The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (39 page)

Nadira sped away again, this time to a great palace. She allowed herself to pass through the walls to the dining hall of a wealthy man. Military men surrounded him. Instead of food, large maps were spread out on the table. They were all bent over the parchment pointing and speaking. Nadira repeated some of the words she heard. Di Marco squeezed her shoulder and brought her back again. “Excellent. Come to me now, Nadira.”

She opened her eyes, back in the Great Hall. Di Marco leaned over her with a tankard of water. She drank deeply, sighing with pleasure as the cool liquid quenched the fire in her throat.

She looked up to see the cardinals staring intently at her. Each had a slightly different expression, but all appeared dumfounded and a little frightened. The pope himself was intensely pleased. He fairly beamed across the table, nodding and pounding the nearest cardinal on the back. “Excelsi! Excelsi!” He cried. “Now for the book! Bring it to me!”

Nadira’s vision was blurred, but became sharply focused as the now familiar book was brought forward by one of the cardinals and placed reverently on the table in front of her. Di Marco pulled her to a sitting position. Nadira reached for the book with both hands. The elixir was still on her senses, narrowing her vision to the tunnel with her mind at one end and the book at the other. She felt her breathing increase with the excitement of finally touching this prey which had eluded all for so long.

The cardinals leaned back, crossing themselves as she reached for the cover. Her hands caressed the leather and fondled the cool stones imbedded in the surface. The book felt warm and alive. The words and symbols written on the surface warned of the dangers and also promised the ecstasy contained within. Written across the bottom were the words in Latin: ‘…seek ye the river’s edge for the key to understanding...’ She turned the book over and pulled the back cover open to reveal the endpapers. Yes, they were there, just as Henry had said. Two torn sheets of flimsy paper made from some kind of reed, speckled with black, as though a copyist had flung his pen spraying ink spots over the page.

Nadira touched the tear. Here is where Henry pulled his ration from the book. She glanced at Di Marco. He nodded. She tore out a piece as big as her thumb while the cardinals cried out in protest. The Holy Father raised his hand and they quieted. The room was still as she carefully placed the spotted paper on her tongue. Di Marco handed her the tankard. She closed her eyes as a swirl of colors reached for her mind and took it. Hands turned the book right side up and opened the heavy cover to the first page. Without thinking, she heard her voice reading the words on the page. In a blurred mixture of sound and sense, it seemed as though her voice faded away to be replaced by another voice, a sweet, soft feminine voice that spoke only to her.

“Nadira.”

“Yes?” she heard herself answer.

“I am pleased you have found me.”

“Who are you?” Where?”

“You have crossed. You are with us now.”

Nadira blinked, she was surrounded by light, more intense than the candles, but she could see nothing. “Where?”

“Here, of course. There is no ‘where’. You are always where you are. You have come at the bidding of others, however. This does not please me. I wanted you to come alone.”

“Who is with me?” Nadira asked, confused. There was no one she could see, no one else she could hear.

“You have tendrils of malice entwined in your heart. You must break those bonds before you travel any closer. We will not allow their pollution here. Go back. Tell them what they want to know. Truth carries with it a powerful weapon. Whatever will be, will be. It is not of your concern. You will not be harmed by truth”.

Nadira was not ready to go back. “Wait, please. Tell me, what is my concern?”

The voice paused so long Nadira feared she was gone. The sound of little bells tinkling as if on a breeze soothed her mind. The voice spoke again, but softer this time.

“Come to me. Come to me at Elysium. You will see me there in the earth. Release them. I will tell you what you want to know. The White Hart kneels before you.” The voice faded with the light. The room came into her vision around her, the table the couch, the book; all materialized as solid objects surrounding her, protecting her. She looked up. The faces of the cardinals were dangerously white. The pope himself was a deathly shade of gray. Absolute silence blanketed the hall, and even Di Marco looked shocked and shaken. The once tall candles sputtered at their nubs. Two had burned completely down to nothing but molten wax.

