Assassins of Kantara

by James Boschert

  Gabros halted his horse and his dark eyes stared at the two men from the palace; there was no recognition in his eyes, however; he was staring past them. His blood-bespattered face and beard were streaked with dust and sweat, his chain hauberk was in a similar condition, and his horse looked ready to drop. The singular thing about all three of the men was their wide-open stare. They looked to Malakis and Asanes to be in a state of total shock.

  “Well, where is the prisoner, or prisoners?” demanded Malakis without preamble.

  Gabros didn’t answer.

  “I asked you, where is the prisoner? Did you not hear me?” Malakis shouted irritably.

  Gabros shook his head and mumbled, “He is gone. The wizard on the hill hurled thunderbolts at us.”

  “What do you mean? Wizard? Thunderbolts? What in God’s name are you babbling about?” Malakis demanded.

  Gabros now looked directly at him; it was a very tired look and he shook his head. “Just what I said. He hurled thunderbolts at us. We three are all that are left. Now I have to go back to my house.”

  Malakis and Asanes looked at one another. “You lost the prisoner, and I hear that you also lost a ship? Is that true? Is that wizardry too?” Malakis sneered.

  “Yes, that is quite possibly true, now let me pass.”

  “I should put you in the dungeons, you mercenary pig!” Malakis snarled. “But I shall wait until the emperor comes back, and he can deal with you. I expect you will hang, so yes, you can pass, and you may dwell upon you fate until you are summoned.”

  Gabros gave him a mocking smile and touched his helmet with his hand in sardonic salute. Malakis feared Pantoleon, that much was evident. Gabros nudged his horse past the frustrated group of soldiers and their scornful but puzzled leaders and rode back to the villa. He arrived to find the remainder of his men waiting for him with a great deal of apprehension.

  “Those fools from the palace came here to find you, Master,” one of them said. “We told them you were off hunting the prisoner.” The man hesitated. Clearly Gabros did not have the prisoner with him, and more than half the men were missing. Gabros didn’t enlighten him, he just tossed the reins to him and went into the house. The first thing he did was to check that the locks on the rooms containing the treasure were still intact, then he went to the kitchens to eat and to think.

  “Send Nestos in to see me,” he called out to a servant.

  Not long after, Nestongus, whom Gabros called Nestos, arrived. Gabros, who trusted almost nobody, trusted this man implicitly. Gabros had found him in the back streets of Constantinople and had had little difficulty in persuading him to work for Pantoleon. The mercenary was slight but very wiry and gave the impression of steel cord under the dark, loose clothing he favored. His hooded eyes never stopped moving and his silent nature distinguished him from his fellow men at arms, who knew nothing of his past, other than he was Gabros’s closest man.

  He entered silently, as was his way, and Gabros, as soon as he spotted him, waved him over. Gabros grabbed a chicken leg and led the way outside and up the steps until they were quite alone on the walls of the villa, where no one could hear what they were saying.

  “I still don’t understand what happened on that mountain,” Nestongus said, still dazed despite his rigid self control.

  Gnawing on the roasted chicken leg and watching the people below, Gabros said, “I want to talk about something else, not that.”

  Nestongus nodded and waited.

  Gabros had done some serious thinking while they had walked their horses along the streets of Famagusta between the gates and the villa. The very last thing he needed was for the emperor to be told lies by that toad Malakis.

  “You’ve seen the palace, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s a rambling dump, built like a flour sieve.” This was what Gabros wanted to hear; he nodded and tossed the chicken leg over the wall and watched dispassionately as a beggar scrambled for the bone.

  “So now you’ve also seen this man Malakis,” he said, still chewing and looking off into the distance.

  Nestos nodded. “When?” he asked simply.

  “Give it a day or so, but it’s got to be before the emperor comes back. This is strictly between you and me. I shall reward you, have no fear.”

  Nestos nodded. “Let me know when it’s time,” he said.

