Carlos Ruiz Zafón

Rose of Fire

Translated from the Spanish by Lucia Graves

Set at the time of the Spanish Inquisition in the fifteenth century, “Rose of Fire” tells the story of the origins of the mysterious labyrinthine library, the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, which lies at the heart of Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s novels The Shadow of the Wind, The Angel’s Game, and now The Prisoner of Heaven.

And so, when 23 April came round, the prisoners in the block turned to David Martín, who lay in the shadows of his cell with his eyes closed, and begged him to tell them a story with which to alleviate their tedium. ‘I’ll tell you a story,’ he replied. ‘A story about books, dragons and roses, as befits the date, [1] but above all, a story about shadows and ashes, as befits the times…’

(from the lost fragments of The Prisoner of Heaven)

1

The chronicles tell us that when the maker of labyrinths reached Barcelona on board a vessel hailing from the East, he already carried with him the germ of a curse that was to stain the city’s skies with fire and blood. It was the year of Our Lord 1454. A plague had decimated the population during the winter and the city lay under a blanket of ochre-coloured smoke that rose from bonfires ablaze with hundreds of corpses and shrouds. From afar one could see the noxious pall spiralling upwards. It crept through towers and palaces and soared like an omen of death, warning travellers to continue on their way and not approach the city walls. The Holy Office had ordered the city to be sealed off and had carried out an investigation. After days of brutal interrogation it was established without a shadow of a doubt that the plague had originated in a well close to the Jewish quarter, also known as the Call de Sanaüja, where Semitic money-lenders had conjured up a demonic plot to poison its waters. The usurers’ substantial goods were seized and what was left of their bodies was cast into a pit in the marshes. Now, all that anyone could do was hope that the prayers of honest citizens might bring God’s blessing back to Barcelona. Every day fewer people died and more people believed that the worst was over. However, as fate would have it, the former turned out to be the fortunate ones and the latter would soon envy them for having already left that vale of misery. By the time a timid voice dared to suggest that a terrible punishment might fall upon them from Heaven to purge the vile act committed against the Jewish traders In Nomine Dei, it was too late. Nothing fell from Heaven except ash and dust. Evil, for once, arrived by sea.

2

The ship was sighted at dawn. Some fishermen, mending their nets by the Sea Wall, saw it emerging out of the mist, carried in by the swell. When the prow ran aground on the shore and the hull listed to port, the fishermen clambered aboard. A powerful stench rose from the bowels of the ship: the hold was flooded and a dozen sarcophagi floated among the debris. Edmond de Luna, maker of labyrinths and sole survivor of the voyage, was found tied to the helm and burnt by the sun. At first they thought he was dead, but when they took a closer look they noticed that his wrists were still bleeding where they were tied and a cold breath issued from his lips. He carried a leather-bound notebook under his belt but none of the fishermen was able lay his hands on it because by then a group of soldiers had turned up in the port and their captain, following instructions from the Bishop’s Palace – which had been alerted of the ship’s arrival – ordered the dying man to be taken to the neighbouring Hospital de Santa Marta. The captain then posted his men around the shipwreck to guard it until representatives of the Holy Office were able to inspect the vessel and make a proper Christian appraisal of the events. Edmond de Luna’s notebook was handed over to the Grand Inquisitor Jorge de León, a brilliant and ambitious defender of the Church who trusted that his efforts to cleanse the world of sin would soon earn him the titles of Blessed, Saint and Beacon of the Christian Faith. After a brief inspection, Jorge de León concluded that the notebook had been written in a language unbeknown to Christianity and he ordered his men to go and find a printer named Raimundo de Sempere. Sempere had a modest workshop next to the Gate of Santa Ana, and because he had travelled during his youth, knew more languages than it was prudent for a good Christian to know. Under threat of torture, Sempere the printer was made to swear he would keep the secret of what was revealed to him. Only then was he allowed to inspect the notebook, in a heavily guarded room above the library of archdeacon’s house, next to the cathedral. Jorge de León watched over him avidly. ‘I think the text is written in Persian, your Holiness,’ murmured a terrified Sempere. ‘I’m not a saint yet,’ clarified the Inquisitor. ‘All in good time. Continue…’ And so it was that the printer spent the entire night reading and translating for the Grand Inquisitor the secret diary of Edmond de Luna, adventurer and bearer of a curse that was to bring the beast to Barcelona.

