Macedonia, June 1410 Abbot Kostov led Cosimo and the others through the refectory, along a gloomy grey corridor and down a staircase into the crypt. They walked in silence, the abbot lighting the way with a single flickering torch until they reached a circular room with a low, domed roof. In the centre stood a stone pillar on which was perched a glass container about the size of a man's hand. Inside was a slender cylindrical vial a few centimetres long, closed at each end with a brass cap. A strange, sickly green liquid filled three-quarters of the vial.
Cosimo moved forward, but the abbot's arm darted out to stop him. 'My friend, do not take a step closer,' he said firmly. Cosimo obeyed.
'This is our most sacred place,' the abbot said. 'We have been custodians of this object for more than one hundred years. It originated in the village of Adapolin in the Sunun region far from here. The local villages were struck by a terrible plague that killed indiscriminately, but Adapolin itself was spared. Not a single person fell ill there.
'A man named Jacob, a simple farmer, possessed the object you see before you, this sacred vial. As their neighbours perished, Jacob instructed the elders of Adapolin to erect a pillar in the town square and to mount a barrier around it. He then placed the vial on the pedestal and all the villagers, the women and the children, the elders and the young men filed past the low wall. Each was made to kneel in brief prayer and then to cross themselves.
'By autumn of that year, Adapolin had become famous as the miracle village. The sick and the lame flocked there for healing. Many returned home with tales of the miraculous cures and the protective qualities of Jacob's vial. But Jacob himself was very ill. It was almost as though he had absorbed the dark vapours and allowed himself to become the Devil's vassal. His skin became covered in sores, his eyes almost sealed with blisters, and he lost all his hair.
'One day the villagers awoke to find the vial and Jacob had disappeared. It was Abbot Andanov, five generations before my time, who took in the sick stranger. Jacob died two days after arriving here, and was buried in the grounds of this monastery. My predecessors have kept the vial safe all this time.'
There was a sudden great booming sound from overhead, and the whole room shook. Screams followed, and the sound of running feet.
The abbot gripped Cosimo's arm. 'It has begun,' he croaked. 'We are under attack.'
A young monk stumbled into the room. His face was streaked with blood. 'Father,' he gasped. 'Stasanor…' He sank to the cold stone floor and lay still.
'Quick, come with me.' Abbot Rostov slammed the door behind them and locked it, then beckoned them to follow him up the stairs. The refectory was deserted, but they could hear the clang of steel, screams and roars of men close by. And they could smell burning. 'You cannot help us now.' Cosimo took the Abbot's hands. 'Father…'
'Go my friends. God will guide us. I must leave you.'
'Cosimo, our weapons are in the rooms,' Niccoli snapped. 'That's too far away. We'll have to split up.' Three men appeared at the end of the corridor. Two of them carried broad swords, the third, a mace. Niccoli grabbed a torch from a bracket and advanced towards them. Emerging into an open space, a cloister at the heart of the monastery, they could hear screams, the crackling of ignited wood and straw. The air was heavy with the stench of burned flesh and spilled blood.
'We must scatter,' Tommasini cried above the noise.
'Agreed. We have to get out. Make for the lake. There's a copse of trees on the far shore.'
Cosimo turned and felt Contessina grab his arm. 'I'm not letting you out of my sight,' she said. Panting, Tommasini made it back to his room. Slinging a bag over his shoulder, he unsheathed his sword and dashed back into the corridor. It was filling with smoke. He began to choke and realised he had not the slightest idea how to make his escape. Someone rushed towards him and he shrank back against the wall. The man ran straight past into the darkness. Then he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He screamed and a voice hissed in his ear. 'Master Ambrogio.'
He could just make out the features of one of the monks, Father Daron, the librarian. 'We must rescue the sacred vial,' he hissed. 'Follow me.'
The stairs to the crypt lay on the far side of a courtyard. An arrow whistled past Tommasini's ear. He had no idea from where it had come and just kept going across the uneven flagstones. The monk was only a couple of paces ahead of him, bent almost double. As they reached the stairs a tall figure emerged from a doorway to the left. He charged at them, sword raised.
The monk fell back using Tommasini as a shield. But the Florentine was prepared, all senses heightened. Before the raider could land a blow, Tommasini thrust his sword forward. Side-stepping the crumbling body, Tommasini lost his sword, but had the presence of mind to grab the dead man's weapon.
Downstairs, Father Daron fumbled for the key and finally managed to unlock the door. He slammed it shut behind them and the pair found themselves in a chill blackness.
Feeling their way along the passageway they made for a faint light, and in moments they were back in the circular chamber.
Tommasini watched as the monk's fingers darted across the surface of the crystal box. A panel slid open. Father Daron reached in and gingerly grabbed hold of the vial. Behind them, they could hear the door being beaten down.
