‘was how it miraculously managed to survive years of siege with no food.
‘I spent my first year apprenticed to the gardeners: clearing weeds, planting new beds, helping to bring in the fruit harvests. One of my jobs was watering the grounds. We did this from large cisterns that collected rain and waste water from inside the mountain. Sometimes it picked up mineral deposits as it flowed through the stone channels turning it red, so it seemed you were watering the earth with blood.
‘Whatever was in it made the soil incredibly fertile. Anything grew in it, even though the garden lay in a crater and was in almost permanent shadow. Once, whilst clearing away some long grass, I found an old rake part-buried in the soil. Green shoots were beginning to spring from its wooden handle.’ He looked up and reached for the computer keyboard. ‘This garden has nourished the Citadel throughout history,’ he said, opening a browser window and typing. ‘The green cassocks of the Sancti reflect this — as does the name they used to be known by — The Edenites.’ He finished typing and hit return. The satellite photo disappeared and another page started to open. ‘Some think this name refers to the age of their order, dating back to the dawn of man. Others, however, believe it has a more literal meaning, and that the Tau is not a cross at all.’
The page stopped downloading. Liv stared at it, the image now filling the screen mingling powerfully with the implication of Oscar’s words.
It was a stylized drawing of a tree, its thin trunk rising straight up to where two branches, heavy with fruit, spread out on either side, forming the familiar shape of the ‘T’. Winding its way up the trunk was a serpent, and standing either side of it, a man and a woman. She looked across at Oscar, not quite believing what he was suggesting.
‘You said the letters were scratched on seeds,’ he said. ‘Do you know what sort of seeds?’
Liv gazed into his deep black eyes and thought of all the pictures she’d seen in her life depicting Adam and Eve standing in front of the tree of knowledge, one of them always holding the heavy fruit of temptation in their hand.
‘Apple,’ she said. ‘They were scratched on apple seeds.’
Chapter 107
The vast caves of the library glowed bright and green in the guard’s night vision, making all the details of the room visible. He upped his pace now he could see the way ahead and pulled the Beretta from his sleeve. His head scanned left to right, looking for the hotspots of light that would indicate someone’s presence. He saw none. The only thing that flared in the green was the thin guide lights, stretching ahead like a phosphorescent vapour trail, leading all the way to the forbidden vault.
It took him less than a minute to get there.
As he approached the entrance to the final corridor he slowed his pace, dropped to a crouch then stopped. He leaned back against the upright of the carved archway. Ducked his head round the edge. Glanced towards the vault itself.
The floor lights blazed in his vision, a bright green line pointing towards the end of the corridor. He peered past the glare. Searching for movement in the dark beyond.
Saw nothing.
Silently he crabbed his way round the edge of the arch and moved stealthily down the middle of the corridor directly toward the vault. His gun extended in front of him. His head perfectly still, like a cat stalking a mouse.
Athanasius saw the line of guide lights break barely six feet in front of him. He was tucked into the shelf that had been emptied earlier on Father Thomas’s orders. It was low to the ground, opposite the entrance, facing the vault.
He watched the patch of darkness slide away from him, along the filament of light, showing someone was in the corridor with him. The position of the shelf meant anyone walking down the corridor towards the vault would not see him; anyone walking back up it, however, would spot him in an instant. He needed to be gone before the guard looked round.
Slowly he eased his way out, his ears amplifying every tiny sound, his eyes never leaving the small patch of darkness as it continued to slip away from him down the brittle strip of light in the floor.
He pushed himself to his knees. Then to his feet. He took a step, reaching out into the featureless darkness towards the doorway, lifting and replacing his feet on the floor like a ballet dancer, terrified that the merest scrape of sandal on stone would alert the guard to his presence and bring sudden death.
His hands continued to reach out, groping through the formless black, feeling for the edge of the archway that would lead him away from this trapped corridor. His eyes never left the patch of darkness sliding away down the corridor.
He took a second step.
A third.
A fourth.
On the fifth his hand touched the smooth, cold stone of the wall. He nearly gasped with relief when he felt it. Then he froze. The patch of darkness had stopped moving, just short of the end of the lights. Athanasius moved his hand along the cold stone, heard his dry skin rasp across it, unnervingly loud. In his mind he pictured the guard. Standing at the end of the corridor. Gun in hand. Staring into the vault. How long, after seeing no one there, would it take him to turn round? As this question rose in his mind his hand found the edge of the wall. It curled round it, pulled him through the doorway and into the hall of venerated texts.
Every fibre of his being now screamed at him to run but he knew the hall he stood in was still twenty feet long. Any sound he made here would be heard in the corridor he had just escaped from. He had to stay silent. He put one foot in front of the other, as swiftly and stealthily as he could, in the knowledge that somewhere in the blackness behind him stood a man with a gun who could see in the dark.
The pounding of his heart sounded the pace as he moved swiftly through the black hall towards the exit, his eyes fixed to the floor lights, so pre-occupied with what lay behind that he did not notice the glow of approaching light until it was nearly upon him.
He reached the end of the hall and saw it, a faint glow on the floor and in the curve of the archway he was about to duck through. He froze the moment he saw it. Someone was coming. He watched it grow brighter.
No time to hide.
No place to hide in.
All he could do was stand there and watch as the owner of the light rounded the corner, bursting like a supernova into the chamber not ten feet from where he stood. It was Father Malachi, no doubt on his way to check the contents of the forbidden vault.
Athanasius began to raise his hands in surrender, expecting any moment for the librarian to look up, stop in shock, then shout for the guard. But nothing happened. Malachi continued to stare at the ground, his sharp face stern in thought, his aura of light seeming like a comet to Athanasius’s darkness-soaked eyes. Malachi continued down the hallway until he disappeared into the corridor Athanasius had just escaped from, never even glancing in his direction.
Athanasius stared after him for a stunned moment, his eyes readjusting to the settling darkness that had just saved his life.
Then he turned. And started to run.
Chapter 108
Liv stared at the stylized drawing of the tree. For long moments the flickering of the TV in the corner was the only movement, the low murmur of the news broadcast the only sound. It was Kathryn who eventually broke the silence.
‘We need to get those seeds,’ she said. ‘We must get them and analyse them.’
