The Spirit Well be-3 Page 8

  “Apparently,” Arthur whispered back. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “Perhaps, but I think we’ll soon find out.” He nodded past the priests leading the parade as into the street ahead swept a chariot with a phalanx of spear-carrying soldiers trotting easily behind. Drawn by two white horses with ostrich-plume headdresses, the chariot gleamed golden in the bright sunlight.

  The procession halted as the speeding vehicle came hurtling headlong towards them, its iron-rimmed wheels clattering on the pavement. The driver lashed the horses to greater speed and drove on, his long black hair streaming in the wind.

  As the vehicle closed on them, the leading line of priests broke ranks and moved aside. At the point of collision, the servants threw down their banners and ran. Suddenly the decorous procession was a mad scramble as priests fought to get out of the way. Arthur and Benedict, some little distance apart, beat a quick retreat to one side and watched the mayhem. With a clatter of hooves and a whirl of dust, the chariot skidded to a stop. The priests, outraged at their treatment, began shouting and calling down curses upon the belligerent driver-who merely put back his head and laughed, his teeth a flash of white behind the rich black of his braided beard.

  The soldiers came pounding in, their heavy sandals slapping the stones. The commander, an imposing fellow in a plumed helmet of gleaming bronze and a chest plate made of overlapping leaves of bronze scales, called an order, and the soldiers formed up, coming to attention with a smart crack of their spears on the pavement.

  “This is an outrage!” shouted one of the senior priests, shoving forward, his robe in disarray and smudged with dust. “A curse on your house!”

  The chariot driver merely gazed down, grinning through his beard. Benedict edged closer for a better look. He saw a compact, well-made man in the prime of life, clean-limbed and clear-eyed, his skin bronzed a robust hue from the sun-the symbol of the god he served. He had a high forehead, strong jaw, and fine white teeth that fairly gleamed through the dark forest of his beard.

  This only served to enrage the priest all the more. Spitting with anger, he shook his fists in the air, threatening, “Your reckless behaviour and thoughtless treatment will not go unpunished! Pharaoh will hear about this!”

  The charioteer laughed again, then passed the reins to his commander and climbed down from the vehicle. As he came around to face the angry priests, he raised his hand to reveal that he held a rod of gold and lapis. The mere sight of this implement brought gasps from the assembled priests, who instantly bowed from the waist, the palms of their hands extended at the knee.

  “Pharaoh, I think, has already heard your complaint,” said the cheerful charioteer.

  “O Mighty King, forgive your servant’s intemperance.” The priest bent low and remained in an attitude of extreme supplication. “Forgive me, my king. I did not know you.”

  “You did not know your king?” wondered Pharaoh mildly. “How is that? Is not my image engraved upon your heart?”

  “Great of Renown, it has been so long… ” The priest, flustered now, began backing away, mumbling as he went. “You have changed, my king. I did not… ”

  Benedict’s eyes grew round. “That is Akhenaten?” he gasped under his breath.

  “So it would seem,” whispered Arthur.

  “What are they saying?”

  “Shh! I can’t hear. Be still.”

  Now the High Priest, on the arm of Anen, moved forward. The priests around him moved aside to open a way for the old man. He came to stand before the supreme king and, after the merest pause, bowed and then rose.

  “Mighty Ruler of Two Houses, Supreme Son of Horus, Heavenly Warrior, Life-giver of Nations-the First Prophet of Amun greets you,” he intoned in a thin, reedy voice.

  At this Akhenaten’s smile dissolved, and his features took on a stony cast. “I know who you are, old man.” He cast a glance at Anen. “Who is this?”

  “Great of Glory,” said Anen, bowing nicely, “I am Anen, Second Prophet of Amun.”

  “ Two prophets,” observed the king with a snide curl of his lip. “It seems I am doubly blessed today.” Gesturing to the assembled priests who had quickly gathered around, he said, “And are these all prophets of your god as well?”

  “O Wonder of the Visible World, may you live in health forever-” began the High Priest.

