The Testament

PROLOGUE AUGUST, 1442- SUMELA MONASTERY, TREBIZOND

On a blazingly hot late afternoon in high summer, three Franciscan Gnostic Observatine monks foraged in the midst of their daily perimeter patrol. They were grateful for the dappled shade and the heavy emerald light as they stepped carefully through the dense woods surrounding the Sumela Monastery, where they currently hid. The monastery was an altogether fitting place for their forced and rather desperate retreat-it had been founded during the reign of Theodosius I by the Greek Orthodox, with whom the Order had a special bond.

Though the men wore the plain, undyed muslin robes of their ascetic order, they patrolled heavily armed with swords, daggers and longbows. They were Guardians, trained in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat as well as the words of Christ and St. Francis. It was their sacred duty to guard the other members of the Order, especially those of the inner circle who ruled the Order, the Haute Cour.

The brutal sun, on its slow journey to the horizon, had by this time heated even the normally cool mountain air, so that the Guardians' robes were shot through with sweat stains, spreading from their armpits and down the center of their broad, muscular backs. They moved in the same way they said their prayers three times a day-the way they held themselves, the wariness of eye and foot as they quartered the western wedge of tangled land under their jurisdiction, could only be described as ritualistic.

Nearing the seventh and final hour of their shift, their muscles ached, their vertebrae cracking now and again as they bent to examine some track or spoor to make certain that it was made by an animal and not by their fellow man. Their training demanded they be careful, as did the history of the Order, for so long under threat from the Pope and his strong mailed fist, the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood. Since the time of the first crusade, which had been launched in 1095, the Knights had made the island of Rhodes their base. Danger arose in the Order's having secreted itself so close to the Holy Land, where its enemies teemed, but they well knew the wisdom in hiding in plain sight. Over the year and a half that the Order had been at Sumela, no Knight of St. Clement had ventured to the monastery, which was not and never had been in their domain. It belonged to the Emperor Justinian, and then to the Comnenos, the emperor-dynasty of Trebizond, on the southwestern shore of the Black Sea, with Anatolia and the highly lucrative camel route to Isfahan and Tabriz at its back, an eight-day journey by ship from Byzantium.

At the edge of a clearing, the three Guardians paused to take water and a bite of unleavened bread. Yet even in this moment of relative ease, their iron discipline forbade any talk, and their eyes in faces lined with tension were never at rest. As they chewed and swallowed, they scanned the glade into which the lowering hulk of the sun spilled ruddy light. Hands at their foreheads, they squinted into the glare.

Birds twittered and swooped, insects droned sullenly, butterflies and bees crisscrossed the glade. The air sat exhausted and sweating, beaten down by the sun glare. The Guardians' attention momentarily shifted as a brief rustling came from the underbrush perhaps fifty yards distant. They waited, immobile and staring, their hearts pounding as the sweat formed in the hollows of their necks and crept down their spines. The rustling came again, closer this time, and one of them went into a crouch, put fletched shaft to bowstring, pulling it back taut, the forged iron arrowhead aimed and ready.

A small form appeared, and the archer grinned in relief. Only a small mammal foraging through the underbrush. Another of the Guardians laughed under his breath, raised his hand to his companion's tautly arced bow, as if to lower it.

He never got the chance. A brief evil humming made itself heard above the drowsing chitter of the insects as a crossbow bolt flashed through the air. The Guardian, impaled through the chest, flew into shadow, his arms flung wide. His archer compatriot, crouched still, drew back his bow, frantically trying to draw a bead on the hidden enemy, but before he could loose his arrow, another bolt flew out of the sun's glare and pierced his neck. Flung onto his back by the force of the arrow, he lost his grip on the bowstring, and his arrow shot skyward in a crazy arc.

Fra Martin, spattered with his brothers' blood, dove for cover, drew his broadsword and gathered his wits about him.

His brothers were dead, both killed in a matter of seconds by a hidden assassin. But from the way they fell, he knew where the archer had secreted himself.

