Scarlet From Gold (Book 3)

by Jeffrey Quyle

  The stairs were narrow and winding, but Gaspar led Marco without pause, and they reached an upper level balcony within five minutes. The balcony ran around the perimeter of the bell tower’s interior, and provided views to the choir and the nave below, as the sounds of the practicing singers rose up to them. All around the balcony on the exterior walls there were paintings of angels and pastoral scenes, beautifully painted on large wall panels, with many characters painted life-sized or greater.

  “The artist tells us that this is exactly how heaven looks,” Gaspar told Marco as he stood and examined the murals. “He had a dream with these visions.

  “Down in the catacombs there are paintings of hell as well. Would you like to see those?” Gaspar asked, eager to show off more of the basilica.

  Marco followed Gaspar as he plunged down the stairs back to where Colonna sat. “We’re going down into the catacombs now,” he told the nobleman.

  “I’ll go back to the hotel then, if you’ll send Marco to join me when you’re done giving him your tour,” Colonna said as he rose to his feet.

  Gaspar happily led Marco back into the nave, then off to the side, where a set of stone stairs unobtrusively descended down into a dim netherworld beneath the cathedral. Gaspar picked up a lantern, one of several that sat on a shelf. “These burn a special oil, one that emits no smoke, so the paintings remain clean,” the friar explained as he lit one lantern for himself, then lit a second one and handed it to Marco.

  The catacombs were a forest of massive stone pillars; Gaspar wove a path among them, then climbed down a second set of stairs that led to a series of chambers set between rows of thick walls that supported the pillars above.

  “Here are the paintings of hell,” Gaspar claimed.

  Marco held his lantern high, and began walking around among the murals with interest. There were three general themes, he noted. Many paintings focused on hell itself, with devils and demons and flames and tortured souls; Marco walked past those he saw with little interest.

  Other paintings depicted the entrances to the underworld, and Marco lingered before three in particular, paintings that all had accurate portrayals of Charon and his boat, as well as the cavern entrance just below the surface at Station Island. There was one painting of Persephone’s Gate as well, with an exceedingly realistic portrait of Thanatos, standing guard – Marco almost imagined that he could see the wings of the guardian slowly beating.

  “You have a good eye for art,” Gaspar said, coming to stand next to Marco and holding his lantern up to help illuminate the painting. “These three paintings were all works of a single artist.”

  “He knew what he was doing,” Marco said softly. “Who was he?”

  “To this day, we do not know. He came and started painting without anyone’s knowledge or permission many years ago, and once the authorities found him, they decided his work was worth keeping,” Gaspar said.

  Marco continued on to where one of the paintings from the third theme portrayed the life of the souls in the underworld. There were buildings and streets and seeming organization, nothing like what Marco’s visits to the underworld had revealed, but he kept his criticism bottled up. They turned a corner to start to return to their stairwell back up, and came upon a painting that again depicted hell. There were many souls suffering torment, but central to the large painting was a demon that had a very human face, a face whose expression was one of cruelty beyond imagination.

  Marco stopped in front of the painting, then stepped back to get a better perspective on it. The face of the demon seemed uncomfortably familiar.

  “He’s the sorcerer!” Marco said suddenly, recognizing the face.

  “What’s that?” Gaspar asked. “I never like to look at this painting long; it’s the most frightening one down here, I think.”

  “That demon – his face is the face of a sorcerer who is in Athens, helping with the occupation of the city,” Marco tried to explain his comment.

  “This painting is a hundred years old,” Gaspar protested.

  “Maybe so,” Marco said, worried. “But that is the face of Iamblichus.”

  At the mention of the sorcerer’s name the light from both their lanterns sputtered, then went out, leaving Gaspar and Marco in profound darkness. There was the sound of a man’s laugh very nearby. Without hesitation, Marco pulled his sword free, and lifted his hand to cast light upon their predicament.

