When they were done, he leant towards the Fugger and whispered, ‘Beware, Brother. The Devil has loosed his flames upon the world. St Anthony’s Fire has come, and now is Doomsday near. Unless I shut them out.’
With that the monk rose up and tried to put his crushed fingers once more under the hanging gate, and nothing that the Fugger attempted to say or do could draw his attention away from the task.
Jean, on hearing these words, had stood a little apart. He had gone so pale that Haakon came to him and touched his arm.
‘What is it?’
‘St Anthony’s Fire.’
‘Do not take the words of a madman seriously. He is possessed of an ogre, a demon, that is all.’
Jean looked up at the other man. ‘It is not all. He will only be one of many. When St Anthony’s Fire takes a town, all are taken, all possessed. It happened to the next village to ours, when I was a child. It destroyed the place. Half the people died. The other half went mad. Barely one in three was exorcised.’
‘Wait.’ The Fugger joined them. ‘I too have heard of this. Whole villages deranged, cursed with visions of hell, perishing in flames only they can see. Yet people coming from outside the village are not caught up by it. They can only witness the effect of the curse, not share the horror.’
Januc had left the bandaging to the others and had been looking within the walls. He came out just in time to hear the Fugger’s words.
‘That is not entirely true,’ he said. ‘In parts of Turkey there have been similar massings of Djinn, the Screaming Demons. They speak of flames and other horrors. It is said the demons enter the body through the mouth, from the air, from bread or water. So, my friends, keep your mouths shut tight. Wrap a cloth about your face, breathe through your noses only. But do not eat or drink while we are here. And talk as little as you can.’ He watched each of them as they cut further strips from the cassock and placed them around their faces, then added, ‘Follow me. There are other things you must see.’
Pulling weapons from their sheaths, they entered the enclosure. Inside the gate, the Archbishop’s carriage they had seen from certain vantage points along the way stood abandoned. One of the leather straps that had suspended the litter above the chassis to lessen jolting had been cut, and it leant over at a strange angle. Someone had tried to hitch up the horses and failed, for two waited half-tied in the traces while two more stood in a nearby carrot patch, munching. Beyond, the gardens were laid out in huge beds sweeping back to the main house, a stone island in the vegetable sea. Bodies were dotted around each one, some naked, some clothed; in one, the three monks Haakon had first seen from the ridge were still dancing, trampling their seedlings into the earth. Laughter mingled with the sounds of weeping. Smoke rose from the outlying buildings to greet the rain, but none from the monastery itself which, as they approached its entrance-way, was silent.
‘This is as far as I came,’ Januc said. ‘It doesn’t smell right beyond here. Smell!’
All four raised their masked faces.
‘Ugh!’ Haakon turned away and spat. ‘What is that?’
‘It smells of … of mice,’ said Jean.
‘Mice, certainly. And – stale piss.’ The Fugger shuddered. ‘And you think we should enter here?’
‘Jesu save me, for I burn!’
This cry of anguish burst from the silence of the darkened hallway. Immediately, a score of other voices began to shriek, as if the first voice had been their cue.
‘Shall we descend into Hades, my lords?’ Januc’s grey eyes twinkled above the brown cloth over his mouth.
‘Cibo’s carriage lies abandoned. He’s either in the village or in here,’ Jean replied, raising his voice above the wailing. ‘So I’m going in.’
His sword poised before him, Jean entered, the others close behind. The hallway was low-ceilinged and dark, the murky light of a day’s end dissipating into the stone-flagged floor and the oak panelling of the walls. A staircase ran ahead of them up into the gloom. On either side were doors, one open, one closed. Beyond the shut one to the left could be heard a steady repetition, as of someone counting. Through the gap of the half-opened door the screams poured.