'Quick! You must take this.' Father Daron pressed the glass cylinder into Tommasini's hands. For a second, Ambrogio allowed himself the luxury of studying the object in the fading light, marvelling once more at the intensity of its colour, the heaviness of the liquid in the tube. Images from the past flashed through his mind. The hands of the saintly Jacob holding this very object, this miraculous thing. There was the sound of boots on stone.
'I shall place myself in the hands of the Lord' Father Daron said. 'You must escape.' The monk handed Tommasini one of the wall torches and pushed him roughly towards the far side of the room, where he pulled aside a rug that lay on the floor. There was a faint outline of a door in the stone. The monk plucked a key from his pocket and inserted it into a tiny aperture. Tommasini helped him lift the lid. A ladder disappeared into darkness. Tommasini climbed on to the top rung as three men charged into the chamber. The monk pushed his head down and the Florentine almost lost his grip. The door crashed down over him.
Tommasini found himself in a tunnel barely head height and no more than a few inches wider than his shoulders. Stumbling towards a fork in the tunnel, he took the left branch out of pure instinct. His breathing was laboured in the fetid air and sweat ran down his body. Trying to still his pounding heart, he listened for sounds of pursuit. It was impossible to detect anything above the roar of fire, explosions and crashing masonry. He pushed on down another tunnel. He had only intuition to guide him. After thirty paces, he turned a corner and saw a solid wall of rock ahead of him. He had reached a dead-end.
Another explosion directly overhead shook the walls and part of the ceiling started to collapse. Pieces of stone and tile cascaded down and a large chunk of rock almost knocked Tommasini over. He kept his balance, but his torch was snuffed out. With his left hand, he felt inside his tunic to make sure the vial was intact, then, clutching his sword, he shuffled slowly towards a tiny chink of light. 'I must save as much of the library as I can,' Cosimo whispered. 'It is what we came here for. We cannot leave everything to be totally destroyed by this Stasanor.' Contessina gripped his hand.
'Across the courtyard,' Cosimo insisted and pointed to a door in the far wall.
To their right stood a chicken coop and next to that a well-stocked vegetable garden dissected by a narrow path. To their left, an open door led into an empty laundry. Contessina almost tripped over the body of a man in a black leather tunic. She snatched up his sword, whirling round as Niccold Niccoli, armed now with a broadsword, came stumbling backwards towards them trying to fight off two men.
Contessina sprang forward to help. The bandit swung at her with his mace. It missed her head by an inch. The man was inexperienced with the weapon and slow to regain his balance. With lightning speed, Contessina slashed her assailant from neck to groin. Plucking the mace from the dirt, she tossed it towards Cosimo. Niccoli's assailant was distracted momentarily and Niccoli lunged forward driving hard steel into his mouth. The blade emerged through the back of the bandit's neck just below the base of his cranium. Niccoli left it there and they ran towards the door on the far side of the courtyard.
Niccoli gripped the handle and cautiously eased the door open. Another short, narrow passageway led to a flight of stairs. The door to the library stood on the right. It was locked and bolted.
Cosimo took a violent swing with his mace, and the lock splintered with the force of the blow. A torch was hanging just inside. From his pocket, Niccoli withdrew a small flint and ignition iron in an ebony box. Flicking the iron over the flint, he produced a spark that lit a knuckle of kindling. He dipped the oil-soaked torch on to the tiny flame and it caught immediately. Many of the shelves in the library were already bare. Cosimo rushed forward into the adjoining room. The floor space was covered with crates, some piled three high. The abbot had only that evening begun making safe some of the monastery's most precious items to be stored in a maze of catacombs beneath the building. Almost all of the crates were strapped with narrow ropes, some were sealed with wire and a heavy waxy material. Two baskets stood beside the boxes. One was filled with goblets, plate and assorted silverware; the other contained a pile of religious icons, paintings on wooden boards, gold and silver crucifixes, chalices and incense holders on chains still exuding pungent odours.
Cosimo removed the lid from the nearest crate, carefully lifting the papers closest to hand. He opened a dusty cover, blew across the front page and read the Greek lettering. It was a manual for aqueduct designers written by one Umenicles. He picked up a frayed parchment with amber burn marks running across it.
'This is in the hand of Herodotus himself,' he said, barely able to believe his eyes. The next volume contained pages of geometric diagrams and mathematical formulae. It was a work by a Greek disciple of Euclid.
'My heart bleeds looking at these wonders,' Contessina sighed. 'What can we do?' 'I suggest we make haste,' Niccoli muttered.
But Cosimo was in another world. He felt both sick inside and elated. It was almost too much to comprehend. 'What can we do?' he said at last. 'Not much, I fear.'
'Niccolo, we cannot leave these books; how can we possibly choose?'
Contessina crouched down and placed a gentle hand on Cosimo's shoulder, but it was too late. The marauders were already on their way. Their shouts echoed down the passageway. 'Quick!' Contessina hissed and grabbed Cosimo.
'We must save what we can!' Cosimo pressed a handful of precious texts into Contessina's arms, then began to stuff what he could into his pockets and under his belt. Niccoli scooped up a couple of scrolls, then yanked Cosimo behind the tallest pile of crates. A moment later, two of Stasanor's bandits rushed into the room.