  The demon had moved within the picture during the darkness. He still looked out at them, but now his hands were stretched in front of him, as though he were reaching towards them.

  “Oh my God!” Gaspar cried.

  “Stay!” Marco shouted. “By all that is holy I beseech the strength of the saints in this basilica to hold you within the frame of that painting!”

  He felt a gust of frigid wind blow outward from the painting, a blast so strong that it knocked Marco and Gaspar off their feet. Marco jumped up with his sword ready to stab and slash the canvas, but when he rose he saw that the demon had returned to its original pose in the painting.

  “Heaven help us!” Gaspar cried.

  “I think it just did,” Marco replied.

  “Your hand! How does it glow?” Gaspar suddenly realized the additional impossibility that was present in the ancient space beneath the basilica, and he started fearfully running in the direction of the stairs, only to realize that as he separated himself from Marco he lost the benefit of the light of Marco’s hand.

  Marco remained in front of the painting, studying it for another moment to make sure the demon didn’t start to move again, then he left the painting behind and began to follow the direction Gaspar had gone, just as anxious as the friar to leave the painting behind.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Gaspar asked in despair as Marco caught up with him, his hand providing the only illumination available.

  “Not unless you try to kill me first,” Marco tried to use gentle humor. Rattled as he was by the occurrence at the painting, he realized that for Gaspar it was an even more frightening event. “Let’s get back up above ground. Lead the way.”

  The friar happily obliged, and when they returned to the main floor of the basilica, lanterns were being lit as the sun set outside.

  “I’d prefer to have nice bright sunshine. That was horrible! I didn’t just imagine it, did I?” Gaspar asked as they stood in the nave, breathing heavily from their hurried climb.

  “No, that was not imagination,” Marco said grimly. “We’re lucky we were in such a holy place and had so much power to call upon.”

  “How did you know that demon?” Gaspar asked.

  “He is a sorcerer; one who fights for the Docleatae army that has conquered Athens,” Marco answered. “Count Colonna and I are on our way to Nappanee to ask Grand Prince Neapole to add his armies to the battle to set Athens free,” Marco said as he extinguished the light from his hand at last.

  “Shall I lead you back to see the Count?” Gaspar asked, and he proceeded to lead Marco back out into the city to return to the luxurious hotel, where Gaspar said goodnight, and Marco found Colonna already in the dining room, eating a plate of oysters as he waited for Marco to arrive.

  Marco proceeded to tell Colonna about the event that had happened at the painting. At first the Count looked amused, as he presumed a joke was coming, but at the end of the story, he looked more grave and serious than Marco had yet seen.

  “Perhaps we should spend a day here in Reme to tell the church authorities what is happening,” Colonna suggested. “Gaspar may tell some folks as well; he’s my nephew – my sister’s son – and he’ll have some folks interested in what you saw and what you have to tell them.”

  Marco slept uneasily that night, even though he slept on a soft mattress in the luxurious suite Colonna had rented. In the morning he was awoken as soon as the sun rose, when a soft knocking on the door led to one of Colonna’s sleepy-eyed servants delivering a note that requested Marco come back to the basilica for a visit with Cardinal Statbir
.

  “Who is he?” Marco asked Colonna when the Count arose earlier than usual, aroused by the report of a note already delivered.

  “I don’t know him, so let’s just go find out, shall we?” Colonna proposed. “After breakfast, of course,” he added.

  An hour later they rode back to the basilica, and a priest led them through ornate offices to wait in a grandiose antechamber for the chance to meet the Cardinal. The man who walked out introduced himself as Cardinal Statbir. He was shorter than Colonna, but just as corpulent, with smooth, fresh-looking skin that made him seem nearly as young as Marco, though his eyes looked much older.

  “There was a disturbing report of an occurrence in the basilica last night,” the cardinal said after polite introductions. “And you are alleged to know quite a bit about what happened. I’d like to hear you retell the story if you don’t mind. Come in and have a seat and let me hear your tale.”

