by Magnus Flyte
“Well, it’s fifteen centuries after my period, but it looks authentic. We have Rudolf II’s Kunstkammer here, on the other side of the building. This would fit right in.”
“Any ideas on how to get it back to the British Museum?”
“Actually I think it will be quite easy.” Renato grinned. “We just got a crate from them yesterday. Two vases for our January show. I’ll just tell them that this was in the crate, too. Someone obviously packed it by mistake.”
“Will they believe that?”
“Oh, stuff like that happens all the time. Things go missing; they get broken or vandalized. Stolen. Mostly this doesn’t get reported, since it’s always very embarrassing. Once the Brits have it back, they won’t ask a lot of questions. Everyone will just point the finger of blame at someone else.” Sarah’s relief was so intense that she spontaneously hugged Renato, who seemed surprised but pleased.
The galleon would go away, and now Bettina would have to help Pols.
“A really big dish of pasta,” said Sarah. “And a really expensive bottle of wine. You’ve earned it.”
They set about rewrapping the galleon. When Sarah tilted the automaton so Renato could position the plastic, the tip of her finger caught something on the underside of the ship. The hands of the clock face on the prow of the ship swung around, which caused a hidden compartment door to slide open.
“Oh, crap.”
“Did you break it?”
“No. I found something, though.”
Renato came around the desk and peered over her shoulder. “Secret chamber. How cute.”
Sarah tilted the galleon so they could peer inside, and a tiny cannon emerged from the compartment, clicking into place.
“Very cool,” said Sarah, as they both leaned forward.
Ssssssssssss. The tiny cannon directly in front of their faces released a cloud of spray, exactly like an aerosol can. They both jerked back, only just not dropping the galleon. Sarah looked at Renato, whose eyes were streaming. Her own felt like they had just dilated to three times their normal size.
“Gesù Cristo!” Renato reached for a tissue, coughing. “What was that?”
Sarah wiped her face, which was lightly misted, and sniffed the back of her hand.
“Please tell me that we did not just get sprayed with anthrax.”
Sarah shook her head. She examined the cannon carefully, but it appeared to have shot its entire wad. She brought her hands to her nose.
“It smells like . . . amber.”
She laughed. Renato laughed, too. Soon they had to sit down they were laughing so hard.
“Wait,” Sarah spluttered. “Why are we laughing?”
“I . . . don’t know.” Renato flapped his hands helplessly. “We should be screaming!”
This made them laugh even harder.
“Are we high?” Renato gasped. “Did we just do sixteenth-century crystal meth?”
“I’m so sorry!” Sarah felt like her face was going to crack from laughing. “How do you feel?”
She stood up and Renato stood up, too. Sarah looked around the room. Her vision seemed to be clear, her senses all firing. She just felt so . . . energized. Elated.
“I’m loving this!” said Renato. “Let’s pack this golden bong up and leave it in my superior’s office. I’ll write a message saying it was delivered to me by mistake and we’ll let her notify the British Museum.”
It turned out to be absurdly fun to wheel the box on a little handcart across the museum’s spotlit rooms. They deposited the galleon in another office, and then Renato gave Sarah a whirlwind tour of all his favorite works of art. Sarah thought the Kunsthistorisches had to be the most beautiful museum she’d ever been in. Marble floors, velvet couches and chairs for resting, huge doors. Spandrel frescoes by Klimt in the main hallway, along with a giant Canova of Theseus defeating a centaur. “Come see the Tintoretto!” Renato would whisper and they’d go racing into a room. “Come see the Salome!” They couldn’t stop laughing. Sarah looked at a portrait of Archduke Ferdinand of Tyrol, Philippine Welser’s husband, and thought she saw the little lamb on his Order of the Golden Fleece turn and wink at her.
“I feel like . . . skipping,” said Renato. “Is that crazy?”
“No!” said Sarah. Skipping sounded incredible! Why didn’t she skip anymore?
“Come on!” Renato clapped his hands. “I’ll show you my favorite room in my wing.”
They skipped through the beautiful rooms.
