Nathan was standing like a statue himself, clutching Jake’s hand in a painful grip. Jake loosened his fingers a little before examining the rest of the room: set in recesses in the walls stood four much smaller statues, looking frail compared to the menacing goddess. Two lamps hung, unlit, from the ceiling, but otherwise the chamber was bare. There was a scurrying sound, and it was Jake’s turn to freeze as a rat darted along the wall.
‘I hate those creatures,’ he muttered under his breath as he joined Charlie in front of the statue.
‘This must be an antechamber,’ Charlie said, watching the rat disappear through a hole in the corner. ‘Follow the shadow’s hands . . .’ he mused, peering at the goddess. ‘Here – give me a leg up.’
Jake obliged, cupping his palms together and helping Charlie up onto the pedestal so that he was on a level with the statue’s eyes. Carefully he examined Proserpina’s fearsome hands to see if there was any movement in them. ‘The hands must be the key – to let us in somewhere.’
Nathan tentatively advanced towards one of the smaller statues. He held up the torch and examined it in detail, his face wrinkling in disgust. Finely carved from stone, it looked like an emaciated corpse in a ghostly gown, with its head hanging down at an angle and stone worms crawling out of its eye sockets. As he looked closer, the head suddenly shot up and glared back at him. Nathan screamed, the torch went flying, and the whole room was plunged in darkness.
‘Hell’s bells! Nathan, what are you doing?’ Charlie’s voice shouted out.
‘It moved! The statue moved – it looked right at me!’ Nathan cried.
Jake had heard the torch drop and felt along the floor until he found it. He produced his flint lighter (ever since Nathan had given it to him on that dark night in sixteenth-century Venice he had never been without it) and re-lit it.
Nathan was cowering on the floor. ‘You see?’ he said, pointing at the statue. ‘It was looking down before.’
As much as Charlie wanted to scoff at Nathan’s silliness, he had to agree. ‘Unbelievably, you’re right . . .’ He looked around at the other effigies. ‘A moment ago all four of them were looking down; now only that one is.’ As they turned to look, there was a grinding of stone and this last figure also lifted its grisly head.
‘That’s it, we’re leaving,’ said Nathan emphatically. ‘There must be another way in to wherever we’re going.’
‘Just calm down!’ Charlie told him. ‘They’re obviously intended to scare people and stop them coming down here. That’s why it’s said to be haunted.’ To demonstrate his lack of concern, he went over and tapped one on its bony thigh. ‘You see, just stone. Far more importantly, we need to find out how we get beyond this chamber – so please, could everyone put their heads together and work out what is meant by follow the shadow’s hand.’
At this moment a long-lost memory surfaced in Jake’s mind: one evening, when there was a power cut in his house (his dad, in a doomed attempt to create a built-in wardrobe in the hall, had accidentally drilled into the main fuse box), they had lit candles in the kitchen and Jake and his brother had made shadow puppets on the wall.
He looked over to the statue of Proserpina with her hands outstretched, and then at the two bronze lamps hanging from the ceiling. He went over to one of these and raised the torch as if to light it. To everyone’s surprise, it ignited immediately. He went over and lit the other; this also lit up with a satisfying whoomph. Intrigued and perplexed, Charlie and Nathan stood watching as Jake went behind the statue and examined the back wall. ‘There,’ he said. ‘The shadow’s hand.’
Nathan picked himself up, and he and Charlie went to look. They were astonished: the light from the lamps cast two sets of overlapping shadows, creating the image of a single large hand, its forefinger pointing at one brick in particular – one out of thousands that made up the back wall.
It seemed obvious now. Jake put his finger to the brick – it was spongy to the touch – and pressed hard. A moment later there was a deep rasping sound, and the entire middle section of wall rose up, gradually revealing a secret space beyond.
‘He’ll be putting us out of a job soon,’ said Charlie, giving Jake a clap on the back. Nathan was so impressed that for a moment he forgot all about his fear of ghosts.
Jake led the way in as Charlie wedged a stone in the opening so they wouldn’t be trapped inside. All three squinted into the gloom. It was roughly the width of a London Underground tunnel, and crisscrossed by a network of gossamer cobwebs. At the far end, standing in an indistinct pool of light, they saw a hunched figure.
