The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series)

T
HE
H
ERMETICA OF
E
LYSIUM

A
NNMARIE
B
ANKS

KNOX ROBINSON

PUBLISHING

London • New York

KNOX ROBINSON

PUBLISHING

1205 London Road
London SW16 4UY
&
244 5th Avenue, Suite 1861
New York, NY 10001

Knox Robinson Publishing is a specialist, independent publisher of historical fiction, historical romance and medieval fantasy.

© Annmarie Banks

The right of Annmarie Banks to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Knox Robinson Publishing, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Knox Robinson Publishing, at the London address above.

You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-908483-08-9

Manufactured in the United States of America and the United Kingdom

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to thank her mother, Janice, for making sure there were books in the house at all times, and for driving her to the library. She appreciates her father, Carl, and the long talks about the nature of reality that inspired her ongoing quest for truth. She is also grateful to Iva Polansky for encouraging her to revive the manuscript when all hope of finding a publisher seemed lost.

CHAPTER ONE

Barcelona, 1494

“Nadira! Quickly! Get up!”

The young woman kicked the blankets from her legs and sat up, brushing back a lock of black hair that escaped from her long braid. “What? Is there a fire?”

“No, no, some men are downstairs asking for you. The master has called for me to get you up and to the stable.” Inez dug through the blankets looking for Nadira’s cloak.

“Why? What is happening?” Nadira tried to help her in the dim light, feeling for the heavy cloth on the mound of straw that served as a pallet. Another girl rolled over in the straw and pulled the blankets away. Nadira let her have the covers, then rubbed her legs and arms to get the blood flowing. “Is it the Black Friars? Are they coming for him?” Her eyes scanned the room, prepared to flee with what little she owned.

Inez pulled the cloak from the pile of blankets. “No, not the Black Friars. Heavens, do you think I would send you to them? Go down and find out.” Inez handed her the cloak.

Nadira frowned. “This is not right, Inez.” She pulled the cloak over her shoulders and yanked at the ties. “He can’t possibly think to…”

Inez blushed. “The master is down there with them. He will keep you from harm. I know he will.” The older woman turned Nadira around and brushed straw from her skirt. “Hurry.”

Nadira hurried. Her soft leather shoes made no sound on the wooden stairs as she flew down to the ground level. She paused there to determine if the other servants had been awakened. Men slept in tight rolls against the walls, their snores loud enough to cover any noise she made. The activity upstairs had not disturbed them. Nadira tiptoed around their prone bodies. She padded through the great hall and past the paneled meeting rooms to a back door that lead to the master’s great stables.

Eight men turned to look at her as she stepped through the heavy stable doors. The master’s eyes met hers first, and she saw a guarded wariness coupled with fear. The stable was dimly lit by covered lanterns held aloft by stable boys cowering in the stalls, and spitting torches held by the strangers. The horses whiickered to her as she moved through the straw towards the group of men. Nadira was relieved to see that the men were not wearing the white robes and black cowls of the Dominican inquisitors. The taller man with the torch was lean and spare, but without the swayback thin men tended to have. His face was dark and dangerous, his eyes cold as he looked her over. The other six men stood about silently watching. The thin man raised his torch, widening the circle of light.

“Come here, you,” he said, squinting at her. “You see this man?” He indicated a lumpy tarp at his feet.

Nadira took an obedient step forward. The thin man poked the lump with his boot, making what was inside shudder. She knelt beside the tarp, seeing now that it was a sail bonnet with a man folded inside. He lay in the bonnet curled like a puppy. She looked up at her master, then reached a hand to pull the canvas away from the man’s body and expose him to the light. The thin man took her arm, pulling her back.

“Not yet, missy. I want to ask ye a few questions first.” He looked at her from head to foot. “Not very old then? Still a maid?” He turned to Sofir. “Old man, what is she, fifteen? Sixteen years?”

“No, Massey.” Nadira’s master answered wearily. “She is twenty this year. Does that matter?” Sofir’s face was strained and more lined than usual. Nadira studied him, trying to detect what he wanted her to do. He was wearing his brocade dressing gown and his red velvet nightcap. Nadira suspected he had been awakened much as she had. Now he was working his mouth around his two missing teeth, as he did when he was settling difficult accounts and dictating invoices. His face told her that he was uneasy, but he would expect her to answer the stranger. A flicker from his eye warned her from questions.

Massey spit again. “Aye, it matters. Word has it she speaks her mother’s Saracen tongue. If she be too old, maybe she’s forgotten it.” Massey narrowed his eyes.

Nadira edged closer to her master. It now occurred to her that these men may have threatened to fire the stable if her master did not comply with their demands.

“I speak my mother’s tongue; I’ve forgotten none of it,” she answered, trying unsuccessfully to keep disgust from her voice.

