The Vault of bones bp-2

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  Anna's good eye stared into my own, unblinking. Down her cheek, livid and incongruous as a poached egg, hung her other eye. With the unbearable clarity that sometimes comes in dreams I saw every detail of her face, as if through a reading stone: every pore, every tiny hair on her upper lip, the pock-mark that lay in the curve of her nostril, the smile lines at the corners of her mouth. And always the awful, the intolerable presence of the eye, as dead as this creature of flame, this fetch of my dearest Anna, was surely alive. As I stared – for now I could not have torn my gaze away even had I tried – I saw her hands rise from the embers. They seemed to reach for me, and although they did not leave the nimbus of flame I seemed to feel them grasp my own wrists, although their touch was cool, and to see my hands – for now I was, or seemed to be, both standing on the earth and also within that world of fire – as she guided them to her face. She pressed my palms to her cheek and my left hand felt the yielding orb of the dangling eye. I tried to scream, but I felt her fingers pressing mine, drawing them upward. So we stood, half in this world, half in another, for how long I cannot tell, for there was nothing in my head but the soft whisper of the flames and the almost-warmth of the flesh that held my own. Then I felt her grasp loosen, and what I thought had been my hands fell from view. I felt them, back in this world, hanging at my sides, but only dimly, for Anna had lowered her own hands to show her face once more, and now two brown eyes, almond-shaped and perfect, regarded me. She blinked once, and smiled, and I saw the gap between her front teeth for the last time, for she was dissolving, pure as a blessing, into the shimmer of flame.

  Chapter Nine

  I awoke from a black and dreamless sleep that had brought true rest for the first time in many weeks. The day was gone, and the shadows were gathering outside my window. As soon as I beheld the cobwebbed beams of my room I sat upright with a gasp of shock, for my last clear memory was of standing in the Coliseum at night, while someone lit a fire. Then, as with shaking hands I found a flask of water and drained it, I remembered that Michael Scot had called on me and led me through the streets to that terrible place, and what he had caused to appear. But the apparition he had conjured, for I knew now that I had witnessed some manner of necromancy, was not altogether clear in my mind, and after it everything faded into the haze of a dream. I recalled, with the effort with which one pieces together the events of a night when one has drunk oneself near-insensible, that Michael had led me back through the pitch-dark tunnel and out into the city where our mules and escort awaited, and that I had ridden in silence back to my lodgings, where I had allowed myself to be laid in bed. I thought perhaps that Michael Scot had sat at my bedside for a time before I had fallen asleep, but nothing was clear. But it was not, I found, a worry to me that I had all but lost the events of the night, for then, as indeed now, when I try to summon their memory, what had seemed ominous and then frightening had shed its fearfulness. Michael seemed a wise friend, our excursion a great adventure. And what I had seen in the flames – whom, rather – had not been a spirit or demon. Strange as it may seem, it was clear then, as it is even now, that a window was opened for me, and I was given the great gift of being able to look beyond this world, and in doing so to be healed of a dolorous wound. And when I try to discern the taint of magic or the hand of Satan I cannot, for it left me feeling as clean and whole as a bathe in a Dartmoor brook, and I knew with utter certainty that Anna was gone from me as a wounded ghost, but had returned, whole once more, to my heart.

  I wandered over to the window. Evening was turning the shadows blue outside, and the air was cool, although the stone of the windowsill still held the sun's warmth. I looked down into the street. People ambled and scuttled, lounged and slumped. I took a deep breath and stretched, and found to my surprise that I was better. Where there had been searing pain there was only a dull ache upon my spirit, and the tight, fickle rawness of a new-healed scar. And there was the prospect of a journey ahead. It was time to leave this city, at least for a while. The landlady knocked on the door to tell me that the parties I had been waiting for had returned to the White Hound. That news put the final touch to my spirits. I called for some fresh water, and the landlady fetched it, beaming at my recovery, as if I had shaken off some mortal illness, and took my sweat-fouled clothes away to wash. I sluiced the staleness from my body, dressed in clean clothes and went out to find some supper. As I was opening the street door, the landlady startled me when she all but leaped from her own doorway.

  I entirely forgot!' she exclaimed. ‘Your friend the Frenchman left this for you.' From the upland of her bosom she produced a fat letter. 'Oh, and some money; rather a lot… it is all there!' she added hastily.