He now had a crucial decision to make. He could either circle his way forward, keeping to the shadows while he skirted the glare of the forest glade, engage the Knights and avenge the murders of his brothers, or he could discreetly withdraw, making all haste back to the monastery to warn the Magister Regens and to gain reinforcements with which to hunt the enemy. The sun glare within which the archer had so cleverly cloaked himself mitigated against immediate engagement.

However, if the archer was, indeed, a Knight of St. Clement, he had surely identified his prey as members of the Gnostic Observatine Order. If he escaped and returned to Rhodes with news of the Order's whereabouts, a veritable army would be sent against the monks. Then they would be facing an all-out assault, against which they surely could not stand. No, there was no time to seek reinforcements from within the monastery-he had to find the enemy now, identify him and kill him before he could inform the Knights of the Order's hiding place.

Fra Martin knew the forest well, remembered that just beyond the glade a sheer drop-off into the deep ravine, guarded on either side by naked cliffs and jagged boulders, snaked its way back to the treasure-laden city of Trebizond on the southern coast of the Black Sea. Picking his way to the left, he described a rough semicircle. All the while, he kept the glade in view, through which ripples of wind caused a succession of rustlings. Muscles bunched, ready with his sword, he kept moving crabwise to his left, always keeping the sun-dazzle of the glade in the periphery of his vision.

A swift sat on a branch above and just ahead of him, its head cocked as it warily eyed him. All at once, it took off in a flutter, and with a prickle at the nape of his neck, he whirled to his left. As he did so, he flipped his sword to his left hand, swept it around in a flat, vicious arc. As forged steel bit into bone and flesh, he heard the scream even before he identified his foe as a Knight of St. Clement. The Knight staggered under his blow, began to bring his own sword down toward Fra Martin's head in a skull-cleaving blow. Fra Martin, slipping inside the other's guard, stayed his opponent's arm with one hand while he drove his own sword hilt-deep into the Knight. The Knight watched him malevolently out of bloodshot eyes. Then his lips curled back from bared teeth and a laugh spilled out from deep inside him just before the death-rattle overtook him.

Fra Martin kicked the corpse aside. The imminent danger dealt with, he moved with greater confidence along the edge of the ridge. He could not discount the possibility that there might be other Knights stalking through the forest. No matter, he would become the stalker now. All his senses rose to their most heightened level.

Quite soon he came to an area that had eroded in the last rainstorm. A large tree had been uprooted and others partially so, leaving great clots of red earth exposed like wounds. This afforded him a hitherto impossible view into the deep ravine, the only way to and from Sumela.

The sight below turned his blood cold. Lines of the Knights of St. Clement marched in concert, heading toward the monastery, the last bastion of his Order. He had made a fatal mistake. The Knight who had attacked him and his compatriots had not been alone but was an advance raider sent to destroy the Order's sentinels. He had to assume that other such assassins had been dispatched to deal with the other Guardians on patrol. There could be no doubt, the Knights had launched a full-scale attack.

As he turned, on his way back to the monastery, a crossbow bolt sliced through the flesh of his arm. He staggered sideways, his booted right foot sliding on the bare earth, and he went over the edge.

He slammed into a tangle of tree roots jutting out from the side of the earthfall and almost had his breath taken away. Still, he had the presence of mind to reach out and grab on. Panting, he swung in midair, dizzy and nauseated, a thousand-meter drop yawning at his feet. Far below him, the line of Knights continued their march. Blood leaked from his wound, and pain lanced through his arm all the way up into his shoulder. He tried to pull himself up, succeeded only in tearing open the wound. It was only a matter of time before his blood, running more freely now, would drip down, giving him away to the enemy below.

He began to pray, gathering himself into the essential core of his being. But though his soul spoke to God, at some point he could not help but notice that the huge uprooted tree above him rolled as if of its own accord, slowly at first, then more quickly, until it shot out and down, amid cries of dismay and pain, onto the marching enemy.

Dumbfounded, he swallowed thickly as he watched the chaos spreading through the ranks of Knights.

"It's a divine intervention," he whispered.

"In a way."

