The Bunting Quest
Page 13
As he listened to Montano, Dom Letizia gazed in pride and wonderment at the restored abbey and smiled again for another tourist photograph. The disembodied voice in his ear continued. ‘They have killed again. This time a young woman.’
Dom Letizia closed his eyes and dropped his head. ‘Do they know what they are looking for?’
‘No, not yet. But they know that the maps are the key.’
‘What about the map dealer, Lawrance?’
‘We followed him to Oxford. He knows nothing.’
‘You did well. Bring the map home and leave Paulo in London. Ciao.’ The phone clicked off.
Dom Letizia sighed and placed the phone deep in the concealed pocket of his black cowl. Then he made his way through the throng in the cloisters, past the old Roman well and climbed the one hundred steps leading towards the church. Instead of entering the place of worship, he veered left and walked briskly along an elaborately arched passageway lined with statues and busts of the saints and turned right into a narrow, partially concealed entrance. The passageway narrowed further as he walked, and here only irregular filtered sunlight pierced the gloom, discouraging any wandering tourist. He moved briskly, breathing in the familiar dank smell of moss and dampness deep in the passageway, and then he disappeared. To a casual observer it would have looked akin to a conjurer’s trick. One second he was there and the next he was not. The passageway continued but Dom Letizia was no longer there.
The trick was a narrow recess, no more than the width of a man, on the right of the passageway. It was almost impossible to see. However, if you knew where it was, you could step sharp right into the narrow opening, turn about-face and shuffle back a few steps, now hidden behind the wall.
The secret space was not meant to be a foolproof hideout, but if you weren’t aware of it, you would walk right past the narrow gap none the wiser. He was prepared with his key in his right hand when he found the metal lock in the darkness.
He opened the door, stepped inside, closed and locked the door behind him, taking care not to fall down the steep steps. Using his right hand, still with the key in it, he felt for the light switch. This was a relatively new addition. When he was young he had always negotiated the sixty-three steps down the twisting passageway in total darkness. Thankfully, now there was a bare light bulb around every turn. One thing that had not changed was the dramatic drop in temperature the further he descended into the mountain.
There were many such passageways riddling Monte Cassino. Throughout the centuries, the monks had been subject to harassment, first from the Lombards in the sixth century, then the Saracens in the ninth century, both sacking and destroying the monastery. Experience had taught them that, if they were to survive and prosper on the mountain, they needed to be able to hide their priceless manuscripts and treasures. Dom Letizia knew of most of these hidden rooms and passageways, having spent all of his life in the monastery, but he was not so egotistical as to believe that even he knew them all.
The Abbot Primate did though. Letizia opened a door to be greeted by Dom Carlotti, shouting down at him from his precarious position up a ladder. ‘Francesco, you frightened me. I nearly fell.’
Dom Letizia laughed. ‘Sorry, Roberto. I forgot to knock.’
Neither man could remember a time when they had not been together. Dom Letizia had gathered the screaming Roberto from the rubble all these years ago and held the two-year-old close to him. He never let go.
Bookshelves from floor to ceiling covered the walls of this cave-like room, leaving very little of the original whitewashed walls exposed. Most of the monastery’s extensive library was open to the public and even the ancient manuscript section could be accessed. However, this room held only the most rare and controversial works.
The second-century Gnostic Gospel of Judas was one such work. It recorded a conversation between Jesus and Judas Iscariot, where Jesus explicitly instructed Judas to inform the Romans of his whereabouts and clearly depicted that Judas’s actions were only out of pure obedience to the commands of Jesus. This controversial manuscript had been in the possession of the Benedictine community in Monte Cassino for over fifteen hundred years.
However, the cave-room also held thousands of papers on more recent subjects: secret political agreements, astronomy and space, the secret knowledge of ancient civilisations, witchcraft, medicine, exploration and travel. Among the most fascinating for Dom Letizia was an original Chinese manuscript obtained in India from one of Admiral Zheng He’s treasure ships and brought back to Italy in 1428. This manuscript detailed Zheng He’s voyages of exploration to America over seventy years before Columbus ‘discovered’ the new continent. The manuscript included not only charts of the American coastline, but also sketches of animals and plant life.