“Wheeeee!” said Renato, slapping the ass of a life-size Zeus.
They came to a room shrouded in darkness.
“Stand here.” Renato positioned her in the middle of one wall and then flicked a switch. Beams of illumination shot out from the ceiling. The room was full of pillars of different heights, from waist to shoulder high. Atop each pillar, in its own individual spotlight, was a sculpted head. They were all pure white marble, and all incredibly lifelike. She was staring at fifty disembodied heads.
“Sarah Weston, I would like you to meet my friends,” said Renato, walking among them. “This is Vespasian, and this is Marcus Aurelius, and this is a commodore I like to call Bob. And this is Julia and this is also a Julia, and this is little Knabe, dear Mädchen, and this is Gay Face. Tell me this ragazzo wasn’t the toast of the taverna on a Saturday night!”
As Sarah laughed, the marble face of the young man with huge beautiful eyes seemed to frown for a second.
And then the fifty disembodied heads began to talk.
“Hey,” said Marcus Aurelius angrily, “I feel funny.”
“Did he just say that?” asked one of the Julias. “Or did I?”
“The heads are talking,” said the other. “Wait. What’s happening?”
“Be quiet!” cried Gay Face. “I need to think!”
“Renato?” whispered Sarah. “Are you hearing this?”
But Renato wasn’t listening. He was staring at his hands. “Guarda,” he said. He held his hands up and then touched his face. He turned to Sarah. The blotchy patches of skin were fading, evaporating. His skin was luminous.
“Oh,” gasped Vespasian. “You look wonderful.”
Renato whipped off his sweater and T-shirt and Sarah saw the angry red skin all over his torso. But the weals were fading, replaced with healthy, olive-colored skin.
“Madonna santa,” said Renato. “I’ve tried every drug—prednisone, cyclosporine, every immune suppressant out there—and nothing’s ever worked. Sarah, this is a miracle.”
The marble heads were all admiring his physique. Bob the commodore whistled.
Renato dropped to his knees and began to thank every holy figure Sarah had ever heard of.
“San Franceso, Maria, Gesù, Buddha, Giove, grazie, grazie, grazie,” Renato was crying. “Grazie Minerva, Diana, Zeus, Dio, Gaia! E tutti i dei africani e indiani, grazie!”
Sarah looked at her own hands. They seemed the same, but of course she didn’t . . .
“Grazie, Apollo!” Renato shouted. “Grazie, Zeus!”
The heads were now all talking at once, shouting, calling to each other, demanding to be heard. Renato leapt to his feet.
“How long will it last?” he shouted to Sarah over the din.
“I don’t know!” she yelled back. “I don’t understand what’s happening!”
“Thomas.” Renato grabbed his sweater. “If I have only five minutes like this, I want to be touched.” He rushed for the door.
“Wait!” Sarah called.
“I’m sorry,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll come back!”
As the door clicked behind him, several of the male voices burst into laughter and shouted encouragement after Renato. “Men!” said a Julia. “Always thinking with their cocks!”
“Did Bettina rig the clock with some kind of drug?” Marcus Aurelius wondered.
“Or was it something from Rudy II’s time?” one of the child heads piped up.
“Rudolf had a lot of ailments,” said Gay Face. “Why no
t seborrheic dermatitis?”
“This is crazy,” said Bob. “It’s like LSD or something!”
“Why would Bettina put a drug in a clock?” asked Vespasian. “That makes no sense.”
“What if the drug cures more than skin disorders?” Mädchen wondered.
“They are speaking my thoughts,” said Julia. She smiled at Sarah. “Yes, I just said that. And yes, we are.”
“What if the drug acts on the whole immune system?” Septimius Severus shouted.
“Or is this all a hallucination?” Marcus Aurelius whispered.
“What if it is Bettina’s drug?” interrupted the North African soldier. “What if it could help Pols?”
Sarah ran to the door.
“I hope I don’t set off any alarms!” shouted Bob.
“I don’t care!” Julia shouted back.
