Authors: David Wisehart
As he watched this, Giovanni
heard a man whisper in his right ear, “Who are you?”
Startled, the poet turned,
but saw only Marco standing a little ways off, staring down into the ditch.
“Did you say something?” he
asked.
“What?” Marco replied.
“Did you just ask me who I
was?”
“No.”
A whisper in his left ear:
“That was me.”
Giovanni turned, but saw no
one. “Show yourself.”
The shade of a man winked
into view. He fiddled with something in his left hand, then hid both hands
behind him. “Hello there. My name is Gyges. King of Lydia.”
“Is that a magic ring?”
Giovanni asked.
“Very observant.”
“Can I see it?”
“Don’t know if you can. But
you may.” Gyges held out his left hand to show Giovanni the gold band on his
finger. In the collet was a bloodstone.
“Heliotrope?” Giovanni
asked.
“Do you like it?”
“Is it the stone or the ring
that makes you invisible?”
“When I turn the ring like
this...” He turned it so the stone faced his palm, and disappeared. “But if I
turn it the other way...” He reappeared.
Marco said, “How long have
you been following us?”
“Since you crossed that last
bridge. We don’t get many visitors. I was curious about that spear.”
“Are you a thief?” Marco
asked.
“I was. But no more. I have
everything I want.”
Giovanni asked, “Where did
you steal the ring?”
“Found it. I was a shepherd
boy then. One day, while I was feeding my flock, an earthquake opened a hole in
the ground. I was curious, so I looked inside. I climbed down, deep into the
earth, and found this ring.”
“And what did you do with
your new power?”
“What would you do?” asked
Gyges.
“I can’t imagine.”
“I could. First I seduced
the queen of Lydia.”
“How did you do that?” Nadja
asked.
“Took her in her sleep.”
“You raped her?”
“She liked it well enough,
once she caught the spirit of the occasion. Then I murdered the king and took
his place.”
Nadja shoved Gyges into the
ditch. He yelped and landed hard. The ring slipped from his finger. Gyges
scrambled on all fours in search of his lost treasure, sweeping his hands over
the ground, this way and that, but the ring had rolled beyond his reach. A
group of bandits, fleeing snakes, saw the gold trinket. They all made a grab
for it.
Gyges screamed, “No!” But it
was too late. The bandits scuffled for possession of the prize, then one of
them disappeared.
Despondent, the King of
Lydia sat alone in the den of thieves. A snake slithered towards him and bit
his ring finger. Gyges burst into flame, then fell back in a heap of ashes that
gathered and twisted into serpentine form.
Gyges slithered off, hunting
invisible prey.
The pilgrims climbed up a
narrow and difficult ridge to the next crossing. Marco could not see the floor
of the fosse. It was veiled in darkness. The stone bridge was cracked; much of
it had already given way.
Marco turned to the poet.
“How did Dante get across?”
“He and Virgil climbed into
the ditch.”
The pilgrims did so, too,
and when they reached the bottom Marco saw fruit trees huddled around a pool of
water, like an Eden in the midst of Hell.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Dante doesn’t say.”
Marco, feeling a thirst, led
his friends to the oasis. Branches sagged from the weight of ripe pears and
pomegranates, apples and figs. Giovanni plucked a golden apple and took a bite.
The grin on his face was comical. Marco laughed and dehisced a pomegranate.
Nadja gathered figs.
“Go away,” said a man’s
voice.
In the pool of water stood a
shade submerged to his neck.
Nadja asked, “What are you
doing in there?”
“I thirst.”
Giovanni spit an apple seed
into the pool. “You’re wetter than John the Baptist.”
“I can’t drink it.” To prove
his point, the man bent his head to the water, extending his tongue, but the
water level dropped and denied him a taste. “I am cursed.”
“Cup your hands, like this.”
Marco showed him how to make a bowl of his fingers.
“No use.” The sinner cupped
water in his hands, and raised the liquid to his lips, but on the verge of
satisfaction the water slipped through his fingers.
“You’re not doing it right.”
Marco knelt at the water’s edge and drank from the pool. “Mmm. Delicious.”
“Go away.”
Marco stared at the silvered
surface, into the eyes of his own reflection. For a moment he was transfixed.
Nadja broke the spell by
saying, “Who are you?”
“Go away,” the shade
repeated.
“Give me your name and I’ll
give you some fruit,” the girl offered.
The shade glanced back at
her. Marco watched as Nadja tossed the cursed man an apple. It went over his
head, just out of reach. She tried again, but threw it too short. A third and
fourth attempt were no better. Nadja frowned.
“It’s no use,” Giovanni
said. “He can never catch it.”
“Why not?”
The poet addressed the
shade. “You must be Tantalus.”
“Hantili, of the children of
Heth. Named after a great king. I saw the Babylonians rise and the Hebrews
fall. But yes, I was known to the Greeks as Tantalus.”
“You stole the Grail cup?”
Tantalus nodded. Water rose
and fell at the level of his chin.
Nadja asked, “What happened
to the Grail?”
“Sold it.”
“To whom?” Giovanni asked.
“The King of Babylon.”
“Which one?”
“Nebuchadnezzar.”
“Why didn’t you keep it?”
said Nadja.
“What for? It was supposed
to be a magic cup, but there was no magic in it. They said it would hold the
nectar of the gods, which can make a man immortal. But the cup was empty. No
nectar, no wine.”
“No blood,” said the poet.
