lord Jesus Christ: ‘et dicebat eis vobis datum est mysterium regni Dei illis autem qui foris sunt in parabolis omnia fiunt ut videntes videant et non videant et audientes audiant et non intellegant nequando convertantur et dimittantur eis peccata.’”
The hermit nodded, then translated the passage into the vernacular: “And He said to them, ‘To you it is given to know the mystery of the kingdom of God, but to those outside it is preached in parables, so that those who see will not perceive, and those who hear will not comprehend, lest they be converted and their sins forgiven.’”
The stranger pulled back the hood of his robe to reveal his gaunt face. He was a handsome man of middle years, with a clean-shaven head and kind eyes.
“I am Cola di Rienzo.”
CHAPTER 18
Rienzo broke the wax seal and opened the letter. “Is this a jape?”
“What’s wrong?” Giovanni asked.
Rienzo showed him the message. It was blank.
Giovanni wondered if the words were written in lemon juice. “Hold it closer to the light,” he suggested, but further examination revealed nothing.
Rienzo set the paper aside. “Tell me everything Francesco said. Start from the beginning.”
They were still discussing this when Marco entered, bearing the Lance. “I heard we had a visitor.”
Rienzo stared at the new arrival. A look of doubt melted into a smile. “Marco.” He hugged the knight and kissed him on both cheeks.
Marco looked bewildered. “You know me?”
Rienzo laughed. “If I’m not mistaken, old friend, you are the message.”
When the others had gone to their cells for the night, Marco followed Rienzo to his hermitage cut from the hill. The interior was not built for two. Marco sat outside the entrance as Rienzo spoke from within.
“Be my captain again. You could have your old life back.”
“I know nothing of that life,” Marco said.
“The people still love me and pray for my return.”
“They pray for survival.”
“And I will give it to them. A return to the days of milk and honey. With you at my side, we could rebuild the empire.”
Rienzo spoke of former days. Marco listened with interest, hoping to hear the truth in Rienzo’s words, but the knight remembered nothing of their journey to Avignon to meet Pope Clement VI, nor of Rienzo’s coronation as tribune of Rome, nor of slaying Stephen Colonna at the San Lorenzo gate. These were legends from another man’s past.
Rienzo sighed. He set his gaze upon on the Lance. “Tell me, Marco. What is that weapon?”
“Nadja believes it is the Holy Lance.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Petrarch’s collection.”
“My collection,” Rienzo said.
Marco did not argue the point. “He let me choose one from the others.”
“How did you choose?”
“Blindly. I found it on a little table in the hall. One of those iron heads without a shaft. When I touched it, I thought I felt something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. A chill, maybe. A ripple in my soul.”
“The Holy Spirit?”
The words meant nothing to Marco. He let them die on the wind, and said, “Whatever it was, I have not felt it since.”
Rienzo returned to his theme. “Will you join me in Rome?”
“I’m tired. Let me think on it.”
“Think quickly, Marco. We’ve done great things together, you and I, but there is much to be done. I’ve been too long on the mountain. Now this drought. Now this pestilence. The world is weak without me. Rome is a ruin. No more. Even Moses came down from the mountain. It is time, my friend. Time for action. Time for old partners to forge new dreams.”
When he returned to his own cell, Marco spent hours pondering which course he should take: the pilgrim’s path or Rienzo’s revolution. He fell asleep without an answer, and woke the next morning without the Lance.
“It’s gone,” he said.
William set aside his porridge bowl. “What is?”
“The Lance. The Holy Lance.”
That brought the friar to his feet. “How?”
“Rienzo took it in the night.”
They hurried to Rienzo’s hermitage and found it empty. Marco saw the writing on the wall: mane thecel phares. The words were scratched into stone. “What does it mean?”
William studied the markings. “It means the empire will fall. Rienzo lost his power, but not his ambition.”
“Now he has the Holy Lance.”
“If we hurry, we can catch him.”
Marco was first to reach the shepherd’s hut where they had stored their supplies. Ash, his grey destrier, was tied to a tree near Nadja’s palfrey, the packhorse, and the donkey.
Giovanni’s horse was missing.
Marco saw tracks leading northwest around the mountain, hoof prints that did not retrace the spoor rising up from the valley. If Rienzo had been more clever than impatient, he would have followed the old tracks down, then split off from them at the river crossing.
He’s a fool. Determined to prove it, Marco mounted his destrier and gave chase.
