The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  The Rose Demon

  Paul Doherty

  Paul Doherty

  The Rose Demon

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  In 1453 the great Byzantine civilisation was extinguished when the Ottoman Turks broke into Constantinople, killing the Emperor and bringing his empire and what land he ruled firmly under the control of the Ottoman Turks. Despite the help of Venice and the military religious orders such as the Knights Hospitallers, as well as the fighting skills of Western mercenaries, Constantinople ceased to be.

  In England such a disaster made little impact as the country was divided between the Houses of York and Lancaster. A bitter civil war raged which, in 1471, culminated in the destruction of the Lancastrian cause, the death of their king, Henry VI, the exile of his queen, Margaret of Anjou, and the execution of most of the Lancastrian commanders. York remained in the ascendant until the Battle of Bosworth in 1485 when Henry Tudor defeated the Yorkist king Richard III. Henry VII’s victory, however, was not complete and, for years afterwards, his reign was plagued by a series of powerful Yorkist pretenders.

  In Spain, Aragon and Castile were to be united by the marriage of Ferdinand and Isabella. The successful union of these kingdoms led to the implementation of a much-treasured dream: the removal of the Moors, the capture of their great city of Granada, and the emergence of a Catholic Spain.

  In Italy, meanwhile, a Genoese explorer and map-maker, Christopher Columbus, dreamt of sailing across the great Western Ocean to find a safer and more direct route to the Indies. .

  THE PROLOGUES

  1

  Constantinople 29 May 1453

  The Rosa Mundi,

  Its heart is cankered.

  Its petals drop like a fallen angel

  From the fields of heaven.

  ‘Oh day of wrath,

  Oh day of mourning!

  See fulfilled the prophet’s warning.

  Heaven and earth in ashes burning!’

  The opening lines of the Dies Irae echoed along the marble naves of the churches. The priests in their gorgeous vestments, shrouded by clouds of incense, lifted their hands and beseeched the Almighty to help against the tide of terror which had broached the massive walls, towers and fortifications of Constantinople. Mohammed II, self-styled God’s Vice-Regent on earth, had brought his fleet across the Golden Horn. Just after dawn, his yellow-coated janissaries had made their final assault. The walls had been breached, the last home of the Caesars was about to fall. Already the purple, imperial banners were retreating deep into the city as cries of desolation rang out along the streets and alleyways of the Emperor’s city. Soon, the horses of the conquerors would ride in triumph into the palaces of the Byzantine nobles.

  The calamity had been foretold. Hideous portents had filled the skies. Satan, like some great bat, his shadowy wings extended, his talons like those of a huge eagle, had been seen hovering over the city. And had not demons appeared in the hippodrome, red-clawed hands turned up towards the sky, whilst sepulchral voices at midnight, sounding like hollow bells, prophesied horror upon horror: Constantinople was about to fall.

  In his private chamber at the Blachernae Palace, only a short distance from the fighting, Constantine Palaeologus, the last Roman Emperor, was about to leave and die on the walls of his city. In the antechamber, his housecarls, their long, blond hair falling down to their waists, now rested against marble walls, loosening the straps from their chain mail byrnies. They sipped wine and knew they would not taste it again until they met in the kingdom of God. They too were to die. Each had taken the blood oath. They would fight until their master fell, and beyond. They would never bend the knee to the Ottoman Turk. They were impatient for death and whispered amongst themselves what could occupy their emperor at such a fatal hour. He was closeted behind the ivory-plated doors of his private chamber with the old priest Eutyches and the two Westerners, the Hospitaller knights, Raymond and Otto Grandison. The brothers had come from Rhodes to offer their swords in the Emperor’s last stand. The housecarls agreed that the Grandisons were sturdy fighters — unlike the Western mercenaries, who had fled through the night, seeking shelter and succour from the Venetian fleet waiting so helplessly beyond the harbour.

  Inside his privy chamber, Emperor Constantine slouched in his purple, gold-embossed throne. He stared down at the two knights kneeling before him. Their hair was thick with grease, dark faces unshaven, their armour was blood-spattered, their leather leggings stained with sweat. They both leant on their great, two-handed swords whilst between them stood the venerable Eutyches, dressed gorgeously in the full pontifical robes of a Byzantine priest. A gold-encrusted cape hung about Eutyches’ thin, bent shoulders, clasped by a silver chain at the front. Beneath this, in his white gloved hands, he held a pyx bearing the Sacrament.

