by Gilliam Ness
“Good morning, my son,” said the old Brother, embracing him heartily. “The Bishop is presently at his toilet. He will be meeting you for breakfast very soon.”
Gabriel released him, but kept hold of his shoulders.
“Thanks, Fra,” he said warmly.
He was always amazed by the strength in the old man’s body.
“It’s good to see you.”
“And it is always good to see you, my dear boy. I see that you have not yet discarded that decaying pack of yours.”
Gabriel held up the leather duffel bag. The old Brother was right. If it were not for the meticulous reparations he had made to it, the thing would have fallen apart then and there. As it was, it was fully serviceable.
“It’s hard to part with an old friend,” he said, and he thought it funny that within such an old and battle scarred pack could be one of the most important artifacts he had ever come across.
They made their way along the aisle of a dark chapel, passing a large bank of burning candles that flickered in their little red cups. They sent up plumes of vapor that mingled with the incense that burned. Gabriel breathed deeply. He loved the smell of an old church, and although an unbeliever himself, he had always basked in the profound sense of peace that seemed to accompany that smell.
Up in the rafters, the sound of the pounding rain could be heard on the chapel’s roof. It echoed through the space, giving life to the stone statues that looked down at him from their niches above. It was a familiar feeling to Gabriel, being under their gaze; something that had always comforted him as a boy. His eyes scanned their familiar faces.
A man made fantasy to explain the inexplicable.
He had never been able to understand how anyone could dedicate their entire lives to a myth, but at the same time, he respected their so-called faith. It was to him a testament of the power of the human mind, be it sane or delusional.
Fra Bartolomeo made a quick turn into a small alcove, and within moments they had passed through a concealed door that led into a narrow passageway. With the arched ceiling only inches above his head, Gabriel found himself having to duck at regular intervals in order to avoid the naked light bulbs that stretched out before him. He could see a long line of them ahead, emerging from a conduit that ran the entire length of the tunnel.
Where did this tunnel come from? I thought I knew every inch of this monastery.
“Please pardon my detour,” said the Brother over his shoulder. “This way we can avoid getting wet from the rain in the cloisters. His Excellency’s chambers are just up ahead.”
Gabriel had to rush to keep up with the old man’s pace.
“That’s quite alright, Fra,” he replied cheerfully. “I’ve only just been in much tighter quarters.”
Gabriel shuddered at the memory of his harrowing escape. Not a day had passed since he had made his way through the Moorish sewer pipe. It had been a hell he would soon make every effort to forget. For two hours he had squeezed his way through the entrails of the castle, caked in raw sewage, starved of oxygen, and beleaguered by rats and insects of every kind.
On two separate occasions he had been forced to cut through iron bars using the mini acetylene torch he had thankfully packed among his equipment, the choking fumes nearly making him lose consciousness. With the stench of sewage still trapped in his olfactory, Gabriel followed the old Brother, reliving the final moments of his trying ordeal.
Deep under the Moorish castle, when he had, at long last, reached the end of the tunnel, he found that the passage plunged into a reservoir of sewage water. In his pack was a breathing apparatus containing just ten minutes of oxygen. It was meant to have been used to cover the short distance underwater that had been part of his original escape route. On this occasion, however, he had no idea how long he would be required to stay submerged. With no other options available to him, Gabriel donned the mask and proceeded downward into the fetid water.
“It won’t be long now,” said the Brother, but Gabriel was too lost in thought to reply.
Nine minutes had already passed when he came upon a second set of iron bars. He knew that he only had a minute of air left and was unsure as to how much acetylene gas remained in his torch. Gabriel did not waste time finding out. In the murky light of his flashlight he could see that two of the three bars had already rotted in their mounts. He shook them and they fell away easily. The middle bar however, was anchored quite firmly. In a moment his torch was blazing, cutting through the old iron effortlessly. Even still, Gabriel wondered how much tunnel remained on the other side. His air had run out sometime ago now, and he had only been able to half fill his lungs. Suddenly the bar broke loose and he was through, feeling the surrounding water drop in temperature almost immediately.
With burning lungs Gabriel pushed his way upward, moving freely for the first time in two hours. After what seemed an eternity he reached the surface at last, sucking in the night air hungrily. Somehow he had done it. He was out, and he was still alive.
“Boss, is that you?” came the whispered call.
A large inflatable river raft appeared suddenly, and a strong hand grasped Gabriel’s shoulder strap and pulled him out of the water.
“Amir,” said Gabriel as they landed on the river’s edge, “if you had shaved this morning I’d probably be kissing you right now.”
Amir stuffed the raft under a grouping of bushes and covered it with twigs and dried leaves.
“Not smelling like that you wouldn’t,” he said, pushing aside his dreadlocks to get a better look at him. “Where the hell have you been anyway?”
Gabriel smiled and shook his head in disbelief.
“That was far too close.”
“I thought it was quite far,” said the Brother, and Gabriel remembered how sharp the old man’s hearing had always been.
