Chapter Eight
With bold, sure steps, Lord Carstairs strode up the wide granite stairs leading into the main building of the Vatican complex. Everywhere pilgrims bustled, tourists gasped, nuns counted their rosaries, and priests scurried about with their arms loaded with books.
Turning north at the Sistine Chapel, Carstairs proceeded through the world famous Vatican Library. The room was so spacious and quiet that his footsteps echoed slightly on the worn marble floor. The broad walls and vaulted ceiling were adorned with breathtaking frescos, but the lord saw only the rather dull brown filing cabinets that held the wisdom of a thousand years locked within their reserves.
Turning left into the main exhibition hall, Carstairs stooped to pass through a tiled arch and entered the Vatican Museum. Every inch of every wall was decorated with rare paintings. A forest of bronze statues stood on a multitude of ornate pedestals, and miniature marble statues filled the alcoves that topped each door's lintel. Not so much as a postage stamp could have been fixed anywhere without covering a priceless work of antiquarian art.
Gawking pilgrims stood about in clusters, the magnificence of the holy museum making them seek the comforting solace of others for company. Numerous soldiers stood on guard throughout the museum, but Lord Carstairs continued unmolested through the numerous galleries until he entered a small side corridor closed off with a velvet rope. Beyond that was an iron door flanked by two more of the ever-present Swiss Guards. But unlike the callow youths helping the tourists, these were scarred and burly men. The sergeant sported an eye patch, while the younger private possessed a puckered scar that bisected his entire face. Both of them were obviously veteran fighters. These guards did not hold antique halberd spears, but very modern-day, bolt-action, Vetterlis 6.5mm carbine rifles, ominously outfitted with long sharp bayonets. Very nasty little barkers, indeed.
In cold scrutiny, the somber guards watched Lord Carstairs approach and crossed their weapons to bar his way.
"Halt, signore," the sergeant said in flawed English. "This section of library closed to public."
Smiling diplomatically, Carstairs replied in perfect Italian. "So I understand. However, I am Lord Benjamin Carstairs, a member of the British Parliament and a member of the London Explorers Club. I wish to speak with your curator."
"A scholar?" the private said in Italian, starting to raise his rifle. "Then pass, sir."
"Excuse me, but we must ask for proof of this," the sergeant interrupted, using his one good eye to give the private a stern look of disapproval.
Performing the necessary ritual, Lord Carstairs dutifully produced his wallet and showed them his membership card to the Explorers Club, a buyer's certificate from the Royal Museum, and a British Passport bearing his family crest. The last item caused a noticeable warming in the attitudes of the soldiers.
"Thank you, sir," the private said, swinging his rifle aside. "You may pass."
"Just a moment," the sergeant added, barring the way again with the Vetterlis carbine. "As you will be very close to the living quarters of his Holiness, I must ask if you are carrying any weapons." The guard repeated the phrase as if he said it a dozen times a day. However, that did not stop him from studying Lord Carstairs in the manner of a tax collector scrutinizing a known cheat.
"None but these," the lord said, innocently extending his huge hands. As expected, the guards broke into laughter.
"Such fine weapons they are," the private acknowledged, his scar contorting the smile into a snarl. "I would not wish to try and confiscate them."
"Pass, sir," the sergeant chuckled. "The curator's office is through this door, down the hallway, to the left."
" Grazie. "
"You are most welcome, Lord Carstairs."
Following the directions, Carstairs soon found a dour nun working as a receptionist at an intricately carved Berouzzi desk. Removing his hat, Lord Carstairs repeated his request for the curator. After examining his credentials carefully, the sister excused herself and went down a side corridor. A few minutes later, she returned with a plump priest in tow. The man clad in a simple brown cassock was of indeterminable age, mostly bald, and clean-shaven.
"Blessings upon you, my son," the priest said in halting English. "I am Father Tullio. It is a pleasure to meet you. Our library has several works by both yourself and your esteemed father. How may I help you?"
"Thank you, Father. May I speak with your curator, please?" Lord Carstairs again responded in Italian.