  ‘I am going to die,’ the Emperor declared, breaking from his reverie. ‘Before noon I will be dead. I will die like a Roman general, my face to the enemy, my sword in my hands.’

  ‘Then, Excellency, let us die with you,’ said the elder of the knights. ‘That is why we entered our order, what we live for. To die for Christ, His Holy Mother and the Christian faith.’

  Constantine shook his head.

  ‘My empire is to fall,’ he murmured. ‘It will never rise again. This city is twelve hundred years old.’ He smiled thinly, wiping the dust from his face. ‘Our conquerors will find secrets — they are welcome to them — but, one they must not discover. I have sworn a great oath, on holy relics, as my father did before me, that, if this city falls, my last act must be to destroy a great evil.’ He stirred in his chair. ‘That is why you are in Constantinople. You are to help me.’

  The two Hospitaller knights stared at him. They were young men, their soft faces sunburnt, eyes gleaming with the light of battle. They looked so alike — black hair neatly cropped, well-spaced, honest eyes. The Emperor allowed himself another smile. He had chosen well: these men, sworn to celibacy and obedience, would carry out his commands.

  ‘Stand up!’ he ordered.

  The knights got to their feet.

  ‘Place your hands on the Sacrament!’

  The knights took off sweat-stained gauntlets. Each placed a hand gently over that of the old priest as he stood, face impassive, eyes closed, murmuring his prayers.

  ‘Swear!’ Constantine insisted. ‘Swear on the Sacrament that you will carry out my last order! Swear that you will do so, whatever the cost!’

  ‘We swear!’

  Constantine opened the purple filigree pouch on his war belt and took out a ring on which seven keys hung. The clasp on each was strangely carved and the handle of every key was shaped into a cross, in the centre of which was a small glass reliquary.

  ‘These are special keys,’ the Emperor explained. ‘Each holds the relic of a great saint.’ He handed them to Sir Raymond. ‘Follow Eutyches! He will take you, by secret passageways, down deep into the bowels of the palace. The way is already lighted.’ The Emperor paused, his head slightly sideways. ‘Listen!’ he whispered.

  The roar of battle was now not so faint.

  ‘I must hurry,’ the Emperor continued. ‘In the vault the five silver keys will open a chamber. The two golden ones will unlock whatever that chamber contains.’

  ‘What is it?’ Sir Otto asked hoarsely.

  ‘A casket,’ the Emperor replied. ‘You are to open it. Once you have done so, do whatever Eutyches tells you to. You have sworn an oath.’

  The Emperor got to his feet, his chain mail jingling as he walked across to a huge, golden rose painted on the blue marble wall. He pressed the centre and a door swung open. Otto flinched at the cold blast of air which swept into the chamber. Both knights, seasoned warriors, felt a deep sense of fear, blood chilling as if a dagger were b
eing drawn along the napes of their necks. They looked at each other, then back at the Emperor.

  ‘You feel it as I do,’ Constantine declared.

  ‘Every man does.’ Eutyches opened his rheumy eyes. His voice was low, grating, and he talked the lingua franca, the language understood by everyone in Constantinople. ‘Your Excellency,’ Eutyches bowed, ‘we must go, time is short. You must die and, when I have done my task, I, too, must prepare for death.’

  Constantine came and knelt before the priest.

  ‘Then bless me, Father.’

  The priest raised the pyx before the Emperor in the sign of the cross. Constantine got to his feet. He kissed the priest on both cheeks and exchanged the kiss of peace with the two Hospitaller knights, then, without a backward glance, left the chamber, shouting for his guards to follow.

  The knights heard the door being closed and locked; the shouts of officers as furniture was piled against it.

  ‘If the Turks break in,’ Eutyches explained, ‘that will give us more time. Now, come.’ He walked towards the secret passageway, stopped and gestured for Otto to precede him. ‘Sir Raymond, you will follow behind. Close the door after us.’