  ‘I am sure it is’ I told her, and waited for her to retreat into her chambers before I hefted the little purse. It was stuffed full of coin, which proved to be all of gold, and I doubted she had robbed me of very much. I was tucking the letter into my wallet when I felt the crackle of something already there. I pulled it out: a piece of parchment, quite old and mellowing into the colour of autumn oak leaves. Curious, I unfolded it. It was nothing but a few lines of Greek, a crabbed, hurried scrawl. I frowned at it for a full minute before the words began to come into focus. As they did so I gasped, for what I read there was this: The Mandylion of Edessa The Keramion The Crown of Thorns The Swaddling Bands Sandals of Our Lord The Cross of Basileus Constantine A portion of the Cross Another part of the True Cross The miraculous Reed The Spear of Longinus A Chain, that bound Our Lord The Sponge, from which he drank A Stone, that came from the holy Sepulchre The Shrouds Holy Cloth in a sacred icon The Grave-Clothes of Our Lord The Syndon of Christ The miraculous Tunic of Our Lord A Towel from the washing of the Apostles' feet Blood of Our Lord Milk of the Theotokos Maphorion of the Theotokos Saint Bias, his head Saint Clement, his head Saint Simeon, his head The Baptist, his arm, and also a portion of his head Moses, his Staff Baffled, I stared at the paper. I seemed to be holding a copy of the Inventarium of the Pharos Chapel, but it was not Baldwin's, not the one given to us by Pope Gregory. This had not come from Gilles, and it certainly had not come from the landlady. I remembered Michael Scotus standing over me as I fell off the high cliff of sleep: of course. It must have been Michael, but why should he give me such a gift?

  I studied the list again. Some words I understood: Theotokos was the Virgin, the Syndon was, I guessed, something like the Sudarium, the cloth placed over the face of the dead Christ, that I remembered from the Gospel of St John, and that was on Baldwins inventory. But what of Keramion? What was this Mandylion? Like a sleepwalker I stepped out into the cool Roman night. I found food and walked for a while through the noisy crowds, my mind on the baffling list, and on the journey ahead. When I returned to my lodgings I stayed up, the map spread out on the bed, until the bells of the city chimed out the third hour of the night. I counted the Captain's money – there was a, princely amount of it, as the landlady had guessed. I thought to read his letter, but as I was about to, sleep began to creep over me at last. At last I laid my head upon the pillow, but my dreams were shallow and fretted with disturbing visitors: horse-teeth, the gibbets of the Tor di Nona, and the smoke from a greasy, raging fire, which grew until it overhung Rome like a storm cloud.

  Chapter Ten

  When I rose the next day I was as fresh as an adder who has left his old skin lying upon a rock. I would be leaving tomorrow, I thought, for my clothes were still being washed; so I had better deliver the pope's letter to the cursed, annoying Baldwin de Courtenay.

  This time there were no guards at the door of the White Hound. Without the angry presence of my lords of Grez and Bussac, the place seemed defiantly ordinary, and I wondered how a man who called himself an emperor could bring himself to accept such lodgings. The serving-maid whom I recognised from my last visit blushed in a comely way when she saw me, but a fat older woman who I took to be the mistress of the inn shoved her aside, looked me up and down and waved her hand impatiently towards the stairs.

  'They're
up there,' she said shortly. I assumed she recognised me, for I was wearing my outlandish Venetian clothes again, so I said nothing; yet I wondered again at the grim circumstances that had befallen the young emperor. I climbed the stairs and, when I reached the landing, pulled out the pope's letter, the better to make a grand entrance – for I winced at the thought of fumbling in my satchel while Baldwin and his two gladiators smirked. So I stood before the emperor's closed door, arranging the letter in my hand so that the bulla hung majestically – or so I hoped – over my forearm, before giving the door a sharp, efficient rap.

  The wood sounded hollow, and I realised that the door was unlatched. It opened slightly. To my surprise, I heard no one within: no answer to my knock, no summons to enter. Feeling like a jackanapes, I hesitated. Then I thought to myself how odd it was that the Emperor of Romania should leave his door unlocked. Perhaps, I reasoned, it was deliberate. Christ, now I suddenly wished to get this business over with straight away.

  ‘Your Majesty’ I said, very loudly, banging on the door again, hard enough to swing it a good way open, as I had intended. A somewhat unseemly accident it would seem, but at least I would have announced myself.

