The Last Days of Magic: A Novel

by Mark Tompkins

  17

  The ark was of small compass, but yet even there Ham [Noah’s son] preserved his book detailing the arts of magic and idolatry [taught him by Enoch].

  —Herbert de Losinga, the first bishop of Norwich (1119)

  Before his death, he [Enoch] entrusted it [Book of Raziel] to Shem and Ham, and they in turn to Abraham. From Abraham it descended through Jacob, Levi, Moses, and Joshua to Solomon, who learnt all his wisdom from it, and his skill in the healing art, and also his mastery over the demons.

  —Book of Jubilees (circa 100 BCE), Dead Sea Scrolls

  Rome, the Papal States

  February 1393

  Jordan pushed through the tempest. Rain driving horizontally stung his face. Mud sucked at his boots, making each step increasingly difficult, as the ashes of Christians burned on this spot in Nero’s Circus attempted to pull him down to join them in the earth of Rome. Lightning lit the world of stark stone temples around him. Darkness returned. Lightning crashed against it; dark pushed back, faster and faster until light and dark existed together, spinning around him. An ancient obelisk of red granite rose behind one of the Christian temples. Lightning snaked from the gilt ball on top and struck his black armor. White fire crawled across its engraved surface, and, to his dismay, his armor began to melt away.

  “Are you all right, Marshal Jordan?” asked the legate.

  Jordan blinked. He was standing ankle-deep in mud on a clear, windless February morning. Beside him stood the legate, his robes gathered up in both hands, almost to his knees, with a quizzical look on his face.

  “I’m fine, just . . . breakfast must have disagreed with my stomach.”

  The legate gestured toward a shallow ditch on the edge of St. Peter’s Square where men and women were squatting to relieve themselves. “If you need to empty your bowels, hurry. The VRS are not men you want to keep waiting.”

  “No. I’ll be all right.”

  They continued trudging through the mud, weaving between stalls that sold everything from dubious religious artifacts for plague protection to rapidly decaying pig heads for soup. Bordering the square to the west stood St. Peter’s Basilica, built over the Tomb of the Apostle by Emperor Constantine in 327 but abandoned while Avignon held the papacy. Clearly in disrepair, its mildew-speckled wooden roof sagged in several places. Since the papacy had been restored to Rome fifteen years earlier, the Vatican had been focused on using its new military force to expand its control in Europe, leaving few funds for restoration. Though Jordan did notice workmen in one corner of the square starting to lay paving stones.

  Lurking just to the right of the basilica was a small fortress built two centuries earlier by Pope Innocent III, now the headquarters of the VRS League and residing place of the Ring of Solomon.

  Jordan glanced up at the fortress, his destination, and a gale buffeted his soul, lightning flashed in his consciousness, and he understood why Najia had been scared for him, scared of the Ring, scared that he would not leave Innocent’s fortress alive. She had spent the night weaving a protective enchantment about him, an intricate spell known as black armor.

  THAT MORNING Jordan had awoken at sunrise in his room at the Palace of the Lateran on Piazza San Giovanni in southeast Rome to find Najia standing at the window, exhausted and angry.

  “‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,’” Najia recited. “But the Word didn’t stay with God, did it? Men took it.”

  “Is it wise to utter blasphemy here, so close to the VRS League?” Jordan asked, suppressing a yawn as he climbed out of bed. They had sailed from Conwy Castle to Venice, then, after several months awaiting orders, had ridden here, arriving late the previous night.

  Najia glared at him, her eyes red and tired from a night of weaving the black-armor spell. “The Church’s sorcerers, these exorcists, what power they cannot gather to themselves and control, they seek to destroy.” She looked back out the window, across Rome toward the Tiber River and, on the other side, Vatican Hill. “Concealed inside their stone temples, they try to manipulate words of power, words from the original grimoires written by demons and angels. Ever since Archangel Raphael mistakenly persuaded God to reveal these secrets to mortals, mortals who learned them began to think of themselves as Gods. They become corrupted.”

  “I’ve read plenty of grimoires, and I’ve not been corrupted.” Jordan unwrapped his new tunic and held it up for inspection.

