‘That’s cruel what you said, Illy, very cruel and not true’ he said, trying hard to avoid wiping at his eyes, ‘I’m not like the Professor, I’m someone completely different. I'm my own person now. And I wanted to come here to tell you who I am, and who you really are.' Hermes stretched his arms towards Illawara, 'I know your origins. I know where you come from’ he said, but Illawara paid him no heed, the colour up in her cheeks, her eyes almost black, as her anger spilt over.
‘Get out!’ she shouted in Italian so that the guard could understand her, and she struck her finger through the air to command the man. ‘Lorenzo, throw him out. I’ve had enough of him - ENOUGH’ she bellowed. The guard jolted into action and grabbed Hermes' arm, and began to tug him away from Illawara’s cell. He struggled with the guard.
‘Get off me’ he shouted, ‘please listen to me Illy, I know you’re furious with me, but please hear me, there’s no time, don’t give up, please.’ But Illawara covered her ears and yelled all the louder for Hermes to get removed.
Hermes struggled with the guard as Lorenzo yanked him closer to the door. The other guard, Mario, returned, and put down the food and drink he brought to join his colleague in the struggle. ‘Illy, please, don’t throw your life away. It’s not meant to be like this; you’re meant to do more, so much more… you have to LIVE!’
Illawara's face streamed with tears.
‘I don’t care anymore. I don’t care if I live or die’ Illawara screamed back, ‘take him away’ she yelled again, as the guards opened the door and began to drag Hermes outside. But he hung onto the door frame with all his might, to the astonishment of Dondo and all those that malingered outside. His body stretched horizontal by the yanking of the guards.
‘I know your DESTINY, Illy… I know who your paren…’ Hermes tried to exclaim before one of the guards clamped a pincer grip on Hermes' windpipe to choke him, and subdue his efforts. Hermes, struggling and unable to breathe, then let go of the doorframe, and Illawara heard her friend tugged away coughing and spluttering before being dragged from the courthouse and hurled into the street.
‘If he really loves me, he’ll come for me!’
Illawara yelled from where she sat before the guards slammed the door shut.
Chapter 26
A Glimpse of Youth
Padua, morning, Thursday 21st of December 1611
The Professor’s hand shook when he tried to hold up his carry case, and he almost dropped the object that the Cardinal had handed to him with reluctance. Days of begging by the Professor, and his Henchman's absence, had softened Orsini into cooperation. The Professor offered the case back to his captor.
‘Please turn those buttons for me; my hands are shaking too much’ he said. With almost squeamish movements Orsini turned the small numbered brass rollers, on the locks, to the correct combination on each side, ‘now push those two buttons down at the same time’ whispered the Professor. Orsini obeyed and flinched somewhat when the two brass arms of the locks flicked up. ‘Open the case’ he said after The Cardinal laid the object on the floor. Orsini lifted the lid of the case as if he were expecting to see a severed head within it. The carry case lid fell back to reveal its contents: a selection of glass vials filled with liquids. The Cardinal struggled to stifle a gasp and leapt away when he saw some of the glowing bottles in the dim light of the room. He rubbed his hand along some of the lines of his neck.
‘Devil’s magic’ he muttered, looking at the objects with morbid fascination. The Cardinal then turned away and wiped his hands on some soft furnishings on his bed. Then he turned back. ‘But what do they do?’ he whispered, unable to restrain his curiosity.
‘Many things’, sighed the Professor, who struggled to lift his head from his sweat-soaked pillow, stained beige by his excretions, while he rubbed at a new boil that had begun to emerge over his collarbone. ‘That one’ he said, with a listless gesture to a glass vial filled with pink liquid, ‘is called Mystify. Spray that into the air and anyone that breathes it in will forget most of what they have seen and heard in the previous twelve hours’ croaked the Professor, ‘their memories will seem more like a vague dream to them.’ Orsini gave a look of wonder at the Professor’s words, and his mind raced with the possibilities of how he could use such a liquid. He looked at the pump attached to the bottle.
‘What’s that thing on the side?’
‘It’s an atomiser’ said the Professor, ‘when it’s squeezed the liquid is sprayed out… just like waves crashing on the shore.’ The Cardinal nodded.