‘That’s either another statue . . . or someone standing very still,’ Charlie whispered.
‘So kind of you to put me out of my misery,’ Nathan replied drily.
‘Come on – let’s go,’ said Jake, forging on. He felt he was tantalizingly close to Topaz and there was not a moment to lose.
‘Stop!’ Charlie suddenly shouted and pulled him back. ‘Look!’ He pointed to a shape protruding from the wall: a stone carving of a dog’s head with its mouth wide open for the kill.
‘There’s another one there,’ said Jake, making out an identical form on the opposite wall. ‘And there!’ He nodded at a third one jutting down from the ceiling.
Charlie understood immediately. ‘Of course – Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guards the entrance to the underworld. And like the real thing, I have a feeling that this one is not exactly amiable. Look in its mouth there.’
Jake and Nathan peered up into the inky black cavity between the jaws of the dog on the left-hand wall, and could just make out, in the place of its tongue, the faint glint of an arrowhead.
Charlie removed his cape, bundled it up and carefully pitched it forward to a point directly between the three heads. There was a collective twang and a sudden rush of air. Three glints of light converged, and the balled-up cloak dropped to the ground – with three arrows sticking out of it. Charlie picked it up, removed the darts, tossed them to one side and shook it out: it had several holes in it now. ‘What do you reckon, Nathan? Fashionably distressed?’
Nathan rolled his eyes. ‘I hate that look. I have not an iota of respect for it. I mean, honestly – randomly torn material? Where’s the craftsmanship?’
Once again Jake was forging on, his eyes fixed on the stooped, still figure at the end of the tunnel. He stopped just short of it. Charlie’s first guess was right: it was indeed a statue, but carved from wood, not stone. It reminded Jake of some ancient relic you might find in a cathedral – an old man with a haggard face just visible under his hood and cloak and a wizened hand reaching out, palm up. It stood – like a mast – in the centre of a small wooden boat, set across a channel that disappeared, at either end, into the mountain. In the shadows underneath lay pools of water.
‘That will be Charon then,’ said Charlie, increasingly impressed by the set-up. ‘The ferryman to the underworld. Our hosts, whoever they may be, are certainly doing things thoroughly – although the River Styx has seen better days,’ he added with a nod towards the damp channel. ‘That’s perfect . . .’ He had spotted something else. ‘There’s a slot in the palm of his hand. You know how the legend goes, of course?’ he said, turning to Jake. ‘You have to pay the ferryman to take you across the Styx; otherwise you must wander in limbo for eternity.’
‘Limbo for eternity . . .’ mused Nathan. ‘Sounds a bit like that trip you once forced me to go on – the cuckoo clocks of Switzerland.’ Charlie ignored him, produced a single golden coin from his pocket and inserted it into the slot. ‘Wait!’ Nathan shouted. ‘Discussion first, please.’
‘Oops.’ Charlie shrugged as he opened his fingers and let go. The three of them heard the coin roll down inside the arm and land with a clink.
Nothing happened for a moment; then, gradually, they became aware of a distant rumble of water. It reverberated from deep within the mountain, quickly getting closer and louder. Finally it started to flow along the channel – just a trickle at first, then
a stream, and soon a foaming torrent. Charon’s boat straightened and rose up from the bottom of the channel.
‘Quickly – all aboard!’ Charlie cried, jumping in. Jake followed excitedly, holding onto the rigid ferryman.
Nathan stood his ground, shaking his head. ‘It seems to have slipped your minds that I’m in charge here and we haven’t discussed this yet – who knows where that river might lead?’ But it was pointless putting up a fight – their course was inevitable. ‘Totally unprofessional . . .’ he grunted, running after them and leaping aboard as the boat took off down the tunnel.
The three of them yelled, half with fear and half with delight, as it careered this way and that, plunging down through the mountain, under the unflinching eye of the wooden ferryman. At one point the tunnel levelled out and they slowed, almost coming to a halt; then it fell away again, and they went plummeting down.