Sarah staggered through the rest of the antiquities display, but quickly became disoriented. Statues in various rooms called out to her, confusing her even more. “Did I come through this one?” they cried. “This doesn’t look familiar!” The life-size Zeus muttered, “I remember that,” as she ran by him.
Sarah was now at the main staircase of the museum. In front of her was the giant Canova. The museum guards, Sarah thought, they must be patrolling around. Would they be able to hear the statues, or was it just her? Don’t speak, she thought furiously at the centaur-slaying soldier. Do not say a word.
The soldier raised his head, narrowed his eyes at her, and then thrust his pelvis forward. He had sprouted a ten-foot-long erection. Sarah ran down the stairs and then ducked behind a pillar. She could hear footsteps and saw the sweep of a flashlight across the marble floor. She looked back at the Canova, who was still watching her, and stroking his massive erection.
Sarah tried hard to think of nothing at all, in order to keep Canova quiet. She was trembling all over. Her body was burning up. She was . . . dear God. She was having an orgasm.
She needed to get back to Renato’s office. She should take the clock with her.
She needed to . . .
Sarah clamped her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the moan that was coming from deep inside her chest. She stumbled across the hall and groped for another door. Unfortunately, this one set off an alarm when she opened it, and Sarah crashed through two more doors and then suddenly she was outside, in the cold air. The statue of Maria Theresia loomed up before her. Sarah ran toward it, hoping she wouldn’t be followed by a squadron of security guards.
Or that she would be. And they would lay her down here, right here on the ground in front of Maria Theresia’s horsemen.
“Me, me, do me,” said the four horsemen in chorus. Sarah started running again.
The second orgasm came as she reached the gates of the Volksgarten. “Ohhhhhhh,” she groaned, passing a pair of older women. “Sorry, ate some bad chicken.” They didn’t quite believe her, she feared.
She wanted to tear her clothes off, touch herself all over, grab any other person . . .
Where was she going in such a rush anyway? This could be the best night of her life.
Another orgasm came as she pulled out her phone. She needed to get a message to Bettina. Did she know what was in the galleon? Sarah had another orgasm, right under a statue of Empress Sissi. Every cell in her body was filled with intense joy, vibrating in unison. Sarah sang out in ecstasy, all thoughts banished. She finally knew the truth. It had been revealed. Nothing else mattered but this feeling.
“Pull yourself together,” Sissi snapped. “I am no prude, but . . .”
“Anyone who starts a sentence with ‘I am no prude’ is a total prude!” Sarah shouted. God, even her fingernails felt pleasurable. “You were a melancholic. You didn’t even like food! There is nothing wrong with me!”
“Is the drug stimulating the vagus nerve?” asked Sissi. “That’s how they treat epilepsy and depression, both of which Rudolf II may have suffered from.”
Sarah stared at the empress.
“You read this online last month when you were researching a cure for Pols.” Sissi sounded very smug. “The vagus nerve acts on several parts of the brain and nervous system in ways we don’t yet understand. They’re exploring the use of vagus nerve stimulation in other diseases, including Alzheimer’s. It has anti-inflammatory properties that may make it useful in treating heart disease, colitis, and arthritis. And it’s very long, connecting the brain to the—”
“Okay!” Sarah shouted. She fought down another orgasm and dialed a number on her phone.
“You should call Max and admit you’re still in love with him,” said the empress.
“Fuck off, Sissi,” said Sarah. “It’s not that simple.”
The call went through at last. “I’m sorry to bother you but it’s an emergency,” she told Alessandro. “I need a drug test.”
TEN
Max Lobkowicz Anderson, shifting uncomfortably under the stern gaze of a priest, was trying to pinpoint the exact moment when his life had gotten really weird. You could, he thought, go all the way back to the day five years before, when his father had called him to say that the Czech government had decided to restitute twenty-two castles and palaces that had been seized from the family in 1948. In a single gesture he had been transformed from a guy taking a few years off to find himself (drums, weed, Southern California) to landowning European aristocracy.