  They walked into a opulent room, where they sat down in comfortable, padded chairs drawn up around an elegant table, one with a marble top that had other polished stones inlaid in intricate fashions. It was the most elaborate piece of furniture Marco had ever seen.

  He began his story about the visit to the gallery in the catacombs, and proceeded to tell it with only a few questions from the Cardinal, until he finished the story. At that point the Cardinal began probing, asking questions in great detail.

  “You seemed very sure of the demon in the picture; could you explain how you knew that?” he asked.

  “Two months ago I was in Athens, and I had to run away from that sorcerer,” Marco answered. “I saw his face very clearly, and I remember it; he was very powerful.”

  “But you got away? How?” Statbir asked.

  He was going to have to tell more of his story than he expected, Marco realized.

  “It wasn’t easy,” he said slowly. “I had to travel through the underworld.”

  The cardinal had no reaction.

  “And how did you enter the underworld?” the man asked.

  “The spirit of Ophiuchus bargained with Thanatos to allow me to enter through Persephone’s Gate,” Marco said.

  “And what did you do in the underworld? You obviously came back out,” Statbir said.

  Marco took in a deep breath. “I was carrying the body of Lady Iasco when I went in, and I resurrected her,” Marco explained, then waited for the cardinal to request more information, or to express skepticism.

  “And then you and she and the spirit of another dead woman returned to the world and are uniting to fight against the evil forces of the Docleatae?” Statbir summed up.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Marco said weakly, surprised by the cardinal’s apparent knowledge of his activities.

  “The Holy Father has had a missive from the Lady Iasco, in which she laid out an astonishing report of events and concerns, and the actions she believes must be taken,” Statbir said. “You were not looked for to come right to us, but your role in her story is crucial, perhaps the most important news of the whole chain of events.”

  “Why is the boy so important?” Colonna asked.

  “He has been chosen by the Spirit Ophiuchus herself, one of the most benevolent aspects of God that we are graced to know. And he has fulfilled the impossible tasks the spirit has burdened him with!” the cardinal answered.

  “That’s why, when a young friar’s incredible story circulated rapidly up to the offices of the holy father, it was clear that Fate had brought the Golden Hand right to our own front door – an opportunity not to be missed. So I hope your schedule permits you to have lunch with the Holy Father himself, to explain your mission to him,” the Cardinal spoke.

  “Of course, of course,” Colonna immediately answered. “There’s no question. We will certainly be available. Please send a coach to our inn to pick us up,” he suggested.

  Colonna and Marco were dismissed, and rode back to their inn. “What an honor!” the count exclaimed as they rode. “I didn’t know that I rode with such an exalted personage!

  “Though perhaps we better wait to see what the Holy Father says before I decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing,” the count bantered.

  They arrived back at their inn with much of the morning left, letting Marco wander about in the near neighborhood, exploring the scenes and activity of the bustling city until it was time to return to the inn and ride in the luxurious coach that waited to deliver Colonna and him back to the basilica.

  The audience room they entered was peopled only with a half dozen servants and staff people. Colonna and Marco were told to remain standing, and a minute later the Holy Father, dressed in a surprisingly simple cloth robe, appeared.

  Marco followed Colonna’s lead and bowed deeply to the head of the church, then sat when Colonna sat, at a wave of the hand of their host, who also sat in a regal chair that towered over theirs.

  “Hold your hand up, my young friend,” the Holy Father addressed Marco first. “No, the golden one,” he added as Marco raised his left hand in confusion.

  “So that is the instrument of our rescue?” the leader asked.

  “Were your travels from the Lion City pleasant?” he asked Colonna.

  “The roads were dry and safe, your holiness,” Colonna answered.

  “Of course they were; your young prodigy probably fixed the weather to be good all along the route,” the leader replied.

  “Could you do that?” Colonna turned to Marco to ask.

  “I don’t think so; I’ve never thought about it,” Marco answered.