  Pharaoh cut him off with a flick of the rod in his hand. “Why are you here?” he demanded.

  “Mighty King,” said Anen, “we have come with gifts for you.” He signalled to the servants carrying the baskets. They came forward to offer their gifts, but the king raised his hand and halted them.

  “Do you think Pharaoh desires anything you have to give?” he demanded. “Am I one of your gods that you can placate with trinkets and sweetmeats?”

  “By no means, Wisdom of Osiris,” replied Anen smoothly. “We give you but your own from the largess your enlightened rule has ordained and made manifest.”

  “Humph!” sneered Akhenaten, turning away. He walked back to his chariot and climbed in. “Priests of false idols, hear me!” the king called, his voice loud in the silence. “This place is holy to the god Aten, the Only Wise Supreme Creator and Ruler of the Heavenly Realms. If you have come to forswear your worship of lesser gods, you may stay. If you have come for any other purpose, you are no longer welcome here.”

  “If our presence offends you, Great One, allow us but a word, and we will depart in peace.”

  “Be gone!” roared the king, gathering the reins in his hands. He levelled a cold gaze at the High Priest, who stood openmouthed in disbelief at his insolent dismissal. “Remove these people from my sight.”

  Upon Pharaoh’s command the commander of the soldiers raised his spear and shouted an order to his troops. The soldiers levelled their weapons and, spear tips glinting bright in the sun, they all moved forward as one.

  The priests and their attendants fell back. With much grumbling and muttering, they turned and began making their way to the city gate.

  “Come, Benedict,” said Arthur; he tugged on his son’s arm, pulling him away. “Stay close to me and keep your wits about you. If anything should happen, run for the barge.”

  Fuming with frustration and humiliation, the priests retreated, pursued by the soldiers who, not content with compliance, began calling taunts and threats to provoke a response. The jeers were taken up by the citizens lining the streets, growing more angry and aggressive with every step. Though Benedict could not understand the insults, he knew trouble when he saw it-and this was trouble pure and deep. Looking neither right nor left, he kept his head down and walked quickly behind his father.

  As they came into sight of the city gates, they saw that the way was blocked by a gang of Habiru workers. The procession slowed and then juddered to a stop. The priests demanded to be allowed to pass. The labourers refused to move and make way for the priests. Some waved their fists and some, holding hammers and mallets, began pounding on the ground.

  The first stone sailed up from the ranks of onlookers, striking a priest in the front of the procession. He let out a startled cry, clutched his shoulder, and whirled around to see who had thrown the missile. Those next to him began demanding that the perpetrator be punished.

  Arthur moved to Benedict’s side and took his hand. “Hold on,” he told him. “Whatever happens, hold on to me.”

  Even as he spoke, another rock struck a nearby priest, who crumpled to the ground. This missile was followed by a brick from one of the building sites. It hit the pavement hard and shattered, scattering chips and fragments. The crowd cried its approval, and more stones and bricks swiftly followed.

  Anen pushed his way to the fore rank; with his arms raised above his head, he called on the Habiru to cease their assault and let them pass. When this failed to elicit a response, he turned to appeal to the commander of the soldiers to halt the stone throwing and allow them to depart in peace. His pleas went unheeded. Mo
re stones followed, coming faster now as the crowd took encouragement from the lack of intervention by soldiers, who merely stood by and watched.

  “We’re going to have to run for it,” Arthur advised his son. “Don’t let go of my hand.”

  Anen was struck next, receiving a grazing blow to the side of his head. Blood oozed from the wound, drawing a cheer from the crowd. Priests, frightened and confused, charged the labourers blocking the way. Some of the workmen stood aside-only to strike at the holy men as they passed. Others challenged them outright, shoving them or swinging hammers and fists.

  The retreat became a rout. Everyone ran for the gate and the barges waiting at the wharf.

  “Now!” shouted Arthur, pulling Benedict with him. “Run!”

  Dodging and weaving through the angry throng, they scrambled. The mob closed in behind them, pelting the fleeing priests with stones and bricks. They gained the gates and, pushing past the last of the workers, were free. Once beyond the city walls, they paused to wait for Anen and the High Priest.