Max looked around him at the somber and magnificent interior of SS. Cyril and Methodius’s Cathedral and tried to concentrate on the mass. He wasn’t raised religious and, though he enjoyed the rituals, had never quite been able to decipher these things. He had come with Pols and Jose. After a few minutes of rest, Pols had been able to finish her concert, but Max was really worried about her. He was doing everything he could to keep her from getting overtired, which today meant bringing them to the mass in his car rather than have them take the tram. And that way he could get a good lunch into her afterward, too, at a restaurant she liked next door to the church. Nico, back from London, had used the offer of lunch to tag along, though Max was sure he, too, was keeping an eye on Pols.
Max was eager to get back to his grandfather’s secret library in the basement of the palace, where he’d found some books about Philippine Welser. He was intrigued by Philippine’s husband, too. Archduke Ferdinand (Order of the Golden Fleece, naturally) had been a courageous soldier, but seemed ambivalent about his princely duties and a lot more interested in alchemy.
There weren’t many people in the cathedral today, though it was an impressive place. Like much of Prague, it was steeped in a complicated history and awash with emotions great and terrible. It was here that the Czech patriots who had assassinated the Nazi Reichsprotektor Reinhard Heydrich had made their last stand on June 17, 1942. Despite a misfiring pistol, they had managed to wound the bloodthirsty and cruel Heydrich on May 27, and the squad, which had parachuted in from London, had evaded capture while he languished. But when Heydrich finally kicked the bucket, the Gestapo had gone into high gear, and tortured people until they got answers, including showing one child his mother’s head in a fish tank. Once the Nazis knew that this church was the hideout, they began to try to force out the squad with tear gas and bombs. You could still see the bullet holes in the walls and visit the crypt where the squad had committed suicide rather than be captured. All that had happened right here, where Max was sitting, not paying attention to the priest.
You could say his life had really gotten weird when he had first taken the drug Westonia. After the drug, Max had never been able to see anything quite the same again. Walking around the palace (his palace) in Prague or the castle (his castle) in Nelahozeves, he knew he was surrounded by the energy of great lives, great passions. Like it wasn’t intimidating enough to be surrounded by portraits of your illustrious ancestors sporting the Order of the Golden Fleece on their fucking doublets.
And then there was the knowledge that his ancestors had been part of some secret Order of the Golden Fleece, a book containin
g the mystical theory of everything, or spells of ultimate power, or maybe just a load of crap. None of his ancestors had bothered to leave Max any clear instructions about what it was. Or where it was. Or how he was supposed to protect it. Or if there were any other members to the secret order other than him. Or what the secret handshake was, or if there were annual meetings. If they had left instructions, they had been destroyed or misplaced. Or hidden. Or used to line pie tins by an illiterate housemaid, like some of John Dee’s papers had been.
Every other day he got an invitation to join a secret order. It was part of who he was now, the thirteenth in a line of princes. He had been courted by the Knights of the Triangle. The Brotherhood of the Rooster. Gentlemen of the Bronzed Codpiece. Maybe the secret Order of the Golden Fleece was just another version of those. An excuse to dress up in costumes and try to pretend you were as cool as the people who founded your dynasty.
Maybe one of those books in the basement would contain something helpful.
Max looked at the little man seated next to him. Nico believed that the knowledge contained in the book of the Fleece was science, but an advanced science that, four centuries later, modern science was only beginning to catch up to. Like Westonia, which activated glial cells in the brain and allowed you to experience nonlinear time. Which turned out to be the real nature of time. Now it was understood that particles could be in more than one place at one time and that there were probably multiple universes. What else was spelled out in the Fleece? Did the knowledge go all the way back to the Greeks or further? Was it some kind of basic manual for use of the planet, like the unified field theory that Einstein had dreamed of? Had the alchemists, unfettered by the strictly labeled confines of modern science, students of physics, medicine, biology, chemistry, and astronomy, as well as philosophy and religion, discovered the basic laws that dictated the universe and the way to manipulate them?
Nico had been helping him track down clues to the Fleece, but right now the only quest that mattered was finding something to help Pollina. Nico was now planning on going to Vienna to help Sarah.