  Malakis stormed back into the palace, seething with frustration. He had desperately wanted to arrest that arrogant pig from Constantinople, but something had held him back. He was now so unsure of his own position with the fickle emperor that for once he considered the consequences of his possible actions. If Exazenos had managed to worm his way into the emperor’s confidence, then he, Malakis, might be making a mistake by going after his men. He needed to prepare for his encounter with the upstart from Constantinople.

  In the meantime, he was going to take care of something else. It was essential that he weaken the power base of the concubine Tamura, and he knew just how to do so.

  Asanes was angry and frustrated with his chief. “Why did you not arrest that dog’s turd when you had the opportunity?” he demanded, using the insult that had rankled.

  “Because, you imbecile, there are things going on that you don’t understand!” Malakis snapped.

  “I would have arrested him and put him in the dungeons, and then I would have tortured him, and then I would have torn his arms and legs off one by one, and then—”

  “Shut the hell up, you dense pile of shit!” Malakis screamed. In the brief silence that followed he said more calmly, “Go and fetch the slave of that slut, Tamura. I want to talk to him.”

  Asanes looked baleful, but he went. He came back with two men holding a very frightened Siranus. They tossed him at the feet of Malakis, who had ordered a meal and was enjoying roast quail and river trout that would normally have been served only to the emperor. Replete, he belched comfortably and picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail while he looked down at the kneeling slave, who whimpered with fear.

  “I hate it when a man pisses himself with fright, but oh yes, I forgot! You are not a man, are you?” Malakis remarked nastily to the frightened boy.

  “N... No, Lord,” he cried.

  “It has come to my attention that you and your mistress are humping?” Malakis said in a kindly tone.

  Siranus jerked upright and stared up at him in stupefied surprise. “My Lord, No! No. Never. I mean, how could I?”

  “You probably use a splint to keep it up,” Asanes guffawed.

  Siranus shook his head with a hopeless, scared look on his face and then began to cry.

  Asanes slapped him across his face, knocking the young man onto his back, where he continued to weep. He wiped at the blood on his mouth and gasped, “My Lord, who would accuse my Lady of this? It is not true!” he rolled over onto his knees and crawled up to Malakis, weeping copiously. “My Lord, these are lies! I am... I am not able to do anything, so it is not possible!” He was clutching at Malakis’s ankles.

  Malakis shoved him out of the way with his foot. “I shall spare you now, but when the emperor comes back there will be charges leveled, and he will deal with you and that slut, your mistress. Be warned,” he said with some satisfaction.

  “Get this insect out of my sight,” he told Asanes, who hauled the boy up by one arm and tossed him over to the two guards, who allowed the boy to crash to the stone floor where he lay sobbing with fear. They dragged his limp form away.

  Siranus was dropped off at the bottom of the stairs that led to the women’s quarters, where he lay for a while catching his breath, quite ignoring the two sentries who looked down their noses at him. Finally he crawled to his knees and painfully climbed to his feet, after which he staggered up the stairs to face the curious people moving about in the corridor.

  He was not so battered that he could not see who was glad of his condition and made a mental note that the Lady Gabriella looked smug. Others rushed to help him, and one kindly old eunuch dabbed inef
fectually at the cut on his upper lip where Asanes had hit him. Eventually he felt able to go and see his mistress, who exclaimed in horror and anger at the sight of him.

  “Who did this to you?” she demanded between her teeth, her eyes wide with anger and concern.

  “It was Malakis, my Lady,” Siranus mumbled. His mouth hurt when he spoke.

  “Oh, you poor thing!” she exclaimed. “What did he want?”

  “He has been told that we are, we are, um, er... ” Siranus couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  “Who told him that?”

  “That woman Gabriella told him, I am sure of it. She and that slimy snake, Farragiu.”

  Lady Gabriella was an attractive but slightly stocky brunette with gray eyes from Macedonia. Isaac had quickly tired of her, so now she was bored, jealous of Tamura, and working mischief.

