Jake wanted to throw his arms around Topaz, but she quickly wiped away her tears and climbed onto her bunk. Jake watched as she pulled up the bedclothes and, still sobbing, turned her back on him.
Helplessly, Jake stood staring at Topaz’s back. He wanted to tell her that everything would be all right; but he couldn’t. The truth was, things were far from all right. Lucius was gone. And, on top of that, Agata Zeldt, the most evil woman in history, was at large. The following day she was planning an atrocity that would herald the end of dominions; but none of them even understood what it was, let alone how they could stop it.
At length Jake sighed and lay down on his bed. Still fully dressed, he pulled the blanket over him and stared at the wall in shame.
18 THE SECRET ROOM
‘SHE’S DEFINITELY GONE,’ said Alan, his binoculars trained on the retreating boat. It was dawn on the Mont St Michel, and he and Miriam were on the blustery battlements, suppressing early morning yawns.
They had waited two days for Oceane to leave her suite long enough for them to investigate the book with the palm tree on its cover. Oceane had announced the night before that she was planning a trip to the mainland to look at fabrics for her wedding. Alan and Miriam had got up at four and waited patiently, sharing a flask of coffee and watching the sea birds, until she and her pet lioness finally boarded the ferry boat (the History Keepers usually sent one daily to the mainland to pick up provisions) and departed.
‘Let’s go,’ Miriam announced, heading for the nearest staircase. ‘My toes are frozen solid.’
They made their way to Oceane’s luxurious suite, slipped inside and went straight over to the pink china pot on the mantelshelf, where Oceane had put the key to the secret compartment. They had wondered if she might take it with her, so it was a great relief when they heard it clinking in the bottom. They took it out and opened up the safe behind the painting. The book with the palm tree on it was there.
Miriam seized it and examined the cover, screwing up her face in bewilderment. ‘Flora of the South China Seas, 700 to 1500,’ she read blankly. ‘It doesn’t sound very important.’ She shrugged. ‘Unless of course you happen to live in the South China Seas in that time. And you’re in the gardening business.’
Alan took it from her, unclasped the latch and opened it. His face lit up. ‘Well, that’s a little more interesting,’ he said. Inside, cut into the pages, was a cavity with another key – this one much larger, and gold. He carefully took it out and examined it. There were curious interlocking symbols inscribed on the bow. ‘Looks like Chinese. Mean anything to you?’ He passed it to Miriam.
She shrugged. ‘As you know, eastern languages are not my strong suit, nor yours. Galliana would know, of course. But what on earth is the key for?’ She took the book from Alan and peered at the spine. ‘They have volumes just like this in the archives. There must be a connection – that’s where Jake saw her.’
Without further discussion they took the book and the key and made their way up stairs and down corridors, through the stateroom, then doubling back down more steps until they finally reached the intelligence section. Two decoders were already working at Meslith terminals by the light of flickering candelabras. Miriam and Alan nodded good morning and went straight into the archive room. It was still gloomy, with just a glimmer of early morning light filtering through the windows.
‘Now let’s see . . .’ said Miriam, squinting along the various section headings. ‘Weather, Tides, Moonrises . . . Here we are: Flora and Fauna.’ She leaned down and started looking carefully at the sub-headings: ‘Flora . . . Mediterranean, Northern European, American, South American, Australasian, Chinese . . . South China Seas.’ She was now on her knees, examining the spine of each volume on the bottom shelf. ‘Interesting. This is where Oceane’s book should be. You see – there’s 700 AD, and then it goes straight to 1500 AD.’ Excited now, she started pulling all the books off the shelf. Suddenly she stopped dead and gasped, ‘There it is – look!’
Alan gingerly got down, peered under the shelf and saw a keyhole mounted within a golden frame. ‘Shall I do the honours?’ he said, producing the key and inserting it in the lock.
‘This is thrilling, isn’t it?’ Miriam exclaimed, clutching her husband’s shoulder. ‘I love a secret keyhole!’
Alan turned the key easily. The lock clicked and a section of bookcase opened, revealing a low doorway that led down into a small dark space.
‘A secret room!’ Miriam exclaimed. ‘Even better than a secret keyhole. Light – we need light. Hold on,’ she said and, almost sliding along the parquet floor, dashed back to the communications room. She returned a moment later with a candelabra, taking care not to extinguish the candles. She held it up as they both stepped down into the chamber.
