Second Skin (73 page)

Dumbfounded, he swallowed thickly as he watched the chaos spreading through the ranks of Knights.

“It’s a divine intervention,” he whispered.

“In a way.”

He looked up, sweat and the red silt of Sumela in his eyes, for the source of the voice. He was at first certain that St. Francis himself had come to his aid. Then the striking face resolved itself.

“Fra Leoni,” Fra Martin whispered. “Thank God.”

Fra Leoni was well named, for he had a leonine face atop a mass of curling hair black as pitch. From this unruly surround the startling blue of his eyes broke like sun through storm clouds. “Hurry, while they are still in disarray. There’s no time to lose.” Fra Leoni’s powerful hand, covered in flakes of moss and tree bark, grasped him, tugging him up.

Sumela Monastery appeared to be carved out of the bedrock on which it sat, a jagged tooth in the Karadaglar, the Black Mountains that lay between Trebizond and Armenia.

“The Venetian fleet has been turned back by Sultan Murat II and his Ottoman navy,” Fra Prospero said as he addressed the somber-faced priests ranged around the dark wooden trestle table in the refectory of the monastery. “Any day now Trebizond will come under attack. No matter how well situated, this time the Golden City will fall, and afterward, the Ottoman filth will be breaking down Sumela’s door.”

“We have a more immediate disaster staring us in the face.”

The priests of the Order of Gnostic Observatines turned as one to face the bloody-robed figure who filled the doorway. Above their tonsured heads, the vaulted ceiling arched like the heavily muscled shoulders of a giant warrior.

Fra Prospero,
Magister Regens
of the Order, lifted a hand, palm up, in the traditional gesture of welcome, but his large black eyes held a different message. He did not like being interrupted, let alone being contradicted. “Enter, Fra Leoni, and pray enlighten us.” The
Magister Regens
bared his teeth. “What could be more of a disaster than the heathen Turk overrunning our toehold island, the bastion of Christ on the shore of the Levant?”

Fra Leoni reached into the darkness of the hallway, bringing in the wounded Fra Martin. Two of the priests rose and rushed over to take him to the infirmary.

“What is this?” Fra Prospero said. “What has happened?”

“We are under attack,” Fra Leoni told them. “The Knights of St. Clement have found us. They landed in secret at Sinope five nights ago. Their main force is but an hour away.”

At this remark, a meaningful glance passed between Fra Leoni and the
Magister Regens,
but neither of them said what was on their minds.

Instead, Fra Prospero sighed. “Indeed, our worst fears have been realized. This Pope’s thirst for temporal power led him to create the Knights of St. Clement—his own private army, used to crush those who went against the will of the Holy See. Three weeks ago, the Knights received by courier a communique from the Pope, charging them to destroy our Order.” He was a massive man, with a round, florid face like a sunflower and the clever black eyes of an inquisitor. He was possessed of a deep, rich baritone that reached with uncommon ease to the farthest corner of the refectory. “Our teachings have already put us at odds with the Pope. But now a Vatican council has judged what we preach as heretical blasphemy and has condemned us as dangerous to the rule of the Pope. We have been marked for eradication—and who better to perform this task than the Pope’s so-called soldiers of Christ, the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood?”

The priests looked at each other with fear and consternation plainly visible on their faces.

Fra Sento’s narrow brow furrowed. “Why weren’t we informed sooner of this despicable edict?”

“What good would it have done,” the
Magister Regens
said, “save sow the seeds of panic?”

Fra Sento stood, leaning forward, body tense, clenched fists on the table. “We could release the Testament to the world,” he said, “and so reveal the falseness of this power-mad Pope.”

At the mention of the Testament an awful blanket of silence swept down upon them. Deepening shadows crawling through the west-facing windows slowly smothered the fire of the sunset.

Sizing up the situation in an instant, Fra Leoni took a step into the room and before Fra Sento’s contagion had a chance to spread, said, “Haven’t we put this question to its death yet? Who but Church and clergy and a handful of scholars can even read? The Church’s power and influence is far too vast for our discovery to be readily believed, let alone accepted as gospel. No, we’d be reviled, cast out, stoned to death by the faithful, like as not—and the Testament itself would fall into the hands of our enemies within the Church, who would destroy it rather than know its truth. Besides, it is neither our duty nor our desire to topple the very institution to which we have pledged our minds, bodies and souls.”