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Thirty years earlier, Edmond de Luna had set sail from Barcelona, bound for the East, in search of wonders and adventures. His sea voyage had taken him to forbidden islands that did not appear on navigation charts, to lie with princesses and creatures of an unmentionable nature, to learn secrets of civilizations buried by time and to initiate himself in the science and art of building labyrinths, a talent that would make him famous and provide him with employment and fortune at the service of sultans and emperors. As the years went by, the accumulation of pleasure and wealth no longer meant anything to him. He had satisfied greed and ambition beyond the dreams of any mortal, and upon reaching maturity, aware that he was fast approaching the twilight of his life, he told himself that he would never again offer his services to anyone unless it were in exchange for the greatest of rewards: forbidden knowledge. For years he refused invitations to build the most prodigious and intricate labyrinths because nothing offered in payment seemed desirable to him. He thought there could be no treasure in the world that had not already been presented to him, when news came that the Emperor of the city of Constantinople required his services, for which he was prepared to reward him with a thousand-year-old secret to which no living soul had been privy for centuries. Bored and tempted by a last opportunity to revive the flame of his soul, Edmond de Luna visited Emperor Constantine in his palace. Constantine was utterly convinced that sooner or later the siege of the Ottoman sultans would bring his empire to an end and all the knowledge that the city of Constantinople had built up over the centuries would be banished from the face of the earth. He therefore wanted Edmond to plan the greatest labyrinth ever created, a secret library, a city of books hidden beneath the catacombs of the cathedral of Hagia Sophia, where forbidden works and the prodigies of centuries of thoughts could be preserved forever. In exchange, Emperor Constantine offered Edmond no treasure, but only a flask: a small cut-glass phial containing a scarlet liquid that shone in the dark. Constantine smiled strangely as he showed Edmond the bottle. ‘I’ve waited many years to find a man worthy of this gift,’ the emperor explained. ‘In the wrong hands, this could be an instrument for evil.’ Fascinated and intrigued, Edmond examined the bottle. ‘It’s a drop of blood from the last dragon,’ murmured the emperor. ‘The secret of immortality.’

4

For months on end Edmond de Luna worked on the project for the great labyrinth of the books, making and remaking the plans, never satisfied with them. By then he had realised than that he no longer cared about the payment, for his immortality would be secured by that prodigious library and not from some legendary magic elixir. The emperor, patient but concerned, kept reminding him that the final siege of the Ottomans was drawing nigh and there was no time to waste. When, at long last, Edmond de Luna solved the mighty conundrum, it was too late: the troops of Mehmed II the Conqueror had besieged Constantinople. The end of the city and of the empire were imminent. The emperor marvelled when he received the plans, but realised that he would never be able to build the labyrinth under the city that bore his name. So he asked Edmond to try to escape the siege together with so many other artists and thinkers who were about to set out for Italy. ‘Dear friend,’ he said, ‘I know you will find the perfect place to build the labyrinth.’ In gratitude, the Emperor handed him the phial with the blood of the last dragon, but a shadow of concern clouded his face as he did so. ‘When I offered you this gift, I was appealing to your avid mind, to tempt you, dear friend. I now want you also to accept this humble amulet, which one day will appeal to the wisdom of your soul if the price of ambition is too high…’ The emperor removed a medal that hung round his neck and handed it to him. The pendant contained neither gold nor jewels, just a small stone that looked like a simple grain of sand. ‘The man who gave it to me told me it was a tear shed by Christ.’ Edmond frowned. ‘I know you’re not a man of faith, Edmond, but faith is found when one isn’t looking for it and the day will come when your heart, and not your mind, will long for the purification of the soul.’ Edmond did not wish to contradict the emperor so he hung the insignificant medal round his neck. With no more baggage than the plan for his labyrinth and the scarlet flask, he departed that very night. Constantinople and the empire would fall shortly afterwards, following a bloody siege, while Edmond traversed the Mediterranean in search of the city he had left in his youth. He sailed with a group of mercenaries who had offered him a passage taking him to be a rich merchant whose pouch they could empty once they attained the high seas. When they discovered that he carried no riches upon him they decided to throw him overboard, but Edmond persuaded them to let him stay by narrating some of his adventures in the manner of Scherezade. The trick consisted in always leaving them craving for another morsel, as a wise dweller of Damascus had once taught him. ‘They will despise you for it, but they will want you even more.’ In his spare time he began to record his experiences in a notebook and in order to keep it from the prying eyes of those pirates, he wrote in Persian, an extraordinary tongue he had learned during the years he had spent in ancient Babylon. Half way along the journey they came across a ship that was sailing adrift with no voyagers or crew. It carried large amphorae of wine which they took aboard and with which the pirates got drunk every night while listening to the stories recounted by Edmond – who was not allowed to taste a single drop of it. After a few days the crew began to fall ill and soon one after the other the mercenaries died, poisoned by the stolen wine. Edmond, the only survivor, placed them one by one in sarcophagi the pirates carried in the ship’s hold – the bounty from one of their pillages. Only when he was the last man left alive on the ship and feared he might die adrift on the high seas in the most terrible solitude, did he dare open the scarlet bottle and sniff its contents for a second. An instant sufficed for him to glimpse the chasm that threatened to take possession of him. He felt the vapour creeping up from the phial over his skin and for a moment saw his hands being covered in scales and his nails turning into claws, sharper and deadlier than the most fearsome sword. He then clutched the humble grain of sand hanging round his neck and prayed for his salvation to a Christ in whom he did not believe. The dark abyss of the soul faded away and Edmond breathed anew, seeing his hands becoming normal human hands again. He closed the bottle and cursed himself for being so naive, realising then that the emperor had not lied to him. He also knew that this was no payment or blessing of any sort. It was the key to hell.