‘Good heavens, what is all this?’ Miriam gazed around in astonishment. It was a windowless cubicle, only just large enough to accommodate a small desk, a chair and a rickety book shelf with a globe on it. On the desk lay an old Meslith machine and bundles of files stuffed with documents. The walls were covered in maps and plans. ‘That’s China . . .’ She peered at an ancient nautical chart.
‘And this is old Canton,’ said Alan, inspecting another.
‘They’re all Chinese . . .’ Miriam shook her head in bafflement. ‘The books too; even the globe has Chinese writing on it,’ she said. ‘Alan, what on earth does Oceane Noire have to do with the Chinese?’
‘Not just Oceane,’ he remarked, picking up one of the files from the desk. ‘That’s Jupitus’s handwriting, no question.’ He showed Miriam the front of the file. In neat curling letters it was inscribed with the words:
Correspondence
Operation Black Lotus
Top Secret
He opened it up. It was full of slips of parchment – Meslith communications, all written in a distinctive Chinese alphabet. ‘These are recent,’ he said.
‘Alan . . .’ gasped Miriam, clutching her neck. ‘The initials at the bottom . . .’ Each of the messages was signed with the letters XIX.
‘Xi Xiang?’ said Alan. ‘It can’t be!’
They both knew the name. Just as the Zeldt dynasty terrorized the western world, so Xi Xiang was the History Keepers’ most feared enemy in the east. A killer as eccentric as he was ruthless, he loved to perform, to assume disguises, sometimes dressing up as one of his slaves, sometimes wearing elaborate costumes to oversee his bloody atrocities. Of course, disguising himself was something of a joke, as Xi Xiang’s face was unmistakable – he had three eyes; the third, misshapen and lazy, hung over his right temple.
‘We’d better fetch Galliana,’ said Miriam.
The commander came down to the archive room in her dressing gown, pale with anxiety. She inspected the secret cubicle, before removing the file and sitting down at one of the library desks. She put on her glasses and, after verifying that the handwriting on the front did indeed belong to Jupitus, opened up the file. She had barely started to scan the first line of writing before the colour leached from her face. She clasped her hands together in horror, then leafed through the pages, eyes darting backwards and forward, until finally she slammed the file shut. Her hands shook as she removed her glasses.
‘Contact Rose Djones immediately,’ Galliana muttered shakily. ‘She must apprehend Jupitus Cole – chain him up, whatever it takes – until he can be brought back to Point Zero for questioning.’ She looked up at Miriam and Alan. Neither of them could remember seeing her look so anxious. ‘Lives are at risk. Do you understand? All our lives!’
Three hours after his talk with Topaz, Jake still hadn’t managed to sleep. A host of dreadful images spiralled around in his head – the fight in Agata’s villa, Lucius’s capture, Nathan’s anger, Topaz’s despair.
He was haunted by thoughts of young Lucius and his poor family: pirates cruelly separating them; Lucius toiling in the silver mine; the cries of his little brother fading across the sea . . . ‘His brother!’ Jake murmured to himself. ‘Why did he not tell me he had a
brother?’
And finally, on top of all this, Jake was aware that this was his second disaster in as many weeks. He’d already been responsible for losing vital atomium supplies and putting the whole service in jeopardy.
He shook his head again and again, as if that might somehow banish his thoughts. It didn’t work. He turned from side to side, from his front to his back; he tried to focus on the single flickering candle on the table; he took long deep breaths; he even tried counting sheep. Nothing worked: there was no peace to be found.
Finally a single idea started to emerge. It was a terrifying one – but once it had taken hold, Jake knew there was no way of getting away from it.
I will go back and find Lucius. I will find him and I will save him.
Again Jake shook his head. He turned onto his stomach and buried his head in his pillow. But he could not dispel the notion.
I can’t make things worse than they already are, he nagged at himself. Even if Lucius is already dead, at least I will have tried. He sat up. If anyone sees me, I will say I am going for a walk. And before he knew it, he was on his feet and tiptoeing across the room. There were quills, ink and paper on the table. He wrote a note, folded it carefully and left it lying there. Then, gingerly, he picked up his sword and belt from the pile of weapons and crept towards the exit.
