The Professor turned slowly away from the two men at the desk. “Gentlemen,” he said solemnly, “that is a portrait of Rodrigo Borgia, born in Valencia January 1st, 1431, died in Rome August 18th, 1503. Rodrigo Borgia – Pope Alexander VI!”
“That is correct,” said a booming voice. “I am Rodrigo Lenzuoli Borgia and I have come for my children!”
The French windows flew back to the sound of shattering glass and splintering woodwork and an enormous figure entered the portal. He was easily seven feet in height and he inclined his massive head as he stepped through the casement. He was clad in the rich crimson robes of the Papacy and was surrounded by a weirdly shimmering aura which glittered and glowed about him.
The Professor crossed himself and spoke a phrase of Latin.
“Silence!” The giant raised his hand and the old Professor slumped into his chair as if cataleptic. Pooley and Omally shrank back against the wall and sought the lamaic secrets of invisibility. The mighty figure turned his blood-red glare upon them. Pooley’s knees were jelly, Omally’s teeth rattled together like castanets.
“I should destroy you now,” said the giant, “you are but worms that I might crush beneath my heel.”
“Worms,” said Omally, “that’s us, hardly worth the trouble.” He laughed nervously and made a foolish face.
“Ha!” The giant turned away his horrible eyes. “I have pressing business, you may count yourselves lucky.”
The two men nodded so vigorously that it seemed that their heads would detach themselves at any minute from their trembling bodies and topple to the floor.
“Come unto me my children,” boomed the awful voice, “come now, there is much work to be done.”
There was a terrible silence. Nothing moved. The two men were transfixed in terror, and the giant in the crimson garb stood motionless, his hands stretched forth towards the study door. Then it came, at first faintly, a distant rattling and thumping upon some hidden door, then a loud report as if the obstruction had been suddenly demolished. Scratching, dragging sounds of ghastly origin drew nearer and nearer. They stopped the other side of the study door and all became again silent.
The two men stood in quivering anticipation. A mere inch of wood stood between them and the nameless, the unspeakable.
The silence broke as a rain of blows descended upon the study door, the huge brass lock straining against the onslaught. Suddenly the panels of the elegant Georgian door burst asunder. As gaping holes appeared, the two men caught sight of the malevolent force which battered relentlessly upon them.
The beings were dwarf-like and thickly set, composed of knobby root-like growths, a tangle of twisted limbs matted into a sickening parody of human form, dendritic fingers clutching and clawing at the door. Forward the creatures shambled, five in all. They stood clustered in the centre of the room, their gnarled and ghastly limbs aquiver and their foul mouths opening and closing and uttering muffled blasphemies.
The giant raised his hand and gestured towards the French windows. The fetid beings shuffled towards the opening, one raising its vile arm defiantly at the two men.
Omally gripped his chum’s jacket, his face white and bloodless. Pooley shook uncontrollably, his eyes crossed, and he sank to the floor in a dead faint.
The last of the creatures had left the room and the giant in crimson turned his eyes once more to Omally. “Irishman,” he said, “are you a good Catholic?”
Omally nodded.
“Then kneel.”
Omally threw himself to his knees. The giant stepped forward and extended his hand. “Kiss the Papal ring!” Omally’s eyes fell upon the large and beautiful ring upon the giant’s right hand. “Kiss the ring!” said Pope Alexander VI.
Omally’s head swayed to and fro, the ring came and went as he tried to focus upon it. Although he would have done anything to be free of the evil crimson giant, this was too much. He was not a good Catholic, he knew, but this was supreme blasphemy, one might do a million years in purgatory for this.
“No,” screamed Omally, “I will not do it,” and with that he too lost consciousness and fell to the floor at the feet of the giant.
A shaft of early sunlight passed through the broken framework of the French windows and fell upon the prone figure of Jim Pooley. Pooley stirred stiffly and uncomfortably in his unnatural sleep, groaned feebly and flung out his arms. His eyes snapped open, nervously turning on their orbits to the right and left. He flexed his numbed fingers and struggled to his knees. Omally lay a few feet from him, apparently dead.
Pooley pulled himself to his feet and struggled to his chum. “John,” he shouted, gripping the Irishman by his Fair Isle jumper and shaking him violently, “John, can you hear me?”
“Away with you, Mrs Granger,” mumbled Omally, “your husband will be back from his shift.”
“John,” shouted Pooley anew, “wake up damn you.”
Omally’s eyes opened and he peered up at his friend. “Bugger you, Pooley,” said he, “out of my boudwah!”
“Pull yourself together, man.”
Omally’s eyes shot to and fro about the room in sudden realization. “The Professor!” The old man lay draped across his chair, his mouth hung open and his breath came in desperate pants. “Bring some water, or better still scotch.” Pooley fetched the bottle. Omally dipped in his finger and wiped it about Professor Slocombe’s parched lips.
The old man’s head slumped forward and his hands came alive, gripping the arms of the chair. His mouth moved and his aged eyes flickered back and forth between the two men. “W-where is he?” he stuttered. “Has he gone?” He tried to rise but the effort was too much and he sank back limply into the chair. “Give me a drink.”
“What price Dimac,” said Pooley to himself. Omally poured the Professor an enormous scotch and the ancient tossed it back with a single movement. He flung his glass aside and buried his face in his hands. “My God,” said he, “I knew he was powerful, but I never realized, his force is beyond comprehension. I set up a mental block but he simply swept it aside. I was helpless!”
Pooley knelt beside the Professor’s chair. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked, placing a hand upon the old man’s arm.
“The creatures!” said the Professor, jerking himself upright. “Has he taken them?”
Pooley gestured towards the broken study door. “With apparent ease.”
Professor Slocombe climbed to his feet and leant against the fireplace for support. Omally was pouring himself a scotch. “He will have to be stopped!”
“Oh fine,” said Omally. “We’ll get right to it.”
“I know little of the Catholic faith,” said Pooley, “who was Pope Alexander VI?”
“He was not what one would describe as a good egg,” said Omally. “He was father to Lucretia Borgia, a lady of dubious renown, and of five or so other byblows along the way. He achieved his Papal Throne through simony and died, so the fable goes, through mistakenly taking poison intended for Cardinal Adriano de Cornetto, with whom he was dining. He is not well remembered, you could say.”