  When they failed to emerge, Arthur pulled Benedict close. “Go! Get on board,” he ordered. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

  “I won’t go without you.”

  “Obey me, son. Go!”

  Arthur released his son and pushed him towards the barge. He had only just turned and started back into the crush at the gates when a brick sailed out and with uncanny accuracy struck him on the left temple. The blow spun him sideways and he fell, unconscious when he struck the ground.

  “Father!” shouted Benedict. He ran to his father’s side and knelt, taking the wounded head onto his knees. There was little blood. The brick had barely broken the skin, but already an ugly red-blue welt was rising.

  “Father, wake up!” urged the youth, cradling the wounded head. “Can you hear me? Father? Can you hear me? Wake up.”

  Priests were running past them. Benedict called out, “Help!”

  One of those running past stopped.

  “My father is hurt!” shouted Benedict. “Help me!”

  The priest realised instantly what had happened; he snagged one of his fellow priests and, with Benedict’s help, lifted the unconscious Arthur and dragged him to the barge, where they laid him carefully on the deck.

  The next events would always be something of a distant confusion to Benedict. He remembered other priests joining them on the deck, and Anen himself taking command and directing the wounded man to be carried to the roofed pavilion in the centre of the barge and laid upon the cushioned platform there. When Benedict looked around again, the barge was already under sail and the royal city receding into the distance.

  CHAPTER 9

  In Which Wilhelmina Pursues a Mountaintop Experience

  With Lady Fayth’s timely warning to crystallise her thoughts, Wilhelmina decided her best course of action. She had been itching to put the new model ley lamp through its paces and discover its full potential; leaving Prague for a few days was the perfect excuse she needed and, having made a clean breast of it with Etzel, she was now free to travel whenever she pleased: much as before, of course, but now without the nagging guilty conscience for misleading her partner, her champion.

  For indeed, dear Engelbert could not have been any more gallant a defender if he had worn a suit of shining armour and carried her colours into the joust on the back of a galloping steed. Never had she known anyone who so selflessly and consistently took her part and put her welfare and interests first.

  Etzel did all that and more, and Mina had no doubt that when the quest for the Skin Map was finished, she would happily settle down to life in the Grand Imperial with him. Indeed, the more she thought about it, the more certain she was that she wanted nothing else.

  Just now, however, she had other duties and entanglements that he could not share. First on the list was to elude Burleigh. Then she could devote herself entirely to discovering what had happened to Kit. The first task was simple and easily accomplished, thanks to Haven’s timely warning. For the second chore, she would need help. Having come to the end of her own expertise, she determined it was time to go back to the one who had helped her find Kit the first time: Brother Lazarus.

  With any luck at all, she might still be able to stay a step or two ahead of Burleigh and his brute squad. The chief problem, among many, was the risk of exposure. Knowing how Burleigh’s new device worked, she now realised just how vulnerable she would be when ley travelling. If the treacherous earl ever took an interest in her specifically, the result could well be catastrophic.

  Once the decision was made, Wilhelmina wasted no time in putting her plan into action. She bade Etzel farewell, promising to hurry back as soon as humanly possible, and then set off. The ley she needed was half a day’s journey from Prague, and from previous experience Mina knew it to be particularly time-sensitive-that is, offering only a very narrow window of activity twice each day, a few minutes either side of sunrise and sunset. Miss either opportunity, and the ley traveller would have to wait until next time. This was not unusual; many ley lines and portals operated in a similar fashion, she had found. Some were more lenient and forgiving, some less so. Why? Wilhelmina had no clue.

  With the hostler near the city gates she arranged for a carriage and driver to take her to her destination: an empty stretch of countryside a kilometre or so north of the tiny farming village of Podbrdy. Her plan was to disembark outside the settlement and walk to the ley unobserved, if possible. Two further jumps would put her in the southern Pyrenees within a stone’s throw of her destination. Once there she would assume the guise of a nun on pilgrimage and seek out her mentor. In accordance with his wishes and her most solemn and sacred vow-he had made her swear on a hand-copied Bible not to reveal either his identity or whereabouts to another living soul-she had never breathed a word of Brother Lazarus’ existence to anyone. The cautious monk was, in effect, her very secret weapon. A quaint arrangement, but it suited them both.