  Sir Otto and the priest disappeared into the darkness. Raymond waited for a few moments then, drawing his sword, followed. He found himself at the top of steep steps which swept down into the darkness. On the walls above him, cresset torches fought hard to keep out the darkness. Raymond studied these curiously. He cursed his imagination. The fire itself seemed frightened. The flame was weak and the centre of each had turned a strange bluish tint.

  ‘Come!’ Eutyches ordered.

  Raymond fumbled in the darkness. He found a clasp and pushed the door over. It closed like the lid of a tomb. He followed the other two down the steps. The walls on either side were cold marble. Raymond had to fight against the shivers which racked his body.

  ‘Do not think!’ Eutyches’ voice sounded hollow. ‘Just pray! Make the sign of the cross to ward off any evil!’

  Raymond began praying. Peering through the gloom, he could see that his brother, just in front of the priest, was faltering now and again as if unsteady on his feet, and would only continue at Eutyches’ hushed entreaties.

  Following, Raymond felt so cold. Suddenly he started back, his sword coming up. He was sure an ice-cold hand had trailed its fingers across his throat, freezing the beads of sweat which laced his skin. He walked on, trying to ignore the sensation of hands clutching at his shoulder or his arm. On one occasion he dropped his sword. It fell with a clash and he scrabbled in the darkness to pick it up. Suddenly a face, grey like a puff of smoke, with grinning gargoyle mouth from which bare fangs protruded, came up before him. Sir Raymond wiped his face on the sleeve of his jerkin. Eutyches was now praying aloud, his words booming like the knell of a bell, urging them both to continue, to ignore what was happening.

  At last they reached the bottom of the steps. In the torchlight the old priest looked more ancient and wizened: he, too, was soaked in sweat whilst Otto stood as if he had been running for his life, chest heaving, mouth open gasping for air, sweat dripping down his unshaven cheeks as if he had doused his head in water.

  ‘How much further?’ Sir Raymond asked.

  The priest pointed along the passageway, which seemed to stretch into eternity.

  ‘Continue!’ he urged. ‘Whatever happens, don’t stop!’

  This time both knights followed him. They were too frightened to speak. Now and again they clasped hands, fighting the urge to leave this venerable priest and flee for their lives.

  ‘When your task is done-’ Eutyches spoke up, ‘and it will be done quickly — leave the chamber. Don’t come back this way but flee further along the gallery. It will bring you out beyond the city walls.’

  ‘We thought to die at Constantinople,’ Otto replied.

  ‘Why are the young so interested in dying?’ the priest said wryly. ‘In the end, die you will and die you must!’

  His grim jest seemed to lighten the tension. Just as the shadowy fears were closing in again, they reached a bend in the passageway where it turned abruptly to the left. Eutyches, however, ignored the gloomy, dark-filled gallery. He stood before a doorway, one of the most extraordinary the brothers had ever seen — not made of wood or steel but of sheer marble with a mother-of-pearl cross in the centre.

  ‘Unlock the door!’ Eutyches called.

  For a while Raymond fumbled with the keys. There were five locks along the side of the door. It took some time to find the key for each lock but, as he turned them, Sir Raymond could hear some intricate mechanism click. At last he finished and pushed the door hard. It swung open smoothly and both brothers gasped: if the door was a work of wonder, the octagonal chamber it guarded was even more so. It was lighted by shafts which came down from the roof and filled the chamber with sharp rays of sunlight. The walls were covered in gold-fringed, velvet drapes, the marble ceiling was concave, whilst each slab of the marble floor had a small glass case embedded in the middle.

  ‘Reliquaries,’ the priest explained.

  ‘Why?’ Otto whispered.

  Eutyches pointed to the centre of the chamber which, because of the angle of the light, was shrouded in a veil of darkness.

  Raymond narrowed his eyes. He could see the casket about a yard high and three yards long. He lifted his head and sniffed the air.

  ‘Roses!’ he whispered. ‘I can smell roses!’

  The air was growing sweeter by the second; a subtle fragrance, which provoked bittersweet memories of luxuriant gardens at the height of summer around the Priory of St John of Jerusalem in London.

