LX

“It is the time of reckoning,” the mad cleric Savonarola muttered, as he made his way through the streets of the Walled City, looking around to see what other obstacles might be placed in his path to test him. But the streets seemed deserted. The citizens of the city were either asleep in their beds, or hiding indoors, too wary of the enmity of the two Houses to wish being caught up in it. He looked up into the sky every now and then to see if he could see any sign of his former devotee, Damon. Another traitor. “His time will come too,” he muttered.

He kept to the back streets and alleyways, walking quickly and holding the glass sphere close to his body. It was best that he no longer had the girl with him, he decided. It would be too dangerous trying to carry both her and the artefact of the ancients. If she had caused him to drop it before he’d reached his destination, it would be disastrous.

The sphere had been passed down from one High Priest to the next over generations, entrusting the secret to no one else. It was the last treasure of the ancients. A reminder of how they had destroyed their own great civilisation. It was a secret that he had discovered, so it was fitting that it now be used by him to presage the end of days.

He came out onto a square and saw a small group of men on the far side. They were militiamen from one of the Houses. They seemed in a stir about something, sending men running away in different directions. That was good. It would keep them too distracted to observe him. He made his way quickly across the far side of the square and saw one of the men glance quickly in his direction and then look back to his comrades. Nothing strange about a clergyman walking across the square, after all, thought Savonarola.

He was only a block or two away now. He turned another corner and saw the wall of the city ahead of him. There were guards atop the walls calling and shouting to each other. Now, men with arms ran past, but no one challenged him. He saw Medici men and also Lorraine men climbing the walls together. He heard them shouting to each other about a plague army. The foretold army of the night had come and were at this moment at the gates, demanding to be let into the city!

Savonarola made his way down the last street before the wall. At the far end he would emerge by the main gates to the city. Those gates had not been opened fully for many years, but today they would open wide for him and the city would pay the price for its sins. Would be filled with a terrible fear. Would share the horrors and sorrows of his childhood. Would understand what had shaped him. He walked on quickly now and reached the end of the street. He saw a large mob of defenders on the walls, but none of them were at this side of the gates. They did not stop to think that disease spreads from the inside.

He walked closer to the gates and held out the sphere. The yellow liquid inside glowed like a small sun. It was a wonder that it was not hot. He looked about and saw a guardsman call to him. Challenging him. But it was too late. He cast the orb at the gate. It hit the large wooden doors and shattered and flames leapt forth as if a large demon had been freed from its prison. There was an horrendous shrieking noise and Savonarola was knocked off his feet by the blast. He lay there dazed and saw men had fallen off the walls and lay about the gates. Others were on fire, running around, vainly trying to put out the flames. And the gates were off their hinges, burning.

He struggled to his feet and held his hands aloft. He had been tested over and over and had not proved wanting. His followers would now emerge onto the streets and cast all their vanities into the flames. They would hunt out and find all objects of science in the city and would build a giant pyre whose flames would lick at the feet of that traitor Damon and he would fall from the skies, and the plague army would run riot through the city, all as he had foretold. And the few who survived would be just like him.

He would no longer be alone.

Then he saw the flames on his garments. One sleeve was alight. He flapped it to try to extinguish the flame, but the more he flapped the more it grew. It crawled along his arm and took hold his robes. He felt the heat rising up to his face. Felt the flame spreading around his whole body. It was embracing him tighter, eating at his flesh. He felt the pain like a hundred daggers cutting into him.

“No,” he shouted, knowing that the flames of the ancients could not be extinguished by earth or water or smothering. They would burn until there was nothing left to consume. He threw his arms into the air and ran about madly, his time of reckoning illuminated by his staggering, flaming body. His own trial by fire.