by J. F. Penn
Marietti hadn't been able to dig up anything from the Vatican archivists on where the missing pages might be. Ben had hit a similar dead end, but the pages of the Devil’s Bible she had glimpsed were seared onto Morgan’s brain. When she had looked at the pages of the illuminated book in the Palermo crypt, Morgan had felt the stirrings of recognition. She had seen some of those images before; she just had to work out where. Martin’s virtual library was the place to start.
Morgan arrived at Martin's door and knocked with a tentative hand, knowing that the eccentric genius didn't like to be disturbed. A second passed before the door was wrenched open. Martin was clearly in the middle of something as his rough-cut mop of blond hair was spiked where he had been tearing at it. The sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up in precisely matching creases. He pushed his wire rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Morgan, come in, come in,” he said, standing back to let her into the chaos of his office. For someone so painstakingly neat in most ways, his office was evidence of a more disordered psyche. Morgan was pleased to find he seemed genuinely happy to see her, even without Jake.
“I’m working on the data downloaded from the terminal you were able to access,” he said. “We’re close to finding the other labs. The legal liaison are swinging into action, but they take so long to do anything. Not like you and Jake.” He grinned.
“I need to use the pod, Martin. Jake said you wouldn't mind?”
She gestured at the stand up module in the corner of the office.
“I still haven't quite finished the alterations but if you don't mind the beta version, then please go ahead. It's quite intuitive, and of course, you know the Bodleian Library anyway.”
Martin sat down and clicked on his laptop. The door slid open and Morgan stepped into the booth, the door sliding closed behind her. It was dark except for a tiny light that illuminated a headset complete with visor.
“I forgot to mention.” Martin's voice came over a hidden microphone. “The sensors will read your body movements so just pull information from the shelves or page through the books. You're also on a rolling platform so you can walk through the physical space. You'll get the hang of it. Just leave the library when you've finished.”
Morgan pulled on the helmet and incredibly the high domed ceiling of the Radcliffe Camera loomed above her, the top stacks in shadow. Sun streamed through the glass windows onto the wooden desks. Morgan felt like she was indeed back at Oxford researching her latest academic paper. Although the library was digitized, there was still serendipity in wandering the physical environment and seeing what else caught her eye. She walked towards one of the stacks. It was a strange sensation and she wobbled at first but soon stabilized.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked, and she turned to see a librarian in classic cardigan, brunette bun and glasses. She must be Martin’s fantasy, as Morgan couldn't remember any of the librarians she knew being this stunning.
“I’m looking for art related to the Revelation of St John and more specifically, the four horsemen of the apocalypse,” Morgan said. The librarian paused, then indicated the stacks behind her. The shelves where Morgan was standing now had hundreds of books about the apocalypse on them. She pulled one down, put it on the wooden lectern and opened it. To her surprise, the images popped up in front of her, floating in the air. She could touch them and flick through them, making the search much easier.
Morgan knew that the word apocalypse meant unveiling, an uncovering of secret knowledge about heavenly realms. It had become synonymous in popular consciousness with the Revelation of St John, the final book of the Bible which described the end times and the second coming of Christ. It was Revelation as an allegory of history, of things already fulfilled and a prediction of what is to come. The author John, possibly the same man as the gospel writer, wrote the book in exile on the Greek island of Patmos after he had survived the tortures of Domitian. There were those who claimed Revelation was a heresy, the visions of a lunatic, hallucinations brought on by fasting and dementia. To others it was the reality that lay as a foundation to all Christian belief. It had also spawned a great body of artistic work where Morgan hoped to find clues to the missing pages of the Devil’s Bible.