Arriving at the end of the tunnel they approached a small wooden door that swung out effortlessly. Ducking low, Gabriel emerged into a large stone room. It was warm, and the furniture was plush and velvety.
“Wait here, Gabriel,” said Fra. “The Bishop will come down soon.”
Gabriel made his way into the waiting room as Fra disappeared back into the tunnel. He had always loved this room, but he had never entered it as he had just done today.
“Who would have thought,” he muttered, looking back at the section of bookshelf as it swung closed. “A secret passage I didn’t know about.”
He walked into the carpeted room. Above him the vaulted ceiling rose solidly, with four gothic arches curving up to meet at a circular stone bearing the cross of St. George. Around him hung an assortment of detailed tapestries depicting great historical scenes. He approached his favourite one. It was a large work depicting the famous Burning of Savonarola in the Piazza della Signoria of Florence.
In the centre of the composition the puritanical priest could be seen chained to a great iron cross, with two of his supporters crucified to his left and right. At their feet, great flames licked upward. Savonarola had been a priest vehemently opposed to the Renaissance movement, and was infamous for his rampant destruction of what he considered to be immoral works of art, and heretical writings. Below the scene, on the tapestry’s ornate border, was an inscription quoting the executioner who had supposedly lit the flames.
The one who wanted to burn me is now himself put to the flames.
“I see you are reliving one of the greatest victories of the Florentine artist,” came a familiar voice from behind.
“Marcus!” said Gabriel turning. “Have I got something to show you!”
“Well,” said the old man smiling. “I certainly hope it can wait until after breakfast.”
The two embraced as they always did. A great love existed between them, and although the retired Bishop had no blood relation to Gabriel, he had been a lifelong friend of his father, and as a result, had always been like an uncle to him. Throughout his life, Gabriel had spent so much time in the old monastery that it was like a second home to him. H
e was familiar with the entire grounds, the bedroom he had always stayed in as a boy having had a set of doors that opened directly onto the main cloisters. Many a night he had sneaked out to explore the countless mysteries the old building had to offer.
Walking side by side, the two slowly made their way to the breakfast room, as the old Bishop liked to call it. In truth it was a small overgrown greenhouse that opened into the monastery’s private gardens. They arrived to find a little table set for two, complete with a linen tablecloth and full silverware. It sat in amongst copious plants, and beside it, a mossy fountain gurgled, silenced almost entirely by the rain that pounded the panes of glass high above. All around them finches chirped and fluttered.
“Your father and I breakfasted here quite often, as did you, my son,” said the old Bishop, sitting down slowly. “I can remember you as a boy, taking your sausages into the ferns, and feeding your crumpets to the birds on the sly.”
Gabriel remembered too, and for a moment, a deep sadness took him. He missed the big man dearly.
“Marcus, I’ve got something I want to show you.”
“Tut tut!” interrupted the Bishop. “I know, my son. We have much to speak of, but first, we old men must have our nourishment. You forget the hour at which you come. I would normally still be sleeping.”
“I’m sorry. I came here straight from the airport. I didn’t think.”
“Not to worry,” said the old Bishop with a reassuring smile, and just then, Fra Bartolomeo arrived with a large silver tray.
“Ah yes!” said the Bishop, rubbing his old hands together. “God bless you, my friend, and thanks be to God. We have been graced with one more meal. Let us enjoy it. It could very well be my last!”
“If you continue to say such things I will take this away and bring you lent rations,” scolded the Brother lovingly.
“God forbid such cruelty!” came the immediate reply.
Even the most perfect stranger felt a warm affection for the old Bishop. It would have been impossible not to, and Gabriel smiled, knowing the Bishop’s encompassing love for the gastronomical delights. Looking down at his plate, Gabriel welcomed the hot food. As always, it had been lovingly prepared by Suora Angelica, a very competent Italian nun whom Gabriel had also known since his childhood. It was the regular breakfast fare. Poached eggs, bacon, sausages, potatoes, fried fish, baked beans, fresh croissants and coffee in a French bodum. The perfect continental breakfast, and the eighty-five year old Bishop showed Gabriel that he still had quite an appetite. By the time he had finished his meal, Gabriel was dizzy with sleepiness.
“Let us now retire to the library,” said the Bishop, noting Gabriel’s fatigue. “There we can discuss your Compostela Cube.”
“But how did you know?” said Gabriel, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“I’m not as dumb as I look!” said the old Bishop with a wink.
He scrubbed at his beard with a napkin, loosing a fragment of egg that had clung there the whole while.
“That is to say, I am much smarter than I appear!”
When they arrived at the library, Gabriel could barely keep his eyes open. The food was settling into his stomach, and his body was beginning to respond.
“Take off your shoes and lie yourself down on that sofa, my boy,” said the Bishop from the threshold. “I’ll be right back. We’ve got a lot to talk about, you and I.”
Finding himself alone in the room, Gabriel decided to take the Bishop up on his suggestion. Wearily he kicked off his shoes and stretched himself out on the soft leather sofa. Beside him, thin orange flames flickered lazily behind the glass doors of a cast iron stove, the familiarity of the room instilling a feeling of peace and security in him. As his eyes wandered around the paneled library, roaming dizzily from bookshelf to bookshelf, Gabriel began to feel a deep slumber take him.
