The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five

by Scott Chapman

  To the naked eye, the slow-burning bitumen would have looked black, but to Sparke it looked like angry, molten lava through the lenses, burning and flaring with a stark green light. The roadway was almost covered, but to the left hand side, there was a narrow gap in the spilled roadbuilding material that seemed clear. He edged his way around the truck, measuring each step as though he was walking on the moon. Under his feet, he could feel the crunching of scattered pieces of the aggregate that was mixed in with the bitumen.

  The rear of the truck was intact, but the cab had been peeled back like a smashed egg.

  “Can you hear me?” Sparke said.

  “Clear,” said the voice in his earpiece. “Is everything all right?

  “The suit is working fine. Good airflow. Vision is very poor though. The cargo is burning, but no large flames are visible. I am at the truck now.”

  “What do you see?”

  “The fuel tank has exploded. The front wheels have melted into the road surface. No sign of any injured or dead.”

  He looked into the cab, checking again for bodies. When he lifted his foot to move on, he found that the sole of the boot had stuck into molten tar. He reached out with a gloved hand to lean against the shattered cab and heaved his weight up, freeing himself again. His foot snapped out of the sticky surface, throwing his balance back. For a long moment he balanced at the tipping point, then he felt the slow, inevitable pull of gravity as the weight of the oxygen cylinders on his back toppled him like a falling tree onto the melted road surface.

  For a moment, he lay still, face up, looking into the swirling cloud of smoke against the emergency lighting. He had been barely able to walk before, now he was faced with the prospect of lifting himself, unaided. He rocked himself from side to side, then, with one heave, he rolled onto his left shoulder ripping the protective cover from the oxygen cylinders on his back. The burning bitumen was only a few feet away, but his suit shielded him completely from the heat. He tucked his left arm under himself and rolled until he lay face down, then, one inch at a time, he pulled his knees forward until he was on all fours.

  Pulling himself up to a standing position was the toughest physical act of his life. His knees trembled and his thigh muscles burned as he pushed himself upright. The effort made him stagger back, crashing into the wrecked truck cab.

  "Are you all right?" the voice in Sparke's earpiece squawked.

  "All good, just slipped on the wet tar."

  “Can you make out the bus?” said the team leader.

  Sparke lifted his head and stared along the tunnel.

  “Only in outline. There are lights inside, but I can’t see any movement.”

  He walked along the wall of the tunnel towards the bus. The weight of the oxygen cylinders was back-breaking and his breathing became labored. He was fully protected from the heat of the fire, but the effort of walking with the heavy weight had drenched him in sweat.

  The smoke was much thicker near the ground and his feet were lost in the murk, so he slid his feet over the ground to avoid tripping on unseen obstacles, like a slow motion ice skater.

  “Five meters from the bus. Are you ready with the argon?” said Sparke.

  “Waiting for your signal. Any sign of life?”

  Sparke stopped and peered into the gloom.

  “Nothing.”

  The right hand side of the bus looked to be jammed hard against the wall.

  “The emergency exit at the rear of the vehicle is still closed,” he said.

  The white and blue metal of the bus was filthy from the smoke, his fingers leaving white traces when he touched it.

  “Still no movement.”

  Moving from the rear of the vehicle, he walked slowly along its length.

  “Lights are on, but they seem weak. Could just be the effect of the smoke though.”

  He took a step back and peered up into the nearest window. Five feet away from him was the face of a young woman, her head propped against the glass, her eyes vacant. He stepped towards her, waving his left hand slowly, but got no response. He lifted his hand towards the window, fighting the stiffness of the heavy suit until his fingers touched the glass.

  The woman leapt upright in her seat and pointed, screaming soundlessly at Sparke. Immediately the window and all the windows near him were jammed with faces, all seemingly talking at the same time.

  He turned and continued to walk until he reached the front door of the bus.

  “I’m at the door,” he said into his radio. “Many survivors on the coach. It seems intact. Give me a moment to try and get inside."

  The driver stared at Sparke, then stood up and pushed the crowd of passengers back. Sparke pointed to the driver, then at the two young passengers who stood nearest him. He pointed at the driver, then waved his hand from right to left, then pointed at the two young men and raised his arms. They did not understand, so he repeated the gestures until they grasped his meaning. The driver was to open the door and the two men were to lift Sparke into the bus. The weight of the suit and the heavy oxygen on his back would make it impossible for him to climb up the steps by himself. The three men positioned themselves at the door and Sparke pointed at the driver, then dropped his hand in a signal.

  The door opened and the two men rushed forward and heaved Sparke into the bus by his outstretched arms. Sparke heaved himself up and collapsed as the driver slammed the door closed behind him. It took both men to lift Sparke back to his feet.

  “I’m on board,” he said, turning back to look at the door. “The door looks good. Looks like a good seal.”

  Now he turned to one of the men, and pointed towards the back of his suit. It took the man a few moments to understand. Then he and his friend began pulling at the suit to find out how to release Sparke.

  At last, they found the seal near the back of his neck and Sparke reached up and hauled the hood over his head. The relief of getting it off was incredible.