They held onto Charon, mouths open in a nonstop howl as they tore along the final stretch before emerging into the light, at which point they slowed down and stopped. They stepped off and climbed a small flight of steps to see where they were.
They had found themselves in paradise.
10 THE HYDRA GUARD
THE SUN CAST a golden light over a steep, verdant valley that led to a cliff high above the sea. In the middle stood a group of fine-looking buildings, all connected by magnificent gardens filled with brightly coloured flowers, lawns, terraces, colonnaded walkways and fountains. Occupying the prime position, looking out over the sparkling ocean, was a striking villa of white marble, surrounded by tall palm trees.
The whole place swarmed with activity. A small army of youngsters – tanned, healthy-looking and as fit as Olympians – were training in different areas of the camp. In a circular sandpit, two young men were engaged in a swordfight. Even from a distance, Jake could see that this was no casual sparring contest: they looked and sounded as if they were fighting to the death. In other areas, youths practised boxing, archery and Roman martial arts. Those who weren’t training sat on benches, watching attentively as they awaited their turn.
Further groups of attendants, workmen and gardeners – all wearing identical brown livery – busied themselves around the estate.
Jake, Nathan and Charlie, who had retreated into the shade between a cluster of trees and a small outbuilding, surveyed all this in silence. In vain, Jake had scanned the girls to see if Topaz was amongst them.
‘A holiday camp?’ Nathan drawled sarcastically as the vanquished gladiator was dragged limp and bloody from the sandpit.
‘Nathan – look,’ said Charlie, pointing to a towering structure – a giant domed cage, constructed from an intricate lattice of stone joists. Inside, several huge, vicious-looking birds glided around or sat on high perches. The dome itself was topped by a fearsome statue of a giant bird of prey, wings outstretched for flight. ‘Vultures,’ he said. ‘Or, if I’m not mistaken, a particular type of vulture. Interbred with Polemaetus bellicosus, the martial eagle – one of the deadliest birds of prey on the planet – to make them extra bloodthirsty. Nathan and I have heard about these before, haven’t we?’
‘We certainly have.’ Nathan scowled at the vast aviary. ‘They’re Agata Zeldt’s pet of choice. The commander was right: this must be her hideaway.’
Once again, at the sound of Agata’s name – the most evil woman in history – Jake felt his stomach flip over. She was the sister of Xander Zeldt, the dark prince from whom he had narrowly escaped in Germany. She was also Topaz’s mother – although Topaz had disowned her entirely.
The Zeldt dynasty was the oldest enemy of the History Keepers. The mere mention of their name could terrify even the bravest agents. In the beginning, Rasmus Zeldt had been a friend and contemporary of Sejanus Poppoloe, the founder of the secret service; but he had descended into madness, disavowed the organization and pronounced himself king – not just of the world, but of time itself.
Many generations had come and gone before the monstrous King Sigvard had then appeared and declared war on all history, vowing to ruin the world and steep it in evil. He had taken a grand tour of the greatest atrocities of the past, from the Spanish Inquisition to the witch hunts of Salem, learning his craft, before starting his own campaign of horror – attempting to destroy the past, to pick away at it and make the world unravel into a savage, ungodly place.
When he’d died unexpectedly on a campaign in ancient Mesopotamia, his children, Xander and Agata (Alric, his second son, had been missing for decades), had carried on his work with even greater zeal. For a whole generation, the History Keepers had fought them tirelessly, thwarting plot after plot. Three years ago, around the time that Jake’s brother Philip had gone missing, they had disappeared from the scene; but recently Xander had resurfaced with a nightmarish scheme to destroy the Renaissance. He’d been vanquished and left, horribly burned, on his warship, the Lindwurm.
But now it seemed that his sister Agata might be up to no good.
‘So, do we think that’s her personal residence?’ Nathan pointed to the white villa.
‘That’s where Topaz must be,’ said Jake, scrutinizing its colonnades. ‘What do we do next?’
‘Men approaching, twelve o’clock.’ Charlie nodded towards two attendants hurrying up the steps in their direction.
They quickly retreated to the other side of the outbuilding. Looking through a window, they realized that it was a laundry – there were vats of washing, as well as sheets and clothes hung up to dry. The two slaves went in, took some tunics from a pile – brown ones like their own – and left.
