Simon Toyne - Sanctus and The Key - 2 Bestselling Thrillers

Athanasius glanced at the top sheet. It was a report submitted by an agent called Kafziel – one of the Church’s most prolific spies. Fragments of an ancient manuscript had been discovered in the ruins of a temple at a dig in Syria and he recommended an immediate ‘A and I’ – Acquisition and Investigation to learn and neutralize any threat they may contain. Athanasius shook his head. Another piece of priceless antiquity would undoubtedly end up locked in the gloom of the great library. His feelings on this continued policy was no secret within the Citadel. He had argued, along with Brother Samuel and Father Thomas – inventor and implementer of so many improvements within the library, that the hoarding of knowledge and censorship of alternative ideas was the sign of a weak church in a modern and open world. The three of them had often talked in private of a time when the Citadel’s great repository of learning might be shared with the outside for the greater good of God and man. Then Samuel had chosen to follow the ancient and secretive path of the Sancti and Athanasius could not help but feel that all their hopes had died with him. Everything Samuel had been associated with during his life in the Citadel would now be tainted.

He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes as he looked down at the day’s documents and imagined the news they would bring in the weeks to come: endless reports regarding the monk who had fallen, and how the world perceived it. He turned and headed back to the gilded door, blotting his eyes with the back of his hand as he slipped from the Abbot’s chambers and back into the mountain labyrinth. He needed to find somewhere private, where he could allow his emotions to run free.

Head down, he marched purposefully through the crisply air-conditioned tunnels. The wide, brightly lit thoroughfares narrowed into a dimly lit staircase leading to a narrow corridor beneath the great cathedral cave, lined on each side by doors to small private chapels. At the far end of the passage a candle burned in a shallow depression cut into the rock by one such door, denoting that the room beyond it was already occupied. Athanasius stepped inside. The few votive candles that lit the interior flickered in the wash of the closing door and light shimmered across the low, soot-stained ceiling and the T-shaped cross standing on a stone shelf cut into the far wall. A man in a plain black cassock was hunched in prayer before it.

The priest began to turn, but Athanasius did not need to see his face to know who it was. He dropped to the floor beside him and gripped him in a sudden and desperate embrace, the sounds of his sobs muffled by the thick material of his companion’s robes. They held each other like this for long minutes, neither speaking, locked in grief. Finally Athanasius drew back and looked into the round white face and intelligent blue eyes of Father Thomas, his black hair receding slightly and touched with grey at the temples, his cheeks glistening with tears in the candlelight.

‘I feel like all is lost.’

‘We are still here, Brother Athanasius. And what we three discussed in this room; that is not lost.’

Athanasius managed a smile, warmed by his friend’s words.

‘And we can at least remember Samuel as he truly was,’ Father Thomas said. ‘Even if others will not.’

The Abbot stood in the centre of the Capelli Deus Specialis – the Chapel of God’s Holy Secret – high in the mountain. It was a small, low-ceilinged space, like a crypt, though it was so dark it was hard to make out how big it was. It had been cut by hand out of solid rock by the founders of the Citadel and remained unchanged ever since, the walls still bearing the crude marks of their primitive tools. The Abbot could smell the metallic tang of blood hanging in the air from the previous night’s ceremony, rising from grooves cut in the floor that shone wetly in the weak candlelight. He traced the channels towards the altar where the outline of the Sacrament could just be seen rising out of the darkness.

At the foot of the altar he noticed a twist of new growth curling from the rock floor, the thin tendril of a blood vine, the strange red plant that grew around the Sacrament, springing up faster than it could be rooted out. There was something about the sheer fecundity of the plant that disgusted him. He was about to move towards it when he heard the deep rumble of the huge stone door rolling open behind him. The thick air inside the chapel stirred as two people entered. The candles shuddered in their molten pools of tallow and light danced across the sharp instruments that lined the walls. The door rumbled back into place and the candle flames settled, hissing softly as tallow bubbled against hot wicks.

Both men wore the long beards and green cassocks of the Sacramental order, but there was a subtle difference in their bearing. The shorter of the two stood slightly back, his eyes fixed on the other, his hand resting on the T-shaped Crux tucked into his rope belt; the second stood with his head slightly down, eyes lowered, shoulders stooping as if the weight of the cassock itself was still too much to bear.

‘Well, Brothers?’

‘The body landed beyond the boundaries of our jurisdiction,’ the shorter monk said. ‘There was no way we could secure it.’

The Abbot closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. He had hoped the news would lift his mood, not worsen it. He opened his eyes again and regarded the Sanctus who had not yet spoken. ‘So,’ he said, in a voice that was soft yet full of threat, ‘where is he now?’

‘The city morgue.’ The monk’s eyes did not rise above the Abbot’s chest. ‘We think they are performing a post-mortem.’

‘You think they are performing a post-mortem,’ the Abbot spat. ‘Don’t think they are doing anything; know it, or say nothing. Do not come into this room and bring me your thoughts. When you come in here, you bring only the truth.’

The monk fell to his knees.

‘Forgive me, Father Abbot,’ he pleaded. ‘I have failed you.’

The Abbot looked down at him in disgust. Brother Gruber was the man who had thrown Brother Samuel into the cell from which he had subsequently escaped. It was Gruber’s fault the Sacrament had been compromised.

‘You have failed us all,’ the Abbot said.

He turned and gazed once more upon the secret of their order. He could almost feel the eyes of the world turning towards the Citadel, burning through the rock like X-rays in an unquenchable search for what lay within. He was tired from the long night’s wait, and irritable with it, and the cuts ached beneath his cassock. He’d begun to notice that, even though his ceremonial wounds healed as quickly as they always had, they pained him for longer and longer each time. Age was creeping up on him – slowly maybe, but gaining ground.

He didn’t want to be angry with the cowering monk. He just wanted this situation to pass and the fickle gaze of the world to move on to something else. The Citadel had to weather the siege, as it always had.

‘Stand up,’ he said gently.

Gruber obeyed, his eyes still lowered so he didn’t see the Abbot nod to the monk standing behind him, or the man remove his Crux and pull the top away to reveal the bright blade of the ceremonial dagger sheathed within.

‘Look at me,’ the Abbot said.

As Gruber raised his head to meet the Abbot’s gaze the monk slashed quickly across his exposed neck.

‘Knowledge is everything,’ the Abbot said, stepping back to avoid the fountain of arterial blood pumping from Gruber’s neck.

He watched the look of surprise on Gruber’s face turn to confusion as his hand fluttered up to the neat line across his throat. Saw him sink back to his knees as the life flooded out of him and into the channels in the floor.