  “Do you think he’s puddling her?” she asked him bluntly, her eyes narrowed. “Farragiu, I mean.”

  He nodded, mute. Everyone was being looked after by their eunuchs in this palace.

  She clenched her fists with rage as she watched him tear up again. She was quite jealous of his ability to weep at the drop of a word. “You should not be afraid, Siranus. You must pull yourself together, and get a message to that shadowy friend of yours; this is vital. I shall deal with that woman, but your friend must help us or we are finished. Malakis must have an accident.”

  He nodded tearfully. He knew that if the slightest hint of impropriety came to the ears of the emperor they were doomed. They would disappear, and Isaac would go back to humping twelve-year-olds. His stomach heaved and he ran off to vomit into a corner. Fortunately this went unnoticed, for Diocles had laid on some entertainment for the women and children of the emperor’s harem. He could hear the sound of music and shouts as the performers went through their acts.

  Later, when Tamura had helped him calm down and behave more rationally, he left the palace and disappeared into the streets of the city. He had become skilled at the art of eluding his followers, and surely he was followed, but he left them behind easily enough, for this was his world.

  He talked to one of Dimitri’s beggars, who had him sit in the darkness of a hovel of a tavern while he went to fetch Dimitri. The stocky ex-sailor’s instincts for trouble were on full alert as he arrived. The day had, after all, been a busy one. Siranus, crouched in a corner, was alone and almost invisible when he entered.

  “What is it you want to talk to me about?” Dimitri asked without ceremony, after a careful look around. Some of Talon’s coin had ensured he was left strictly alone whenever he came here. The once attractive woman who ran the place, with its not so good wine and whores, respected his needs and directed her people to leave him alone unless he summoned them. She also kept watch for any unwelcome visitors. She had offered her other wares, but it was too early for that just yet. She was well-paid to protect his privacy.

  “We are in serious danger. Someone has denounced my Lady and myself. The man Malakis is threatening to tell the emperor. That would spell certain death for her and for me,” Siranus whispered.

  Dimitri sat back and stared at Siranus, who looked as though he had been beaten. This sounded bad. “What do you mean, he denounced you?”

  “They have told Malakis that we are, um, humping.”

  “But... aren’t you, er... ?” Dimitri waggled his fingers uncertainly in the general direction of Siranus’s crotch.

  “Yes, but... well, I can still get it up, and then well... she likes it.”

  Dimitri shook his head in disbelief. How insane could this be? This woman had everything that a lady could desire, but she was still fucking her slave who didn’t have any balls! He was having difficulty understanding this. What is the matter with these people? he thought, rubbing his balding head furiously.

  “What else does she say?” he finally asked.

  “That she will meet anyone and tell them about what is going on at the palace: there is a man called Exazenos who is getting close to the emperor.”

  Dimitri’s ears pricked up. “Where is this Exazenos now?” he asked, knowing full well that he was with the emperor and would probably return within a week. Isaac, as usual, was leaving a swathe of misery behind him, which had been reported by Boethius in Paphos to Talon, who passed along the news. Boethius was safe at least, and Henry had left just in time on his ship.

  “He is with the emperor, who told my lady that he took Exazenos to keep an eye on him. The emperor doesn’t trust that man at all. But I am sure that Malakis is preparing a case against my mistress to present it to the emperor when he comes back. He is a vindictive man. You have to understand me, even a hint of scandal will be enough to convict us. The emperor is half mad and insanely jealous. He will torture us, kill us, and then... forget us! There is very little time left.” Siranus almost wailed. His huge brown eyes welled and tears began to slide down his cheeks.

  Dimitri glanced nervously around the gloomy room. No one seemed to have noticed; most were already too drunk or more interested in the prostitutes to notice two men having an agitated conversation in the corner.

  “All right, all right, calm down. Getting excited won’t help. We have a little time, so go back to your mistress and tell her to meet me at the cathedral two days from now. I shall listen and see what I can do for her.”