‘What does that one do?’ said Orsini, pointing to a vial that contained a green liquid. The Professor gave a listless smile, ‘that is ‘Wound-heal’ and contains the most powerful healing essences I could find, it can help heal and protect almost any wound - it begins working in minutes.’ The Cardinal looked intrigued.
‘And that one there, what does that do?’ said the Cardinal pointing to a vile that contained a blue liquid, almost forgetting his reticence towards the carry case and its contents.
‘Pick it up and shake it’ coughed the Professor. Orsini made an expression as if he had just asked him to pick up a rattlesnake. ‘Go on’ he said, ‘it cannot harm you.’ If the Professor had been well enough, he would have laughed as he watched the Cardinal inch closer to the case, and crouch as if his life were in mortal danger. He picked up the vial which felt warm to his touch. He hesitated, ‘go on’ urged the foot bound Professor, ‘shake it.’ Orsini shook the bottle. In an instant, the liquid glowed brighter and began to swirl with a blue fire: a glinting sapphire blue tornado turning behind the glass. Orsini smiled.
‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’ said the Professor. Orsini nodded.
‘Its colour reminds me of someone’ he said.
‘It took me six years of experimentation to perfect the formula. It’s my greatest achievement’ said the Professor.
‘What is it? What does it do?’
‘That, your Eminence, is called Transformation Tincture. With a few drops or sprays of that liquid one can change any conscious thing into something else, with the power of your words and imagination alone. Or one can change oneself into whatever one can imagine with clarity.’ The Cardinal’s jaw dropped open.
‘That cannot be true’ he said, returning the vial to its space with haste, ‘only the Lord can change and transform us, with his divine love, we are not God, we do not possess such power’ he added, shaking his head. The Professor smiled again with the little strength he had left, as he looked at the Cardinal whose mind boggled at what he had seen and heard.
‘We can all be Gods in our own way’ said the Professor, his listless eyes managing a sparkle as he looked deep into the Cardinal. Orsini held the Professor’s fading gaze for a moment and could see that the Professor would live another two days at the most. His heart lurched with compassion, much to his irritation. The Professor had illuminated his mind and filled it with curiosity. He shook his head as if to dismiss his thoughts. ‘What’s this one, and what does it do?’ Asked the Cardinal, stepping forward with caution to pick up a vial filled with golden liquid.
The Professor shifted himself back down onto his bed and groaned with ache and effort to tug the covers back over himself.
‘Inject me with a syringe filled with that liquid, and I’ll tell you’ said the Professor with a limp gesture to small vials of penicillin and the disposable, plastic wrapped, syringes next to it. The Cardinal looked flummoxed.
‘I demand you tell me what the golden liquid does’ said the Cardinal, raising his voice. The Professor shook his head and gestured again to the medicine and needles. The Cardinal stared at the Professor, chewed his lip, but then bent down again rest the bottle next to the case, and picked the syringes up. Orsini cringed as he did so. ‘These things are wrapped in something clear, but they have needles at the end’ said Orsini, examining the syringes.
‘It’s called plastic.’ He offered instructions in helping the Cardinal unwrap the alien objects. ‘They’re hol
low on the inside’ said the Professor, before he instructed the Cardinal how to load the syringe with the liquid penicillin, and remove the air with a gentle squirt. The Professor drew back the covers and offered his leg. It was covered in scabs from where the Henchman had tortured him. ‘Please push the needle into my thigh. Inject me into the muscle.’
Orsini’s hands shook as he approached the Professor’s sweating and diseased body, the loaded needle held aloft, ‘that’s it’ encouraged the Professor as he exposed more of the skin of his leg. The Cardinal whispered a quick prayer under his breath and asked God to forgive him before he held forward the loaded syringe, and pushed the needle into the Professor’s thigh. The Professor winced as the Cardinal’s shaking hands caused the needle to bend and wobble in his flesh.
‘Sorry’ said Orsini.