Before they could get too close, Niccoli and Contessina sprang from their hiding place. Niccoli had the torch in one hand and his sword in the other. His torch made a fiery arc in the air. It seared one of the men across the face and he screamed. Then thrusting forward, Niccoli found the bandit's throat with his sword and slit it open with a single movement. Blood sprayed in a great plume and the man sank to his knees clawing at his neck. Contessina was quick to reach the other guard. Surprise gave her a distinct advantage. Her startled opponent barely had time to parry her first blow before she had slipped under his guard. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Out in the passageway they could hear more voices approaching. Niccoli extinguished his torch. Falling back into the shadows, they held their breath. Two more intruders ran past them into the storeroom, emerging a few seconds later. They did not spot the three Florentines pressed into a dark recess. 'What now?' said Contessina. 'Follow me.' Niccoli checked the corridor and slid away.
Past the storeroom and an almonry, through another door they found themselves in the chapel. Skirting the edge, dodging between stone columns they quickly reached the altar. A young monk, a boy no more than thirteen or fourteen years old jumped up from behind the altar holding a crucifix. His face was bleached with terror. Seeing Niccoli, blood smeared across his face, sword glinting in the half-light, he screamed, dropped the crucifix and bolted. Niccoli leapt up the stone steps to the corner of the room where a narrow doorway led to a broad corridor. They could see a group of bandits running towards the chapel.
'The tower must be to the right,' Niccoli whispered. 'I believe there's another way out from there.'
They were not spotted as they made their way inside. A solitary figure stood in the centre of the room. He looked like a rabbit startled in the light of a firebrand, his helmet askew. He could barely have reached puberty, a twin of the young monk, but a boy who had lived a very different life. He eyed his sword lying on a wooden bench close by. Niccoli tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows.
It took just a few seconds to bind the boy's hands and to gag him. As Niccoli did this, Contessina and Cosimo scanned the room. In a wooden truck pushed up against the curved outer wall of the tower room they found rope and a pair of grappling hooks, leftovers from a few years earlier when the monastery had undergone repairs.
A half-opened door led to a ramp that ascended to a mezzanine level. They had no choice but to clutch their swords and what they had managed to salvage from the library and make a run for it up the ramp. At the top stood a parapet and beyond that the black of night. To their left, a passage led back into the monastery. Contessina peered over the wall and could see the ground some ten metres below. Grass stretched away into the gloom.
Niccoli snatched up a grappling hook as Cosimo swung the other down on to the parapet. They tossed the ropes to the ground below. Niccoli went over first. Cosimo steadied Contessina as she swung her body over the stonework and slithered expertly down. Cosimo reached the ground a few moments later. As he landed, a pair of books fell out of his tunic. He bent to grab them, but Contessina was too quick for him. Wo,' she snapped, as two arrows thudded into the turf beside them.
They zig-zagged down an uneven slope. Glancing back, Cosimo saw a group of riders spurring their horses towards a wooden bridge close to the walls in an effort to head them off. He was exhausted and slowing almost to a halt, gasping for breath.
'Come on, Cosimo,' Contessina screamed at him and ran back again. She put her arm around him. 'Not far now, if we can…'
At that moment, the lead horseman emerged from the shadows of the monastery, shocking them with the speed with which he had crossed the distance from the walls. He raised a spear and let it fly. Contessina sprang forward and pushed Cosimo out of the way. He was sent sprawling, and the rider peeled off, the hooves of his mount almost crushing Cosimo's head.
Niccoli grabbed one of Cosimo's arms while Contessina caught the other, they stumbled across the last few metres of open ground and into the trees. 'Don't stop now,' Niccoli cried, speeding up and yanking on Cosimo's arm.
'Let go,' Cosimo snapped and pulled both arms free. 'I'm not a child.' With a final burst of energy he didn't know he had left in him, he sheathed his sword and drove forward through the undergrowth. They could still hear voices, but they were receding now. For the sake of the few precious works they had rescued, he could not stop, not while there was an ounce of breath left in him. The rain started to sluice down as Ambrogio reached the meeting point. He ached all over and his hands and face were cut and bleeding. Pausing for a moment, he took out the vial and held it up to the light. The green glow seemed more intense now. In its glass container the mysterious liquid seemed almost alive, and Ambrogio could sense its latent power. He couldn't help smiling to himself. His master knew far more than he did about this miraculous thing. But he was the one holding it at this very moment. Returning the vial to his tunic, he heard a twig snap. He unsheathed his sword and crept cautiously into the sparse trees.
The man was almost on top of him before he saw him. He stifled a yelp, and sprang back. 'Ambrogio, it is I.' 'Niccolo! Thank the Lord'
The two men embraced Ambrogio stiffened as two more figures emerged from the gloom. Then he broke into a broad smile as he saw Cosimo and Contessina striding towards him.