Fra Sento, scowling still, crossed his arms over his chest. He knew Fra Leoni was right, but he couldn’t see past his burgeoning fear to acknowledge it.

The
Magister Regens
now rose. “Well said, Fra Leoni, thank you. The enemy is almost upon us. We must now turn to the practical matter of our defense. The fact is, we have been practicing for this every day since our arrival at Sumela. Do you believe that we could be better prepared for the inevitable?” His piercing gaze on Fra Sento, he said, “Would anyone here gainsay my decision?”

Fra Sento looked down at his lap and, slowly, his arms unwound. With another covert glance at Fra Prospero, Fra Leoni respectfully took his place at the table.

“We all suspected the Pope would find a way to rule against us,” Fra Kent said. He was a jowly priest, tallest of them all, with a quick wit and a helping hand for others. “Now, the hour of our greatest trial is upon us, and it is more imperative than ever that we act as one mind, one strong heart.”

The
Magister Regens
nodded ever so slightly as he looked around the table with his sternest expression. “I trust I can count on each and every one of you to perform your duties and defend the principles of our Order.”

There came an explosion of assent from every priest in the room, Fra Sento’s voice joining Fra Kent’s and the others’. Then the
Magister Regens
spread his arms wide and, as they stood as one, addressed his charges formally:

“There is courage in all our hearts, faith fires our souls. We, who have been charged by St. Francis to be his everlasting voice on earth, to carry out his will for generations to come, now gather our strong arms. Though the storm clouds of war gather, though our enemy has sought us out, now we gird ourselves for the battle. Man the battlements south and east, the staircases and the courtyards that have come to be our home. Rain down upon our enemies the retribution for their unwarranted aggression. It is a red day, an evil day, a day of sorrow and of pain! Blood will flow and lives will be lost! Both heaven and hell will receive its share of souls before its end!”

A great, massed cheer rocked the huge room, after which the refectory emptied quickly. As Fra Prospero had said, his priests had been well trained and exhaustively drilled. However, no sooner was he alone with Fra Leoni than he said in a voice filled with an anguish he had not allowed the other priests to hear, “They know.”

“I’m afraid so.” Fra Leoni nodded. “Somehow the Knights of St. Clement have managed to penetrate the Order.”

The
Magister Regens
looked stricken. “Not just the Order. The Haute Cour—the inner circle—of which you and I are a part.”

The enormous fireplace, into which even Fra Kent could step without bowing his head, loomed black and desolate. The stone floor was hard and unforgiving beneath their sandaled feet. They looked at the refectory table, now nearly deserted, as if it were a compatriot who had been struck down by sudden illness, who they would likely never see again. So filled with sudden emotion was Fra Prospero that he was obliged to put his fists on the table to steady his bulk as he rose. He walked to Fra Leoni’s side, and together the two left the room, closing the massive door to the refectory behind them.

At that time the Sumela Monastery was divided into three parts. The lower section was built around a central courtyard and, below, an enormous cistern into which the aqueduct emptied. The middle section, the western half of which the Order inhabited, contained the kitchen, library, chapels, and guest rooms. Overlooking these layers was the Rock Church with its sacred icon of the Virgin Mary.

Together, the two members of the Haute Cour went down the corridor, ascended a steep flight of stone stairs and, by means of a narrow wooden door with a great iron lock, passed onto the ramparts. They breathed in the sharp scents of the mountain air, scented with the coming of night and steel—and, therefore, war. They soon reached their goal, and, peering through a gap in the mountainside, swaddled in thick evergreens, they could make out the deep gorge at the highest point of which Sumela rose on its steep and jagged mountain eyrie. On the horizon, farther than they could see, lay the full bounty of Trebizond, which had so irresistibly drawn the Greeks, the Genoese, the Florentines, the Venetians, the trading nexus between East and West, where camel trains from the Armenian hinterlands, from far-off Tabriz unloaded their wares to be transshipped to the warehouses of Europe. The defile was as yet empty, but it was only a matter of time before it was choked with the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood.

