Abbot Ruiz stood again. He collected the beaker and made it vanish within the folds of his vestments. “All men have free will, Professor Conklin. It is what damns us or saves us.” The abbot stepped around his desk and waved for the monk named Carlos to lead the way. “The Sanctum,” he ordered.
Henry noted the friar’s shocked expression, then the quick nod and the turn of a heel. Carlos opened the office door and led them out.
Ever the good soldier of the Lord, Henry thought.
“Where are you taking us now?” Joan asked, sticking to Henry’s side.
Ruiz marched beside them as they reentered the hallway. “To reveal the truth in the hopes that you will be equally open.”
“The truth about el Sangre del Diablo?” Henry asked, prying for more information. “How do you know about it?”
The abbot sighed loudly, seeming to weigh whether or not to answer. Finally, he spoke. “The metal was first discovered by the Spanish conquistadors here in Cuzco.” The abbot waved a hand. “It was found in the Incas’ sacred Temple of the Sun.”
“The ruins under the Church of Santo Domingo?” Henry asked. The temple had first been described by historian Pedro de Cieza de Leon as among the richest in gold and silver to be found anywhere in the world. Even the walls of the Incan temple had been plated with inch-thick slabs of gold—until the Spanish had ransacked and stripped it, tearing the structure down to the foundations to build their God’s church atop it.
“Exactly,” Ruiz said with a sigh. “The temple must have been a wondrous sight before it was pillaged. A shame really.”
“And this Devil’s blood?” Joan pressed. “Why that name?”
The group reached a long winding staircase leading deep into the heart of the Abbey. The abbot moved slowly down the steps, his great bulk hindering him. He wheezed slightly as he spoke. “The Incas had colorful names for silver and gold—the moon’s tears, the sun’s sweat. When the Spanish conquerors first learned of this other metal and witnessed its unearthly properties, they declared the material blasphemous, naming it just as colorfully el Sangre del Diablo. Satan’s Blood.”
Henry found himself being drawn into this story. This was his field of expertise, but he had heard no such stories. “Why are there no records of this discovery?”
The abbot shrugged. “Because the Church was summoned and agreed with the conquistadors. The metal was studied, its unusual properties noted, and was declared by Pope Paul III in 1542 to be an abomination in the eyes of our Lord. The work of Satan. The Dominicans who had accompanied the Spanish confiscated all such samples and returned them to Rome, for purification. All records of the metal’s discovery were destroyed. To speak of it or write of it was deemed the same as communing with the Devil.” The abbot glanced to the walls as they followed Friar Carlos. “Several historians were burned when they resisted the Pope’s decree, here in this very building. It was our order’s burden to preserve the secrecy.”
“Your order… you keep saying that as if you’re separate from the Catholic Church.”
Ruiz frowned. “We are most definitely a part of the Holy Roman Church.” The abbot glanced away, almost guiltily. “Unfortunately, most of Rome has forgotten us. Except for a handful of men in the Vatican, none still know this order’s true mission.”
“Which is?” Henry asked.
Ruiz shook his question away. “Come and you will see.”
They had reached the bottom of the long staircase. Henry estimated they had to be at least fifty feet underground. A string of raw lightbulbs lit the way ahead. Henry glanced to the walls and was startled to see the characteristic work of the Incas—massive blocks of granite stacked and jigsawed together with immense skill.
The abbot must have noticed as Henry ran his palm along the wall. “We are now under the Abbey. Like the Church of Santo Domingo, the Abbey also rests on ancient Incan foundations. These passages actually merge and connect to the Temple of the Sun.”
“Are we going there?” Joan asked. “To this temple?”
“No… we’re going somewhere even more astounding.”
With Carlos still leading, the group traveled the maze of passages. Henry noted the occasional wooden footbridge straddling open sections of the stone floor. At first, he attributed them to regions where the ancient Incan stonework had succumbed to earthquakes or simple wear. Then, as he crossed another of these bridges, he realized they were too regular and the pits too square. He suddenly suspected where the group traveled.
“This is the place of the pit!” Henry blurted out, staring back at the warren of hallways with their many twists and turns.
“So you’ve heard of this place?” Ruiz said with a smile.
“Place of the pit?” Joan asked.
“An underground labyrinth. A hellhole where Incan rulers tossed their most hated enemies. It was fraught with booby-trapped pitfalls lined by razored flint. They’d also throw in scorpions, spiders, snakes, even injured pumas, to torment the prisoners.”
Joan studied the walls around them. “How awful…”
“It was one of the Incas’ most infamous torture chambers. The Spanish conquistadors wrote extensively of it. It was supposed to be here in Cuzco, but it was believed long destroyed.” Henry turned to the abbot. “Apparently it wasn’t.”
Carlos stopped at a bend in the corridor. He stood stiffly by a bare section of stone wall, almost at attention. From his narrowed angry eyes, the friar plainly did not agree with the abbot’s decision to bring the captives here.
Abbot Ruiz stepped beside Carlos. “We’ve reached the center of the labyrinth. The Sanctum of our order.”
Henry glanced up and down the corridor. All he saw were stacked granite blocks. There was no sign of a door.
The abbot approached the bare wall and pressed his large ruby ring against a small stainless-steel plate embedded in a shadowed cubbyhole. Then he stepped back as the grind of gears sounded from behind the bricks.
Henry tensed, not knowing what to expect.
Suddenly a section of the granite wall slowly dropped away, sinking into the floor. Bright light blazed from within, its effect almost blinding after the dimness of the dark hallways. With a groan, the section dropped fully away.
As the glare faded, Henry stared openmouthed.
Joan gasped beside him.
Ahead lay a large chamber, the size of a small warehouse. Starkly white and shining with stainless steel, it was an extensive state-of-the-art laboratory. Beyond the windows and vacuum-sealed glass doors, a legion of figures, dressed in sterile suits, labored at various stations. Muffled by the glass walls, the strains of Beethoven floated out from the laboratory.