No one woke up. Nathan was wearing his silk eye mask, smiling and mumbling to himself as he dreamed of some adventure. Charlie and Topaz were completely still. Jake quietly unbolted the door and slipped out. As it closed behind him, the candle on the table flickered and went out.
Jake fastened his belt and ran up the dark spiral staircase, past the faded mosaics. At the top, he edged open the secret door into the Basilica Aemilia. A few people lay sleeping in shadowy corners, and a handful of tradesmen were setting off on their early morning business. A hazy dawn light filtered in through the high arches as Jake stepped down into the Forum Romanum.
This too was almost deserted. The last of the night was lifting, like a grey curtain, to reveal a soft golden glow beyond. Jake saw two men on their knees, scrubbing the steps of the Senate House; a supervisor watched them, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A figure in a white toga – a lawyer, Jake fancied – dictated a letter to his assistant as he hurried across the square, his leather sandals clicking on the stone. Three ladies flitted under the arches of the basilica opposite. Other than that, there was not a soul to be seen.
Despite the heavy task that confronted him, Jake found himself stopping for a moment and gazing in wonder. Bathed in an otherworldly light, the place looked more splendid than ever, its colonnades of white marble even more striking. ‘What a marvellous place . . . what a marvellous world,’ Jake whispered to himself. Then he turned grimly in the direction of the Palatine – a steep hill covered in lavish villas interspersed with dark green cypresses. He stopped and drew a steadying breath. Although he could not see it from here, he knew that at the summit lay Agata’s stronghold and his own date with destiny. He straightened his belt, squared his shoulders and set off.
He skirted around the temple of Vesta and started to weave his way up the winding slope. He was a third of the way to the top, cutting between the high walls of two immense villas, when he realized that someone was following him.
He could hear crunching footsteps; even heavy panting. His follower was not very subtle: when Jake stopped and glanced round, he threw himself clumsily behind a bush, stifling a yell on discovering that it was covered in thorns. Jake saw him tussling with the undergrowth.
He feigned ignorance and carried on up a flight of steps, before darting into the shadow of a doorway and drawing his sword. His pursuer soon came into view. Jake could see that it was definitely a man – or a short, tubby boy, at any rate – but his face was obscured by the hood of his cape. He was wheezing, turning this way and that, mystified by the disappearance of his prey. There was something oddly familiar about him, Jake thought.
He waited until the boy had drawn level, then reached out, grabbed him and yanked him back into his hiding place, holding his sword to the boy’s throat.
‘Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me,’ the boy exclaimed, pudgy hands flapping wildly. ‘Jake, it’s me.’
Jake recognized the voice, but still couldn’t place it. He tugged off the hood and swung the boy round. His jaw dropped in disbelief. He was about Jake’s age, as wide as he was short, with ruddy cheeks, a runny nose and crazy fair hair.
‘It’s me, Caspar Isaksen.’ The boy smiled uncertainly, then sneezed – a high, whistling sneeze. He held up his hand and sneezed again; and a third time, the noise echoing across the valley. Then he produced a well-used handkerchief from inside his toga and started blowing his nose like a foghorn. ‘So sorry,’ he excused himself. ‘The pollen here is truly murderous – plays havoc with my sinuses.’
‘Caspar Isaksen . . .’ Jake repeated, dumbfounded. It was the boy he had met the night he had lost the atomium. In fact, Caspar had borne the brunt of the disaster – shot by Leopardo and nearly drowned in the freezing Baltic. Jake had not forgotten the boy’s furious tirade.
Whatever your name is, he had said, I neither remember nor care – feel bad . . . feel like a traitor – because that’s what you are.
And here he was again – Caspar Isaksen the Third, in ancient Rome, dressed in a toga, cape and sandals, with his unruly blond hair, his cheeks ruddier than ever.
‘Wh-wh-what are you doing here?’ Jake stammered.
‘Good question.’ Caspar nodded. ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ Then he leaned closer and whispered, ‘I appear to be on an assignment – a top-secret mission.’
‘A mission?’ Jake whispered back. ‘What mission?’