He looked up, sweat and the red silt of Sumela in his eyes, for the source of the voice. He was at first certain that St. Francis himself had come to his aid. Then the striking face resolved itself.

"Fra Leoni," Fra Martin whispered. "Thank God."

Fra Leoni was well named, for he had a leonine face atop a mass of curling hair black as pitch. From this unruly surround the startling blue of his eyes broke like sun through storm clouds. "Hurry, while they are still in disarray. There's no time to lose." Fra Leoni's powerful hand, covered in flakes of moss and tree bark, grasped him, tugging him up.

Sumela Monastery appeared to be carved out of the bedrock on which it sat, a jagged tooth in the Karadaglar, the Black Mountains that lay between Trebizond and Armenia.

"The Venetian fleet has been turned back by Sultan Murat II and his Ottoman navy," Fra Prospero said as he addressed the somber-faced priests ranged around the dark wooden trestle table in the refectory of the monastery. "Any day now Trebizond will come under attack. No matter how well situated, this time the Golden City will fall, and afterward, the Ottoman filth will be breaking down Sumela's door."

"We have a more immediate disaster staring us in the face."

The priests of the Order of Gnostic Observatines turned as one to face the bloody-robed figure who filled the doorway. Above their tonsured heads, the vaulted ceiling arched like the heavily muscled shoulders of a giant warrior.

Fra Prospero, Magister Regens of the Order, lifted a hand, palm up, in the traditional gesture of welcome, but his large black eyes held a different message. He did not like being interrupted, let alone being contradicted. "Enter, Fra Leoni, and pray enlighten us." The Magister Regens bared his teeth. "What could be more of a disaster than the heathen Turk overrunning our toehold island, the bastion of Christ on the shore of the Levant?"

Fra Leoni reached into the darkness of the hallway, bringing in the wounded Fra Martin. Two of the priests rose and rushed over to take him to the infirmary.

"What is this?" Fra Prospero said. "What has happened?"

"We are under attack," Fra Leoni told them. "The Knights of St. Clement have found us. They landed in secret at Sinope five nights ago. Their main force is but an hour away."

At this remark, a meaningful glance passed between Fra Leoni and the Magister Regens, but neither of them said what was on their minds.

Instead, Fra Prospero sighed. "Indeed, our worst fears have been realized. This Pope's thirst for temporal power led him to create the Knights of St. Clement-his own private army, used to crush those who went against the will of the Holy See. Three weeks ago, the Knights received by courier a communique' from the Pope, charging them to destroy our Order." He was a massive man, with a round, florid face like a sunflower and the clever black eyes of an inquisitor. He was possessed of a deep, rich baritone that reached with uncommon ease to the farthest corner of the refectory. "Our teachings have already put us at odds with the Pope. But now a Vatican council has judged what we preach as heretical blasphemy and has condemned us as dangerous to the rule of the Pope. We have been marked for eradication-and who better to perform this task than the Pope's so-called soldiers of Christ, the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood?"

The priests looked at each other with fear and consternation plainly visible on their faces.

Fra Sento's narrow brow furrowed. "Why weren't we informed sooner of this despicable edict?"

"What good would it have done," the Magister Regens said, "save sow the seeds of panic?"

Fra Sento stood, leaning forward, body tense, clenched fists on the table. "We could release the Testament to the world," he said, "and so reveal the falseness of this power-mad Pope."

At the mention of the Testament an awful blanket of silence swept down upon them. Deepening shadows crawling through the west-facing windows slowly smothered the fire of the sunset.

Sizing up the situation in an instant, Fra Leoni took a step into the room and before Fra Sento's contagion had a chance to spread, said, "Haven't we put this question to its death yet? Who but Church and clergy and a handful of scholars can even read? The Church's power and influence is far too vast for our discovery to be readily believed, let alone accepted as gospel. No, we'd be reviled, cast out, stoned to death by the faithful, like as not-and the Testament itself would fall into the hands of our enemies within the Church, who would destroy it rather than know its truth. Besides, it is neither our duty nor our desire to topple the very institution to which we have pledged our minds, bodies and souls."

