The Lafayette Sword by Eric Giacometti Page B

his thighs. The smell made him gag. His limbs were going numb. The water was lifting him toward the ceiling. He felt something slide along his leg and let out a shriek.
    â€œWhy? Why are you do ing this?”
    â€œI’m carrying out my mission. You could never un derstand.”
    He was now about a foot from the grate. He figured he had only another two minutes before the water covered him. There was just one way o ut: death.

24
    ÃŽle de la Cité
    March 14, 1355
    D eath. Nicolas Flamel knew the minute he entered this foul-smelling den that his life would be threatened. But curiously, at this particular moment he was more concerned about the girl’s destiny than his own. Under his breath he said a prayer for her poor soul. How could God allow such horrors? Her eyes… There wasn’t just agony in them. There was innoc ence too.
    The torturer walked around the table and sat down on the narrow stone bench that ran along t he walls.
    â€œShe arrived in Paris three weeks ago with the Jew the king brought over from beyond the Pyrenees. The maledict Jew was the one who was burned last night. He said she was his daughter. He also said that she does not speak, that she has been mute since birth. But it’s a trick. She doesn’t know a word of Spanish.”
    A smile as sharp as a knife cut across the tortur er’s face.
    â€œSince she was handed over to me, the hand of justice has investigated,” he continued. “New evidence has come to light. Serious issues.”
    Flamel’s breathing accelerated as Jehan Arthus pursued his tale.
    â€œThe road from Spain is long. To survive, the son of Zion used his talents as a physician. Along the way, he treated people who were sick. At least two people—one of them in a monastery—claimed he had healed them. It was easy for the king’s bloodhounds to retrace the man’s steps. Everywhere, people praised his skills, even those who said they hadn’t bee n healed.”
    â€œCertainly, he had a gift from God,” Flamel suggested wiping the sweat from his brow.
    â€œOr a gift from the Devil,” the torturer said. “Near Cahors, in Quercy, he was called to the bedside of a sick noblewoman. Yes, a noblewoman. In a matter of life and death some are willing to put their fate in the hands of a Jew.”
    â€œAll of God’s creatures fear having to appear before the Creator. It’s unders tandable.”
    â€œYou copy too many bad sermons,” the torturer said. “You should spend more time meditating on our Lord’s parables about the rich and powerful. The gates of heaven will not open for all the gold in the world. Believe me, the nobility will end up in the worst torments of hell. But let’s return to the noblewoman. She survived the illness. The heretic gave her a remedy called drinkable gold, and she lived. As she got better, however, her mind began to decline. The devil’s brew took possession of the weak woman’ s spirit.”
    Flamel didn’t dare to ask any questions.
    â€œThe Jew prepared to leave once he knew his brew was working. But it didn't take long for the domestics to realize he had poisoned her mind.”
    â€œHe had poisoned her mind?”
    â€œThe woman was a widow and a mother. She sold her daughter to the Jew in exchange for her health. She turned her daughter into a whore. And now the girl is soiled. Soiled to the depths of her soul.”
    The tormentor lowered his voice as if he were exhausted. Flamel signed himself. It was a pact with the devil. Life for innocence.
    The torturer stared at h is victim.
    â€œBut she will confess everything, and then I will purify her… In the place where sh e sinned.”

25
    Somewhere under Paris
    Evening of the initiation
    M arcas clutched the grate with both hands, awaiting the moment he’d be gasping for air. The water was swirling around his neck. He could see the killer’s dark and dilated pupils. He