‘Thinking what I’m thinking?’ Nathan asked, leaping up onto the window ledge. He double-checked that the room was empty, reached in, grabbed three more uniforms and jumped back down. ‘Look,’ he said, showing them the stitching on the front of each. ‘In case we needed more proof – A for Agata.’ The letter was inscribed over the symbol of a swooping vulture, talons extended.
The three of them swiftly removed their own light tunics and slipped on the brown uniforms.
‘The slave look isn’t my bag at all,’ Nathan complained, adjusting the cheap material to conceal his scabbard. ‘Charlie Chieverley, what on earth have you got on?’ he exclaimed. ‘I do believe you have surpassed yourself.’
He was referring to the underwear that Charlie was trying but failing to keep hidden as he dressed – half-pantaloons embroidered with Roman figures.
‘They’re educational!’ Charlie reddened as he yanked the new tunic down. ‘They’re my favourite characters from the ancient world: Aristotle, Archimedes, Cicero – to name but a few.’
He had only just sorted himself out when a stout man with a pockmarked face came round the building towards them, shouting something in Latin. At first Jake’s heart stopped, thinking they had been rumbled, but it became clear that the man’s annoyance was work-related: he wore the same brown tunic as the others, but seemed to be in charge. Charlie bowed and replied politely. Finally, the tirade over, the man strode off down the steps towards another unfortunate group of slaves.
‘We have to take those baskets down to the laboratory immediately,’ Charlie translated, once the man was out of earshot; he pointed to a stack of wicker baskets loaded with chunks of rock – the same pungent-smelling sulphur they had seen in the harbour. ‘And he also let slip that the magistra – that’s Agata Zeldt, I presume – is not presently in residence. That may be good or bad news. Quickly, we’d better move those rocks; we don’t want to attract attention.’
They set to immediately, grabbing two baskets apiece. As Jake lifted his, the cloying stench caught in the back of his throat, making him gag.
‘Which do you think is the laboratory?’ Nathan asked, trying not to breathe as he scanned the various buildings.
‘There.’ Jake nodded towards a low octagonal building, to which two workers were carrying similar loads.
They headed down the path towards it, passing close to the aviary. It was feeding time, and a man was shovell
ing great chunks of raw meat into a shoot that dropped down into the cage. The birds, which were almost as big as humans, flew down in a frenzy, cawing and scrapping as they tore off ribbons of flesh with their razor-sharp beaks.
‘So what’s the deal with sulphur?’ Nathan asked. ‘Any ideas, Charlie?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘It could be used to make hundreds of things – medicines, pesticides, paper, vulcanizing rubber, sulphuric acid . . .’
Presently a gang of young warriors, pumped up after a bloody bout, came swaggering along the path towards them. They reminded Jake of a gang of hot-headed bullies at his school, only these were tough, muscular fighting machines. Close up, Jake could see their uniform more clearly: each wore a pale-grey moulded leather breastplate, with feathers sprouting from the shoulders. More feathers decorated the backs of their thick gladiator’s boots. To complete the bird-of-prey theme, two of the guards were wearing glinting bronze masks with slit-like eyeholes and an armoured nose, hooked like a vulture’s; the others were carrying theirs.
The three young agents kept their heads down as they passed by, but Jake noticed that one of the guards – he had a chiselled face and a dimple in his chin – was watching them through narrowed eyes.
As they carried on down the series of steps and paths towards the hexagonal building, Jake, heart thumping, continued to scan all the female faces in the hope of glimpsing Topaz; but she was nowhere to be seen.
They went in and found themselves in a large room. It was dim and cool – and empty. The air was thick with the most dreadful odour – not just the sulphur, but something even more acrid. There were several work benches covered in gleaming bronze instruments, scales and measuring cups as well as jars of specimens, liquids and powders.
‘I assume the revolting whiff comes from those dreadful things over there,’ said Nathan, pointing to an array of curious plants along one wall. Each bore a huge flower shaped like a colourless, giant tongue protruding from deep indigo petals.
History Keepers: Circus Maximus Page 11
