Order of Darkness Read online

  ‘Many great men work in secret,’ Nacari volunteered. ‘In my business, everyone works in secret.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Shall I leave this page with you for you to study?’

  ‘If you will,’ Luca said.

  ‘But show it to no one else,’ he said. ‘We don’t want it to fall into the hands of those who might use it against the world. Since we don’t know what it says, it could be something that does not transmute to purity and good, but something which goes the other way.’

  ‘The other way?’ Ishraq repeated. ‘What other way?’

  ‘Into the shadow of darkness, into death, into decay,’ he said. ‘Into our destruction and the end of man. Into what you call the end of days. The dark is as real as light. The other world is just a fingertip away. Sometimes I can almost see it.’

  ‘Do you see any signs of the end of days?’ Luca asked him. ‘I have a mission to know. Do you think the world is going to end? The infidel is in Constantinople, his armies have entered Christendom – is Christ going to come again and judge us all? Will the world end, and will He harrow hell? Have you seen signs of it in your work? In the world which you say is just a fingertip away?’

  The man nodded as he turned towards the door. ‘I think the time is now,’ he said. ‘I see it in everything that I do. And every day I have to conquer . . .’

  ‘Conquer what?’ Ishraq asked him when he broke off.

  ‘My own fears,’ he said simply. He looked at her directly, and she was sure that he was speaking the truth. ‘These are dark times,’ he said frankly. ‘And I fear that I serve a dark master.’

  Next morning the little group divided. Ishraq, dressed in the costume of a young man about town, with a dark black cape around her shoulders, her long hair pinned up under a broad black velvet hat, and a black and silver mask hiding her face, set out with Freize in attendance as her squire, taking a passing gondola to the quay near to the Nacari house at the edge of the Jewish quarter. Luca and Brother Peter took the house gondola to the Rialto Bridge, and Isolde, dressed as modestly as a nun, with her face hidden beneath a great winged hood, walked down the alleyways and over the little bridges to the San Giacomo church on the square beside the Rialto Bridge. She took up a position under the portico of the church and watched as Brother Peter and Luca strolled into the square, and went to watch the cups and ball game.

  ‘Have you come to try your luck, my masters?’ Jacinta asked, as pleasantly as always. She smiled at Luca. ‘My hands are quick today. I think I shall outwit you.’

  Luca chinked silver piccoli in his hand. ‘I think I am certain to win,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘Watch carefully then,’ she invited him, and as a small crowd gathered round she put the gleaming marble ball under an upturned cup and moved the cups slowly, and then at dazzling speed, until they came to rest and she sat back, smiled and said: ‘Which cup?’

  Isolde glanced out of the square, down the maze of streets and waterways so that she should be certain which way she would have to go if she had to run before the Nacaris to warn Ishraq and Freize, and then bowed her head as if saying her prayers. She found she was truly praying for them all. She prayed for her own safety: that her brother’s men had gone back to Lucretili and her brother would give up his pursuit. She prayed for Luca’s quest to find his parents, and for her own mission to get back to her home. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘please let us all be safe and not exposed to danger nor be a danger to others.’ She tried to concentrate, but she found her mind strayed. She fixed her gaze on the image of the crucified Christ but all she could think of was Luca, his face, his smile, the way that she could not help but be near him, lean towards him, hope for his touch.

  Guiltily, she shook her head and pinched her clasped hands. She closed her eyes and bowed her head again to pray for the safety of Ishraq and Freize as they went, disguised, to the Nacari house.

  Ishraq and Freize were far from needing prayers, gleefully excited by their mission as they approached the tall crowded houses just outside the Jewish quarter. Ishraq loitered behind as Freize went boldly up to the side door which stood on the quayside and hammered on the knocker. There was silence from inside.

  ‘Anybody in?’ Freize shouted.

  A woman from the far side of the narrow canal threw open her shutters and called down. ‘They’re at the Rialto, they’re there every morning.’

  ‘Can their maid not let me in? Don’t they have a page boy?’

  ‘They have no maid. They have no servants. You’ll have to go to the Rialto if you want them.’

  ‘I’ll go there then and find them,’ Freize called back cheerily. ‘I’ll go now. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Pipe down,’ the woman advised rudely and slammed her shutters.

  Freize exchanged one wordless glance with Ishraq and set off, apparently in the direction of the Rialto Bridge. As quiet as a cat, Ishraq tried the handle of the door in the garden wall. She felt it yield, but the door would not open. Clearly, the Nacaris had locked it behind them when they left the house. Ishraq dropped back, took a short run at the garden wall and leaped up, her feet scrabbling to find a purchase on the smooth wall, until she got her knee on a branch of ivy and heaved up to the top of the wall and dropped down on the far side.

  She was on her feet in a moment, looking alertly all around the garden in case anyone had heard her. Already she had spotted a tree that she would climb if a guard dog came rushing towards her, or a watchman, but there was silence in the sunlit garden, and a bird started to sing. On tiptoe, Ishraq went towards the house and tried the door that led from the garden to the storeroom. It was locked and the shutters were closed on the inside. She turned to her right and tried the shutters on the windows. They too were firmly bolted from the inside. She looked up. Overlooking the garden was a pretty balcony with a spiral stone staircase that led down to the lawn and the peach tree.

  Quiet as a ghost, Ishraq slipped up the stairs and found the window to the bedroom had been left latched open. She put her slim hand into the gap beneath the window and flicked the catch. As the window swung open, Ishraq went head first through the opening and landed as quietly as she could in a heap on the floor.

  At once she was on her feet, listening, sensing that the house was empty. She tiptoed from the room to the landing, head cocked, looking down the well of the stair. Nothing moved, there was no sound. Lightly, she ran down the stairs and unbolted the door just as Freize was walking briskly – a man with business to attend to – past the house. One swift sideways step and he was inside, and the door was closed behind him.

  They beamed at each other. Ishraq slid the bolts across the door, locking it against the street. ‘In case they come back unexpectedly,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

  They went first into the big room at the front of the house that overlooked the canal and found a table piled with rolls of manuscripts and some hand-copied bound books. Ishraq looked at them without touching. ‘Philosophy,’ she said. ‘Astronomy, and here – alchemy. These are a lot of books. It seems that he was telling the truth when he said he had been studying for decades.’

  ‘They both have,’ Freize corrected her. He pointed to a writing table beside the bigger table. There was a brown scarf over the back of the chair, and on the table a page of paper with a carefully copied drawing, and a page of notes. He looked from the book to the paper. ‘She’s translating something,’ he said. ‘She’s studying too.’

  Ishraq came and looked over his shoulder. ‘Alchemists often work in pairs, a man and a woman working together for the energy that they bring,’ she said. ‘Alchemy is about the transmutation from one form into another, liquids to solids, base to pure. It needs a man and a woman to make it work, it needs the spirit of a woman as well as that of a man.’

  ‘How d’you know all this?’ Freize asked curiously.

  Ishraq shrugged. ‘When I was studying in Spain, the Arab philosophers often studied alchemy texts,’ she said. ‘One of the universities even changed from studying t