Lord of Slaughter

by M. D. Lachlan

  Loys had a chariot race of anxieties going on in his head. He had enemies, that much was obvious, and within the ranks of the palace bureaucrats too but he had merely been threatened as yet. And he had a protector. He thought of the chamberlain with his thin sleepy face, those eyes which seemed only half awake but missed nothing. He would not believe in chance if Loys was found dead in an alley.

  Loys was inclined to begin his investigation by studying the demons, through the works of the learned men who had categorised and named them. He had always been taught to move from first principles, so he turned to astrology to begin with. Proclus said there were sympathies and antipathies in nature. Men’s destinies were connected to those of the constellations, to those of plants and animals, even tides. Astrology was Loys’ particular expertise, though he found it more useful for describing tempers and dispositions than he did for actually predicting the future. Still, he would need to consider all influences on the emperor before he could advise on how those influences might be dealt with. Books of ancient wisdom – the works of the Greeks, the Arabs and the Persians – were scattered about him.

  He consulted his charts. The moon, Mars and Mercury were in conjunction. He took up a Latin translation of Haephestio of Thebes. ‘A conjunction between the moon, Mars and Mercury will produce men who are steeped in magic, knowers of secret things.’ He gave a dry laugh. He wished he knew where to find one of those now. He considered the planets: mother moon, Mars the warrior and Mercury the messenger and carrier of dreams. The Vikings! There were enough of those in Normandy – savage cousins of the local Norman nobility getting off their boats wet behind the ears, comically dressed but no less violent for it. They worshipped a form of Mercury – Odin – a mad god according to them. Mercury was coming to the ascendant. As were the northerners outside the walls. Mercury was the planet that ruled magic.

  So what correspondence had afflicted the emperor? Loys used Basileios’ birth information to cast his horoscope, consulting the books for the position of the stars. It took him nearly all evening and revealed nothing. The emperor was blessed, according to the planets. Then Loys examined the last five years, to judge the particular influences and pulls of the stars there. Nothing. Fluctuations, difficulties but no grave disasters were apparent.

  He began to read another book – Ancient Blasphemies – a record of the beliefs that had been discovered during local purges. He browsed through, turning up nothing in particular until he reached a certain page. Hecate, the goddess of the Constantinople. Was it possible she was a demon and God had struck at the city for worshipping her? He read on – goddess of crossroads, of the dead, of walls and borders, of the borders between the living and the dead – she was associated with dogs and with poison and poetry. As if by command two of the palace dogs set off barking, making Loys jump. She was worshipped at the end of each month, when the people sacrificed black lambs at crossroads and at holy sites.

  So much information, so little use.

  By the time Beatrice came back from visiting the women of the lower court, parchment lay all over the room and she asked him if she could tidy it up. He let her, then he held her hand as she stood behind him to look at his work.

  ‘Is the sky still dark?’

  ‘Still dark,’ she said.

  ‘What do the ladies say about it?’

  ‘It’s an ill omen, what else could they say? First the comet, now this.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Our fortunes have improved since its appearance. But God is angry with the earth, it must be so. Lady Styliane says so. The comet is a sign of that, according to the wisdom of the Arabs.’

  ‘Who is Lady Styliane?’

  ‘A lady of the court. The chamberlain’s sister, no less.’

  Loys concealed his fear. ‘And she is wise in astrology?’

  ‘Her late husband took an interest,’ she said.

  Loys smiled. ‘I hope you haven’t been consorting with witches, Beatrice.’

  ‘She is no witch. Astrology is the study of nature, don’t you always tell me?’

  ‘Yes. In the hands of learned men. Not bored and credulous ladies. There it can slide into sorcery.’

  ‘Lady Styliane is neither bored nor credulous. She is an amusing woman. You should meet her. Or perhaps not. She’s very beautiful and I would not wish her to meet you when dark stars are governing our fate.’

  She kissed him.

  He thought of the comet and shivered. That had heralded nothing good for sure – the disappearance of the sun and the birth of a lasting darkness. But that was not the cause of the emperor’s malaise. The darkness had happened only recently, and the emperor suffered from a long-standing condition.

  Beatrice went to bed and he continued his studies through three candles. His head ached with the mental effort. Perhaps if he addressed the influence of the comet, then he would see something?

  He consulted his books and worked his chart, tracing the comet’s path across the sky as best he recalled it. Abu Mash’r – an Arab mathematician – was very helpful here, and Loys calculated his angles and drew his charts according to the wise man’s prescription. He cast the seven hermetic lots, his pen marking the lines against the ruler in quick and fevered swipes. In the lot of fortune he saw minor problems, in the lot of spirit some difficulties. Nothing pointed to an illness striking at Basileios.

  Beatrice stirred in her sleep. For a second he longed to join her but he had gone beyond tiredness in his desperation for an answer. So work backwards. When he did, he found nothing again.

  Beatrice woke him at his desk the next morning, a pool of wax from the candles at his elbow.

  ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, not wishing to alarm her.

  There was a knock at the door and the eunuch servant entered.

  ‘Hello,’ Loys said.