“So even here we are not safe from them,” Fra Leoni said. “You see the greed of mankind, Fra Prospero. We guard too many secrets, they are too valuable. Man is venal, corruptible, and therefore contemptible, for he falls too easily into sin.”

“This is hardly the teaching of St. Francis.”

“Our founder lived in a different time,” Fra Leoni said bitterly. “Or else he was blind.”

“I will not countenance blasphemy!” the
Magister Regens
snapped.

“If the truth be blasphemous, then so be it.” Fra Leoni engaged the other with his eyes. “The pope believes we preach blasphemy, so what is the truth but what we observe with our eyes? Religion, like philosophy, is a living thing. If it isn’t allowed to change with the times, if it is left to calcify, it will surely become irrelevant.”

Fra Prospero’s eyes slid away, and he bit his lip in order not to say something he would doubtless regret later.

“To return to the subject,” Fra Leoni said, “you know as well as I that our secrets must not be allowed to fall into the hands of our enemies.” He opened his palm. “I will have your key.”

A brief flicker of some dark emotion—fear or perhaps doubt—marred for a moment the face of the
Magister Regens.
“Is this what you think of our chances?”

Fra Leoni’s eyes locked with those of Fra Prospero. “Would you have me regurgitate the rules of our Order? In times of crisis, there is ordained only one Keeper.” A brief but unpleasant silence engulfed them. A chill wind stirred, rising from the ashes of the lowered sun, raced up the defile as if itself afraid of what was behind it in the quickening darkness. Fra Leoni knew that he had not answered the other’s question. “They outnumber us, and, since the pope has access to everything, it is safe to assume that they are better equipped than we could ever hope to be. These are simple exigencies of war, and can be overcome, with the right amount of cleverness and the correct strategy. And, of course, we have this stone fortress to act as our stout bulwark.” He broke off abruptly and his head turned and, like a canny animal, he put out the tip of his tongue, absorbing the news brought to him on the wind.

“But?” Fra Prospero said, not a little irritably.

Fra Leoni turned back. He possessed the sometimes unnerving ability to direct his full scrutiny on whomever was with him, and that had often proved more than some could tolerate. “But the enemy is clever—far more clever than we gave him credit for. Fra Prospero, there can be no doubt that there is a traitor in our midst. Unless we discover his identity and stop him, tonight Sumela may become our grave rather than our sanctuary.”

Fra Prospero’s eyes sparked as he shook his head. “You know that I have never been an advocate of the single Keeper.”

“And yet now you see its strength,” Fra Leoni said. “We have been betrayed from inside the Haute Cour. Seven priests including you and I know of our cache of secrets, but only two know its location and have the key. Otherwise, the secrets would undoubtedly already be in the hands of the Knights of St. Clement. Come now, time grows fearfully short.”

Still Fra Prospero hesitated, but then from the highest rampart of Sumela the lookout’s cry took up Fra Leoni’s intent and drained the blood from his heart.

“They come! The Knights are upon us!”

And, indeed, as they turned and looked, they saw the Knights of St. Clement, their emblematic banner with its seven-pointed purple cross flying along with that of the Pope, charging on horseback, armor glimmering in the twilight, toward the gates of the monastery.

The
Magister Regens
leaned over, gripping the parapet with tense fingers. “A frontal assault,” he snorted. “They will be days at it, and meanwhile we can get word to Lorenzo Fornarini, who so bravely aided us in Trebizond and now will—”

Fra Leoni rudely and urgently stopped him in midsentence with an iron grip on his arm. He had been counting the Knights and had found their number wanting. The only explanation...

“It is too late for Sir Fornarini or anyone else, for that matter, to come to our aid.” He pulled Fra Prospero away from the wall as the first arrows whirred past them. “The main force has circled around from behind. That’s why it took them days to reach us.” They ran down the steps into the interior. “They’re already inside, otherwise this group would not have shown themselves.”

“Impossible! I refuse to believe—”

“Quickly!” Fra Leoni snapped his fingers. “Your key!”

The
Magister Regens
dug in his robes, but Fra Leoni grabbed it from his fist, tore it off the chain to which it had been attached to a wooden crucifix. It lay in his palm, a key like no other, save its twin, which he possessed. It had a strange burred end and along its length seven starlike notches of different depths and widths.