“Cheeky, isn’t she.” Massey snapped. “Jest so you can understand the Saracen gobble, that’s all I care about. Come closer and listen to this bugger. Tell me what he’s sayin’,” Massey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Nadira looked to Sofir. The old man nodded slightly, pointing his bearded chin at the canvas. She knelt and carefully pulled back the sailcloth to reveal the injured man’s head. He was a young man, his features perhaps once rather handsome, but now obscured by bruises. His hair lay swirled and matted with his blood; his short beard was plastered flat around his cheeks with the grisly mortar.

As she peeled the cloth from his face, he opened his eyes and looked at her. Nadira was startled by how blue they were. They contrasted deeply against the whites and glistened bright against the dull brick color of the blood drying on his face. The injured man parted his cracked lips. His tongue moved but he made no sound. Massey swore violently. He pulled his leg back and aimed a kick at his captive’s spine. The sailcloth flapped with the impact. The man writhed once, then lay still.

“Now you’ve killed him,” one of the sailors laughed. “He ain’t gonna talk now. Massey, you always was a dumb cuss.”

“Bloody hell!” Massey pulled his leg back again, and then thought better of it. He glared at Nadira, “We ain’t leavin’ until he’s dead or he speaks.” Massey looked around the stable, waving the torch and making the shadows dance on the walls. “Smythe! Get that bucket over there and fill it with water.” He turned to Sofir. “You got a well here for the stable, old man?”

Sofir nodded toward the door. “In the yard.” His glance fell on Nadira. She read a warning there in his eyes.
Stay calm. Do what they ask of you.

“Let me see where he’s hurt,” she said slowly to Massey. “Maybe I can bring him around.” She didn’t wait for permission, but knelt beside the sailcloth. Massey stopped her.

“He don’t need any fixin’ up,” he growled. “He deserves his punishment for reading those heretical books. He just needs to live long enough to tell me what I want to know and be thankful he dies here and not in the fires.” Massey made a hissing sound through his teeth. “Here’s Smythe with that water.”

Massey handed his torch to one of the sailors and took the bucket from Smythe. He dashed the water in the wounded man’s face. Bloody water splashed over Nadira’s smock, soaking her in the cold air. She grit her teeth and said nothing. The man in the tarp sputtered and rolled over onto his other side. He moved enough to allow the tarp to fall open, away from his body. He held himself tightly with his arms and screwed his eyes shut.

“Talk to him, lass, before he takes the big jump to hell.” Massey prodded. “Talk to him in that heathen gobble.”

Nadira spoke softly in her childhood language, “Can you hear me?” The man’s breathing stopped suddenly when she spoke. For a moment, she thought he had died, but then he began to mumble. His breathing was shallow and his words floated above his breath. Nadira made sense of a few of the words before the poor man sank again into senselessness.

The silence was pierced by Massey’s grunt. “So what did he say?” He demanded. “He’s been mumbling in some foreign gobble all day.”

Nadira winced. “He said something about a book and his brother.” Nadira pushed her hair behind her ears and leaned closer to the ruined face.

Massey grinned, showing blackened stumps where teeth should be. “Ask him where the book is.”

Obediently Nadira asked, “Where is the book?” The eyelids fluttered. Massey could not wait. He pressed his boot against the wounded man’s ribs and leaned into it. The eyelids snapped open as the man gasped painfully.

“Ask him again,” Massey demanded.

Nadira complied, though her voice trembled “Where is the book?”

The man grimaced then turned painfully toward Massey. The bloody lips parted and he spat feebly in his direction. Massey’s face darkened in anger. He pulled his leg back again.

Smythe stood up, taller and larger than Massey. “If ye kill ‘im, we’ll never get that money from the Dominicans,” he said.

Massey glared at all of them. “There’s another that knows where it is.”

Smythe wiped his nose with his thumb. “Perhaps, but we
know
this one does. We don’t
have
that one.” Nadira and Sofir exchanged glances. The blue-eyed man had closed his eyes again. Smythe sat down, staring hard at Massey. To Nadira he said, “Try again, lass.”

Nadira steadied her breath before speaking slowly and clearly. “These men want to know where the book is.”

There was no response from the blue-eyed man. Nadira repeated the question in Greek. This time the blue eyes flew open in surprise. Both Massey and Smythe jumped up, scattering bits of hay and dust as they rushed forward. Massey shoved Smythe aside, reaching for Nadira’s arm. He lifted her up and put his mouth to her ear. Nadira winced when his fetid breath reached her nostrils. His stubbled cheek grated her ear.

“What talk was that?” he demanded.

“It was...it was Greek,” she stammered.

“Say it again.” Massey released her. Nadira knelt in the straw, slowly reaching for the blue-eyed man who was now staring up at her incredulously. “Where is the book?” she whispered in Greek. Massey pushed forward even closer as the injured man whispered to her.