5

When Sempere had finished translating the notebook, the first light of dawn peered through the clouds. Shortly afterwards the inquisitor, without uttering a word, left the room and two sentries came in to fetch Sempere and lead him to a cell from which he felt sure he would never emerge alive. While Sempere was being flung into the dungeon, the grand inquisitor’s men were sent to the ship’s hulk where, hidden in a metal coffer, they were to find the scarlet phial. Jorge de León was waiting for them in the cathedral. They had not managed to find the medal with the supposed tear of Christ which Edmond’s text referred to, but the inquisitor was unconcerned because he felt that his soul did not need any cleansing. With his eyes poisoned by greed, the inquisitor grabbed the scarlet bottle, raised it above the altar to bless it and, thanking God and hell for that gift, downed the contents in a single gulp. A few seconds went by and nothing happened. Then the inquisitor began to laugh. The soldiers looked at one another, disconcerted, wondering whether Jorge de León had lost his mind. For most of them this was the last thought of their lives. They saw the inquisitor fall to his knees as a gust of icy wind swept through the cathedral, dragging with it the wooden benches, knocking down statues and lighted candles. Then they heard his skin and his limbs cracking, and amid agonising howls Jorge de León’s voice was lost in the roar of the beast emerging from his flesh, rapidly growing into a bloody tangle of scales, claws and wings. A tail punctuated by sharp edges, like the blades of an axe, fanned out like a gigantic snake and when the beast turned and showed them its face lined with fangs, its eyes alight with fire, they had no courage left to turn and run. The flames surprised them as they stood there, rooted to the ground. It ripped the flesh off their bones like a hurricane tearing leaves off a tree. The beast then spread its wings and the inquisitor, Saint and dragon all in one, took flight, passing through the cathedral’s large rose-window in a storm of glass and fire, then rising over the roofs of Barcelona.

6

For seven days and seven nights the beast sowed panic, knocking down churches and palaces, setting fire to hundreds of buildings and dismembering with its claws the trembling figures it found begging for mercy under the roofs it ripped off. Every day the scarlet dragon grew, devouring all it found in its path. Torn bodies rained down from the sky and flames from the beast’s breath flowed down the streets like a torrent of blood. On the seventh day, when everyone thought the beast was about to raze the city and kill all its inhabitants, a lone figure came out to meet it. Barely recovered, Edmond de Luna limped up the staircase leading to the roof of the cathedral. There he waited for the dragon to catch sight of him. The beast emerged from black clouds of smoke and embers, flying low, close to the roofs of Barcelona. It had grown so much that it was now larger than the church from which it had sprung. Edmond de Luna could see himself reflected in those eyes that resembled huge pools of blood. Flying like a cannonball over the city, tearing off terrace roofs and towers, the beast opened its jaws to snap him up. Edmond de Luna then pulled out that miserable grain of sand hanging round his neck and pressed it in his fist. He recalled the words of Constantine and told himself that faith had at last found him and that his death was a very small price to pay to purify the black soul of the beast, which was none other than the soul of all men. Raising the fist that held the tear of Christ, Edmond closed his eyes and offered himself up. In a flash, the jaws swallowed him and the dragon rose high above the clouds. Those who remember that day say that the heavens split in two and a great brightness lit up the firmament. The beast was enveloped in the flames that poured out through its teeth and as it flapped its wings it formed a huge rose of fire that covered the entire city. Silence ensued and when they opened their eyes again, the sky was shrouded as in the darkest of nights and a gentle rain of bright ash flakes was falling from on high, covering the streets, the burned ruins and the entire city of tombs, churches and palaces with a white mantle that melted when one touched it and smelled of fire and damnation.

7

That night Raimundo de Sempere managed to escape from his cell and return to his home to discover that his family and his book-printing workshop had survived the catastrophe. At dawn, the printer approached the Sea Wall. Debris from the shipwreck that had brought Edmond de Luna to Barcelona swayed on the water. The sea had begun to break up the hull and Sempere was able to enter it, as one would enter a house with a wall removed. Walking through the bowels of the ship in the ghostly light of dawn, the printer at last found what he was looking for. Saltpetre had partly erased the outlines, but the plans for the great labyrinth of books were still intact, just as Edmund de Luna had conceived it. Sempere sat on the sand and unfolded the plans. His mind could not encompass the complexity and the arithmetic that held that marvel together, but he told himself that there would be other illustrious minds capable of understanding its secrets. Until then, until the time when other men wiser than him found the means of saving the labyrinth and recalling the price exacted by the beast, he would keep the plans in the family chest where some day, he had no doubt, it would find the maker of labyrinths worthy of such a challenge.

About the Author

Carlos Ruiz Zafón, the author of two critically acclaimed and internationally bestselling novels, The Shadow of the Wind and The Angel’s Game, is one of the world’s most read and best-loved writers. His work, which also includes prizewinning young adult novels, has been translated into more than fifty languages and published around the world, garnering numerous international prizes and reaching millions of readers. He divides his time between Barcelona and Los Angeles.

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[1] 23 April, St. George’s day (World Book Day) is celebrated in Catalonia with gifts of roses and books.

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Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Rose of Fire

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About the Author