Dom Letizia never questioned why these documents were secret but suspected they were considered so divisive that they could never be made public. Only the Abbot Primate could sanction access. Not even the Pope could demand a viewing. He could request, as indeed had Pope John Paul II a number of years before, but even then, the Holy Father had only been granted entry at the behest of the Abbot Primate.
Dom Letizia was the Keeper of the Secret Manuscripts, an acquirer and curator, and he answered only to the Abbot Primate himself. Dom Roberto Carlotti was his assistant.
‘Roberto, have you moved Heinrich Bunting again?’ chided Dom Letizia, his eyes scanning the bookcases. Roberto was constantly rearranging the books, much to Dom Letizia’s chagrin; something about dust, dampness and damage.
‘Yes, Francesco,’ shouted the voice from the ceiling, ‘I have to keep dusting them and moving them for their own wellbeing. If we leave them in one position for too long we will not notice damage. That is why I am always up this ladder, moving books and manuscripts, checking for dampness.’
‘Yes, yes, thank you, Roberto. Where are they now?’
Roberto pointed past a small radiant heater taking the edge off the chill, to a low separate bookcase at the far end of the caveroom, crammed with numerous leather-bound books. At first glance they appeared different, but a more exacting investigation showed them all to be the same publication, the Itinerarium Sacrae Scripturae … Antwerpus 1581. On some, the ravages of time had almost destroyed the bindings, some had been damaged by rough handling or were affected by water and fire, giving the impression of individuality, while others were obviously in mint condition.
On a separate shelf above the books were numerous maps of the world, all with the same title: Die eigentliche und warhafftige geftalt der Erben und des Meers, Cosmographia Universalis. They also appeared in a range of conditions. Some were shabby and torn, others water-stained and foxed, yet some were as if they had been published yesterday.
‘Montano is bringing us another map from London, Roberto.’
‘What about the Amsterdam map?’ the voice from on high enquired.
Dom Letitzia sighed deeply. ‘There we have a problem. They have the Amsterdam map. I will go and see the Abbot Primate and get his advice. What are our numbers now?’
‘Well, we have seventy-two books. Fifty-three of them have the map intact and we have thirty-four individual maps. Once we receive the London map and confirm its authenticity, that will be thirty-five maps. So, in total, we will have eighty-eight of the Antwerp first-edition World Maps by Bunting.’
‘You know, Roberto, in my time as Keeper of the Secret Manuscripts, we have only acquired eleven, and we had technology on our side. The internet brought our attention to most of those eleven. Consider how difficult it must have been for those who went before us to do the job that they did. Seventy-six collected before us. They searched the world’s libraries, antiquarian map and book dealers, attended obscure auctions and wrote letters to all the major institutions, sometimes waiting months for replies. Theirs was an amazing accomplishment.’
‘They will be blessed in the hereafter.’
‘True. And us? Will we be blessed in the hereafter if the secret is discovered?’
26
Cornelis awoke with the early morning light. It was the fourth of November and a cold, thick mist draped the city, muffling the first street sounds of the emerging day. Enthused by his new home and the worldliness of his uncle, his cloak wrapped tight, he headed out into the city, getting to know his bearings, inhaling his new life.
He headed west past the magnificent City Hall, a newer building, wet and shiny from the morning air, through the Great Square, towards the docks. The buildings and businesses now heralded the upcoming lifeblood of the city: the great Scheldt River. He passed chandler after chandler, each shop promoting their speciality. There were rosins, tars and pitches in one window, linseed oil, whale oil, tallow and lard in another, twine, hemp and cordage in another and all displayed axes, hammers, spikes, hooks and caulking irons. He passed trade halls and customs houses.
‘Ahoy, lad!’ shouted a drunk sailor, legs splayed, sitting in a darkened doorway. ‘Lend an old salt some coins for a hot drink and some bread, will ya?’
