Blood Codex

Chapter 19

Crowley walked beside Rose along Golden Lane, on the outer edge of Prague Castle. Cobblestones lay damp beneath their feet after a light rain, the sky still occluded by low, pale gray clouds. But that did nothing to dull the brightly colored small houses along the lane, duck egg blue and salmon pink, corn yellow and moss green. Low tiled roofs and squat chimneys topped the buildings, almost like a model village. It made Crowley feel like some kind of strange giant. On the opposite side of the narrow street, the castle walls rose, imposing sandy colored bulwarks dotted with patches of tall windows and black guttering.

“Hardly feels real,” Crowley said. “Like a purpose-built tourist attraction.”

Rose laughed. “That could be said for a lot of old Europe, I think. But it’s been around a long time. In the sixteenth century alchemists lived here, trying to turn base metals into gold. That’s where the name comes from, Golden Lane.” She pointed. “And that house there, apparently, is where Franz Kafka lived from 1916 to 1917.”

“Really?”

She flapped a pamphlet at him. “I picked this up at the hotel on the way out. That’s what it says.”

“Well, there you go. But this part isn’t particularly relevant to us, is it?”

“No.” Rose pointed to an access path to the main castle. “The Devil’s Bible came to Sweden from inside there. That much was confirmed by the librarian in Stockholm. So if what they have is a copy, the original must have been here first but then replaced with the one the Swedes took.”

Crowley pursed his lips. “Unless the one here at Prague was a copy all along and that’s what was taken?”

“Sure, but then we need to know more about how it got here from wherever King Rudolf lifted it. If we learn that we might get one step closer to the original.”

“And that’s assuming the whole original or copy thing isn’t just a myth.” Crowley held up a hand to stave off any protestations. “I know. We can’t know anything for sure without following it up. Let’s go inside. Your contact there now?”

Rose checked her phone for the time. “He should be. The number Charles gave me was a mobile, so I texted rather than called. But he messaged back that he was starting at ten today and it’s ten thirty now.”

They made their way to the entrance to the castle, walked under an intricate golden archway over the gate. Either side, statues of battle stood imposing over the gateposts. On the left, one muscled warrior killed a man with a wickedly long pointed knife. On the right, a cloaked fighter smashed his opponent with a massive club.

“Amazing sculpting,” Crowley said.

Rose twisted her mouth in distaste. “Bit violent for my liking. They’re the Fighting Giants, apparently.”

The castle before them was four main stories of pale stone, then a roof story under red-brown tiles. They entered and made their way through high and impressive spaces, vaulted ceilings with floral stonework, bright religious iconography, tall windows, both clear and stained glass.

“Another place I’d love to visit with more time and less bad guys trying to kidnap me,” Rose said.

Crowley nodded. He had to agree, the place was breathtaking. “Add it to the list.”

Rose checked her notes again and then sent a text message to the contact Phelps had given her. He texted back almost immediately. “Damek says he’s coming to meet us. He’ll escort us to the archives.”

“Excellent. You’ve got useful contacts.”

“Anything come of your army friend? Cameron was it?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not yet. But he’s the kind of guy who’ll get a bit between his teeth and keep running with it. I imagine I’ll hear from him in another day or two with everything anyone in the world knows about this thing!”

“You are Rose?”

They turned toward the voice and saw a young man, maybe mid-twenties, tall and slim. He had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore thick-framed glasses, tight jeans and a denim shirt with mother-of-pearl press studs holding the pockets closed.

Crowley frowned. He’d been expecting a stuffy old professor type, not some young hipster. Then again, Rose was a contemporary of this guy and she was no stuffy professor either. Stereotypes rarely proved accurate, he reflected.

“That’s me.” Rose extended a hand to shake. Crowley didn’t miss Damek’s gaze traveling all the way down and back up her body in a way the young man probably thought was subtle. Or maybe he just didn’t care for subtlety. “This is my colleague, Jake Crowley.”

“Your colleague?” Damek smiled, a little too smugly for Crowley’s liking.

He shook anyway, reminded himself not to judge too quickly. “Good to meet you. Thanks for seeing us.”

“It’s not a problem,” Damek said, his English excellent despite a fairly strong Czech accent. “I studied with Professor Phelps for one year on university exchange before he took the job at the museum. You work with him now?”

Rose laughed. “A little presumptuous to say I work with him, but yes I work for him.”

Damek shook his head, smiling. “You do yourself a disservice, Miss Black. The Professor himself described you as working together.”

“Well, that’s very generous of him. And please, call me Rose.”

Damek led them from the public galleries through a couple of cool, quiet stone corridors, then into his offices. Crowley was irritated to realize he was quite lost, no idea which way to run if trouble started. He also realized he’d started thinking like a cat again, always clocking the exits from any room, watching faces, twitchy around sudden movements. It was war training kicking back in and he had to welcome it, though it raised some uncomfortable memories. Focus on the task at hand, Jake, he told himself.