‘Hold on a minute . . .’ Caspar starting fishing around in a linen sack he had thrown over his shoulder. ‘I just need to check that my sesame sponge cakes are still intact – that was quite a move you sprang on me.’ He withdrew a small cake from his bag, examined it briefly, then stuffed it into his mouth. ‘Mmm, delicious,’ he spluttered. ‘These could almost make it into my top ten pastries of all time.’ He thought carefully as he swallowed the last mouthful. ‘Well, certainly the top twenty. Care for one?’ he added, offering the bag to Jake.
He shook his head. ‘I’m dying to know what you’re doing here. Did Point Zero send you?’
‘Of course, of course.’ The boy nodded. ‘Commander Goethe signed the order herself. In fact, only she and my father know about it.’
Jake remembered that Caspar’s father – Caspar Jakob Isaksen – was in charge of all atomium production in his secret laboratory in northern Sweden. He recollected also that the Isaksen family had been the sole producers of the precious liquid since the History Keepers were first founded centuries ago.
‘But what is your mission?’ Jake persisted.
‘As I said, it’s top secret – stratospherically so – but I don’t suppose there is any harm in telling you. I was told that I might bump into some of you here.’ Caspar looked up and down the deserted street and ushered Jake deeper into the shadow of the doorway, before continuing, ‘I’ve been sent to try and reclaim the atomium consignment that was lost in Stockholm. Obviously you, more than anyone, will remember that . . .’ he added pointedly.
Jake nodded grimly. ‘And, once again, I am so, so sorry,’ he replied with the utmost sincerity, ‘for putting you in danger; for putting everyone in danger.’ He was painfully aware that, during these last two weeks, he had been called on to apologize more than ever before in his life.
‘Oh, let’s not worry about that now,’ Caspar reassured him with a pat on the shoulder. ‘It’s all in the past. You just did what you thought was right. Anyway, back to my mission. It turned out that the stolen atomium was fitted with some kind of tracking device. You see, each batch gives off a specific magnetic aura or something – it’s all quite scientific and complicated – and Papa eventually tracked it down to these time and place coordinates, and I was sent here. I was just strolling aro
und the Forum Romanum, wondering where I should go next, when I saw you walking past. I didn’t know if I should speak to you or not.’
Jake exclaimed excitedly, ‘Well, I know where the atomium must be! I know exactly. The man who stole it from us – the Leopard, as he called himself then – is in a villa half a mile up this hill.’
‘Really?’
‘No doubt about it! We have been there already and I am on my way back.’ Jake remembered the mission he had set himself, and added seriously, ‘But if we are to search for the atomium, the others should certainly come with us. They are in the Roman bureau, beneath the Basilica Aemilia.’
‘Where did you say it was?’ Caspar asked.
‘In the Forum Romanum’ – Jake pointed back behind him – ‘underneath the Basilica Aemilia. It’s accessed through a secret door at the back of the building . . . Caspar, are you all right?’
His companion’s expression had completely changed. His uncertain smile had been replaced by a sullen scowl. ‘You can shut up now, Jake Djones,’ he sneered.
‘What?’
‘You really are spectacularly idiotic. But of course, I knew that the first time I met you.’ Jake gaped in astonishment. ‘You actually thought it was a coincidence, us bumping into each other?’ Caspar let out a high-pitched giggle. ‘I have to laugh! I made you think that you were the traitor in Sweden. And all the time it was me. Although that fool Leopardo wasn’t supposed to actually fire a shot.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Smirking, Caspar produced a thick silver bracelet from his bag – the same poison bangle worn by the Hydra. Jake stepped back in confusion.
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’ Caspar teased, advancing towards him. ‘As stupid as your brother.’
‘My brother?! What do you know about my brother?’
Caspar twisted the cap of the container, releasing the noxious vapour.
Jake held his hand to his mouth but it was too late – he had already inhaled the acrid smoke. It burned the back of his throat. He prayed that the vinegar he had drunk last night would still be working – but it was too long ago. It lasts maybe three hours – that was what Lucius had said. Instantly his insides were churning, and sharp pain shot from his skull down the length of his spine. Numbness spread from his neck to his chest, to his arms and fingers, then to his legs and feet. He reached for his sword, but was too weak to even grasp it. As he fell forward onto his knees, Caspar put his fingers to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Immediately eight Hydra guards came marching towards them.
History Keepers: Circus Maximus Page 22