Father Tullio clasped both hands clasped in piety, as his cherubic face radiated pleasure at hearing his native tongue used so fluently. "There are several curators," he said. "In which department of the library do you need assistance?"
"The private closed section," Carstairs said tactfully.
"But the Vatican Library is open to any who ask," Tullio answered with a quizzical expression.
In a conspiratorial manner, Lord Carstairs lowered his voice. "What I wish to see is the Occult Museum."
"I do not understand," Father Tullio replied, nervously fingering his rosary. "An occult museum? I assure you that the Vatican has no such a division. Perhaps you mean the Secret Archives? Permission from his Holiness, the Pope, is normally needed for an outsider to enter. But I'm sure that for you, an exception can be made."
Not born a fool, Lord Carstairs knew when he was getting a runaround and decided to try a direct frontal attack.
"Father, I know of the existence of the occult section because I have had the honor of talking with others who have been there," he stated forcibly. "Gentlemen whose word I trust implicitly."
In ragged stages, the plump features of the priest slumped. Without a word, he took Carstairs' arm and led him into a nearby office. Closing the door, Father Tullio hardened his expression.
"My son, you have caught me in the commission of a venial sin," Tullio admitted without much shame or remorse. "There is indeed an occult section to the library, but it has not been closed off capriciously. There are books and objects of heresy and abomination that could cause untold strife within and without the church if they were revealed to the general public."
Lord Carstairs nodded in agreement. "I understand completely, Father," he said. "The object I wish to study is for my own private research. You have my word as an Englishman that I have no intention of publishing anything that would make the church regret allowing me access."
Taking a seat, Father Tullio drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Church of England?" he finally asked.
"Yes, Father. Will that be a problem?"
"Not in this life, my son," the priest said benignly. "Very well." Reaching to an overflowing shelf, Tullio pulled down an ancient leather-bound book and opened it, creating a small cloud of dust. With great ceremony, the father donned a pair of very modern pince-nez glasses, cut a fresh point on the nib of his quill pen, and uncapped a small crystal bottle of ink.
Laboriously, Tullio wrote Lord Carstairs' name, address and academic degrees on a blank page. After the pen finished transcribing this last bit of information, Father Tullio asked, "References?"
"I beg your pardon?" Lord Carstairs asked in a small voice.
The priest removed his glasses and tapped them on the book. "I need your references, my son. You claimed to have talked with somebody who has been inside the occult section. We require the name of that confidant, whose admittance we shall verify. It is how we assure ourselves that only worthy scholars are allowed entrance."
"Oh."
Poised expectantly, Father Tullio kept his pen above the page. After a minute, the priest lowered the quill stylus. "Is there a problem, my son?"
Seeing the expression on the priest's face, Lord Carstairs racked his mind searching for the correct words. "Truly, I have a legitimate reference, sir. It is just that, at the moment, he does not enjoy much favor with the Church."
In gradual stages, the expression on Father Tullio cleared. "Ah, I understand. Yes, there have always been those who have abused the trus
t that we have placed upon them. The fact that you are aware of the person's indiscretions will hopefully act as a check to any indiscretions to which you might be tempted."
"Oh, I say," Carstairs said in great relief. "That's awfully decent."
"Well, we are in the forgiving business, no?" the father smiled. Once more, he picked up the pen. "So who is your reference, please?"
"Well," Lord Carstairs said, pausing to clear his throat, "Ahem. Professor Felix Einstein."
"Guards!" Father Tullio screamed, leaping from his desk, and yanked open the door. "Guards!"
"Wait!" Carstairs cried, spreading his arms. "I'm prepared to make reparations for the professor!"
"Ha!" the priest sneered. "With what?"
The sound of running boots grew in the corridor, and suddenly a full squad of armed soldiers and several nuns packing heat appeared at the doorway. Father Tullio pointed to the stunned Carstairs. "Arrest him! Jail him! Export him! Shoot him!"
Growling menacingly, the soldiers steadily advanced and worked the bolt on their Vetterlis 6.5mm rifles. The nuns drew smoothbore pistols and cocked the massive hammers. In frantic speed, Lord Carstairs dug into his pocket, produced the jewelry box, and flipped back the lid.