Cornelis hurried on, ignoring the sailor’s pleas, towards the tall masts looming out the mist in front of him; the Scheldt in all its powerful glory pounded the dockside. Ship after ship berthed as far as the eye could see, and although still early, hundreds of mules and carts loaded with supplies and sailors of all races in their different garbs crowded the morning docks. He sat down on a pile of damp hessian sacks to take it all in, reflecting on his life that was and his new life that was still to be.
A few hours later, satiated from his harbour experience, with the late morning sun filtering through the mist and clouds, Cornelis turned away from the docks and meandered east, back into the heart of the city.
He soon sensed a curious sound wafting in and out on the breeze. His first impression was of a flock of birds squealing and cackling, but as he drew closer to the source it became apparent that it was human screams and cries. And suddenly, without warning, there was a rush of wind and energy unlike anything he had experienced before, with a smell that stopped him in his tracks. Later he would know that smell: the smell of human fear. And now it was in front of him, coming towards him. He stepped quickly to the side, into the entrance of a grand building to evade the stampede of men: some wearing uniform, women and children, all hysterically fleeing. Then, through the screaming tide of humanity and the choking dust, he saw the distinctive morion helmets of the Spanish soldiers, pikes thrusting and rapiers hacking into the chaos of defenceless citizens. Now it was all around him: the screaming, the blood, the smell. Human limbs lying severed from their twitching dying torsos, dismembered heads grotesquely lolling amongst frantic legs, while from above, archers fired indiscriminately into the crowds. Whether they were defenders or attackers, Cornelis knew not.
He ran from his shelter towards the Grand Square, evading the thrashing swords and pikes of the marauders, to see that fine building, the City Hall, the greatest structure in the known world, now in flames which were engulfing the nearby buildings.
A company of Walloons had bravely set up a barricade in the square, to which Cornelis and the fleeing masses rushed behind for safety. The Spanish, caught by surprise, were repelled by the desperate courage of the defenders. Cornelis saw a wounded Spaniard, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years of age, drop to the ground, his helmet knocked off by the force of his fall, set upon by a pack of revengeful citizens who pummelled, kicked and stomped on the boy until he was no longer recognisable as human. However, the Spanish regrouped under the leadership of their captains and with their superior training and discipline, the barricades started to buckle. A great scream went up when they broke through, as now there was nothing to stop their murderous progress. Frantic, Cornelis turned and ran but in his blind panic did not see the writhing body lying in his path and stumbled, slipping in the pool of blood, headfirst into darkness.
Jakob awoke to find that his son had risen earlier and had left the building.
Sitting with Bunting and Gerard for breakfast, the quiet and peace was disturbed by the rushed sound of someone running up the stairs, to the second floor. It was Hans, the boy charged with looking after Amir.
‘Master Gerard, sir.’ he gasped, ‘the Spanish are coming … they are killing all in front of them.’
‘What are you talking about, boy?’ shouted Gerard.
The boy, wide-eyed and shaking, could hardly speak. ‘They are on us, sir. It is the Spanish.’
Gerard rushed to the shuttered window and opened it. Immediately they all smelled the smoke that was sucked into the room and could hear the cries of panic in the street.
‘Quick,’ said Gerard, ‘meet me downstairs in the workshop. I will bring Miriam. Hans, go and find the Moor boy and both of you bring as much food and water as you can gather.’
A few minutes later they all met downstairs. By now the smell of smoke was greater and the screams from the street terrifying. Gerard spoke urgently to the other men, telling them to move a printing press away from the wall, revealing a hidden cellar door.
‘Hans, once we are below, throw this old tattered rug over the door and run home to your family.’
‘What about Cornelis?’ shouted Jakob. ‘I can’t leave him. Where is he?’
‘No. We will be no use to him at all if we are put to the sword in the next few minutes. He is young, strong and able and will find refuge. I assure you – your son, my nephew, will be safe, but we have to save ourselves now.’
Jakob stared wide-eyed at Bunting. However, before the priest could respond, the sound of the display window shattering and the front entrance door being violently rammed compelled Jakob against all his fatherly instincts to climb down the few steps into the dark cellar.
‘Hans,’ instructed Gerard, ‘run now, leave by the back entrance. Do not return until the streets are quiet. And don’t forget the rug.’