  Pulling his arms from the sleeves, he reached up and unclasped the night vision goggles from his head. He looked around him at the faces looking back at him. He was not surprised by their silence. He had seen too many traumatized people for their lack of response to be unexpected.

  “Do you speak English?” he asked the driver.

  “We all do,” said one of the young men.

  Departure

  Salvatore felt as though his head had been trapped in a vice since the parley the day before. He stood in the courtyard of the castle at Radda. Everything he saw looked strange to him and the people walking back and forth either avoided his gaze, or snatched furtive glances at him whenever they thought he was not looking.

  His life, what he had thought was his life, was gone. His home, Mellissa, his family were all now in his past and he was being sent to join a group of murderous monks whose only joy was the slaughter of the enemies of the Church.

  “Cheer yourself,” said a voice from behind him.

  Salvatore spun around to see the Englishman, Falco, looking at him and smiling.

  “You will be a great addition to the famous Order. You'll fit them like a foot in a good shoe.”

  “You take great pleasure in the misery of others.”

  “No, but I do take pleasure in watching how the mighty treat their own people. You’re being sold like a young bull for the sake of peace.”

  “Sold into slavery.”

  “It’s not so very bad. I have met many Templars and Hospitallers. They are men like any others and they seem happy enough in their lives.”

  “Let them be happy in their lives. I want to happy in my own life.”

  “A reasonable desire. But one that seems denied to you. Now that peace has broken out we are not needed here. We will ride with you to Pisa and put you safely on a ship to join your new brothers.”

  “I already have my own brothers.”

  “And now you will have thousands of new ones. We leave in two hours.”

  Falco turned and began berating two of his men who had
stopped to watch the discussion.

  Salvatore walked over to his horse and continued with his own preparations, now wishing for his departure to happen sooner as the waiting was intolerable. He looked over the saddle and saw Podesta approaching.

  “You will have an escort as far as Pisa,” said Podesta.

  “I know. He was almost gleeful when he told me. He thinks my family has sold me like a head of cattle.”

  Podesta showed no expression. “You must not think badly of your father. He had to make the choice in the best interest of the family.”

  “Selling me to a gang of lunatics was the best option?”

  “It was the only option. He could not go against the will of the Bishop. Even if he could, a war with Gaiole would only have led to more deaths. Both Rosso and you would have been at grave risk.”

  “And what of Rosso? He is not being sold.”

  “He is.”

  “What do you mean?” said Salvatore.

  “As you have been promised to the Templars, he has been promised elsewhere.”

  This was news to Salvatore. So far all he had been told was that his fate had been chosen, but he knew nothing concerning Rosso.

  “What will happen to him?”

  Podesta looked at the ground, carefully considering his words before saying, “This should be your father’s news to you, but he…”

  “My father speaks less than this horse,” said Salvatore. “What should my father be telling me?”

  “Now that Gaiole has no son, he needs to marry his daughter well,” said Podesta.

  For a moment, Salvatore doubted what he was hearing.

  “Rosso? Rosso and Mellissa?” he said.

  “Could there be any other path? I know that she and you had some hopes of being together, but as you have your duty, so does she. She will do the bidding of her father and marry Rosso. The two houses will be joined.”

  Salvatore leaned forward until his forehead touched the pommel of his saddle. He lifted his head after a moment.

  “Is there no chance that the Bishop could be prevailed upon to change his mind on this matter? Is he so very set on this path?”

  “Bishops do not change their mind on matters like this, especially as both fathers are in agreement. It is a compact they have made.”

  “I pity Mellissa having such a man as a father,” said Salvatore, turning to continue his preparations. “It has all turned out well for them, her father, mine and the Bishop. The burden of this whole fiasco seems to have fallen on others. Only Massimo seems to emerge happy.”

  At the mention of Massimo’s name, Podesta looked away.

  “Why so quiet all of a sudden?” asked Salvatore.

  Podesta looked around the courtyard, then walked over to where Salvatore stood until they were barely a pace apart.

  “Listen,” said Podesta, “you will leave in an hour or so. It is unlikely that we will ever speak again. Your banishment is for life and life as a Templar will mean travel far beyond even Europe.”

  Salvatore looked closely at Podesta. “You have something to tell me?”

  “I do.”

  “So tell me. You have known me since I was a child. You have seen me almost every day of my life and know me better than anyone alive. What do you have to tell me?”

  Podesta was visibly struggling with the secret within him. Salvatore watched as he swallowed hard, and glanced around the courtyard again.

  “There is something, something you should know so that you do not place all the burden of your fate on your father’s shoulders.”

  “Tell me, Podesta. Tell me what I need to know.”

  “The agreement, the peace pact, was not the idea of the Bishop, nor your father. The Lord Gaiole had never heard of it until they all sat together for the parley.”

  “Keep going,” said Salvatore.

  “The idea for the agreement, every part of it, came from someone else. The Bishop’s secretary is indiscreet and told me the whole history when he was in wine.”

  “Podesta, you are taxing me. Who came up with this horrible idea?”