Using the square end of his sword, Jean pushed the door wide. At first, the gloom intensified, then shapes could be discerned, moving around as if in a mist. Suddenly, one ran at them, gibbering. Jean ducked the heavy gold censer the monk was swinging like a mace at the end of its chain. It crashed into the wall beside him, exploding in a cloud of sweetness, of sandalwood and frankincense, temporarily overpowering the stench of mice and urine that was thickest in this chamber. Jean stepped to the side and, as the monk, screaming, tried to raise the wrecked censer, slapped him hard on the side of his head with the flat of the blade. He collapsed at Jean’s feet.
The wailing in the chamber doubled. Peering in, the company was able to make out – on every surface, thrust into corners, hovering by the fireplace – men, garbed and un-garbed, beating themselves and each other with bare hands, tearing out chunks of hair. All in the room were tonsured, and thus in monk’s orders. Of the party of Siena there was no trace.
Closing the door behind them diminished the wailing, and Jean led the party to the other side of the hallway. Beyond that closed door they could still hear the regular chanting of a single voice. As they hesitated before this door, they could make out the same words being repeated over and over: ‘Here I stand, King of the Jews. I can do no other, King of the Jews.’
‘Blasphemy upon blasphemy,’ muttered the Fugger. ‘Christ and Luther both.’
‘If blasphemy is the worst awaiting us beyond this door, Fugger’ – Haakon was crossing himself as he spoke – ‘I myself will be well pleased.’
Then he raised his huge foot and kicked the door in.
This room was as light as the other was gloomy, for candles glimmered on every surface. Hundreds filled the room with their glow, balanced on the fire guard, hanging from the ceiling in wire frames, thrust into rough holes scored into the walls, covering the long refectory table, scores of them set out a small hand’s breadth from each other. Only one area of the table was uncovered by dancing flame, and such was the brightness after the gloom for a moment none could see why that was. The shadow was in the form of a body, that was clear. When their eyes had accustomed themselves they could make out the substance of a body as well, and see what the candles finally illuminated so well: a man crucified on the table.
He was small in height but large in girth, his distended belly thrusting up his brown cassock. Three stilettos pinned him in place, one for each hand, and one through crossed ankles. Blood had pooled all around him, flowing in streams down the table, diverted here and there by the endless candles like log jams in a river. He had lost a lot of it.
While the Fugger turned away, unable to contemplate the sight, Jean, Haakon and Januc went to each of the cruel daggers and, at a signal from Jean, pulled them sharply out. The delirium that had caused the man to chant was swept away in a howl of pain, to be replaced by the oblivion of the faint.
Januc raised his stiletto. ‘Italian?’
‘Sienese. Look at the base of the blade.’
There, lodged just above the grip, was a familiar symbol – the fighting cock of the Rooster contrada.
‘Seems we share a common enemy with this man.’ Jean threw the dagger at the door. It lodged there, quivering.
While Januc and Haakon went, candelabras in hand, to search the upper levels of the monastery, Jean and the Fugger set about staunching the bleeding and dressing the man’s stigmatic wounds. It was when they had wrapped the limbs in bandages torn from a table cloth and were moving him to a chair beside the fireplace that he woke with a shriek.
‘Am I in heaven? Have I joined my Saviour?’
‘You are still of this earth, Brother,’ said the Fugger.
‘Then who are you, behind your masks? Are you with that accursed Cibo and his hellhounds? If you are, then better to have left me to die in poor imitation of
our Lord, for you have brought damnation to His sanctuary.’
Jean put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘We seek the Archbishop but we do not wish him well. He is our enemy, as he seems to be yours.’
‘Double damned be he who comes with the kiss of a friend and is my foe.’
‘Amen. What has happened here, Brother?’
The man looked at the Fugger and smiled, despite the pain, as the one-handed man clumsily adjusted his legs for him.
‘I have not been called “Brother” since I took charge of this house of God. It is quite refreshing.’
‘You are the Abbot of Marsheim?’ Jean asked.
‘I am. Would that I were just a simple brother still, and had not witnessed this day’s events.’
‘What happened, Father?’
‘My son, I could not find words in any of the five languages I speak that could come close to describing this day. But tell me – my flock, my monks, how are they?’
Haakon and Januc entered then, shaking their heads at Jean’s look, indicating that all above was as it was below – another circle of hell.