  “You haven’t read any grimoires like the ones the VRS possesses. Those books corrupted even Moses and Solomon. No wonder they hid them. But they shouldn’t just be hidden, they should be destroyed.” Najia held Jordan’s face in both hands, stared into his eyes. “Don’t let them tempt you with those books. It’s important—swear to me you won’t read even a page.”

  “I’m surprised you’re more concerned about books than about the Ring of Solomon,” said Jordan. He gave her a peck on the lips, then pulled away and put on his boots.

  “The Ring is another too-powerful relic.” A shudder visibly passed through Najia’s body. “Cast by angels, it was never meant to be kept by man. The exorcists don’t know its subtlety or how to control it. I can feel it there,” she said, pointing toward the Vatican. “Like a sandstorm abrading my soul. That’s how they use it, as a crude, blunt instrument to repel demons, Nephilim and . . . witches.”

  “But your enchantment will protect me from the Ring, no?”

  “I’m not sure.” Najia began to cry, something Jordan had never seen. He gathered her into his arms, held her head to his chest, and stroked her back.

  “I’m scared. Aren’t you scared? The VRS is growing so powerful,” she mumbled, her tears spotting his new tunic.

  “What are you scared of?” he whispered.

  “I’ve seen into your soul, seen your connection with Ardor growing. If they see it, if the Ring reveals it to them, they’ll kill you. They’ll tie you to a stake and burn you.”

  “They can’t hurt me. I’m marshal to the legate.” As he said it, Jordan felt his confidence wavering. “I must go. The legate commands it. I’ll be fine.”

  A few more sobs escaped Najia. Jordan led her over to the small table set with breakfast—a round loaf of bread, some slices of prosciutto, and a jug of water. He kissed her forehead and sat her in a chair.

  Najia pulled off a piece of bread and chewed on it while sniffling softly. “I don’t know which to be more afraid of, the VRS burning you as a sorcerer or you tempted into joining them so you can learn what’s in their grimoires.”

  HAVING NAVIGATED the muddy square in front of St. Peter’s, the legate stepped up onto a stone walkway, brushed out his robes, and strode toward Innocent’s fortress. Jordan trailed along behind him, teeth clenched. The closer they came to the fortress, the stronger the force of Solomon’s Ring became. Jordan’s skin crawled and burned as if a plague of fiery insects were swarming across it, eating away at his black-armor enchantment. When his protective spell was gone, he suddenly felt naked and looked down at himself, relieved to find he was still fully clothed in the silk tunic and leather breeches he had set out in that morning. Trotting to catch up to the legate, he noticed his progress was easier, though his nausea was increasing.

  Just as Jordan and the legate were admitted through the gate of the fortress, a bald man in his fifties, no more than five foot two inches tall and half that wide, wearing a simple, rough, brown monk’s robe, ran up to them. Blotches of darker brown stained the sleeves. Dried blood, Jordan thought.

  “Cardinal Orsini,” said the legate, giving a bow to the high exorcist.

  “Venerable Brother de’ Migliorati,” responded Orsini, panting a bit, “or should I just call you ‘Legate’ now? I am so sorry, I seem to be running a bit late. I was having such an interesting conversation with a witch.”

  “You no longer imprison the witches here?” asked the legate.

  “No. No,” said Orsini. “There are too many of them these days, and it is much more peaceful a
nd quiet not questioning them here. You know what they say, ‘a witch’s scream will pierce stone and bone.’”

  The legate said, “Allow me to introduce Marshal Jordan d’Anglano.”

  Jordan bowed. “Cardinal.”

  Orsini studied Jordan’s pallid face. “The steward will show you to my office. Give me a few moments to change, and I will join you.” Orsini trundled down a side corridor, adding over his shoulder, “Please have some wine while you wait.”

  The steward led them across the inner yard, into the central stone building, and up to an opulently furnished meeting chamber on the third floor. He poured them each a goblet of wine, but Jordan declined and surrendered into one of the thick chairs, his stomach churning. He clamped his jaw shut to keep from losing his breakfast and grasped his knees to steady them.