Everybody flinched, as if half-expecting an explosion. But when nothing happened, Father Tullio cautiously leaned forward and peered inside. Lying on a cushion of blue velvet was a large splinter of dark wood.
"And what do you claim this is?" the priest asked, his tone dripping suspicion.
"I make no claim, father," Lord Carstairs stated in all sincerity. "And I ask no favors. Freely do I give this to you, with no obligations attached."
The ritual words stopped the priest cold. Once again, Tullio bent forward to examine the contents of the box, and now a sweat broke out upon his brow. Rather hesitantly, the priest reached out to take the box, and closed it tight with a snap. Turning about, Father Tullio passed it to the nearest nun. Tucking the pistol up her wimple, the nun genuflected and scurried away. The other sisters followed close behind, surrounding her for protection.
"Your men may also go, Captain," Father Tullio said, sounding almost regretful.
Shifting his grip on the rifle, the officer frowned at that, and then finally saluted. Turning about on a heel, he strode from the office with the rest of his troops close behind in tight formation.
"This way, Lord Carstairs," the priest directed, taking the explorer by the elbow. "The occult library is down in the catacombs."
" Grazie , father," the lord sighed in relief. "Thank you."
Although Father Tullio answered in the affirmative, his heart really didn't seem to be in it.
***
Going from hand to hand, and pocket to pocket, the little box eventually made its way to a secret part of the Vatican not on any map. The splinter was removed from the box and minutely examined by an unseen figure beyond a massive iron door. Suddenly there was a cackle of glee, the splinter vanished from sight, and the door was slammed shut with a hollow boom.
Beyond the door was a paneled room lit by thousands of candles in tiny wall niches. Several black-hooded figures scuttled over to the newcomer, a white-robed figure, who bore the splinter on a silk pillow. As the pillow moved about, the others examined the splinter with sounds of pleasure. With regal dignity, the tiny sliver of dark wood was laid upon a vast limestone table covered with a pristine white cloth and adorned with thousands upon thousands of similar splinters, each bearing a small card with neatly written numbers. In the midst of the room was a dais of blue marble, upon which was a hollow trough lined with millions of similar splinters, all painstakingly fitted together into the vague shape of a tall, man-sized, capital letter 'T'.
***
Taking a locked stairwell down into the cellar, Father Tullio and Lord Carstairs followed a subterranean path that wound its way deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Earth. Lord Carstairs knew that this was only the tip of the catacombs of Rome. They were a nigh endless series of man-made tunnels, grottos, and burial chambers that once held the entire population of old Rome.
The rough-hewn tunnel was well lit by alcohol lamps, the blue flames giving an eerie illumination. As the two men progressed deeper, they passed dozens of doorways gaping wide, their interiors only dimly seen in the flickering light. But more than a few passages were sealed with bronze doors securely closed with iron padlocks.
"What is it exactly that you seek, my son?" Father Tullio asked, unlocking yet another iron grating for them to pass through. Afterwards, he firmly locked it once more.
"A stone map, circa 1500 BC," Lord Carstairs replied, ducking his head to avoid a low support beam. "From the city-state of Dutar."
Arching both eyebrows, Father Tullio almost tripped. "The Dutarian temple map?" his voice squeaked in surprise.
"Yes, I heard that the Vatican had it, along with the deciphering key: some sort of a bracelet."
"We do not have the bracelet," the priest averred, "only a rubbing."
Lord Carstairs already knew that, but did his best to act surprised. "Ah, more than satisfactory."
"The Dutarian map," Father Tullio mumbled, looking at the British lord sideways. "And you are a member of the London Explorers Club. I might have guessed."
For a while more, the men tramped along the stone tunnel until stopping at an innocuous door marked in Medieval Latin. Fumbling in his cassock, Father Tullio produced a key and unlocked the bulky padlock holding the old-style hasp shut.
"Broom Closet?" Lord Carstairs read aloud, translating the sign.
As the heavy lock came undone, the plump priest gave a half-smile. "An innocent ruse to detour the unauthorized, eh?"
"Better than using tigers, I suppose," Carstairs muttered softly to himself.