“What?” she asked. Her voice sounded thunderously loud in that cavernous room. She glanced down. The book was open to the last page. The words, in Hebrew, danced across the page. “The spots are still here with me,” she thought. One of the younger cardinals at the end of the table pushed his chair back with a loud echoing scrape, as though he would stand. Instead of rising to his feet, he collapsed under the table with a thump. His neighbors bent down to attend to him, but the other cardinals turned their eyes back to Nadira crossing themselves in a flurry of hands. The pope was the first to speak.

“Do you know what you said to us?” he asked, trembling visibly.

“No, Your Holiness,” she answered honestly. “I have no memory of it. Did I not read the book as you required?” She glanced at Di Marco, who had sunk to her couch beside her. He did not return her glance, but stared off into space, his face devastated. Icy fear began to creep up Nadira’s arms, yet did not the woman’s voice tell her not to fear?

The pope took several deep breaths until his face became pink again. Then he brought himself to his feet, though still clutching the back of the throne he spoke to the table.

“This book will be burned. You will not try to salvage the stones on the cover. No one will pull a single page from its binding. None of the gilt will be peeled, cut or torn. I want this entire book destroyed down to the very elements of which it was made. When it is burned, the ashes, stones and gold will be thrown into the sea. Upon pain of death and eternal damnation, my order will be followed.” He turned to Di Marco, whose eyes now bloodshot and bleary, were raised up at the pope’s face. “You will see this done, as I decree that no priest shall ever touch this cursed tome. I will have guards on you to report to me when it is finished. So it shall be, Amen.”

The cardinals began coughing, some reached for water, others wine. Water was splashed in the face of the fallen man. The pope nodded and the door was unbarred. Servants poured in after the summons and began to escort their shaken masters to their rooms with great candles on high sticks. Di Marco gathered the book into the box with which he had brought it. He had not spoken a word, his face never recovering from the shock of whatever she had said. Nadira would ask him later. Now the pope was staring at her with a strange expression. He looked at her as though he had tasted something particularly vile.

“And you…”

Di Marco looked up quickly. “Your Grace?”

Pope Alexander stared down at Di Marco and Nadira for a long moment. When he spoke, it was low and steady, full of extreme self-control. Nadira held her breath. “Take her to your house. Keep her there until you hear from me. Let no one see her. Let no one speak to her. Get her out of this holy place immediately.” He sagged against the table, a trembling hand to his eyes. The Holy Father lifted his arm and pointed to the doors where servants waited with candles to escort Nadira and Di Marco away.

Reluctantly Di Marco pulled back from the wrapped box containing the book. One hand lingered on the wrappings, and the other reached blindly behind him for Nadira. She placed her hand in his and stood, watching, as the pope swept through the doors taking three of the servants with him. Di Marco hugged her to him tightly.

She squeezed his hand, “What did I say? Why are they so upset? Is the French king coming now? Are we in danger?”

“Oh, Nadira,” he turned around so she could see his haunted face in the dim light. “It could not be worse. No doubt you told the truth, yet it was not what they wanted to hear.”

“I am not being sent to the prison, though. Surely had I said something truly wicked I would be carried away in chains,” Nadira paused. “I am to go to your house, sequestered. Is this not true?”

“There will be pressure on the pope to have you burned. He does not want to lose you, however. I fear he plans to use you again in secret for his own purposes.” Di Marco lifted the remaining candlestick and pulled her behind him toward the doors. “I saw it in his eyes.”

“What did I say?” Nadira insisted, pulling on his sleeve. “You must tell me.”

“I will. Let us get to a safe place first.” He pulled together his notes, stacking the crackling papers nervously then tucking his pen and ink kit into his sleeve. “They are all still so shocked they are not thinking properly or they would have taken my notes.” He took Nadira’s hand and pulled her toward the doors, nodding to the guard captain as he passed. Di Marco fairly dragged her down the long hall, the guards falling in to step on all sides of them.