She touched the virtual page. The first painting was by William Blake, an English poet and painter whose work delved into the spiritual realms. It showed Death on a Pale Horse leaping across the canvas. The figures were strong and muscled, Death as a powerful King with sword outstretched while the flames of Hell flickered beneath. Morgan brushed the image and more of Blake's paintings were arrayed before her. She gazed at the demonic brawn of The Great Red Dragon, curled horns and outstretched wings, about to devour the woman clothed with the sun. Blake saw the power of evil incarnate and portrayed him as thick limbed, unyielding, solidified muscle, not ethereal air. Morgan shivered for she felt the presence of a figure like this behind their current foe. The apocalypse was unveiling the true evil behind a global company that the material world saw as a life-giver. There was a marriage of opposites, as Morgan read from Blake's poem, 'In one evanescent moment, the Devil, boldly with eyes afire, clasps a shining angel in his embrace'. But Blake's images were nothing like the Devil's Bible; they were all his own visions.
She swiped the files away and pulled another virtual book from the shelves. This one contained paintings from John Martin, images of destruction in mezzotint, a manipulation of light and darkness. The apocalypse as holocaust and beatitude, heaven and hell combined. One caught her eye, so different from the rest of the annihilation portrayed in other paintings. Golden light suffused the image, the angel of revelation appearing from the sky above an open sea, almost a mirage. In the foreground, the silhouette of John, his hands raised to heaven, standing on a rocky outcrop receiving knowledge from On High. Morgan focused on the picture, sanity juxtaposed against the visions of massacre and ruination. But she sought darker art here and touched the screen again.
More paintings from John Martin appeared, no longer lit by heaven but more like the edge of hell, cracked open earth with fire spewing from it in Pandemonium, the Devil’s court. Next to it, ‘The Great Day of His Wrath’ showed the world upended and folded over on itself, darkly thunderous apocalyptic majesty above an unholy abyss. The searing end to the world was dramatic but it wasn’t what she sought.
The next image made her gasp. It was incredibly detailed and was unmistakably the same as the pictures of Revelation in the Devil's Bible that she had seen in the ossuary. It was a black and white print from a woodcut attributed to Albrecht Durer, dated 1498. Four horsemen rode across the scene as if into battle, trampling the fallen beneath the hooves of their wild horses. The Conquerer on the white horse wore a crown and carried a bow, arrow notched in place to slaughter all before him. War raised his sword to swipe the heads from the unfaithful while Famine was depicted as a rich man, weighing scales in his outstretched arm. In the foreground rode skeletal Death on the pale horse, pitchfork in hand, as the devil Hades devoured with fiery mouth below him. Billowing clouds of coming destruction completed the scene. This had to be copied from the Devil's Bible, but how had Durer seen the book?
Morgan delved further into the database to find more information about the life of the artist. The image was from a woodcut print, one of a series that Durer made in his workshop in Nuremberg, Germany, not far from the borders of the Czech Republic. It was from a series about Revelation, each image an intricate portrayal of the events of John’s apocalypse. She pulled up another virtual window and compared the dates of where the Devil’s Bible had been kept. Could Durer have been in the same place?
After some searching, Morgan found that the Devil's Bible had been at the monastery of Broumov in the Czech Republic between 1477 and 1593. As one of the largest medieval illuminated manuscripts, it would have been quite the tourist attraction. Durer had also spent four years between 1490 and 1494 roaming Europe in what was known as the 'wanderjahre', a time when artists went to learn from other
craftsman in a parallel to the modern gap year. There were no detailed records of his travels but his apocalypse series was made soon after his return. Clearly what he saw on that trip affected him greatly. But did he take the pages, Morgan wondered?
She touched the image of the four horsemen and it grew in size so she could gaze into the eyes of death. Durer’s prints were scattered around the world but the original woodblocks and related material were held in the Staatliche Kunsthalle Karlsruhe, an art museum in Germany. Morgan turned and walked up the stairs out of the library and into the bright Oxford day which dissolved in front of her as she left the virtual world. She and Jake needed to make another trip.
