The Judas Strain (Page 43)

"Dante Alighieri," Vigor said.

Gray glanced to the monsignor.

Vigor explained, "Dante’s Divine Comedy, including the famous Inferno, were the first books written in Italian. Even the French came to nickname the Italian language la Langue de Dante.”

Seichan nodded. "And such a revolution did not pass by Marco. According to historical records, he translated a French copy of his book into his native language. For his countrymen to appreciate. But in the process, he made one secret copy for himself. In that one book, he finally related what befell the Khan’s fleet. Wrote that last story."

"Impossible," Vigor mumbled. "How would such a book have remained hidden for so long? Where has it been?"

"At first, at the Polos’ family estate. Then eventually in a place more secure." Seichan stared at Vigor.

"You can’t mean—"

"The Polos were sent abroad by order of Pope Gregory. There are some who claim that Marco’s father and uncle were the first Vatican spies, sent as double agents into China to scout the strength of the Mongol forces. The veritable founders of the agency you once served, Monsignor Verona."

Vigor sank back into his seat, retreating into his own thoughts. "The secret diary was hidden in the archives," he mumbled.

"Buried away, unregistered. Just another edition of Marco’s book to all outside eyes. It would take a thorough reading to realize that there was an extra chapter woven near the end of the book."

"And the Guild got ahold of this edition?" Gray asked. "Learned something important."

Seichan nodded.

Gray frowned. "But how did the Guild get their hands on this secret text in the first place?"

Taking off her sunglasses, Seichan stared him full in the face, accusing, angry.

"You gave it to them, Gray."

7:18 a.m.

Vigor read the shock in the commander’s face.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Gray asked.

Vigor also noted the steel flash of satisfaction in the emerald eyes of the Guild assassin. She seemed to gain a measure of enjoyment in taunting them. Still, he also noted the thinness of her face, the bit of pallor to her cheeks. She was scared.

"We’re all to blame," Seichan said, nodding also to Vigor.

Vigor kept his reaction placid, not playing this game. He was too old for his blood to be so easily stirred. Besides, he already understood.

"The Dragon Court’s symbol," Vigor said. "You painted it on the floor. I thought it was meant as a warning to me, a call to investigate the angelic inscription."

Seichan nodded, leaning back. She read the understanding in his eyes.

"But it was more," he continued. He remembered the man who formerly filled his seat at the Vatican Archives: Dr. Alberto Menardi, a traitor who secretly worked for the Royal Dragon Court. The man had pilfered many key texts from the archives during his tenure, stole them away to a private library in a castle in Switzerland. Gray, Seichan, and Vigor had been instrumental in exposing the man, destroying the sect of the Dragon Court. The castle ended up being bequeathed to the Verona household, a cursed estate with a long bloody history.

"Alberto’s library," Vigor said. "At the castle. After all the bloodshed and horror, once the police allowed us on-site, we discovered the entire library gone. Vanished away."

"Why wasn’t I told about this?" Gray asked, surprised.

Vigor sighed. "We supposed it was local thieves… or possibly some corruption among the Italian police. There had been many priceless antiquities in the traitor’s library. And because of Alberto’s interest, there were many books of arcane knowledge."

As much as Vigor despised the former prefect, he also recognized Alberto Menardi’s brilliance, a genius in his own right. And as prefect of the archives for over thirty years, Alberto knew all its secrets. He would have treasured and been intrigued by such a discovery, an edition of Marco’s The Description of the World with a hidden extra chapter.

But what had the old prefect read? What made him steal it away? What had piqued the interest and attention of the Guild?

Vigor stared at Seichan. "But it wasn’t ordinary thieves who cleared out the library, was it? You told the Guild about the treasures to be found there."

Seichan did not even have the temerity to flinch at his accusation. "I had no choice. Two years ago, the library bought me my life after I helped the two of you. I had no idea what horror it hid."

Gray had remained silent during their exchange, watching, eyes narrowed. Vigor could almost see the gears turning, tumblers falling into new slots. Like Alberto, Gray had a unique mind, a way of juggling disparate fragments and discovering a new configuration. It was no wonder Seichan had sought him out.

Gray nodded to her. "You read this text, Seichan. The true account of the return voyage of Marco Polo."

As answer, she shoved her chair back, leaned down, and unzippered her left boot. She removed a sheaf of three papers, folded and tucked into a hidden inner pocket. Straightening, she smoothed the papers open and slid them across the table.

"Once I began to suspect what the Guild intended," she said, "I made a copy of the translated chapter for myself."

Vigor and Gray shifted closer, shoulder to shoulder, to peruse the sheets together. The large seaman leaned over, too, his breath spiced with anise from the raki.

Vigor scanned the title and the first few lines.

Chapter LXII.

Of a Journey untold; and a Map forbidden

Now it came to pass, a full month beyond the last port, we sought to restore our waters from afresh river and repair two ships. We ported in small boats, at which time the abundant bird and thickness of vine astounded. Salted meat and fruit were also depleted. We came with forty and two of the Great Kaan’s men, armed with spear and arrow; and as nearby islands were populated by naked Idolaters who ate the flesh of other men, such protection of body was considered wise.

Vigor continued reading, recognizing the cadence and stiffly archaic prose from The Description of the World. Could these words truly be Marco Polo’s? If so, here was a chapter only a few eyes had ever laid eyes upon. Vigor craved to read the original, not fully trusting the translation—but more importantly, he wanted to peruse the original dialect, to be that much closer to the famous medieval traveler.

He read on:

From a bend in the river, one of Kaan’s men shouted and pointed to a steep rise of another peak from out of the valley floor. It lay a score of miles inland and deep within the thickness of the forest; but it was no mountain. It was the spire of a great building; and other towers were now spotted, half hid in mists. With ten days to idol in repairs and as the Kaan’s men wished to hunt the many birds and beasts for fresh meat, we set off to seek these builders of mountains, a people unknown and unmapped.