Before noon he spotted the thief watering his stolen horse in the river valley. Marco dismounted and led Ash quietly down, hoping to get close to his quarry before Rienzo was alerted. The destrier was tired, the palfrey better rested. Rienzo’s horse would be faster, and bore a lighter burden, but could not match the strength of Marco’s mount. In a flat race the palfrey would win, but in this valley, with only deer trails wending the craggy hills, both horses would be slowed. If Rienzo chose to climb out of the valley, Ash’s str
ength would prove decisive.
Rienzo stood at the riverbank with his back turned to Marco. The man spoke to an imagined crowd, rehearsing some oration. Marco did not catch the words. Occasionally Rienzo raised his arms high, with the Holy Lance in one hand, shaking it with righteous indignation.
Ash kicked up a stone. Rienzo turned with a start. Marco raised an open palm. “Hello, down there!” He smiled and kept walking the horse at an easy pace. A little closer.
Rienzo seemed unsure for a moment, then he jumped on the palfrey and raced away, following the river down.
And so it begins. Marco let him go. Reaching the river’s edge, the knight and his mount drank together. It would be a long pursuit, Marco knew, and he did not want his horse to die beneath him. He walked ahead of Ash for the next half hour, scanning the hills to either side, looking for signs that Rienzo had taken another way, but the quickest route was down the valley and Rienzo’s fear would keep him riding fast.
When the stream ran straight and the ground was good, Marco picked up the pace, jogging on the trail with the reins in his hands and the war horse trotting behind him. After an hour Marco’s legs grew tired and he mounted up. The destrier felt strong beneath him, well-rested despite the miles behind. Marco kicked the horse’s flank to put the wind in his mane.
The valley spilled into a rough plain that stretched for a mile before dropping in the distance. Not far into the field a rider urged on a sluggish horse, which had wearied to a walk. Marco could not tell if the horse was blown.
Let’s find out.
Ash was a war horse bred to carry armored knights in short battle charges. He was unaccustomed to long runs. Marco wore no armor, but Ash was already sweating. Still has some kick in him, Marco thought, hoping it was true. He had not yet tested the charger’s top speed. He did so now, giving the horse his stride, using the last of the downhill slope to propel them together across the plain.
Rienzo’s horse was slow to start, and did not reach full gallop until Marco was nearly upon them. The palfrey kept half a length ahead, lathered and panting hard. Dry grass whipped past both horses in a blur.
Looking ahead, Marco saw where the field ended, giving way to open sky, but he did not know what lay beyond the edge. Heedless, he kicked his horse harder and screamed into the wind.
The two horses were nearly abreast, with Ash on the left closing the gap when Marco grabbed the palfrey’s tail and gave it a yank. The horse cried out but did not slow.
Rienzo looked back. Marco saw something flash in the sun. The point of the Lance came straight at him, a jab that might have killed him or knocked him from his mount, but Marco leaned back from the blow and the Lance pierced the air.
Marco grabbed where the wooden shaft joined the iron head. He tried to wrest it away but Rienzo held on. They struggled with the Lance between them, each trying to knock the other from their steed. Marco’s left eye nearly caught the point of the weapon, but he dodged and it only grazed his cheek.
Looking back, Rienzo could not see where the field dropped into a ravine. Marco saw it. So did the horses. The palfrey, not waiting for a command, turned sharply to the right. Marco reined his horse to the left. The knight had a better grip on the contested weapon, and when the horses separated the Lance came with him.
So did Rienzo. The mad hermit gave up the horse for the Lance, and was dragged over rough ground. The resistance pulled Marco from his own horse, and the two men went rolling together to the edge of the ravine.
Rienzo tumbled into the chasm, holding the Lance. Marco nearly went with him, but clawed the ground to a stop. When the dust blew past him, his head jutted out over the cliff. His right arm was over the edge, the Lance in hand. Rienzo dangled from the shaft. The drop was no more than thirty feet. A man might fall and live to tell it in a tavern, but Marco liked his chances better where he was.
“Climb up,” he shouted.
Rienzo got a toehold and Marco pulled him to safety. Rienzo did not release the Lance. Marco put a boot to Rienzo’s throat, choking him until the madman let go, sputtering.
Ash grazed a short way off. Marco went to fetch the horse and heard Rienzo at his back: “Traitor! Thief! To the Devil with you, Marco! That’s what he wants! That’s what he’s waiting for!”
Marco left him there. He walked the horses back across the field and up the river valley, harried by the echo of Rienzo’s curse.
CHAPTER 19
The pilgrims spent a night in the abbey of Monte Cassino before continuing south on the forest road toward Cumae.
“Look,” said Nadja.