He tossed his apple core into the pool. Water splashed, but no drops fell on
Tantalus. “The cup awaited the blood of Christ.”
Standing on the span above
the eighth trench, Marco saw below him a field of flames, like an vast army at
a twilight vigil.
“The evil counselors,”
Giovanni said.
One of the flames climbed
the embankment to meet the pilgrims, and Marco saw within it a human shade. He
recognized the face of his majordomo.
“Tancredo?”
A voice from the flame:
“Marco! Marco! Where are you going?”
“Down to the Devil.”
“Yes, yes. Very good. Plead
my case, Marco. Make a deal. You and he might come to some arrangement.”
“Why would the Devil listen
to me?”
“Oh, he’ll listen to you.
Oh, yes. You two have an understanding.”
“What are you—”
“Is that a relic?” Tancredo
asked.
“The Holy Lance.”
Tancredo’s flame brightened.
“The Lance, too? I would counsel against it. Keep the Lance for yourself,
Marco. What more can the Devil give you?”
“What do you mean?” the
knight asked. “Speak plainly.”
“Yes, Marco. Good. It is
wise to play the fool.”
“You’re the fool, old man.”
Tancredo chuckled. “Remember
what I taught you.”
Fear crawled up Marco’s
spine, and with it came the hint of memory: he saw himself speaking with
Tancredo in the pomegranate orchard behind his Roman villa. But the memory was
all wrong. Tancredo was a young man and Marco was an old man, bearded, grey,
and wrinkled.
No.
It
wasn’t possible. It made no sense. Marco forced the memory back into darkness.
“Get away from me!” He
stabbed Tancredo’s flame with the Lance, and it flickered back down the hill.
They were nearly across the
bridge when a second flame approached. “Do you remember me, Marco? I am
Guillaume de Nogaret. We did business together, you and I.”
“What business?”
“Dirty business, but
profitable. More for you, I think. How is it you are alive after so many
years?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were much older when I
saw you last.”
“That’s not possible.”
“And yet it is,” said
Nogaret. “What’s your secret, Marco? Is it the Grail that keeps you young?”
“What do you know of the
Holy Grail?”
“I know you promised it to
me, and never delivered.”
“You’re a liar.”
“We had a deal,” said
Nogaret. “I did my part. Did you do yours? I destroyed the Templars. The Holy
Grail was yours for the taking. Did you take it?”
“Liar!”
Marco swept the Lance
through Nogaret’s flame. The sinner screamed and fled down the scarp. When
Marco glanced back at Nadja and Giovanni, they were both looking at him
strangely.
“Keep moving,” he said.
Can’t take the bridge,
Giovanni thought, seeing demons on the
crossing.
The unholy creatures
brandished scythes, swords, and axes, which they swung at sinners who passed
underneath, walking toward the pilgrims. Some of the shades were given glancing
blows to the neck or shoulders; others were sliced from crown to crotch, guts
spilling into their hands. As they cleared the bridge their wounds began to
close, and by the time they rounded the abyss they were ready for another
assault.
Giovanni saw a shade
beheaded in mid-stride. The man caught his tumbling nob by the hair and marched
on. Swinging his head like a lantern, he sang in Occitan a paean to war, and
from the lyrics Giovanni identified him as Bertran de Born.
Maces and
swords and colored helms
And
shields are breaking under blows.
See how
the battle overwhelms
As
vassals vie in bloody throes.
Wild
horses roam the earth
Now that
their masters are unseated,
But once
the enemy is greeted,
All men
of noble birth
Fight on,
till mortal blows are meted:
Better to
die than live defeated!
To avoid the bridge the
pilgrims climbed into the abattoir and joined the flow of cloven spirits.
Finding a place to climb back up proved more difficult. The press of cold
shades kept them moving forward, closer to the savage demons.
The bridge was coming into
view when a man whose ear was quickly healing turned to Giovanni and said,
“Mordred’s lance?”
“The Lance of Longinus.”
“I’d never forget a weapon
like that.”
“Who are you?” Giovanni
asked.
“My name is Iddawg.”
“The Embroiler of Britain?”
“That I was.”
“Is it true you started the
Battle of Camlann?”
“I claim that honor,” Iddawg
said. “King Arthur wanted to make peace with Mordred.”
“You were the king’s
messenger.”
“The most powerful man in
the realm.” Iddawg took the poet’s elbow, drew him close, and whispered,
“Amazing what one can accomplish with a few choice words in the right ear.”
“Giovanni!” Nadja screamed,
above and behind him.
He saw the bridge overhead.
A blade swung down. Giovanni ducked. The weapon sliced off Iddawg’s ear. The
belligerent shade picked it back up and held it to the side of his head.
Giovanni broke free of
Iddawg’s icy grip and saw his friends on the ridge above. They had climbed up
already. The knight reached down with the Lance. Giovanni gripped it, and Marco
pulled him to safety.
A foul air rose from the
tenth ditch. Marco knew that smell.
Plague.
“The Devil’s breath,”
Giovanni said.
Marco saw shades heaped in darkness,
wracked by sores and scabs, bruises and buboes. Wailing, the victims climbed
over one another to escape the pestilence.
They
moaned and mumbled, unable to form coherent sentences. Giovanni managed to get
a name from one—Sylvester II, a pope who dabbled in sorcery—but the
shade was half-mad and would speak no further.
“Alchemists.” The poet called
out: “Daedalus! Daedalus! Where are you?”
A voice groaned in answer.
Marco found him waxed and feathered. Daedalus picked nervously at his scabs.