  ‘Where are the roses?’ Otto asked. ‘Why does the chamber smell so fragrantly?’

  ‘Ignore it,’ Eutyches almost snarled. ‘We have a task to do!’

  They followed Eutyches across to the sarcophagus. Made out of costly wood, the casket was sealed with two locks, one at either end. Again, at Eutyches’ urgings, Raymond opened each lock and lifted back the lid. The smell of roses grew even richer, more cloying. He and Otto stared down in amazement. Beneath the gauze cloths lay the body of a beautiful young woman.

  ‘Do not tarry!’ Eutyches urged. ‘Lift the cloths!’

  They did so. Both men stared open-mouthed, the woman was so extraordinarily beautiful. Her dark hair was framed by a cloth-of-gold veil; her body hidden beneath the silver damask dress of a Byzantine princess; her velvet-gloved hands lay by her side. Raymond felt her cheek, soft as down-feather, slightly warm.

  ‘She’s sleeping!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘You are to open her mouth,’ the priest ordered. ‘I will press in the host, then you must seal the casket.’ Eutyches pointed across to where huge earthenware jars stood. ‘They are filled with oil. Once the casket is resealed, you are to tip them over. Take a torch from the wall outside and let the room burn!’

  Raymond stared aghast at the priest. ‘This is murder!’ he rasped. ‘I am a knight of Christ, not an assassin!’

  ‘Open her mouth!’ Eutyches shouted.

  Both knights backed away. The young woman was moving, her eyes fluttering. Eutyches put the pyx down and drew a bejewelled dagger from his robes. Sir Raymond stepped forward: those lovely eyes were open, smiling up at him. The Hospitaller lashed out, intending to block the thrust of the raised dagger. Instead, he struck Eutyches a powerful blow on the side of the shoulder. The old priest staggered and fell; his head hit the marble floor, cracking open like an egg. The blood seeped out. Sir Raymond stared in horror but turned at the warm, soft touch to his cheek. The young woman’s eyes were so lovely, so entreating her hands stretching out. .

  2

  Masada, above the Dead Sea, July 1461

  In the beginning:

  The Rosifer, Lucifer’s great henchman,

  Took a rose from the gardens of heaven

  And rode down to Paradise to pay court to Eve.

  Sir Otto Grandison was much changed. No longer the fiery young knight, he was clothed i
n a cloak of camelhair with rough sandals on his feet. Yet the greatest change, at least to the eye, was his face: no longer smooth and olive-skinned but deeply furrowed, burnt by a fiery sun, whilst his hair had turned grey, and an unkempt beard fell in a tangled mess to his stomach.

  Sir Otto Grandison, now a hermit, stood on the cliffs of Masada. Narrowing his eyes, he stared out over the shimmering mass of the Dead Sea. It was just after dawn. The sun had sprung up like a fiery ball and already Grandison could feel the blast of heat from the desert below. He shaded his eyes and stared down the precipitous cliffs. He had slept badly, his mind racked by nightmares, the fears and terrors of the night. He looked back over his shoulder at the small cave built into the rock. A hermit’s dwelling: nothing but rough sacking for a bed; a battered pair of saddlebags hung on a peg; and a stone jar, the gift of a kindly Arab, to hold the water he drew from the well.

  Grandison looked up. Vultures hung black against the sky, hovering, keen-eyed for any prey or for those about to die. Sir Otto crossed himself. Usually the vultures would preen their great feathered wings and fly out over the desert but, recently, they had begun to stay, hovering above him. He wondered whether they, too, sensed that death was near.

  He stared round the ruins built on the top of these cliffs. A traveller, a seller of perfumes from whom Sir Otto had begged scraps of food in the valley below, had told him about these ruins. How Masada had once been a great fortress built by Herod the Great, he who had slaughtered the innocents at the time of Jesus’ birth. Later it had become a stronghold for the Jews in their violent struggle against the Roman legions, and its last defenders, determined not to be taken prisoner, had poisoned themselves, their wives and their children. Otto often wondered if their ghosts haunted this eagle’s eyrie or if Herod the Great, bound by chains in his own fiery hell, walked the ruins of his former greatness.