William glanced up and saw corpses in the trees: men, women, and children dangling from nooses, their flesh consumed by scavengers and time. The friar thought of a chandler’s daughter in his home village of Ockham. He had just arrived at Oxford when he heard the news of Evette’s death. She had hanged herself from the tree that had sheltered their first kiss. Mea culpa, he thought. Peccavi.
“Twenty-four by my count,” Giovanni said.
William stopped counting at one. He had witnessed such horrors in Bavaria after the onset of the pestilence. Too many people had been burned or hanged or stoned by mobs. On Saint Valentine’s Day, in the city of Strasbourg, more than two thousand were burned alive.
Marco dismissed the corpses with a word. “Thieves.”
“No,” said William. “Jews.”
They rode in silence through the forest of the dead.
“Maybe a mile to the lake,” Giovanni said as they rode down the somber streets of Cumae.
“What’s that smell?” Nadja asked.
“Solfatarra. Boils up from the lake. The horses might get skittish. Better to leave them here and walk the last mile.”
They stabled the horses in town and transferred what was left of their supplies to the donkey. Giovanni cut the coins from his shoes and offered to buy his friends a drink in Tavern Avernus before they set out.
The taproom was crowded and noisy. William called to the tapman, “Beer! Have you any beer?”
“No beer,” the tapman said. “Not since the troubles. Are you Hungarian?”
“English by way of Bavaria.”
The man shrugged. “German merchants don’t get this far south. Not these days.”
“What are you serving?”
“Lachryma Christi.”
“Tears of Christ,” said William.
“You know the story?”
“I know Latin. What’s the story?”
The tapman said, “When Lucifer was cast down from Heaven, he fell to Mount Vesuvius.”
“That’s the big mountain across the bay?”
The tapman nodded. “From there the Devil began his reign of terror. Jesus wept. A single tear fell from Heaven and landed on the mountainside. From that one tear grew a vine, and from that vine the blessed grapes, and from those grapes: Lachryma Christi.”
“A fine story. Pour me some tears.”
Christ’s tears were flowing freely when William began to bellow a drinking song:
Meum est propositum in taberna mori
ubi vina proxima morientis ori.
Giovanni joined in:
Tunc cantabunt laetius angelorum chori:
Deus sit propitius isti potatori, isti potatori.
Soon they were both on top of the tables, Giovanni leaping from one to the next as William stomped his feet and rattled the cups, dancing to music from a minstrel who had caught the tune. When the words ran out, the singers sat down laughing.
The tapman offered another round, but Giovanni said the money, too, was at an end.
A smile died on William’s lips and he asked with a sudden sobriety, “How do we get to Lake Avernus?”
“Avernus?” The tapman looked skeptical. “Nothing there.”
“The temple of Apollo,” Giovanni said.
“The cave of the Sibyl,” Nadja added.
The tapman shook his head. “Stay away from that place.”
Marco asked, “Why?”
/> “It’s evil. Poison in the air. Venom in the wind. A foul miasma lingers in those hills. Nothing survives in Avernus. Ground without grass. Lake without fish. Sky without birds. A dead place. An evil place.”
William downed the last of his tears, wiped his lips with a tattered sleeve, and thunked his mug on the tabletop.
“So how do we get there?”
Nadja followed Giovanni and the others into the cave. The entrance was not what she had expected. In her dreams she saw a trapezoidal tunnel. This was cut from the rock in a wide arch. She whispered to Giovanni, “It’s not the right cave.”
“We’re not there yet,” he answered. “This tunnel connects Cumae to Lake Avernus.”
“You could move an army through here,” Marco noted.
“They did. Octavian built it during Mark Antony’s rebellion.”
The tunnel was a mile long, at least. Nadja saw Latin graffiti. Giovanni swept his torch along the walls, laughing at the dirty jokes and naughty verses, which William urged him not to translate. The pictures, however, spoke for themselves. Nadja tried to look like she wasn’t looking.
When they emerged into daylight, her nostrils were assaulted by sulfurous fumes. She could see Lake Avernus below: a circular pool in a volcanic crater.
Giovanni led the company south along the crater’s edge. The lake was not as bleak as the tapman had imagined. Nadja saw no birds, but dragonflies thrummed the air. Some of the trees still lived. The grass was dry but plentiful, a testament to the fertility of the former season.
Not dead, she thought, merely dying.
Giovanni stood with Nadja in the Temple of Apollo, looking at the columns and the ancient stone walls, thinking, The old gods have fled and left behind their shells.
Nadja’s voice behind him: “I saw you in the Devil’s lair.”
“A false dream,” he said. “I’m going to Naples.”
“In my vision, you went with us. You talked to a dead man. He had a bag of gold around his neck.”
Devil's Lair Page 13