Damek’s offices were large but low-ceilinged, with modern fittings among old stone. Several filing cabinets and glass-fronted display cases lined the walls, and row upon row of shoulder high bookshelves filled one end of the room. At the other end were several desks, many with papers or volumes strewn across them. Despite the signs of work, no one else occupied the archives as Damek led them to the biggest desk in one corner and offered them seats. He turned to a cabinet behind him bearing a kettle and multi-colored, mismatched mugs, and began to make tea. “I asked Phelps what you needed to know and he was a little vague. You have a particular point of interest?”

Rose flicked a look at Crowley and he shrugged, nodded encouragingly.

“The Devil’s Bible,” Rose said. “The Codex Gigas.”

Damek set mugs of tea before each of them and sat on his side of the desk with a cup of his own. “Quite the artifact, that one. Have you seen it?”

“We’ve seen the one in Stockholm…” Rose trailed off, one eyebrow raised.

Damek chuckled. “Ah! You don't believe the book in Stockholm is the genuine article?”

“Do you?”

“It’s surely a conspiracy theory,” Damek said, and sipped his tea.

Rose’s face fell, but Crowley saw something in the young man’s eyes. Amusement, mostly. “You don’t believe it’s a conspiracy theory.”

Damek looked at him, eyebrows raised. “I don’t?”

“No. And the librarian tasked with curating it in the National Library of Sweden made no secret that she believes theirs is a copy.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure what I believe. The history is messy and there are many conflicting stories. It’s very hard to pin down any real facts and I do try to only believe in the things I can confirm, things I can corroborate.”

“Have others asked you about it?” Rose asked.

“No, it’s really only something a few conspiracy theorists believe, but no one I know takes it seriously. No one with any authority, at least. But of course, we know without a doubt that we don’t know everything. Anything is possible.” He sipped tea, brow furrowed in thought. “In truth, very little is known about the bible. Its history is tied in very closely with Rudolf II, whose seat was this very castle for a long time, but Rudolf was an… interesting man. He’s often credited as being a rather useless leader. It’s said that he was responsible for starting the Thirty Years War, but the truth is he was a real Renaissance man.

“Rudolf had little interest in politics and ruling, but a great interest in the arts and sciences. He was a great patron of the arts, a true art lover, and gathered a significant collection. He was a devotee of occult sciences and learning. He was instrumental in seeding the scientific revolution, the age of reason. Without his efforts, things in Europe today, even throughout the world, might be very different. But he has been largely vilified by history.”

Damek was in full lecture mode, suddenly not a young hipster any more but a knowledgeable academic, comfortable in his field of expertise. “Rudolf collected all manner of art and curiosities. He developed an entire wing of the castle here to house his collection. You know, the adjective Rudolfine, as in ‘Rudolfine Mannerism’, is often used in art history to describe the style of art he patronized.

“But more interesting, to my mind at least, were his occult studies, particularly his interest in astrology and alchemy. Those things were considered mainstream scientific fields in Renaissance Prague. Rudolf’s lifelong quest was to find the Philosopher's Stone and he spared no expense to bring Europe’s premier alchemists to his court. He performed his own experiments in a private laboratory. He was even rumored, at one point, to own a copy of the Voynich Manuscript.”

“Really? Was he respected for these things?” Crowley asked. “Or ridiculed?”

“Depends on who you’re talking about. It was a very different time, of course. He was supposed to be ruling across several kingdoms, and was chastised for failing in that pursuit, but others greatly respected his interests. Nostradamus, for example, prepared a horoscope dedicated to ‘Rudolf, Prince and King’. That’s a fairly strong endorsement of the man.”

“Are there any stories that connect Rudolf with the Devil’s Bible?” Crowley asked.

Damek sipped his tea. “It’s well known that Rudolf possessed it, but I’m not aware of any particular stories about that.” He frowned and scratched at his chin.

Crowley chose not to interrupt, Rose clearly feeling the same way. They exchanged a quick glance, part amusement, part frustration.

Damek sniffed and nodded, as if to himself. “Yes, of course. You know, you should investigate the story of the Golem of Prague. That’s the only other relevant reference I can think of.”

“Should we?” Rose leaned forward, put her elbows on his desk, charm turned up to eleven. “Can you show us?”

Damek smiled at her, like he was not in the least bit surprised that this beautiful woman was besotted with him. Crowley made sure his eyes didn’t roll so far that only the whites showed. The precociousness of youth. Then again, this archivist was almost certainly less than ten years younger than Crowley. Perhaps he shouldn’t deride the young guy’s self-confidence so easily. It might be jealousy surfacing, but it was clear, at least to Crowley, that Rose was playing the Czech archivist like a prize fiddle.

“For you, of course I can.” Damek went off among the many shelves while Crowley and Rose shared a quiet laugh. She winked as Damek returned with a large, leather bound volume. “Here it is.”