‘Something … possesses them,’ Jean said.
‘It is the demons that Cibo unleashed, for there were none before he arrived.’
‘Tell us, Father.’
The Abbot told of the Italian’s arrival, how he arrogantly demanded lodging for the night. He had expected another sort of stay, for the monastery had a reputation for an excellent cellar and a lax attitude to morals.
‘Much like he was used to in Italy, no doubt. But there are those of us here in Germany who, even though we may not like the havoc wrought by Luther, appreciate much of what he has done. God’s house was corrupt, and I a too-willing participant in that corruption. No more! I set my house in order, returned to the simple virtues of my vows. I myself began a fast and have eaten no bread or flesh for a week. I can afford the abstinence, as you can see.’ That gentle smile again, swiftly fled. ‘That did not suit His Eminence or his mad brother. They took over the house, encouraged the monks in their former ways, brought food from the village, wine, bread, even women.’
He winced, in memory and pain.
‘I knew the Devil was abroad once more. I still held to my fast, but everyone else began to gorge like pigs at a trough, most of my monks joining in. But, something … something happened. A door was opened and the Beast unleashed into the world. This morning, Brother Andreas threw himself from the tower, screaming that the fires of hell were gaping for him. His legs shattered, yet he got up and ran through the gates. And he was just the first. Soon everyone had a demon inside them – my monks, the Italians, all. And because I did not, and tried to cast theirs out, they descended on me and perpetrated this sacrilege.’
He raised his bandaged hands and stared at them in horror.
Jean leant in. ‘And where have they gone, Father?’
‘To the village, I think. Most of their men-at-arms were lodged there. They shouted that they needed an army to defend them.’
A scratching at the door had them turning with weapons raised. The terrified face of a monk appeared and he was seized before he could bolt.
‘Do not harm him!’ called the Abbot. ‘He is my confessor, Brother Anselm.’
The frightened young man was brought into the room. He wept when he saw the Abbot’s wounds.
‘My son, my son,’ said the Abbot fondly, a tear running down his face. ‘Anselm joined me in my quest for purification. He fasted and prayed too. The only one. The only one.’
Jean led his men outside, leaving the weeping men to their reunion.
‘Did you hear? The only men not possessed of the demons are ones who did not eat or drink,’ said Januc.
‘They are also the only ones actively seeking God in this accursed place. I don’t see how you can blame the food. The Devil strikes where he will,’ argued the Fugger.
Jean interrupted before Haakon could speak. ‘Food or fiend, we do not want to stay here. What we seek is in the town, in the midst of the madness. It will be dangerous enough. But while Cibo’s bodyguard are fighting the Devil’s legions, we could not ask for a greater distraction.’
‘Let us make use of it while we can,’ the Norwegian agreed, lifting his axe onto his shoulder, ‘and get free of this terrible place.’
Mounting their horses, each calling for the protection of their own god in their own way, the four men rode into the heart of St Anthony’s Fire.
‘Giancarlo.’
What a lovely voice. Like an altar boy’s, that innocent.
‘Go back, Giancarlo. Holiness. Giancarlo Cibo. Back to the inn.’
But I just came from there.
He tried to locate the angelic face, but it moved, a shadow slipping round to his other side.
‘It is different there now. Order. Is restored. Love. Is restored. Friends are there, a brother flesh of your flesh blood of your …’
Blood.
Now he remembered. Blood had driven him from that smoke-filled room in the first place. His own, coughed up in unimaginable quantities, until he would have drowned had he not found some air. Then other people’s blood, he’d forgotten whose. Big men with weapons had become very scared. Frightened animals fled or fought. Fleeing had brought them to the town, from the slaughter at the monastery. But demons could not be escaped in such a manner. Demons had preceded them.
‘But they’ve gone.’ The sweet voice came from above him now, as if along a sunbeam. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Go see for yourself. After all, there’s nothing for you in this stable, is there, Giancarlo?’
There wasn’t, not now. Not now he’d learnt the truth that changed everything.