  But as soon as I crossed the threshold I saw that something was amiss. The chambers were empty: no, not empty, for the plain furniture was still there, but the shield with the black lion was gone, along with the tapestries. There was no chest against the wall. I blinked in the sunlight that was streaming in through unshuttered windows, and cocked my head. A sound was coming from the room where Baldwin had slept: a hissing, harsh and regular. In the confusion that still filled my brain-pan I could not place it at first, but it was not threatening, and I walked softly to the doorway and peered in.

  A blonde-haired chambermaid, her long braids dragging in the rushes, was down on her knees, scrubbing the floor tiles under the window. She had already filled a sack with rushes, I saw, and now she was bent to her task, holding the brush with both hands as she scoured the tiles, here dark and stained, there clean and red-orange. But her hands were not the hands of a servant, red and swollen with water and lye: no, they were pale and long-fingered, and the nails were long and shapely. As I noticed this odd fact she looked up and saw me staring at her.

  She had a long nose, not quite straight but with a delicate inward curve. Pale eyebrows were arched in surprise above wide, narrow eyes, forget-me-not blue. Her mouth was wide also, although drawn back with the effort of scrubbing, and she had a pouting upper lip. Her skin was almost milk-white and her hair was as yellow as new butter. It was a strange face, lean arid yet fleshy and sensual, almost animal. I felt myself blushing. Then I recognised her: the woman from the market, who had been knocked down by her brutish man. Without taking her eyes from mine, the woman raised one long finger and flicked distractedly at a bead of sweat that was running down her temple. There was a pimple just breaking out beside her nose. Slowly she straightened up, until she was squatting on her haunches. Her feet were bare. Unaccountably I felt my loins tighten.

  She was not dressed as a servant either: her tunic was of fine silvery linen that shimmered faintly in the light, like cobwebs in a pasture at dawn. As I realised this, there was a rustle of reed-stems to my left, behind the bed. I tore my eyes from the woman on the floor. A man was standing in the shadows behind a great beam of light that angled in through the windows, fogged with a confusion of freshly disturbed dust motes. I could not see his face, but I saw he was of medium height and stocky build, with the wide shoulders of someone used to heavy work. I did not have to see his pugilist's nose or florid skin to know who he was.

  What have you there, boy?' he demanded: the flat tones of a northern Italian. Zianni's voice, only full of mastery, of command.

  ‘I seek His Majesty the Emperor Baldwin’ I told him, standing up straight and trying to look like a papal envoy, whatever that meant. Well, he is gone. I ask again: what have you there?'

  'A communication from His Holiness Pope Gregory’ I replied. I did not care to be treated like a servant, and I did not like this bullying man one bit, whoever he might be. Where, if I might enquire, sir, is His Majesty?'

  'He has decided to return to Venice – urgent news summoned him. I am his Majesty's agent: I have full authority to treat for him in his absence, and to conclude any outstanding matters.' There was nothing but disdain in his voice.

  'This is not a grocer's bill,' I snapped, and immediately regretted it.

  'No matter. You will leave it with me,' said the man calmly. He stepped into the shaft of light, and there was the flattened nose, the narrow eyes, the gleaming, freshly-shaved skin. His mouth was strangely delicate, as neat and sculpted as the lips of a tomb effigy, but petulant and cruel. I took an involuntary step backwards.

  Your pardon, good sir, but I will not’ I said doggedly. 'My orders were to put this thing in the emperor's hands, and his alone. If you will supply your name, I am certain all shall be amended.'

  Who are you, boy? No Lateran flunky, unless His Holiness is pulling bum-boys off the streets to do his errands.' He chose his words carefully, and when he spoke each one was like the prick of an assassin's knife. The icy delicacy of his voice was a strange match for his bulk and power, and I realised with a lurch of my guts that I had mistaken him, as an unwary ape might mistake the cold intent of a stalking tiger for dumb, bestial swagger. I began to sweat. 'My name is Nicholas Querini,' he told me. 'There: is all amended, my fine little fellow?'

  ‘I…' Glancing down, I saw that the woman on the floor was still studying me intensely, a look of faint amusement playing around the corners of her mouth. ‘I am myself bound for Venice’ I said doggedly, and felt myself blush under the woman's gaze despite my growing fear.

  'Oh, yes? Save yourself a long and hazardous journey, boy, and give me the letter. The roads are not safe for a lonely messenger.'