  Beatrice put her hand to his head. ‘You’re very nice, Loys, but this is a court. If you behave like that no one will respect you.’ He had forgotten it was bad form to greet slaves.

  ‘I have a message, sir,’ said the eunuch.

  Loys glanced at Beatrice.

  ‘You can reply to that.’ She laughed and stroked his hair.

  ‘What is it?’ said Loys with exaggerated formality.

  ‘The Lady Styliane would see the Lady Beatrice in her rooms at noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve made a friend,’ said Loys.

  ‘It is a formal occasion for the lady’s particular friends,’ said the servant.

  Beatrice glanced at Loys. ‘Do you think I should go?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘It could be a worthwhile association for us.’

  Loys smiled. Beatrice had been brought up at a court and it was as natural for her to think that way as it was for Loys to overlook it. His wife would prove a big asset to his career – were he not mired in this magic business. She understood instinctively how things worked. He was wary of great people; she was drawn to them.

  ‘The invitation extends to you too, sir,’ said the eunuch.

  Loys and Beatrice exchanged a glance.

  ‘Me?’

  The eunuch lowered his eyes in assent.

  ‘What could she want with me? Is it normal for the ladies of the court to take their men with them?’ he said.

  Beatrice coloured slightly. ‘I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I mentioned your task to her.’

  Loys swallowed, trying to think before speaking. Panic rose in him and anger too – for the danger in which Beatrice had placed them both.

  ‘I said nothing about the emperor,’ said Beatrice, ‘just that you were researching magic on the chamberlain’s behalf.’

  Loys brought his hands together as if readying himself to pray. He saw what had happened. Beatrice had come to trust this woman and had made a casual remark that had rebounded to haunt her. He couldn’t blame his wife. He had put her in danger by telling her anything at all. Were they in danger from
Styliane? Who knew? But he had seen already the court had its sectional interests and was certain he was about to encounter another.

  ‘Well,’ he said, glancing back at the useless results of his night’s scribbling, ‘let’s see what she has to say. She may be able to help.’

  And at least he could mention the soothsayers to her to see if any sort of protection could be offered to them.

  He squeezed Beatrice’s hand and gave her his best smile.

  13 Help for the Hunters

  Mauger and Azémar walked through the umber light beneath the great dome of Hagia Sophia. Its windows were bright despite the dim day outside. Shining archways ringed the base of the dome, and the scholar imagined for a second they were the windows of heaven, with God and the saints gazing down at him.

  It was an incredible building, raised to the glory of God – whose commandments Azémar was obliged to break. He imagined his soul standing where he was standing, surrounded by those windows, with God on his throne on the final day, judging him for helping Mauger to murder his friend.

  ‘The scholars come here?’ said Mauger.

  ‘I think this is the best place to start,’ said Azémar. ‘It’s the church of Holy Wisdom. Where better to search for a scholar?’

  ‘You know about these things,’ said Mauger, ‘so I will trust you.’

  Azémar eyed the long roll of thick cloth the knight wore on his back. It was his bedding but also contained his sword.

  ‘You don’t intend to chop off his head here on the cathedral flagstones?’

  ‘If you see him, identify him and leave the rest to me.’

  ‘You’ll need to follow him to find the lady.’

  Mauger gave Azémar a look that suggested he’d thought of that already.

  Azémar shivered. The sky had frightened him, the sun reducing to a pale yellow disc like a dog’s eye and then vanishing entirely. A half-hearted snow fell and the cobbled streets were slick and slippy, the unpaved ones muddy and filthy. The rich kept inside while the poor wailed and prayed, huddled beneath the porticoes or crammed into the churches.

  The only good thing to come of it was that Loys was likely to stay indoors. The cathedral contained its share of the poor now and their voices echoed to the ceiling. One voice sang above the rabble, sounding a kontakion loud and clear: ‘Though thou didst descend into the grave, O Immortal One, yet didst thou destroy the power of Hades.’

  Azémar crossed himself.

  ‘Ask.’ Mauger touched Azémar on the elbow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ask one of those scholars.’ A group of monks stood whispering by a pillar

  Azémar swallowed. At least Mauger couldn’t speak Greek. He would never know what had been asked.

  Azémar approached them.

  ‘Hello, dear friends in Christ. Foul weather we’re having, isn’t it?’

  The monks ceased their conversation.

  ‘You are a foreigner,’ said one, a tall man with thin lips and nose like a big crab apple.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can tell us where this weather has come from. Did you bring it with you?’

  ‘No. That is … no. We don’t have its like in my lands.’

  ‘And where are your lands?’

  ‘Normandy, near Francia.’

  ‘I hear that it is overrun by barbarians.’

  ‘There are many fierce northern men there, it is true, and our dukes—’

  One of the monks held up his hand to interrupt him. ‘Then why don’t you go back to your fierce northern men and your dukes and take your weather with you?’

  Azémar smiled. This response gladdened him and he hoped he would meet its like every time he asked anyone anything. The harder it was to find Loys the happier he would be.

  He walked back to Mauger.

  ‘Well, I hope you saw that.’

  ‘What did you ask them?’