‘Push the bit on the end’ grimaced the Professor to the Cardinal who had no concept of such an object. He almost enjoyed the ache in his leg as the Cardinal emptied the liquid penicillin into his tissues. The Cardinal pulled out the needle and used a scrap of rag to wipe away the dots of blood and liquid that had seeped from the Professor’s thigh. He sighed. ‘Thank you, your Eminence. Thank you. You may have just saved my life’ whispered the Professor, with genuine gratitude. The Cardinal nodded, humbled somewhat by his own charity toward a man he considered a sinner. Orsini coughed the emotion out of himself as he looked at the tragic Professor. He turned away for a moment to swallow the lump in his throat.
‘Jesus took the time to heal the sick’ said the Cardinal in reflex, somewhat surprised by his own piety, ‘I only followed his example.’ The Professor nodded.
'Bless you' he said before he instructed the Cardinal how to get rid of the disposable needle.
‘Please tell me now - what’s in the golden bottle?’ said the Cardinal, feeling emboldened by his experiences thus far, and quite forgetting his original fears. The patient paused his reply for maximum effect. He had the Cardinal’s full attention.
‘Youth.’
Orsini froze, as his heart leapt. The Professor gave another deep look at the younger man who seemed to far surpass him in age.
‘Impossible’ said the Cardinal after some time. He stared at the golden bottle without speaking. He trembled all over.
‘Give me the bottle, and I will show you’ commanded the Professor. The Cardinal did not know what to do with himself, but he followed the instruction given to him and handed over the glass bottle filled with golden liquid. ‘Now give me your hand’ said the Professor. The Cardinal offered his hand to the sick man as if it were in danger of being shoved into a bear trap.
Winston turned the hand and examined the deepening lines, liver spots, and wrinkles that had begun to form on Orsini’s skin like tea leave in a cup. The Cardinal's hands were still reliable and robust, the Professor observed, but starting to become unflattering to him. The Professor held firm as he could onto the Cardinal’s wrist and pressed the pump on the vial of golden liquid. He sprayed the Orsini’s fist as he tried to yank it away.
‘Calm down’ said the Professor, as the Cardinal acted as if bitten by something poisonous. ‘Rub the liquid in’ he said to Orsini, who flapped his free hand in the air. The Professor released him. The Cardinal then became embarrassed by his own behaviour. Orsini closed his eyes, and crossed himself before calming down. He then obeyed the instruction and rubbed the liquid into the skin. ‘Now examine your hand’ said the Professor, ‘take it to the light.’ After a few moments, the skin on Orsini’s hand began to warm and grow softer as the liver spots that had started to emerge of late, much to his alarm, began to change in front of his eyes.
The wrinkles and lines on his hand began to stretch out, plump, and flatten: as if a person had pulled out the creases on a duvet by tucking the corners under the mattress. The Cardinal exclaimed with shock and ran to the window to examine his rejuvenated hand in the grey light.
The sprayed hand began to shine with vigour, softness, and youth.
‘It’s a miracle’ whispered the Cardinal with wonder, as he looked at one of his hands that seemed to have returned to its early twenties. The breathless Cardinal spun round to address the Professor. His heart pounded so hard Orsini feared he would go deaf with the clamour in his ears. He stammered. ‘D... does it work for all of the rest of the body?’ The Professor smiled inside.
‘Of course,’ came the sage reply.
Chapter 27
The Burning
Padua, early morning, Saturday the 23rd of December 1611
The hammer blows rang out loud and clear into the squally wind and rain, which came and abated, as workmen completed the makeshift gangway that led to a scaffold holding up a vast heap of timber.
‘Do we have any dry wood?’ called out one workman to another who then shook his head.
‘This wood is too damp; she’ll not burn today if this rain keeps up. Maybe the Lord is on her side? Poor thing’ he added to his colleague.
‘A guard told me his Holiness wants it’ the other man called back, ‘they say the Magistrate thinks ill of it, but he had to do his bidding’ sighed the man, who then went off in search of dry bundles of wood. Later on, a crowd began to gather on the barren marshy ground, beyond the city walls, overlooked by Saint Anthony’s. The workmen finished off their work in the late morning and hammered in the last of their nails to steady the steps of the wooden structure. In the drizzle, the accumulating crowd began to gossip with one another - with increasing anticipation.