Fra Sento, scowling still, crossed his arms over his chest. He knew Fra Leoni was right, but he couldn't see past his burgeoning fear to acknowledge it.

The Magister Regens now rose. "Well said, Fra Leoni, thank you. The enemy is almost upon us. We must now turn to the practical matter of our defense. The fact is, we have been practicing for this every day since our arrival at Sumela. Do you believe that we could be better prepared for the inevitable?" His piercing gaze on Fra Sento, he said, "Would anyone here gainsay my decision?"

Fra Sento looked down at his lap and, slowly, his arms unwound. With another covert glance at Fra Prospero, Fra Leoni respectfully took his place at the table.

"We all suspected the Pope would find a way to rule against us," Fra Kent said. He was a jowly priest, tallest of them all, with a quick wit and a helping hand for others. "Now, the hour of our greatest trial is upon us, and it is more imperative than ever that we act as one mind, one strong heart."

The Magister Regens nodded ever so slightly as he looked around the table with his sternest expression. "I trust I can count on each and every one of you to perform your duties and defend the principles of our Order."

There came an explosion of assent from every priest in the room, Fra Sento's voice joining Fra Kent's and the others'. Then the Magister Regens spread his arms wide and, as they stood as one, addressed his charges formally:

"There is courage in all our hearts, faith fires our souls. We, who have been charged by St. Francis to be his everlasting voice on earth, to carry out his will for generations to come, now gather our strong arms. Though the storm clouds of war gather, though our enemy has sought us out, now we gird ourselves for the battle. Man the battlements south and east, the staircases and the courtyards that have come to be our home. Rain down upon our enemies the retribution for their unwarranted aggression. It is a red day, an evil day, a day of sorrow and of pain! Blood will flow and lives will be lost! Both heaven and hell will receive its share of souls before its end!"

A great, massed cheer rocked the huge room, after which the refectory emptied quickly. As Fra Prospero had said, his priests had been well trained and exhaustively drilled. However, no sooner was he alone with Fra Leoni than he said in a voice filled with an anguish he had not allowed the other priests to hear, "They know."

"I'm afraid so." Fra Leoni nodded. "Somehow the Knights of St. Clement have managed to penetrate the Order."

The Magister Regens looked stricken. "Not just the Order. The Haute Cour-the inner circle-of which you and I are a part."

The enormous fireplace, into which even Fra Kent could step without bowing his head, loomed black and desolate. The stone floor was hard and unforgiving beneath their sandaled feet. They looked at the refectory table, now nearly deserted, as if it were a compatriot who had been struck down by sudden illness, who they would likely never see again. So filled with sudden emotion was Fra Prospero that he was obliged to put his fists on the table to steady his bulk as he rose. He walked to Fra Leoni's side, and together the two left the room, closing the massive door to the refectory behind them.

At that time the Sumela Monastery was divided into three parts. The lower section was built around a central courtyard and, below, an enormous cistern into which the aqueduct emptied. The middle section, the western half of which the Order inhabited, contained the kitchen, library, chapels, and guest rooms. Overlooking these layers was the Rock Church with its sacred icon of the Virgin Mary.

Together, the two members of the Haute Cour went down the corridor, ascended a steep flight of stone stairs and, by means of a narrow wooden door with a great iron lock, passed onto the ramparts. They breathed in the sharp scents of the mountain air, scented with the coming of night and steel-and, therefore, war. They soon reached their goal, and, peering through a gap in the mountainside, swaddled in thick evergreens, they could make out the deep gorge at the highest point of which Sumela rose on its steep and jagged mountain eyrie. On the horizon, farther than they could see, lay the full bounty of Trebizond, which had so irresistibly drawn the Greeks, the Genoese, the Florentines, the Venetians, the trading nexus between East and West, where camel trains from the Armenian hinterlands, from far-off Tabriz unloaded their wares to be transshipped to the warehouses of Europe. The defile was as yet empty, but it was only a matter of time before it was choked with the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood.