  A few minutes later, Orsini rushed in. “My apologies. My apologies again. When I finally get a witch talking, I lose all track of time.” He had changed into a black robe with a black cowl hanging down his back, distinctive to exorcists, and a white surplice with a black silk stole. A gold cross and a silver VRS medallion hung from a chain around his neck. Stuck on the crown of his head was the small red cardinal’s cap known as a zucchetto. He extended his right hand, now adorned with an ecclesiastical ring, which the legate bowed and kissed.

  Jordan pushed himself up out of the chair, gingerly bowed, and kissed the ring, wondering how many people had kissed it since the last time it had been cleaned.

  “Marshal Jordan,” said Orsini, “I have heard so much about you.” Orsini smiled, again studying Jordan’s face. “You seem to be struggling. I am not surprised.”

  Orsini led Jordan over to a large painting of an upward-pointing triangle set over a downward-pointing triangle, together forming a six-pointed star. In the center was written the tetragrammaton, the four-letter name of God, YHWH. “You are familiar with the Seal of Solomon?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course you are. It is from the Ring of Solomon. It was twenty-two hundred years ago, almost a thousand years before the birth of Our Lord Christ, give or take. Demons and Nephilim were battling King Solomon, preventing him from building the first temple in Jerusalem, until Archangel Michael brought Solomon a ring bearing this seal to protect the construction of the temple. It turned out that the Ring not only provided protection, it also had the power to force demons to follow Solomon’s orders, so he disobeyed Michael and kept it after the temple was finished. The Ring is now secured in this very building to protect the Vatican from all kinds of unholy attacks.”

  Jordan steadied himself with the back of a chair. It felt as if some creature were eating his intestines from the inside. Orsini continued to smile at him.

  “Do you know how the Ring came to be here? I daresay there might not be a building standing in the Vatican today without it.”

  Jordan shook his head.

  “Well, Solomon’s son, Rehoboam, had seen that the Ring so corrupted his father that his father even abandoned the One True God, married a Shunammite witch, and began worshipping pagan idols. Upon Solomon’s death Rehoboam sealed the Ring in an ivory box and secretly buried it with his father. However, the Ring was unearthed by the Greek sorcerer Toz Graecus, around two hundred years after the birth of Christ. Graecus found that he could not control it, so he decided to bring the Ring to Rome for guidance. But before he got here, a deep scratch he received from a hawthorn tree festered, and he died of a fever in the hut of a farmhand in San Bartolomeo.

  “Legate, you know of this farmhand.”

  The legate looked thoughtful. “Do you mean Fabian?”

  “The very same. Farmhand Fabian had the Ring with him when he came to the Vatican to watch the election of a new pope. While he stood in the commoners’ gallery with the Ring of Solomon in his pocket, a dove illuminated by golden light—or, as I suspect, by Michael himself—appeared over Fabian’s head. The assembly of cardinals was immediately moved by the Holy Spirit—or, as I suspect, the power of the Ring—to proclaim this unknown layman pope. And Solomon’s Ring has been in the Vatican ever since. Here it is kept safe.”

  Orsini regarded the painting. “The Ring is too close to God. Men, even men as holy as King Solomon, cannot wield it without becoming corrupt. The Ring protects the Vatican, but the Vatican and all men must also be protected from it.”

  “Except for you,” hissed Jordan through clenched teeth. “You’re holy enough to be immune from such corruption.”

  “No. No. No.” Orsini laughed. “I am not very holy. The Church knows this, which is how it protects itself from me. But unlike Solomon, I know my weaknesses. It is only a group of imperfect but dedicated men, constantly on the watch for our own corruption and watched over by the Church, who are able to utilize knowledge that is so close to God. And there is more here than just Solomon’s Ring. But where is my grace? Marshal Jordan, I have let the Ring cause you distress much too long.”

  Orsini stepped over to a large wax tablet set in a metal frame on a floor stand next to his desk. Picking up an elaborate silver stylus, he inscribed the seal of Solomon in the upper left corner, followed by a string of words in Aramaic.

  “Jordan d’Anglano is the name you were given at birth?”