Staatliche Kunsthalle, Karlsruhe, Germany. 5.06pm
After some wrangling, Marietti had arranged for Morgan and Jake to examine the original Durer woodblocks in situ at the State Gallery and they arrived just before closing time when only a few tourists remained. The sculptured facade of the gallery was flanked by perfectly coiffed mini trees, the bright green a contrast against cool cream stone as they walked up the front steps.
Morgan had been reading about Durer on the plane. It seemed that he may not have made the woodblocks himself but designed the images then handed them over for a master craftsman to cut the blocks. Part of the wood had been chipped away leaving raised sections for the ink. The block was then used to print onto paper or other mediums to form an edition of the design and could be used multiple times. Indeed, Durer had released a number of editions of the apocalypse prints which had brought him fame and wealth in fifteenth century Europe. If they were to find clues to the missing pages, it must be with the physical blocks themselves.
At the security check, they were asked to give up their weapons. Jake argued with the guards but they were persistent, and in the end, their guns were stowed in the lockbox for later retrieval. Finally, they were shown into a study room by the Curator. On the table, fifteen woodblocks were laid out, a spotlight overhead giving the ink stained shapes an ebony sheen. Morgan was intoxicated to be so close to the work of a genius craftsman.
"You have some time now to examine the blocks and then I will return to answer your questions," the Curator said with a thick German accent. She turned at the door. "Please ensure you wear gloves at all times when handling the blocks. The security guard is just outside."
She walked out.
“This is pretty exciting," Morgan said. "How do you guys have access to such treasures as these?"
“One of Marietti's little tricks,” Jake replied. “The job of Director is all about who you know and what secrets you can manipulate in order to gain admission to Europe's finest. Shall we?"
With mock gallantry, he waved Morgan towards the table. They pulled on their white gloves and started to examine the blocks.
"What exactly are we looking for?" Jake asked, his brows creased in concentration.
"If the missing pages were taken by Durer as inspiration for his apocalypse series, then he must have hidden them somewhere. Since these blocks bought him money and fame, perhaps they are the key to finding the pages themselves."
"This one is pretty grisly, but incredible detail." Jake pointed down at a block that showed John the apostle being boiled in a vat of oil, a man basting him with a ladle. Flames appeared to crackle under the cauldron and a jeering court looked on from turreted castles as the saint prayed for deliverance.
“Incredibly, John survived that to go on and write the book of Revelation,” Morgan said.
Jake picked up the block and looked at it more closely.
"Perhaps there’s some kind of hidden mechanism in the block itself? They’re thick enough to hold a compartment."
Morgan scanned the table and found the four horsemen scene. It was more dramatic in physical form and the relief of the carving made Death and Hades almost leap from the block into the room with them.
"This is the one I'm interested in. Why did Durer draw this specifically from the book?"
With gentle hands, Morgan picked it up and turned it around against the light, looking for a hidden seam. There was a faint line that ran around the edge of the block but it had been rubbed with resin or a filler of some kind and could barely be seen.
“What do you think of this?” Morgan showed it to Jake. “Could there be something in here?”
He traced the seam with his finger.
“We’d have to split the block open to get inside. That would just slightly break all the rules of the agreement we’re here under.” He smiled at her, his corkscrew scar crinkling. “But it’s not like we haven’t destroyed things together before.”
A flash of memory and Morgan was back in the Iranian church of Mary of Tabriz hacking away at an ancient mural to find one of the Pentecost stones. She laughed.
“Maybe there are some tools around here we could use.”
Suddenly, they heard shouting in the hallway, then gunfire and screams.
“I guess Thanatos did the same research you did,” Jake said. “We need to get out of here. Maybe they don’t know exactly what they’re looking for.”
Morgan took the four horsemen block and they quietly ran out of the back door into another gallery behind the workroom. It was high ceilinged, hung with paintings from the great German artists with wooden benches arrayed so people could stop and lose themselves in the art. A darkly crafted fireplace was laid ready to heat the place in a freezing winter. Morgan and Jake ran the length of the room to a staircase, ducking in just before the door slammed open behind them. The sound of running feet could be heard resounding in the gallery as they started down the stairs.