"So even here we are not safe from them," Fra Leoni said. "You see the greed of mankind, Fra Prospero. We guard too many secrets, they are too valuable. Man is venal, corruptible, and therefore contemptible, for he falls too easily into sin."

"This is hardly the teaching of St. Francis."

"Our founder lived in a different time," Fra Leoni said bitterly. "Or else he was blind."

"I will not countenance blasphemy!" the Magister Regens snapped.

"If the truth be blasphemous, then so be it." Fra Leoni engaged the other with his eyes. "The Pope believes we preach blasphemy, so what is the truth but what we observe with our eyes? Religion, like philosophy, is a living thing. If it isn't allowed to change with the times, if it is left to calcify, it will surely become irrelevant."

Fra Prospero's eyes slid away, and he bit his lip in order not to say something he would doubtless regret later.

"To return to the subject," Fra Leoni said, "you know as well as I that our secrets must not be allowed to fall into the hands of our enemies." He opened his palm. "I will have your key."

A brief flicker of some dark emotion-fear or perhaps doubt-marred for a moment the face of the Magister Regens. "Is this what you think of our chances?"

Fra Leoni's eyes locked with those of Fra Prospero. "Would you have me regurgitate the rules of our Order? In times of crisis, there is ordained only one Keeper." A brief but unpleasant silence engulfed them. A chill wind stirred, rising from the ashes of the lowered sun, raced up the defile as if itself afraid of what was behind it in the quickening darkness. Fra Leoni knew that he had not answered the other's question. "They outnumber us, and, since the Pope has access to everything, it is safe to assume that they are better equipped than we could ever hope to be. These are simple exigencies of war, and can be overcome, with the right amount of cleverness and the correct strategy. And, of course, we have this stone fortress to act as our stout bulwark." He broke off abruptly and his head turned and, like a canny animal, he put out the tip of his tongue, absorbing the news brought to him on the wind.

"But?" Fra Prospero said, not a little irritably.

Fra Leoni turned back. He possessed the sometimes unnerving ability to direct his full scrutiny on whomever was with him, and that had often proved more than some could tolerate. "But the enemy is clever-far more clever than we gave him credit for. Fra Prospero, there can be no doubt that there is a traitor in our midst. Unless we discover his identity and stop him, tonight Sumela may become our grave rather than our sanctuary."

Fra Prospero's eyes sparked as he shook his head. "You know that I have never been an advocate of the single Keeper."

"And yet now you see its strength," Fra Leoni said. "We have been betrayed from inside the Haute Cour. Seven priests including you and I know of our cache of secrets, but only two know its location and have the key. Otherwise, the secrets would undoubtedly already be in the hands of the Knights of St. Clement. Come now, time grows fearfully short."

Still Fra Prospero hesitated, but then from the highest rampart of Sumela the lookout's cry took up Fra Leoni's intent and drained the blood from his heart.

"They come! The Knights are upon us!"

And, indeed, as they turned and looked, they saw the Knights of St. Clement, their emblematic banner with its seven-pointed purple cross flying along with that of the Pope, charging on horseback, armor glimmering in the twilight, toward the gates of the monastery.

The Magister Regens leaned over, gripping the parapet with tense fingers. "A frontal assault," he snorted. "They will be days at it, and meanwhile we can get word to Lorenzo Fornarini, who so bravely aided us in Trebizond and now will-"

Fra Leoni rudely and urgently stopped him in midsentence with an iron grip on his arm. He had been counting the Knights and had found their number wanting. The only explanation…

"It is too late for Sir Fornarini or anyone else, for that matter, to come to our aid." He pulled Fra Prospero away from the wall as the first arrows whirred past them. "The main force has circled around from behind. That's why it took them days to reach us." They ran down the steps into the interior. "They're already inside, otherwise this group would not have shown themselves."

"Impossible! I refuse to believe-"

"Quickly!" Fra Leoni snapped his fingers. "Your key!"

The Magister Regens dug in his robes, but Fra Leoni grabbed it from his fist, tore it off the chain to which it had been attached to a wooden crucifix. It lay in his palm, a key like no other, save its twin, which he possessed. It had a strange burred end and along its length seven starlike notches of different depths and widths.