‘It can’t be right’ said one woman to her friend, as she suckled her baby draped with a cloth, ‘what harm can the girl have done? Sweet thing - face of a princess I tell you.’
‘You’ve seen her?’ gasped her companion, who had struggled for days to free herself from a persistent cough.
‘Yes’ said the other with pride, ‘she took a trinket from me, maybe she’ll wear it today? Poor thing. She’s spirited, and I suspect too proud, but I can’t see any wickedness in her - and to come to such an end so close to Christmas: the world is pitiless’ she added, as she swapped breasts for her child before she gestured at the piled wood. ‘No one with a heart wants this: what has Padua become?’ she added, ‘we’ll be no better than the Protestants if we carry this out.’
The mother declared all this in a raised tone, as she patted and rubbed her baby.
‘Hush, Orlanta’ her friend said between stifled hacking, ‘don't be immodest. People may be listening' she coughed. But the mother did not seem to care and gazed about as if the people around her had washed themselves with urine. A shadow crossed their path.
‘I say she’s a temptress and a knave, swindling men for every coin with her beauty’, chided a mature man with a lame leg that saddled up to the two friends. Both women then turned and rolled their eyes.
‘Men’ said Orlanta’s friend, her anger suppressing her nagging cough, ‘the second we refuse to be bribed for love, you call us whores and witches.’ The man pouted his withered lips and sneered.
‘I doubt she returned anything that was offered to her in good faith’ he said, shaking his finger at the pair. The friends leaned back in unison as if offended by some great stench.
‘And why should she, or any other woman for that matter, return anything a man has offered her?’ Said the mother. ‘It is WE that bear the burdens that men place on us. It is we that risk our lives to bring children into this world - whether we wish to or not’ she said with a gesture to her child. She then gave her baby an affectionate kiss, before offering a reproachful look to the old man. ‘How men carp about us when we have so few advantages - let a man offer his kingdom if he has it, for I’d bet a man would sooner rush into war than face childbirth’ she pronounced for all to hear. The critic offered no response. A titter passed through the growing crowd. The defeated man then wafted his hand in disgust at the two women and hobbled off.
Hermes then arrived with Bianca, who carried a large purse, Dondo and Grizelda. Antonio had made yet another excuse to be away m
uch to Hermes' disbelief.
‘It’s so tall’ said Hermes craning his neck to see the platform and stake nesting high up in the pyre. He still nursed a bruised knee and elbow from getting tossed into the street by the prison guards. ‘I still can’t believe this is going to happen.’
‘Neither can I’ said Bianca, dabbing at her eyes with old lace: eyes that were seldom dry since Antonio's return. ‘Excusing her temper, I confess I’ve grown quite fond of her’ she sighed, ‘she's a hot-headed girl - but her tongue is too sharp, and now she’s cut herself.’ Grizelda shifted in her movements and looked about her as more people began to arrive. For a while, she scanned the growing crowds in hope, before a look of resignation consumed her. Hermes watched her and mused at her mood. He knew Illawara’s fate could not be the cause, but he hoped with all his heart that her feelings crushed her. Dondo looked ahead and stared into blank space.
‘Antonio should be here’ grumbled Hermes, ‘it’s not right. He’s helped us so much, yet he’s not here - not here for this.’
‘I don’t recognise my son anymore’ said Bianca, ‘I doubt all that he says.’ The maid shifted again and looked around herself as if searching again for someone.
‘He said that he would join us all before her time comes’ Grizelda reiterated, but her words gave scant comfort to her company.
‘What could be so important that he would be anywhere else but here?’ said Hermes, but she only answered him with a shrug.
The Henchman spied the group in the assembling crowd, as he moved between the people like a shadow, and observed the sureness of the scaffold with satisfaction. The Henchman moved on from the gathering crowds to take word to his patron. The ghoulish man meandered through the people and made his way along the side of the city walls as the wind gusted with spittles of rain. A gust blew his cloak into his face before someone bumped into him just as he entered the city gates. The person offered no apology. The Henchman reached for his dagger but stopped when he recognised the interloper.
Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2) Page 36