  Siranus was less than reassured by this, but it was all Dimitri was prepared to give until he had heard from Talon. Siranus returned to the palace and slipped inside, then found his way to the chambers of his lady.

  “So they will meet with me?” she asked him.

  “Two days from now you are to be there, veiled and in the back near to the columns on the left of the entrance, my lady.”

  “Good, then I now have a social visit to make,” she told him, and left the chambers to walk along the darkening corridors which she knew well, to another chamber which she entered quietly. This was the bed chamber of Lady Gabriella, who was currently being entertained by the antics of the jugglers ordered in by Diocles to entertain the bored women.

  Later that night, the Lady Gabriella arrived with her eunuch, Farragiu, tipsy and belligerent. “Those performers were terrible!” she exclaimed with a petulant moue as she threw herself on the bed. “The hostages can dance better. Bring me wine,” she ordered him. He obliged happily, handing her a silver cupful poured from the decorated jug on the table by the shutters. She sat up to drink and then crooked her finger at him. “Get over here. I want some real enjoyment,” she purred.

  Farragiu smirked and, having put the jug down, prepared to oblige his lady. To his horror, he saw she was clutching at her stomach and then her throat. She fell back on the bed and made mewling sounds as streams of saliva dribbled out of her mouth. The silver goblet lay on its side and the wine was soaking into the bedclothes. He rushed to her side and leaned over her shaking form, trying to help, but he knew with awful certainty that it was too late.

  She was grunting now with a look of stark terror on her face, writhing with agony as the poison took effect and began to destroy her liver. It seemed to Farragiu as he held her that her death lasted for hours, but it was only for three long minutes. One last frantic gurgle and she was dead. He fell over her body weeping; he had loved his demanding and petulant mistress.

  Yesterday this day’s Madness did prepare,

  Tomorrow’s Silence, Triumph or Despair:

  Drink! For know you not whence you came nor why:

  Drink! For you know not why you go nor where.

  —Omar Khayam

  Chapter 31

  Murder in a Palace.

  Talon and Reza were standing on the eastern track that led up to the castle gates with some of their trainees. The boys, including Rostam, were practicing with their bows; a full sixty paces away were two stuffed shapes of men on sticks with black rings drawn crudely on the area where the chest would be. Maymun and Junayd were vying with each other to see who could out perform the other. Neither could best Talon or Reza, but
it was not from lack of trying.

  Rostam was struggling to keep up with the other boys, but was doing well. He had learned that when Reza and Talon instructed, they also talked about interesting things, and his ears were wide open as he tried to hear what they were saying. The walls above were lined with a few interested idlers, and of course the sentries.

  It was Junayd’s turn to shoot. Pretending to ignore him, the two men focussed on recent events and some that were anticipated.

  “So there is trouble brewing in the palace now,” Reza remarked, scratching his cheek thoughtfully.

  “So Dimitri says. I need to go down there and see what can be done. You certainly cannot go,” he smiled at his crestfallen brother. “You know perfectly well why, but under any other circumstances you would come with me.”

  “You mean to deal with this Malakis?” Reza asked, sounding mollified. “Junayd, that was terrible.” Reza rounded on the luckless would-be assassin. “What are you doing? You are supposed to kill the target, not scare it to death!” Reza told the embarrassed boy, who almost cringed with shame.

  “I’m sorry, Master. I’ll do better.” It was a harsh judgement because the arrow had landed well, within a half-hand of the center.

  “Rostam, see if you can do better,” Reza sighed, turning away from the crestfallen Junayd.

  “Ignore everything and everyone and focus all your attention on the target, like staring down a tunnel,” Talon said by way of encouragement. They watched as the boy concentrated all his attention on the process, and off-winged an arrow to land high on the chest of his target.

  “That’s better,” Reza said grudgingly. “See if you can match that, Junayd!” he said over his shoulder and turned back to the discussion with Talon.

  His students, including Rostam, knew what a perfectionist Reza was, so they gave all they had to the task at hand. Soon there was a dense groups of arrows clustered around the center markings.