  Wilhelmina dozed through much of the coach ride to the village so that she would be well rested for the next leaps in her journey. In the end, she need not have bothered because she arrived too late and the ley was dormant; she had to wait until sunrise. She begged a bed for the night in the barn of a nearby farmer and spent a pleasant, if odorous, evening with two cows, four ducks, and a black-spotted pig.

  Just before sunrise she returned to the ley and made the leap; the next two were accomplished without incident and, pausing before the last jump, she took refreshment at a small cafe on the Via Bassomondo, the dusty road winding down the gently sloping hillside to the abbey of Sant’Antimo. She was, she thought, somewhere in the last century-1929, perhaps? Wilhelmina couldn’t tell. Her Italian was strictly confined to Buongiorno, Signor Rinaldi! Un cappuccino e una brioche, per favore.

  She drank her coffee and ate her pastry, making comparisons with her own brew and baking, paid the bill from her little stash of coins obtained on her various travels, and then walked on to the next ley, which ran through the valley outside the abbey. This part of the journey was always her favourite, and Mina often lingered a little while to enjoy the sublime view of the broad olive-groved and cypress-lined valley. Tradition had it that Emperor Charlemagne had been a major benefactor of the monastery in earlier days, and often used it as a convenient stopping-off place on his various journeys from Rome to his palace at Aachen.

  Sometimes, when she had time to spare, she paused to take in the abbey church itself, a handsome Romanesque structure in rough white limestone with beautiful carvings inside and out. The location had been chosen because, like so many sites that now hosted churches of various kinds, it had been a holy place long before the monastery had been contemplated. That it remained a pilgrimage destination worked to Wilhelmina’s favour in that the monks were used to strangers in their midst and welcomed them as best they could. Thus Wilhelmina blended in with the general comings and goings of the place, and her odd appearances and disappearances went unnoticed and unremarked. More importantly,
however, it was at Sant’Antimo that she had first learned of the man to whom she owed much of her acumen and skill in ley travel.

  This is the story of how she first came to meet Brother Lazarus and travel to his world:

  Wilhelmina’s experiments with Burleigh’s first device had provided her with a ready means of recognising active ley lines as well as guiding her to them. She had made a number of test jumps-cautious to the point of timidity at first, but with growing confidence as she gained experience-beginning with a series of single jumps, then a few doubles, before progressing to what were, for her, the very daring triple jumps. In each of these experiments she noted the place and time of the ley activity and memorised the destinations. On one of those early triple jumps she had landed in the pleasant Italian valley near Montalcino, on a narrow dirt road that passed a grand old church and monastery. The date-local time-was 27 May, 1972.

  Surrounded by ancient cypress trees, well-tended fields, and a little pasture for sheep, the place seemed to speak to her; she felt drawn to it and decided to indulge herself with a little sightseeing. Passing through the handsomely carved archway, she entered the quiet sanctuary; the cool air was heavy with the scent of frankincense. From somewhere near the altar at the front of the high-ceilinged chancel, a small bell chimed. There were a few other visitors walking the aisles, quietly, thoughtfully, and in spite of her old-fashioned clothes, Wilhelmina blended right in. As she made her first circuit of the church, she came upon a large handpainted sign with a diagram of the floor plan. Seeing the explanation was in English as well as French and Italian, she paused to read it and discovered that, according to a series of measurements carried out some years earlier, no fewer than seven separate lines of electromagnetic force met at a point directly beneath the church’s altar. These force fields were not leys; at least, not like any Wilhelmina had previously encountered. They were not straight, and culminated at a single point-unlike normal ley lines; nor was that term used in the fragmented English translation provided on the sign by the mapmaker. Were these lines of force something similar? Or something else entirely?