Not quite sure what that meant, Father Tullio shrugged in response and pulled on the door. But it remained firmly in place, as if nailed there. Taking hold of the latch with both hands, the priest tried once more to move the door, with the same lack of results.
"How curious," Tullio muttered softly, releasing the latch.
"Allow me, sir," Carstairs offered. Taking hold of the handle, the British lord applied more and more strength, but surprisingly, the door resisted even his efforts.
"It must be jammed," Father Tullio suggested, touching the cross around his neck. "This section of the catacombs is over a millennium old, you know."
"No, I don't think it's jammed," Lord Carstairs answered, placing an ear against the door. Very faintly, he could hear a whispery wind on the other side, steadily rising in tone and volume.
Leaning closer, Father Tullio copied the position. "Now, whatever can that be?"
Although Lord Carstairs did not know what was happening, he felt a definite tingling on the back of his neck, exactly as if he was on safari and a lion was about to drop on him from a tree branch directly above. Instincts honed in a thousand fights flared to life, and adrenaline surged through his body.
"There's trouble afoot. Stand back, sir!" Lord Carstairs snapped. Turning, he kicked at the door. The wooden planks cracked at the blow, but the door stayed in place. Striking twice more with no result, the lord then threw his entire body against the barrier in a full Rugby tackle. The door exploded off its hinges with the sound of splintering wood.
As Lord Carstairs released the wreck of the door, a violent wind swept through the underground corridor, blowing away the dust of ages. Inside the room was a sort of hurricane, or dervish: a vortex of wind howling through the chamber, which brought every book on the shelves alive with fluttering pages. The floor and ceiling were solid banks of fog. Filling the far wall was some sort of a hellish whirlpool, its misty center apparently extending forever.
Lord Carstairs could only stand and stare dumbfounded as a smooth rectangle of stone floated from one of the wall shelves and began to drift through the air towards the vertical tornado. The tornado's rim crackled with lightning. The explorer had no idea what he was looking at, but he recognized the flo
ating stone tablet as the Dutarian map, from Professor Einstein's description. This must be more dark magic from those dastardly squid chaps! And right here in the very bowels of the Vatican! Outrageous! Lunging forward, the lord grabbed the stone block in both hands and held on for dear life itself.
"Go for help!" Lord Carstairs shouted over the strident wind, while trying to dig his heels into the stone floor.
Hitching his cassock, Father Tullio departed with Olympic speed, already yelling for assistance and guards.
Exerting every ounce of his phenomenal strength, Carstairs tried to pull the Dutarian map away from the rushing matrix of colors. But the block continued to move relentlessly forward, as unstoppable as the tide.
Frantically searching for any purchase, the lord spread his legs wide on the rough-hewn floor and leaned backwards. Leverage is the answer, and the more, the better! The brutal, sucking wind whipped his clothes about with stinging force. The lord's arms seemed to creak audibly under the awful strain of the magical tug-o-war. Resolutely as a 500-point man at Eton, Lord Carstairs put his entire body into the task, roaring in unbridled rage. The irresistible force met the immovable object. But the stalemate did not last long, and soon the implacable forces holding the map began to drag him closer to the heart of the savage tornado.
In spite of everything he tried, Lord Carstairs was forced grudgingly to yield a step, then another, and still another towards the heart of the maelstrom. Bloody hell! Without warning, he crossed an invisible barrier and was engulfed in the turbulent zone of effect. Now he could all but see the magnetic-like attraction of the yawning pit ahead. Hooking a leg about a marble column gained Carstairs a brief respite. He dared to stare directly into the magical abyss. Blinding sheets of lightning crashed in the distance, each deafening thunderbolt causing static-electric charges to crackle painfully over his skin. The tiny discharges blistered his hands and arms, but through the strobing light and hellish noise, Carstairs could faintly discern a rocky hill cresting to a castle made of jet-black glass. It was a horrid soaring fortress with flaring towers and jagged walls: a somber abode of inhuman madness that bade welcome to none. Nothing else of the landscape was visible, yet Carstairs somehow received an overwhelming feeling of death and desolation.
THAT DARN SQUID GOD Page 10