  “He doubtless felt he was doing what is best for the family. He discussed nothing with any of us.”

  “What are you saying?” said Salvatore. “What are you telling me?”

  “Massimo brought the whole idea to the Bishop when he visited him in Siena.”

  “Every part of it?”

  “Every part.”

  Salvatore looked up at the part of the castle where the family quarters were, where he had been born and spent almost every day of his life. For a moment his mind went blank as the outside world disappeared to him.

  “No,” said Podesta.

  Confused, Salvatore looked at him, not understanding what he meant until he realized that his hand was now resting on the old dagger that sat in his belt. Salvatore lifted his hand and placed it on the pommel of the saddle, then heaved himself onto his horse.

  “Tell the guard to meet me at the bridge and to bring my pack horse. There is nothing to keep me here for another second.”

  He dug his spurs into the flank of the animal and raced out through the castle gate, scattering people as he rode out of Radda for the last time.

  Gas

  "How many injured?” said Sparke, looking at the driver.

  "We think there are some broken arms, maybe wrists." The voice came from behind Sparke. He turned and looked at the young leader of the University band.

  "Everyone conscious?" he asked.

  "Yes, although there might be one with concussion."

  Sparke looked the length of the coach and saw the faces staring back at him. He knew he must have looked like someone from another planet.

  "Help me get this thing off my back," said Sparke. "I can't move."

  The young men who had hauled Sparke onto the bus took the weight of the oxygen cylinders as Sparke struggled out of the shoulder straps. Once free, he laboriously pulled off the outer protective suit, then picked up the radio headset from inside the hood.

  "Sparke here," he said. "No serious injuries on the bus. Twenty plus on board."

  "We are ready to go," said the fire team leader. "Does the air-seal on the bus look good?"

  "As good as it ever will. The seats are nearly two meters above ground level, so we'll have some time before the argon even gets high enough."

  "Check your meters before we start," said the fireman.

  Sparke unclipped a small electronic meter from his belt, pushed the button on its side and read the screen.

  "Air quality is terrible, but oxygen is above critical."

  "It's dropping," said the fireman. "We are checking the levels at both ends of the tunnel and oxygen is reducing. We should start now."

  "Ready when you are," said Sparke. He turned to the group leader and said, "Get all of your people to lie down flat on the floor. The emergency team is going to put out the fire, but that will mean that the oxygen in the tunnel will be pushed out for a few minutes. The air in the bus and the oxygen in these tanks will be enough to keep us all safe, so long as we keep calm and stay on the bus."

  "What are they going to do?" asked the young man.

  Sparke looked into the faces of the group. Too much information tended to lead to debate, not enough to distrust.

  "The tunnel will be flooded with a gas that will kill the fire. As soon as it's out, they'll come for us," said Sparke.

  "Are there no other options?"

  "None that will work fast enough. Who do you think has the concussion?" The man pointed to the women who had first spotted Sparke. "Can you walk?"

  The woman looked at Sparke, her eyes glazed, but made no answer. Sparke glanced at the leader of the group. "Bring her down here to the front."

  The young man walked back up the bus and gently led her to the front seat.

  "We are good to go here," said Sparke into his headset.

  There was a moment's pause before he heard the leader of the fire team respond. "The argon has been rele
ased. Watch your oxygen meter."

  "Will do."

  Sparke placed the small meter on the dashboard of the bus and stripped the two cylinders from the frame he had carried them on.

  "The argon is at full flow," said the voice on the radio. "We're sending in a team with breathing systems to monitor the fire."

  Sparke checked the dials on both cylinders; both were full. He turned on the first to check flow and heard a low hiss as gas escaped, then turned it off immediately. The gas would only be used when oxygen levels fell near danger levels. He repeated the process with the second bottle. There was no sound. He twisted the valve off and on again, but still heard nothing.

  He dropped to his knees and peered into the mouth of the valve. It was only now that he saw the smudge of black tar that was smeared over the metal. In an instant he realized that his fall at the truck had forced molten tar into the head of one of the bottles.

  There was little science behind the calculations of how much oxygen would be needed for the bus occupants, but there was no chance of one bottle being enough. Stopping the argon gas release would do nothing to help the situation, the smoldering fire would burn up the breathable air in the tunnel within the next few minutes anyway.

  He patted his pockets in an automatic reflex, already knowing that he had emptied them at his car and thought quickly about what tools might be available in a tourist coach. His hand touched a lump in his pocket. It was the thing the fire leader had given him seconds before he had been enclosed in the suit. He pulled it out and looked at the fat Swiss Army knife. They had laughed at the gift, but now it could be the thing that saved a score of lives.

  He pulled open the blade of the knife, glanced at the tiny valve hole, then flicked out the miniature corkscrew.

  Scraping carefully at the surface of the obstruction, he saw that the obstacle was a small piece of black grit and he began slowly picking away at the tar which glued it to the sides. He was so engrossed in his task that the tiny, shrill alarm from his oxygen meter startled him. He glanced along the length of the bus. Everyone was calm, but most had their eyes closed. The woman with the suspected concussion looked to be in a deep sleep.