Trolley to Yesterday (11 page)

 

 

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

The monk went on ranting, and the soldiers advanced threateningly toward the three travelers. The professor thought of Baltoghlu, the man who had captured them in Leander's Tower. "I've read this script before," he muttered to himself bitterly. Suddenly he found that he could understand the monk, and he knew that Brewster had returned, though he couldn't see him.

"Soldiers, do your duty!" the monk barked. "Arrest these three sorcerers. With my own eyes I saw them fly over the wall. They have come here to steal the holiest painting in all of Byzantium. No doubt they were sent here by the Sultan, to take away the sacred power of the Hodegitria and weaken our defenses. Arrest them, I say!"

The professor's heart sank. He knew that the defenders of Constantinople had only a few thousand men to defend fourteen miles of walls, so he really had not been surprised when no sentries challenged them from the walls above the Gate of the Lighthouse. But the monk had been there, hiding, and he had seen every move that they made after they landed. What rotten luck! thought the professor. He also thought about what they did with sorcerers and witches in the year 1453—they burned them at the stake.

There was no point in arguing. Meekly the professor and the boys let the soldiers tie their hands behind their backs, and then they were hustled out of the church. In the street outside the monk signaled for the soldiers to stop. He had noticed the bulge in the pocket of the professor's robe and wondered what it was. He boldly dipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out the Tabergan. Again the professor felt despair. Why hadn't he thought quickly enough and gotten the boys to cling to him while he used the Tabergan to whisk them away? But everything had happened so quickly that there had been no time for lightning-quick action and clever, resourceful ideas.

"What a fascinating object!" said the monk, grinning evilly. "Explain its purpose to me!"

"As long as I'm going to die, I see no reason why I should be helpful," growled the professor.

Cold hatred gleamed in the monk's eyes. A vein began to throb in the side of his long, skinny neck, and he thrust his face forward till he and the professor were practically nose to nose.

"If we were back in Spain, where I come from," the monk snarled, "I would find ways to make you cooperative! The rack does wonders to make people helpful. But alas, the Emperor does not approve of such methods." He paused and glanced off into the darkness. "Never fear, though," he went on wickedly, "I have some authority in this part of the city, and I can have you put in prison. Tomorrow morning you will be devoured by flames in a courtyard."

Fergie started to yell at the monk, but a soldier slapped his face and he fell silent. The Emperor's soldiers began to drag the three struggling captives away across the rough, cobblestoned street. But before they had gotten far, a dull
boom
sounded in the distance, and at almost the same moment a man in a purple tunic came dashing around a corner with a torch in his hand. Embroidered on his shirt front was a gold eagle, which meant that the man was a messenger from the Emperor. When he saw the soldiers with their odd-looking captives, he stared in disbelief.

"My good men, what are you doing?" he cried indignantly. "The enemy is at the gates! Do you not hear the sound of battle in the distance? We need every man who can carry a sword! Come with me to the western walls! At
once!"

The soldiers paused and looked doubtfully at each other. "Now see here!" the monk roared. "What gives you the right—"

The messenger cut him off.
"This
gives me the right!" he snapped, pointing to the gold eagle on his shirt front. "Go to your church and pray, old man, pray hard that we will be rescued from the hands of our bloodthirsty enemies!" He beckoned to the soldiers. "You men come with me! That is an order from the Emperor Constantine!"

The soldiers let go of their captives and followed the torchbearing messenger down the street. They had not taken three steps when the professor called out loudly to Johnny and Fergie, "Run for it!"

Awkwardly, with their hands still bound behind them, they dashed away into the shadows, while the monk ranted at them, "Come back, you hounds of Satan! You must suffer punishment for your wickedness!
Come back!"

But the professor and the boys were not listening. Blindly they dashed away down a pitch-dark alley and ran across a rough, uneven field till they came to a place where huge shadows loomed before them. Some vast stone structure towered above them, and they plunged in through a cleft that opened into an enormous oblong space. Tiers of stone seats rose up on all sides, and they could see the stars above them. Suddenly the professor knew where they were.