The Magister Regens dug his clawed fingers into Fra Leoni's robes. "Your insolence will be your downfall one day."

"Mayhap," Fra Leoni said. "But not today."

Without taking his gaze from the obsidian eyes, he lifted one hand up and slowly, finger by finger, freed himself from the other's grip. "Today your heartfelt prayers go with me, Magister Regens, for I am the sole Keeper of our secrets now. If I die, the Order dies with me."

All at once, shouts rose from below, the sound of steel whistled through the air, cries and terrible groaning.

"Now you have your proof," Fra Leoni said tersely. "We have been betrayed again. Our citadel has been breached."

Fra Prospero's eyes flickered with a tiny stirring of fear. His bearded face glistening, he drew himself back to the urgent conversation. In a lowered voice, he said, "And what of the one secret-the one that dwarfs all others, the one even those who come, even he who sent them, are unaware of? Will it be safe with you?"

"It is why I was ordained Keeper. The trust is sacred; it can never be broken. I guard them all with my life, the one secret especially."

Fra Prospero nodded. If he was not pleased, then he was at least satisfied. He had to be; he had no other choice. "Then God go with you, my son. In Christ's name, be safe."

"And if we both survive, you know where to meet me."

"Within a year," Fra Prospero said. "Yes."

"Then we will see each other again, and resume our debate."

"God willing," Fra Prospero said.

Tucking the hem of his robe into his belt, Fra Leoni went down the western spiral staircase. Where the blood had dried, the fabric had become stiff and uncomfortable. Passing the first in a line of windows, he could see the darkening stain of night climbing upward into the cobalt vault of the sky. Closer to hand was the brief sloped ridge of the kitchen's tile roof and, beyond, the pillared terraces of the royal wing. An evil flicker of light caught his eye. Someone had started a fire close to the walls.

Just below, he encountered fighting, already at a fierce pitch. Seeing two of his brothers under attack by four Knights, he drew his weapon and threw himself into the fray, beating back a Knight who had come close to cleaving Fra Benedetto's skull in two. This was not what he should be doing. His first and only duty was to save himself and, in so doing, keep the cache of secrets safe. The trouble was, he could not help himself. His brethren were in dire straits; how could he leave them?

He parried a blow weakly, giving his opponent a false sense of his prowess, then as the Knight recklessly stabbed at him, he neatly knocked aside the strike, drove the point of his sword through the other's midsection. Another Knight attacked on his right, and he sliced through the enemy's wrist. But now six more Knights leapt up from below, and he was forced to leave the defense to the others, retreating back up the stairs to the level of the trefoil window. He beat back the broadsword thrust of a Knight who had broken away from the pack to bring him down, struck what seemed a rather awkward blow with the flat of his sword. It had the desired effect, throwing off the Knight's balance. And while he was thus at a disadvantage, Fra Leoni kicked him hard in the shoulder. The Knight spun, his booted foot missed the edge of the step, and he tumbled heavily backward into two of his compatriots.

Fra Leoni took this moment and, gaining the stone sill of the window, leapt out onto the tiles of the kitchen roof. From here, he could see into the lower courtyard, swarming now with Knights of St. Clement. He could see the wall that had been permanently smoke-blackened by Saracen siege fires. Betrayed, he thought bitterly, from within our most sacred inner sanctum.

Then a crossbow bolt passed not a foot from his head, and he dove to his left, stretched fully on the tiles. As soon as he raised himself on one elbow, another bolt was loosed at him, though he could not make out the bowman. Not that it mattered; his antagonist was far outside his reach.

Flattening himself again, he contrived to pull himself across the tiles. His intention had been to gain the kitchen below, and thence out a passage beneath the stone flooring. But one glance at the bloody chaos that had overtaken the courtyard told him he would never make it to that section of the lower floors, let alone to the kitchen. That being the case, he needed to gain the library. He changed direction, scuttling back up to the crest of the kitchen roof. This had the disadvantage of making of him an excellent target for the three or four seconds it would take him to heave his body across the crest and down the other side to the eastern wing of the monastery's belly.