  'But safe enough for His Majesty Baldwin? My dear sir, you confuse me’ I said, regretting my feeble jibe as soon as it had fled my lips.

  'That, boy, was most assuredly not my intent’ he said, the last words hissed through clenched teeth. He took another step forward, and the air in the room suddenly felt alive, as if a thundercloud had thrust an arm in at the window.

  'Begging your pardon, sir, but I will take my leave’ I stammered. I spun on my heel, conscious of two pairs of eyes flaying my back, and stalked out, propelled on a wave of ruffled dignity and embarrassment, but also fear, for although that man had claimed to be a royal agent, I could have sworn he had been about to knock me down. Send a boy to do a man's job, I told myself, and this is your reward. I ducked back into the teeming alleys of the Borgo, cursing Baldwin furiously under my breath. How could such a fool, such a flighty, inconsequential fool style himself Emperor of a chamber pot, let alone of Romania, whatever that meant? I felt the heft of the pope's seal in my satchel. It was a burden in every sense, this thing: now more than ever. I was going to have to chase Baldwin de Courtenay, it seemed. I would have to restrain myself mightily if I were not to slap his silly face when I caught up with him.

  But as I strode through the warm, noisy streets I found it quite easy to keep my chin up and my mood, if not sunny, then at least a light shade of grey. I listened to the many tongues all raised in excited chatter, all bickering and haggling over gimcrack souvenirs. And as I noticed more and more strange and wonderful things about me I began to enjoy myself. A pretty girl selling oranges smiled at me; I found myself laughing at two dogs caught arse to ballocks in the midst of a fuck and dragging each other, yapping and squealing hither and yon across the street; and the simple sounds of people about their daily lives began to warm me inside. Baldwin was a fool: fiddle-de-dee to him and his ridiculous empire. I was bound for Venice myself anyway. Doubtless I would pass him on the road within a day or so, for he would surely be wandering along like a butterfly in a breeze. No matter. In fact, so much the better: a whole day in Rome with nothing to do but look forward to a journey on the morrow. Suddenly the world seemed suffused
with the purest bliss. The dogs suddenly popped apart and fell to madly licking their privy parts in the midst of the street, and I laughed so hard that a brace of passing monks squinted at me in sour reproof and crossed themselves. Scowl away, good fellows, I thought. For I, sinner, reprobate and outcast that I am, am about the pope's business, and you, pious wax-faces, are not.

  I crossed the Campo dei Fiori and headed towards the Jewish Quarter, for I was in the mood for the good fried fish that I knew could be found there. And I loved this part of the city, with its different sights and smells, and its sense of otherness, which reminded me of the Cormaran. I found a cook-shop selling red-hot fillets of some firm white fish and ambled through the streets, nibbling carefully on the searing morsels and looking idly at the life around me. It was thus that my feet led me to one of my favourite sights, the fish market on the steps of the Church of Sant’Angelo which stands in the shadow of the palace of the Savelli, everything in turn overhung by the ruinous, marble-tumbled bulk of the Capitoline Hill. The worthy canons of the church rented out their stone steps to the fishmongers of Rome, and it made for the oddest scene imaginable, at least to my eyes. I had come down here before just to watch the fun: the fish of all shapes and sizes, laid out on the worn marble; mounds of shells, buckets of writhing eels and seething elvers; crates and baskets of the oddest creatures from the deep pastures of the sea. In the air a stench of fish-guts and a babel of voices, greeting, haggling, arguing, protesting. It seemed to me an eminently sensible use of church steps. This morning the melee was in full swing, and I sat down on a piece of old column to watch.

  The spectacle did not disappoint. A ruinously fat woman in the clothes of a wealthy dowager was engaged in a mighty tongue-lashing contest with a small, swarthy fishmonger. Both stood, hands on hips, and excoriated each other on some subject I could not hear, but which I assumed was piscatorial in nature. And indeed, growing tired of words, the woman hitched up her sleeves to reveal great doughy arms, bent down, and came up grasping a vast and grotesque creature, a spider-crab whose body was as big as the fishmongers head and whose claw-tipped, hairy arms splayed out, waving feebly, like the rays of a blasphemous halo. For an instant I thought she was going to drop the thing on to the man's head, but instead the merchant threw up his arms, they both laughed, and in another instant the man was tying the poor crab's weakly protesting legs together with a length of twine and placing it carefully in the woman's basket.