“I’ll just close my eyes for a second until he gets back.”
CHAPTER 10
Amsterdam, North Holland.
It was night when the private jet landed in Amsterdam. Christian had slept the entire way. He emerged from the executive cabin to find his two escorts standing on either side of the door, their arms crossed over their chests officially.
“I trust you had a good flight, Christian?” asked one of the men.
Christian walked past them as if they did not exist. He was a prisoner. He always had been. Bending to look out the window, he felt a distinct pang of hatred surface somewhere in the back of his head. This was his hometown, and he did not know what he hated more, the city or his father. The mere thought of the man filled Christian with bitterness and scorn.
The plane came slowly to a stop beside a waiting limousine, and Christian, familiar with the mechanism, opened the hatch in time to see the motorized staircase pull into place. Before it had come to a stop he had already stepped onto it, making his way off the plane and into the car before his two escorts had time to follow.
“Take me to my family residence,” he ordered, closing the car door as the two men hurried down the steps toward him.
“Now!” he barked.
The car sped off instantly, leaving the two men behind on the tarmac. Christian lowered his window, feeling a flow of cool, Dutch air wash over him. It was a familiar smell that he deeply despised. It was too fresh, too clean, and it smacked of the forward-moving mentality characteristic of the Netherlands. He lit a cigarette and passed a hand through his greasy hair.
The Antov family estate was located in the outskirts of Amsterdam, its manicured grounds, majestic stone walls and shining copper rooftops sending an instant message of power and affluence. How long these buildings had housed his ancestors, Christian did not know, but if he was sure of one thing, it was that his family was much older than the stately Napoleonic residence; much older indeed.
“Take me to the west entrance,” he ordered, “and call ahead to have a bath prepared for me. I want a bottle of red wine and Eggs Florentine waiting for me when I’m done.”
“Very good, sir.”
The car rolled down the long drive that led into the grounds, its wheels rumbling over the uneven cobblestones. Christian lit another cigarette.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be dead when I arrive.
* * * * * *
“Your father has only just awoken,” said the desiccated old butler. “Your timing could not be better, Master Christian. Please follow me.”
Christian passed through the large oak doors to find his father lying within a great bed in his darkened chambers, a battery of nurses surrounding him on all sides. A bearded doctor was bending over him, his patient’s limp wrist held in his probing hands. The doctor looked up in time to see Christian enter the room. He shook his head gravely, and for a moment a feeling of relief sparked in Christian’s heart.
Is he already dead?
His hopes were soon dashed when he saw a brittle arm dart upward, its bony hand clenching the doctor’s shirt and pulling him in with uncanny strength. Christian watched the doctor’s face as his ear drew close to his patient’s mouth, noting the change in his demeanor as the words were said.
“Everyone out,” whispered the doctor to his medical staff. “The Baron wants a word with his son.”
Christian remained motionless at the threshold, a knot tightening in the centre of his chest. In a matter of seconds the entourage had flowed past him, closing the doors behind them and leaving him alone with the man he most hated in the entire world. An instant later a deep fear was welling up in Christian, conjuring the specters of childhood abuse, and reminding him of his despicable and worthless status.
The room was dimly lit now, the majority of the light having vanished when the doors had been closed. It was a massive chamber, the distant walls and towering ceilings dissolving into the gloom on all sides. The only thing visible was the four post bed; a dais like structure encased in hanging textiles and ornate cushions the colour of dried blood.
Christian stood there silently, frozen with a fear that had
been nurtured in him since infancy. He could hear the scratching hiss of his father’s breath, and his knees felt on the verge of giving way. It was all Christian could do to remain on his feet. Real or imagined, his father’s customary psychic assault was working its way into his brain, and it was doing so with an unprecedented intensity.
All power is based in fear. Fear must be maintained at all costs.
These were his father’s words; words that had been drilled into Christian for as long as he could remember, and they now filled his head with the power of a swelling ocean. He had always felt his father’s malicious presence, but never before had he experienced it with such clarity. What had always been vague and hidden was now suddenly visible.
“Come,” came the hiss, and like a lamb being led to slaughter, Christian obeyed, his hatred giving way to a silent plea for mercy.
“Father,” he whispered, arriving at the bedside.
The sight he witnessed was ghastly, and he fought back a desperate urge to flee. It had been more than three years since he had last seen the man, and the transformation that had taken place in that time was nothing short of demonic. There before him, lying amidst the finest silks in the world, was the grey and wasted form of what could only be described as a lizard; a reptilian corpse that somehow still lived.
“You need not fear me any longer, my son,” said the beast of a man in a dry whisper, “for now that you have learned fear, it is you who shall be feared. You will know power the likes of which no other man has ever known.”
Christian remained silent at first, the implications of such a promise filling him with dizziness. It was only after a few seconds had passed that a full comprehension of his true identity struck him. He was no longer a misfit. He was an Antov, and this would soon be his estate.