Then there was silence behind them. Jake held up his hand and they both stopped, careful not to make a sound that would give away their position. A woman’s voice spoke stridently into the quiet. She had a faint American accent but as someone who had learned English as a foreign language.
“I have the curator and five other hostages here. If you give yourselves up now and bring the block to me, they will go free. I will count to ten and then the curator dies if you’re not here to take her place.”
A muffled scream and then the thud of a weapon against flesh. Morgan immediately turned to run back up the stairs. Jake grabbed her wrist.
“This is bigger than just those people,” he hissed. “We have to get the block away from here.”
She pulled her hand from his grip.
“We put those people in danger, Jake. It’s our duty, and you know that. We’ll work something out. We always do.”
Jake shook his head with resignation but followed her back up the stairs. Morgan walked into the gallery with her hands held up in submission, one clutching the horsemen woodblock. Jake followed close behind. A tall slender woman with copper curls tumbling around her shoulders stood surrounded by men in black, their weapons raised. Six people knelt on the gallery floor, hands behind their heads. The woman walked towards them, her spike heels clicking on the parquet floor. In tight red leather trousers and a sheer lace black top that covered her arms to the wrist, she oozed sexual confidence with an edge of unstable violence. A handgun was tucked in her belt.
“I’ll take that.” She plucked the woodblock from Morgan’s hand.
“I’m Natasha El-Behery and you must be Jake Timber,” she said, stopping in front of Jake. In her tall heels she was eye level with him. She rested her palms on his chest and then ran them slowly down to his waist, unbuckling his belt, holding his eyes the entire time. Morgan could hear Jake’s breathing become rougher at her flirtation. Then she stopped.
“I think I’ll save you for later.” She turned and walked back down the gallery towards the hostages. “Hold them,” she commanded and several of the men stepped in to restrain Jake and Morgan. Natasha pulled her gun, walked up behind the gallery curator and with one shot to the back of her neck, executed her.
“No,” cried Morgan, straining against her captors as the body thumped to the floor and the other captives groaned and wept in fear. The stink of emptied bow
els flooded the room. Natasha stepped to the next hostage.
“Please,” said Morgan. “What do you want from us? Just leave them alone.”
“I want the pages. Where are they?”
“I think they’re in that woodblock,” Morgan replied. “We didn’t get far enough to be sure before you arrived.”
Natasha tucked the gun back in her waistband and looked down at the block. She turned it over.
“Go and find some tools,” she said to one of the men. Natasha placed the woodblock on one of the benches. She looked at Morgan. “You will open it and find the pages. I will kill another person every five minutes and if you’re wrong, then they all die. I will not go back empty-handed.”
“Did you take the Devil’s Bible from us in Palermo?” Jake asked.
Twisting a lock of hair around her fingers, Natasha replied slowly.
“I should have come and taken it personally from you, then we might have had this little meeting earlier.”
Morgan felt a flash of anger at Jake as he seemed transfixed by this woman. Could she seriously be jealous at a time like this? The man returned with several chisels and a hammer and one of the guards pushed Morgan forward to the bench.
“Five minutes.” Natasha clicked a button on her watch. She raised her gun and fired imaginary bullets at the hostages. “Or bang, bang.”
Morgan tried to calm her breathing and push the anger aside. Her hands were shaking. She could hear the labored breathing and quiet weeping of the hostages. Natasha’s heels clicked backwards and forwards as she paced. Morgan smoothed the back of the woodblock, feeling the seams. Selecting one of the chisels, she began to tap at the slender crack, trying to coax it open. It wouldn’t budge. She hit it harder, at an angle, trying to drive a wedge in the gap. It moved a little, demonstrating that there must be a cavity inside. It was agony to try to prize it open without damaging the block. Over five hundred years of history; it seemed sacrilegious to be breaking it open like a common object.