There was no help for it; no other way presented itself for him to get to the library. But he needed to lengthen his odds, he needed a diversion. Just below the crest, he waited, gathering himself, slowing his breathing. He searched with his free hand until he found a loose tile. Ripping it from its moorings, he launched it into the air in the opposite direction from which he intended to go. He heard it shatter onto the cobbles of the courtyard below, heard the shouts of the Knights raised in warning. Immediately, he rolled over the top, onto the eastern side of the roof. No crossbow bolts followed him and, without pausing to catch his breath, he made his way as quickly and unobtrusively as he could, at length swinging down onto the library terrace. On his way down, he had disturbed a bird's nest and, knowing he might not get another chance at sustenance for some time, he ate the three eggs, for once his scent was on them the mother would no longer sit on them but would cast them out, just as his Order was being expelled from the bosom of the Church.

He went quickly through the room, filled with shelves of precious volumes. Even now he was terrified that the Knights would set fire to the monastery and all this knowledge would be lost forever.

Fra Leoni cautiously stepped from room to room, moving ever eastward. He needed to gain the eastern wall. From time to time, like the tide rushing recklessly onto hard shingle, he heard an upsurge in the terrible sounds of war that set his teeth on edge-the clash of steel on steel, the animal grunts of warriors straining one against the other, coarse oaths and the deep groans and cries of those wounded or near death.

In the semidarkness, he at last reached his goal, the eastern wall, which was entirely tiled in a bewildering Greek pattern. He felt with callused fingers for the mechanism that would allow him entry to the hidden stairs-a tile, fifth from the floor, third from the left-and was about to press it when a sound came to him, both low and sharp. He froze and allowed his senses to quest outward. At first nothing, then it came again, the scrape of steel against stone. Someone was in the chamber with him. But instead of attacking, he was watching and waiting.

Fra Leoni quelled his instinct to open the door and flee. He could not let the enemy know of this escape route, for if he did, the Knights would come after him with everything they had.

As casually as he could, he moved his hand down the tiled wall, walked away. And then he did the last thing his enemy expected him to do: he moved directly toward him-or more accurately, because he couldn't see his enemy, toward the origin point of the noise. He had been right, and there was a small, tight smile of triumph on his face when the brief flash of rising steel crossed his vision. But in that moment, he saw that the Knight was aiming a hackbut point-blank at him. Fra Leoni sprang forward as the Knight squeezed the trigger of the firearm rather more quickly than he had intended. The loud report stung the monk's ear like a swarm of bees, and for a moment he felt as if his head was filled with lead shot.

Then he had barreled into the Knight and the hackbut was spinning away. He used his fist, then drew his weapon. He and the Knight of St. Clement crossed swords.

Now that they were on equal footing he felt better, but almost immediately the other drove him backward beneath a series of vicious blows. Fra Leoni fought back in a peculiar way-he defended himself. In this way, he was able to gauge the ability of the Knight without giving the level of his own ability away. The Knight was larger and more powerful than he was-and was also skilled and confident. Fra Leoni, driven ever backward beneath the hail of blows, allowed the Knight's confidence to blossom. A penultimate two-handed blow sent him to his knees. The Knight, grinning in triumph, raised his sword for the killing blow. Fra Leoni, withdrawing a dagger, slashed the entire length of its blade through his assailant's Achilles tendon. At once, the Knight fell, his sword swinging wildly. Fra Leoni knocked it away. Then he was on top of the Knight, assured that he hadn't been hit, and drove his dagger through a gap in the other's armor.

Panting, he levered himself off the corpse, half-staggered to the Moroccan tile wall, pressed the mechanism, and before anyone else could appear, he vanished through the doorway, closing the hidden door behind him.

In absolute darkness, he made his way down a steep spiral staircase. Both he and Fra Prospero had made this journey numerous times, first with crackling reed torches when they had explored, and afterward, in pitch black, to immunize themselves against just such a situation.