Hell wasn’t buried deep. Its roof was a finger’s push through the crumbly crust of skin and old bones that made up the stable floor. Hell was directly beneath his feet. No, it wasn’t quite true. The chambers were there; if he stamped the sufferers would hear him again and renew their terrible wailing. But hell had burst its petty bindings. Hell was loose in the world.
‘Yes, Giancarlo, yes! Hell is everywhere. Except at the inn. Where your friends are.’
No one who speaks so sweetly can tell lies, he thought.
He was wrong.
He pushed the inn door open and found no friends inside, no brothers. Wild dogs snarled at each other, teeth drawn back in a rictus of terror. They had human bodies, but that was all. He always knew his brother’s lycanthropic tendencies. For the sake of good government he had restrained them. Now, Franchetto stood on a window ledge, naked, baying at a moon only he could see, lodged just next to the fireball sun. Beneath him a pack of what used to be called his men snapped at another man before them. They had weapons drawn, but none such as Cibo had seen before. Spade-headed rats wriggled together in the hands of one, like a furred whip. A chair leg was crested by a scythe’s blade, a pot had daggers thrust through it. All were levelled in defence of their master; for this other man, cloaked and helmeted, was trying to approach the howling Duke, his intent clear – to wrestle the werewolf to the floor and throttle it.
Something about this figure seemed familiar. The Archbishop tried to speak, to command, but his voice came out too slowly, distorted and deep. All other sounds seemed normal compared to it: the howling from the streets, the baying on the ledge, the wailing of the damned a finger’s thrust below his feet. Finally, he got a word out.
‘Heineeriich.’
The figure heard. The figure started to turn, as slowly as the Archbishop’s speech had come.
At the first glimpse of scarred flesh, Giancarlo Cibo began to scream. Like the words before it, the scream emerged into a world run down, where time had ceased its normal function. Nevertheless, sound continued to emerge, matching in pace the revelation of flesh.
Heinrich von Solingen had never been a handsome man and a virgin’s tears had destroyed most of what had made his face human. But now, Cibo saw a sight that finally brought his screams into alignment with time. For as Heinrich’s eyes swivelled ro
und to fix on his master’s, a long snake slithered from the cave of one socket and slipped, so slowly, into the other.
Cibo did not stop running until his back was pressed against the town well. Ice had replaced flame on every surface of the main square of Marsheim. The cold reached down inside him like frozen knives plunging within his body, stopping his breath and forcing icicles of blood from his throat.
Something moved at his breast. He tried to lower his eyes, but it took such an effort. What might be down there, he thought, held within the folds of my cloak? I have a pocket there, no, a pouch or … that’s it, a bag! There’s something in it.
He forced his eyes down. On his chest was a pouch. It was made of purple velvet yet it was somehow also completely transparent, for he could see within it, pointing up at him, a hand with six fingers. As soon as he saw it, the hand formed into a fist and began to beat at his chest. He knew the pounding would not stop until his heart shattered into a thousand icy shards.
‘Jesu, mercy!’ he cried as agony spread across his body.
A rent appeared in the skin of the earth, hell slowly opening for him, every blow of the Witch of England driving him down into it. He could do nothing to stop his own fall. There was only the pounding, and a heat so white his skin began to dissolve.
‘Jesus!’ he called again, knowing it would be the last word he would ever speak. He looked in farewell to the road south, the one that led past the abbey and on over the mountains to his homeland.
Four horsemen rode into the square. This, at least, was a vision he had expected – the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, there to usher in the destruction of the world. They were to be welcomed, for it meant plenty of company in the descent to Hades. Enough, perhaps, for the Devil to be too busy to deal with a lowly archbishop for a while. Yet, even here, there was something wrong with the vision. He did not expect consistency, not in Marsheim. But of the four horsemen, only two were meant to be bringers of war. And all four here had weapons in their hands.
‘Where is plague? Where famine?’ he shouted at them, then realised it was a mistake. They hadn’t noticed him before. Now they had.