"This... this is the Hippodrome!" he gasped, leaning against a stone seat to catch his breath. "They used to have chariot races here, and the whole city turned out to watch. Maybe we can hide here until we figure out what to do next."

Nobody had any better ideas, so they settled down in the Hippodrome for the night. First, though, Fergie fished in his back pocket to get his switchblade and cut his friends free. When they were all untied, they huddled down under a big stone seat that had probably held some dignitary back in the days when the chariot races were popular. Every now and then they heard a cannon boom in the distance, but they were so far away from the city's western walls that they could not hear the din of battle.

"I wouldn't worry about it in any case," muttered the professor sleepily as he settled back against a stone wall. "The city was taken around four in the afternoon on May 30. Nobody's going to get in in the middle of the night."

"That's nice to know," said Fergie sarcastically. "So what happens if tomorrow is the thirtieth of May?"

The professor was silent. Fergie did have a point. The Trolley had really screwed up their date of arrival, and it was possible that they were here sometime in late May. That was a very discouraging thought. "Tomorrow morning," he said with determination, "we are going back to that church, and we are going to find that monk and swipe the Tabergan back from him. You know, if he had come into the church five minutes later, we would have been gone. As soon as you were cured, John, I was planning to whisk us all away to Leander's Tower. But the best-laid plans, et cetera, et cetera. Phooey!"

"If you don't mind my saying so," said Brewster out of the darkness, "that is a pretty dumb idea. That monk may be at the other end of the city by morning. Or he may have found some more soldiers, and you will be outnumbered in any fight that occurs."

"Thank you for your wise advice," growled the professor. "It's nice of you to reveal yourself to us at last. Where the devil have you been?"

"Around," said Brewster casually. "When those Templar ghosts arrived, I figured you were in good hands, so I left. Since then I've been wandering up and down the coast looking for that Townsend character. I found him wandering along the shore, not far from that ruined church you were holed up in. It's just outside the western wall of the city. He looked a bit vague, but I think he's okay, and he seems to be your only ticket out of this place. If you can get him to flag down a Venetian ship, maybe you can con the sailors into taking you back to Leander's Tower. Is that a good idea?"

"It has its points," said the professor dryly. "But would you mind telling me how we are going to get to the western side of the city with the Turkish army in the way?"

"I have an answer for everything," said Brewster smugly. "And if you people will put off snoozing for a little while, I can show you a secret tunnel that has not been used since the days of Constantine the Great, the founder of this city. Are you interested?"

Wearily the professor tried to wake up. If Brewster was right about the tunnel, it might be better to search for it than to wait for a chance to grab the Tabergan back.

"Where does this tunnel go?" asked the professor warily.

"Out to a dry well in a grove of trees that is just beyond the western walls of the city. That would put you not far from the last place where I saw Townsend. Neat, eh?"

The professor ground his teeth. "Oh, just peachy keen!" he said sarcastically. "And how, pray tell, do you know about this tunnel?"

"I know lots of things," said Brewster blandly. "I've been here before, a couple of times. When Justinian was emperor—boy, did they have the parties then!—I remember—"

"Oh, spare me, please!" sighed the professor as he dragged himself to his feet. "Come on, boys, we're going hunting."

With bewildered frowns on their faces, Fergie and Johnny followed the professor and Brewster. Brewster glowed with a pinkish light, and he bobbed along about two feet off the ground, humming tunelessly all the while. They padded down the weedy, unused racetrack till they came to a place where the track took a wide rounded turn. To mark the turn, a bronze pillar on a tall stone base had been erected. Brewster paused by the pillar's base and hovered there in the dark.

"This is where the tunnel starts," he said. "No one has used it in a long time, because you need a password to make the entrance open up, and the password has been forgotten."

"Do you know what it is, Brewster?" asked Johnny eagerly.

"No," said Brewster. "I'm afraid not."

"Well, isn't that just fine!" the professor growled. "How on earth are we going to get the blasted thing to open?"

"Don't get all hot behind the ears, whiskers," said Brewster soothingly. "I think the clue to the password is carved on the stone base of the pillar. Have a look."

A pointing hand, a candle, and a sword inscribed with the Latin word for truth—what did all this mean?