  ‘Just as you asked, Lord Mauger. For the whereabouts of our scholar Loys.’

  ‘I am not a fool, Azémar.’

  ‘Nor do I take you for one, but you note the response I got.’

  Mauger stood close to Azémar. ‘I can find him without you. With you it will be easier by far, but I have money enough to hire a translator who will do my work honestly. Let me be clear, Azémar. If I do not have an idea where this scholar is staying by the end of the week then I’ll kill you and go on alone. You choose.’

  Azémar felt the blood drain from his face. ‘I treat you honestly and fairly, Mauger; you do the same to me.’

  ‘So I shall. But I want to see you working hard for me.’

  Azémar held up his hands. ‘You shall see it, you shall see it!’ he said.

  For the next hour he busied himself in the cathedral, approaching people and asking them questions about everything but where Loys was staying. He tried to think of a way out of his predicament but he’d been trying that since Rouen and hadn’t come up with one yet. Eventually the subdued light of the church and the mingled odours of the poor sheltering from the weather, the incense and the reed lights began to make his head spin and he headed outside. Mauger followed five paces behind.

  Even the beggars had deserted the area outside the great church and the ground was wet under the sleet. Sitting by the wall on a huge black wolfskin was a boy – or not quite a boy, a youth – huddled in a rich blue cloak trimmed with gold. He was talking, and as Azémar breathed in the fresh air he found himself listening. The boy spoke in Norse, a language Azémar knew well. His grandfather had been a Norseman and his parents had used the language at home.

  ‘In the time of the famed King Ingvar lived a slave who was a precious jewel to her masters. For this slave was mute, which is a rare gift to a master, and she had lived a long, long time – longer than anyone else, and yet she had never grown old. In this way she was like an heirloom to be passed from generation to generation. Now know that she came to travel east with the princess daughter of her master to be married to a Wendish king. All was easy in the travelling but, on arriving at a certain port, a rich traveller claimed the slave for his own, saying he had bought her many years before. But the princess would not give up the slave and took her east.

  ‘Coming to a certain river, they travelled down it, but a fever struck among the crew until none but the princess and the slave was alive. Fearing for her life, the princess asked what might be done. The slave, throwing off her silence, replied that there was nothing to be done and her master was coming for her.

  ‘Then the princess died and the fever stepped out of her and became a man, the rich traveller who had—’

  ‘A good enough tale, boy.’ Mauger cast a coin in his direction.

  ‘Thank you for your compliment but not your coin,’ said the boy. ‘I am seeking things other than alms.’

  ‘I apologise for not seeing that you are richly dressed. What do you seek?’ Azémar noticed that Mauger spoke formally to the boy, giving him respect.

  The boy stood up. ‘The blessing of the gods. A man told me if I recited this story here then fortune would come to me.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘I haven’t finished the tale yet,’ said the boy.

  ‘You know this city?’ said Mauger.

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘You speak Greek?’

  ‘Many languages.’

  ‘Then great fortune may have attended you. I want to keep my scholar friend here honest. I’d like your help.’

  The boy glanced Mauger up and down. ‘To what purpose?’

  Mauger seemed to think for a second. ‘I need to find someone.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  Again Mauger took his time. ‘Revenge on an enemy.’

  ‘Should not a monk pray to find forgiveness in his heart?’

  Mauger said nothing, but the boy caught the meaning in his silence.

  ‘Since I have no better employment for the moment, I will help you.’ He stood and bowed to Mauger and Azémar.

  ‘You�
��ll be paid well,’ said Mauger.

  ‘I seek no pay,’ said the boy. ‘I am a warrior and a killer. To share the joy of your revenge will be enough.’

  ‘You speak like a warrior because our Norse tongue is the tongue of warriors,’ said Mauger. ‘I am Mauger and this Azémar.’

  ‘I am Snake in the Eye,’ said the boy. ‘Now, how shall we find your enemy?’

  14 The Lower Caves

  When Elifr sensed water he thought it might be safe to light the torch. He got out the tinder and flint and set to work.

  His eyes adjusted to the light. He had come to a narrow shelf of rock at the side of a cave of black water – the ceiling supported by elegant pillars. He had no idea what this place was – that the Greeks used it to supply water to the palaces. Nor did he know the connection to the tunnels of the Numera had come about as the result of a rockfall, and since it was said the water spirits had been seeking a way to the surface, the hole that had opened had not been closed. His dream-sharpened senses told him this way led down.

  The route to this cave was not easily found or reached – just a split in the ceiling of the cavern. But Elifr, his wolf senses sharpened by hunger, sensed the deep water that lay beyond. Elifr had earned many meals in the mountains by taking birds’ eggs from perilous ledges and he climbed the rough wall to squeeze his way through.

  Could the prisoners get out this way? Which of them could get free of his manacles? Even if they did, the dark itself was as effective as any irons.

  Elifr peered out into the flooded cavern. He gave a start – there were faces staring up at him from the torchlit water. He calmed himself. They were not real. At the base of two of the pillars were the carved heads of snake-haired women, gazing blankly up. He tried to see further out, the swimming torchlight making a ghost of his reflection.