  “Golden Hand, the Lady Iasco is infatuated with your moral strength and courage,” the Holy Father told them. “She gushes over all that you have done, and so I have to ask – is your marriage collar a sign that you’re married to her?” He winked at Colonna as he watched Marco turn a deep scarlet color, confused by the question.

  “You don’t have to answer that of course,” the elderly man kindly told Marco. “I have just a few simple questions for you. You are foretold in the prophecies naturally, and so I ask only that you let me know what I can do to help your mission. If it is within my power, I’ll make it so.”

  “Your holiness, as you undoubtedly know, young Marco is traveling to Nappanee to seek the support of Grand Prince Neapole in this war the young man is going to wage. I believe that if you were to send your personal representative along with us to Nappanee, it would add strength to his petition,” Colonna replied immediately. “You understand how things stand in the city down there.”

  The Holy Father nodded his head sagely. “I understand your meaning. Though I’m not sure my offices carry much weight among the Nappanese, I will gladly send a legate along with you,” he promised.

  “And what about you, Golden Hand? What can I do for you personally? You’ve given quite a great deal already it seems in this campaign that is being waged, and I’d like to offer you some reward,” the man addressed Marco directly.

  “Please send a note to Mirra, and tell her that I love her,” Marco answered.

  “That would be a note to the Marquessa of Sant Jeroni,” the Holy Father spoke to a scribe that was seated behind him. “Have such a note prepared.

  “I will certainly tell her that you do, and that we all admire her for sharing you with the world,” he told Marco. “And now, one more thing, come kneel before me,” he ordered Marco.

  The elderly man placed his hands atop Marco’s head. “In the name of all the saints, and spirits, and powers, I name you as the Blessed Virtuous Sorcerer of the church, a title that you and you alone will carry. May all your actions and thoughts live up to the title – if they do, you will succeed no matter what the odds are against you, I foretell this now.”

  He removed his hands from Marco, then stood up. “Thank you for indulging me and allowing me to meet you. I must go on to other duties, but my thoughts and my prayers will go with you on your mission,” he said.

  “Farewell, Count,” he added, then left the room.

  Ma
rco and Colonna silently left the audience room, and returned to the carriage that awaited them.

  “So, you’re virtuous?” Colonna grinned at Marco.

  Marco looked over at the smiling face, and felt the intimidation of the meeting with the Holy Father fall away. “It’s my official title – I must be,” he proclaimed.

  “How I wish I had been proclaimed virtuous by the Holy Father thirty years ago when I was a young buck! I could have told all the maidens in the city that my actions with them would always be virtuous!” he roared with laughter at his own wit, and Marco laughed with him.

  Marco stared out the window after that, watching the scenery they passed by, as he recalled the Holy Father’s comments about prophecies that predicted the Golden Hand. He wondered what they said, and he wondered if they were the same prophecies that Lady Iasco had referred to, or if they were a different reference. It was unsettling to think that he was not simply himself, a single person who made decisions, but was a result of greater forces that unstoppably led him to do certain things.

  That night they arranged to have dinner at a humble restaurant with the Holy Father’s legate. “Since he knows you’re so virtuous, perhaps the Father will send a beautiful woman as his legate; what do you think?” Colonna asked Marco, still much given to enjoying the new title Marco had received.

  The legate was not a beautiful woman; the legate was a fit and trim middle aged man. “It’s such an honor to meet you,” he said smoothly to Marco and Count Colonna. “I’m honored to have this opportunity to travel with men of such high esteem. My name is Cardinal Savoy.”

  The Cardinal was a learned, scholarly man who seemed to Marco to have perfect manners. The meal was simple food in a plain setting, but both Colonna and Marco thought the evening was delightful, and the next morning they rode out of town together, along with Colonna’s servants and a servant for Savoy. The day turned rainy, the roads turned muddy, and the legate’s authority obtained an early evening’s hospitality for them at a nobleman’s villa, where they sat in front of a fire to dry out before dinner, and talked to their host.