Grumbling, the professor fished his Nimrod lighter out of an inner pocket of his robe and snapped it on. By the lighter's smoky glare, the boys saw part of a long Latin inscription, and below it some faintly carved symbols:

 

 

"Hmm," muttered the professor as he scratched his chin. "This reminds me of something, but what? It probably refers to some familiar phrase—not familiar to twentieth-century people, but familiar back in ancient times. What could it be?"

For a long time the professor pondered, pacing back and forth in front of the pillar's base. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a loud shouting noise and the glare of torches at the far end of the stadium.

"Oh, good merciful heavens!" exclaimed the professor, putting his hand over his face. "It must be that rotten monk, and I'll bet he's found some more soldiers! What filthy luck! Let me see... let me see... it must be something simple! A pointing hand... point to a light and to the sword of truth... wait, wait, I've almost—" The professor let out a loud roar of triumph: "I'VE GOT IT!" Pausing to pull himself together, he said loudly and clearly,
"Send forth thy light and thy truth, O Lord!"

Nothing happened. Not far away, the monk and his soldiers could be seen by the bouncing glow of torches. Johnny and Fergie turned pale and looked at each other. They imagined themselves bound to stakes while the evil monk set fire to the bundles of sticks piled around them. The professor had tried, and he had failed. What was going to happen now?

But the professor did not give up so easily. As the enemy raced closer, he stood his ground and tried to think, forcing his mind to turn over like an old tired car engine. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. Closing up the lighter, he folded his arms and cried out,
"Emitte lucem tuam et veritatem tuam, Domine!"
Immediately a loud crunching and grinding sound began. The earth shook, and as the three watched, the great bronze pillar swung slowly to one side, revealing a square opening. Again the professor lit his Nimrod lighter, and they saw shadowy steps leading down. With the loud shouts of the angry monk ringing in their ears, the two boys and the professor went stumbling down the steps. At the bottom the professor paused, searching frantically for some way of closing the opening. As he held the lighter up and peered around, the professor saw an inscription in a rectangular border. It said CAVE CANEM, which means "Beware of the dog." This made no sense at all, but the professor was not in a sensible mood, so he just yelled,
"Cave Canem!"
Sure enough the pillar began to swing back into place. They got a glimpse of angry faces crowded around the rapidly shrinking opening, and then with a shuddering slam the hole was closed, and they were safe.

"My word!" sighed the professor as he mopped his forehead with his sleeve. "That was a close one. Needless to say, the Latin version of the phrase was what we needed." Hastily he glanced around at the boys, who were standing nearby in the darkness. "Are you two all right?" he asked.

"I guess so," said Johnny uncertainly.

"Yeah, we're okay," Fergie added bravely. "Let's get this show on the road. Lead on, prof!"

In single file they began to pick their way down the long, dark, echoing tunnel. Brewster's bobbing pink light led the way, casting a faint pinkish sheen on the ancient barrel-vaulted ceiling and the mossy stones underfoot. Now and then something would crunch under Johnny's foot, and he would look down and see that he had crushed the skeleton of a long-dead rat. In one place the stones of the ceiling had fallen, and they had to wade through greenish stagnant water and pick their way over muddy granite blocks. Finally, after what seemed like ages, they passed through a low arched doorway and found that they were standing at the bottom of a tall, circular stone shaft. This was the dry well that Brewster had spoken of earlier. They had reached the end of their underground journey. Stone steps wedged into the wall spiraled toward the sky, and they climbed slowly. Johnny was terrified. If he missed his footing, he would go hurtling down the well shaft, and that would be the end of him. But he knew that this was the only way out, and so he plodded doggedly on, with the professor in front of him and Fergie behind. Finally, one by one, they clambered up over the worn lip of the well and stumbled out into a dark, rustling forest. The professor wanted to search for Mr. Townsend, but he had not brought a compass with him, and there was no point in wandering around aimlessly in the dark. Besides, he was dead tired, and so were the others. After a quick look around the professor threw himself down on the grass near the well, and the boys lay down near him. In a very few seconds all three were asleep.