He reached the bottom of the stairs without incident and thence made his way to the base of the eastern wall. From the corner he paced off fifteen feet, then he felt for the locking mechanism set flush with the wall. Here was another secret doorway leading to a steep iron staircase that wound down through the thick walls of Sumela-through the hewn stone itself-to emerge some half mile from the monastery grounds. At once, he hurried down the underground passageway, which reeked of mold and the sharp mineral odor of water seeping through stone. He made as little noise as possible, but under the circumstances it was impossible to be absolutely silent. Nevertheless, he was impelled to hurry, and at last, he reached the end of the tunnel. Like a blind man, he reached out, found the rope ladder that led up to the old well, which had never been a well at all but an escape portal should the monastery ever be breached.

He climbed, and kept climbing until he could smell all the myriad scents of the forest. There was another scent, however, overlaying the others, an acrid scent that was altogether familiar…

A powerful hand gripped his shoulder as he climbed out of the well.

"Keep still and absolutely silent," Fra Kent whispered in his ear.

"How did-?"

"This way," Fra Kent said urgently, overriding his question. "We've been betrayed. Our enemies are lying in wait for you."

And, indeed, he could see the bobbing flares of light that spoke of torch-lit search parties.

Fra Leoni followed his guide, who led him away from the lights, deeper into the forest, until the torch flares were no longer visible. A moon, huge and lambent, rose in the sky. By its monochromatic light, Fra Leoni saw the tall priest's visage, which was tense and terribly drawn. And yet, there was a flicker of elation, for they had eluded their enemies.

Fra Leoni turned to him, grasped his forearm in fervent thanks.

"Don't despair," Fra Leoni said. "We've found a way out, the Order will live another day."

For an instant, he thought the blue moonlight was playing tricks on him, for it seemed to him as if the look of elation on Fra Kent's face had turned it demonic. Then Fra Kent had driven the point of a dagger into the meat of his shoulder. As he lurched backward, pain like a fire inside him, Fra Kent came after him.

"What… what are you doing?"

Fra Kent grabbed him, shaking him like a leaf. The look of obsessive concentration on his face was terrifying. He had no interest in Fra Leoni's momentary confusion. In fact, he no longer had an interest in holding on to the dagger. He was clawing his way through Fra Leoni's robes, frantically trying to find the keys.

In that moment, Fra Leoni shook off his pain and shock. Against all odds, Fra Kent was the traitor. He understood, as well, that Fra Kent had betrayed everyone, even his new masters, the Knights of St. Clement. It was obvious by the look of naked greed on his face that he was determined to steal the cache of secrets for himself.

Fra Leoni twisted away from the fumbling hands and, with a cry of anguish, pulled the dagger from his flesh. Immediately, blood began to run from the wound and he grew dizzy. Fra Kent was on him in a flash, knocking the dagger away. Fra Leoni put his hands up an instant too late. Fra Kent's fist slammed into the point of his chin, knocking him off his feet.

Flashes of light filled his brain, and there was a gathering darkness pressing in on him that was altogether separate from the moonlit night. He could hear birds calling, and the hoot of an owl, far off, or was it the shouts of the enemy as they methodically ground through his brethren? With a major force of will, he shook off the cobwebs, got his arms inside those of Fra Kent, dug white knuckles into the other's windpipe. A stutter of horrible sounds emanated from Fra Kent as he reared back, his huge torso towering over Fra Leoni.

Fra Leoni threw him off, gained his knees, his hand scrabbling for the dagger. Moonlight gave him a glint, all he needed, and he grasped the hilt, made to stab at Fra Kent.

But the other, coughing still, gripped his shoulder, as he had done when Fra Leoni had first emerged from the wellhead. But this time the spatulate thumb plunged into the open wound. Fra Leoni howled in pain, and his palsied hand released its grip on the dagger.

A grin washed over Fra Kent's face. With an almost languid movement, he snatched the dagger, turned its point toward his foe. His grip tightened and he turned the blade just so, about to run it across Fra Leoni's throat, when a shadow appeared from out of the forest and fell over them both.