With this final command Gerard pulled the trap door shut. The last cracks of light quickly disappeared as Hans carried out his orders, leaving the group in silence, encased in darkness.
As they hid silently in their tomb-like refuge, each praying to their God for mercy, listening to the muffled sounds of the looters above, night fell on Antwerp. The Spanish barbarities of daylight were now succeeded by the greater atrocities of the dark. This fury was to last for three days and nights. Plunder was the aim of these men, and once started, all boundaries on greed were broken. First they ransacked the warehouses and shops, then the private homes, carting away any items of value they desired. Then came the search for hidden treasure, because as every Spanish soldier knew, Antwerp citizens were rich and had grown fat off their efforts in quelling insurrection. It was time to take what was owed to them. Torturing those whom they deemed to be hiding their wealth, they used every revolting crime possible to compel the owners to reveal their treasure.
Infants were dragged screaming from their mothers and dashed to pieces. Women were hanged upside down in front of their pleading husbands and slaughtered like cattle in an abattoir. Every known atrocity was carried out so that the city would reveal all its hidden wealth. When they were finished, this once sophisticated, civilised city had been sacked and desecrated. Blackened ruins rose where fine buildings had once stood. Mansions were now ashes. Corpses were heaped in piles, hacked and mutilated, some naked, male and female, old and young. None were spared.
Cornelis knew he must try to escape but for some reason he could not move and they were closing in on him; blood dripping from their eyes and mouths, with rapiers aloft. ‘No!’ he shrieked and raised his arms in a pitiful useless defence …
He awoke with a start from the nightmare, unsure at first where he was, his legs heavy and pinned down. As he regained consciousness, he remembered the barricade and the fall, and tried to touch the throbbing pain on his forehead. There were bodies on top of him. He could not move. The lifeless eye
s of a woman stared back at him, her skull cleaved almost in two by the force of a sword blow. Slowly, he manoeuvred himself from under the macabre pile and staggered to his feet.
It was early morning and raining, and although he could hear screaming in the distance, there was not a living soul in the street. Death was all around. Gathering his senses, he turned away from the direction of the cries and started running towards Twaalfmaandenstraat and the safety of his uncle’s home, heavy rain washing the blood from his face. His surprise was matched by the Spanish soldiers exiting a house as he turned a corner at full speed and collided with the looters.
‘You stupid brat,’ said the soldier, stooping to pick up his sack. ‘Trying to prevent a soldier from doing his duty, eh? Take him to Cathedral Square. He can join the queue. Let him watch the sport before he partakes himself.’
27
Francesco, Francesco how wonderful to see you,’ said the Abbot-Primate, his quiet, frail voice unable to hide his pleasure at seeing Dom Letizia again. ‘You have not changed in over fifty years. You have the same worried face you had when I picked you up from the rubble in the dark times.’
Due to the beams of light filtering through the shuttered windows behind the Abbot Primate’s desk, Dom Letizia found it difficult to see the old man. The Abbot Primate seemed to have shrunk since the last time Dom Letizia had been with him and the unusual light gave him a ghostly, ethereal presence. Dom Letizia loved this domed wood-panelled room, with the reproduction of Michelangelo’s famous fresco from the Sistine Chapel painted on the ceiling. One wall was given over to a crowded bookcase while another displayed, almost casually, some of the lesser-known works of the great Renaissance painters: Rosselli, Botticelli, Ghirlandaio, Pinturicchio, Perugino and Signorelli. All had been stored deep in the cave-rooms of the monastery before the war and brought back out after the reconstruction was completed in 1964. However, Dom Letizia’s eyes were always drawn from these riches to the wall that displayed photographs of the Abbot Primate when he was younger, vigorous and full-haired. These photographs, many in black-and-white and some in colour, adorned one wall of the study: the Abbot Primate meeting a number of different Popes; opening a new museum in the monastery; receiving John F. Kennedy in this very room. One photograph always held Dom Letizia’s attention more than others: the bombed-out ruins of the monastery in 1944, with the Abbot Primate in the foreground, standing on rubble. He seemed to be directing other monks. There were also civilians in the picture. His mother must have died just a few hours before this photograph was taken.