  “Yes,” whispered Jordan. He collapsed into the chair.

  Orsini paused, stylus poised above the wax. “You know, Marshal Jordan, you have an unusually strong natural talent for enchantments. Of course you know that—you have been practicing. And the stronger your talent is, the more Solomon’s Ring affects you.”

  Jordan, bent over in pain, looked up at Orsini.

  “All in preparation for the battles ahead, I am sure, to the greater glory of God and all that. In fact, when you finish in Ireland, you must return here and become one of God’s holy warriors: an exorcist of the VRS League.”

  Through a searing cramp, Jordan managed to whisper, “The legate and I already have an agreement for after the war. Besides, I’ve met some of your holy sorcerers, and I wasn’t impressed.”

  Orsini gave Jordan his biggest smile. “Ah, yes. The two you killed in Oslo when rescuing your giant friend.”

  “You killed exorcists?” the legate demanded of Jordan.

  “Do not concern yourself, Legate,” said Orsini. “They were barely novices.” To Jordan he said, “You were born with more skill than they would ever learn. It was fortunate you killed them, because that is what brought you to my attention. And as I know you murdered my men, my offer is more than an offer. But we will talk about that when you return.”

  Orsini finished inscribing Jordan’s name in the wax and added one more complex seal. “There, better?”

  All at once Jordan’s nausea and pain were gone. He eased himself back into a normal sitting position.

  “Good,” said Orsini. “Now, hand me that fire iron, would you?”

  Jordan rose, pulled the iron out of the fire, its large flattened tip glowing orange, and handed it to Orsini.

  “I would not want anyone to see what they should not,” said Orsini, passing the hot iron just above the wax, causing the writing to flow and disappear.

  “Legate,” called Orsini cheerfully, “let me refill your goblet while you tell me how the preparations are going for the last great battle with the Nephilim.”

  . . . . .

  Forty-five minutes later, Orsini, the legate, and Jordan were standing in the corridor outside the meeting chamber.

  “Thank you for your report, Legate. I am so happy that my plans are working out. Clearly we should proceed with the final phase,” said Orsini, handing him a small sealed letter. “Give this authorization to the commissary general, and he will arrange for the transport of the rest of the gold to England.” He clapped Jordan on the back. “The True Church is finally going to Ireland, and you will lead us there. But before you take your leave, allow me to show you our small but impressive library.”

  Orsini and Jordan strode down the corridor in the opposite direction of
the legate and soon entered a room where eight guards snapped to attention.

  “What have we got here?” asked Orsini, eyeing a basket on the table. “Ah, lunch. Are you hungry, Marshal?” Orsini removed two packets of lamb wrapped in flat bread, then parchment, and tied with string. He handed one to Jordan. “Put this in your pocket for later. The lamb here is so tender it falls off the bone.”

  Pocketing the other packet, Orsini unlocked a door in the far wall, held it for Jordan to pass through, and locked it behind them. Twenty feet down a curved stone corridor, they came to a second door, solid iron without a handle or an apparent lock.

  “The demon Amelouith is bound into this door,” said Orsini. “He protects it from anyone who would open it, even me if I gave him the chance.”

  Jordan took this as a test and began to mutter an enchantment he had used many times before to enter locked rooms.

  “Marshal, do not—”

  But it was too late. A slender finger of lightning leaped from the door. Jordan cried out and clutched his chest where a hole had been burned through his tunic.

  “My, you are having a difficult day. Dealing with demons is not like manipulating inanimate objects. You must be careful; he is not very friendly.”

  Orsini pulled a small wax tablet and a silver stylus from his pocket. “Do you know how to say the ineffable name of a demon? Of course not. It is, after all, ineffable and cannot be uttered by any human throat. However, it is only by expressing their true names that you gain absolute control over them, control to do things like bind them into a door. Moses taught us that their true names can be expressed with a seal. Here, let me show you.”

  Orsini inscribed a complex seal in the wax tablet. The door swung open. Inside was a small stone chamber with three walls lined with half-full bookcases and a fireplace set in the fourth, where coals smoldered. In the center sat a table and two chairs.