They were escorted through the evening drizzle to Di Marco’s carriage and then through dark and bumpy streets to his fine house. The guards walked alongside the carriage the entire distance, swords drawn, looking fierce in the cold rain. Nadira was glad to retire to the warmth of her room. She took off her clothes as quickly as possible before wrapping herself in the blankets of her soft bed. She lay there awake long into the night.

Dawn broke heavy and dull. The sleet had turned to a steady rain, the houses of Rome all tinted the sickly gray of winter. Nadira turned from the great window, letting the heavy drapes fall to the floor. She pulled her dressing gown close around her, for the dreary sight had chilled her more than the air. She had been locked in her room eight days now.

Her only visitor was a weary maid who took her chamber pot and brought her food and drink. Nadira remembered the prison dungeon of Conti’s tower and refused to allow herself any outwards sign of self-pity. A comfortable prison was still a prison. Di Marco had sent up a book for her to read, mercifully understanding her need for some kind of activity. She turned a few more pages. It was Plato. She sighed, pulled a chair to the window, and lifted the heavy drapes over the back of the chair. The light was poor, but she settled herself in for another day of reading and thinking. After a few paragraphs, she looked up again trying to remember the declensions and conjugations. She could see the general meaning, but the tenses were unclear. Will it have happened? Did it happen yesterday? She shut the book with a snap and rubbed her temples.

What did she say to the pope and his cardinals? Nadira rubbed harder, as if she could physically bring the memory to the surface. Two days of pacing and thinking had not cleared her mind. Attempts to leave her body and soar through the thick windows were unsuccessful. Going over the events of that evening bore no fruit. She pulled her knees to her chin and sighed again. Her memory stretched like a wasteland before her, the gnarled roots of the barren trees were her thoughts, and the blowing sands her emotions. Why was it blocked? The more she struggled, the farther her landscape retreated until finally it seemed she was looking through a reed at the ocean.

The metallic click of a key in the lock of the door brought her up and over the edge of the chair. Nadira positioned her robe quickly as the door opened and Di Marco entered, followed by three maids and a manservant.

“You have been summoned, Nadira.” He said perfunctorily. “My servants will get you a bath and some suitable clothing. You depart immediately.” With those words he spun on his heels and retreated, leaving Nadira with the servants, already busy in the wardrobe. She narrowed her eyes. Did Di Marco not look wretched? On the other hand, was this her mind projecting its inner desert onto the canvas of his face? She felt a flush of excitement tingle in her bones. Anything was better than this room. She hoped she never saw it again.

Nadira was lifted up onto the front of a large charger that came for her, this time surrounded by ten armed men, all mounted. She felt small in their company. Each man was tall and blond, a contingent from the north. She glanced up at the man on her right. She could see the bottom of his chin, his beard a tangle of sandy-colored wires, his eyes hidden by the rim of his helmet. He smelled like smoke and sweat. Her hands had been bound lightly with a soft cord. This man on her right held the end of the cord easily as though she were a spaniel, and mounted behind her. Nadira had no intention of escaping.

The other men took up positions on all sides of her. She knew that her life was not in danger. She puzzled a moment.
How do I
know?
Condemned prisoners were rarely kept in warm rooms and fed fine food, nor were they given wine and fruit. Nadira had been dressed in lovely silks. She glanced down and the modest gown she was wearing today. It was a fine silk dyed a somber brown that matched her eyes.

The weather was dry and still, the first in a week. The fine weather probably the reason today that she should leave her handsome prison. The party moved out past one of the northern gates. It was still early enough that there was little traffic in the streets. Nadira admired the fine road beneath her, looked carefully at the houses and shops as they passed. Rome was much bigger than any city she had visited before, and the sun was rather high in the sky before her party passed though the northern gate. Outside the city there were more people coming and going. Some were camped directly outside the gates, others moved by prodding a donkey heavily laden with baskets.