by Barry Sadler
Plague! The mere mention of the word could turn even the bravest of men into puling cowards. Casca had seen it more than once. On the side of the streets he saw the bodies of dead rats lying about. When the rats began to die, humans were next. He didn't know why, but always in the past it was known that the rats began to die first; then came the sickness to people, as if in their death the rats passed on whatever it was that killed.
Yellow clouds of sulphur smoke drifted through the streets, where only the death slaves worked, hauling bodies out of buildings and alleys to load them on carts. Down the Via Honorius, he could hear the ringing of a hand bell as a shrill voice cried out to the buildings on either side, "Bring out your dead, bring out your dead."
Casca stepped around a pile of bodies. One of them, a woman in her thirties, was still wearing a bracelet of gold set with large stones of amber. Many of the slaves would acquire enough wealth from the looting of bodies to buy their freedom, if they survived. He covered his nose and mouth with the edge of his cloak to keep out the terrible stench of bodies that had lain too long before being found. The heavy sweetness of decay was impossible to avoid.
Added to the thin pealings of the deathmonger's bell came the heavier, more vibrant tone of the bells of the cathedrals of Constantinople, where masses were being held day and night. He knew that the churches would be crowded with the sick and the well – the one praying to be healed, the other not to get sick – and in their hearts each of them hoping that if someone had to die, let it be the one next to him, that he himself might be spared. He also knew that the death passed most quickly where people were close together in crowds or groups. Turning a corner, he knocked over the body of a priest who had died sitting up, still in his brown cassock, hands folded together in the act of prayer. The face was thin and yellow. His tongue, black and swollen, protruded between the teeth.
The dark was gathering quickly, throwing into shadows the narrow corridors of the streets. Casca knew that the palace of the magister would be well guarded, but he thought he knew how to get by. Gregory expected him to come knocking politely on his door and beg permission to enter. Casca would not accept that invitation, even though they held Ireina and his son. He knew that the word and honor of the priests of the Brotherhood was good only as long as it served their purposes; they were not to be trusted. He would see Gregory, but on his own terms.
From the houses on either side he would occasionally hear the sounds of mourning as someone grieved over a dead parent, lover, or child. Several times he saw doors furtively open for a moment as a body was hauled out to be added to the hundreds that still lay uncollected. Then there was the sound of the doors being shut and bolted.
Pulling his cloak over his head to conceal his features, Casca tried to get his thoughts organized. It was hard to avoid the temptation to just barge in and take his family back from them. But good sense dictated that he wait a while longer, until the early hours before the next dawn, when eyes were the heaviest among guards who would be half asleep waiting for their relief to come. He took the street leading to the palace of Gregory in order to take a look at the layout before finding somewhere to hole up till it was time for his visit. The streets were emptying of what few had dared to leave their homes. In the distance he could smell smoke from a fire that consumed a series of apartments. The fire would last until it burned itself out. There would no one this night to put the flames out.
On the high ground, where the officials and favorites of the court kept their palaces, the signs of death were less obvious. The streets were clear of bodies, but the aura of the plague was not to be denied; it had visited here, too. He stayed to the shadows, not wishing to give any watchful eyes warning that he had arrived. They would find out soon enough. The palace of Gregory was not the largest there, but it had high walls on which he could see dim figures, which meant that there were guards who still served their master.
He made two passes, each an hour apart, circling the palace. There were two entrances, neither of which he could use. He would have to go over the wall. There were no trees to climb or anything near enough to them that he could climb to and then jump from. He would have to think of another way to scale the walls. In spite of his anger, which had now settled down into a deep dull pain, he knew he would need to rest before finishing his business. Leaving by the Via Augustinus, he went back to the main city to find a hole for the next few hours.
A two-story villa from which he could see no lights showing had its front door open, swinging on loose brass hinges and inviting him inside. He kicked away two pariah dogs that were worrying at the body of an old man near the steps. Removing his sword from its scabbard, he entered the dark atrium, closing the door behind him and latching it. Stopping, he held his breath to hear better, turning his head first one way and then the other to see if he could catch any sound that might mean others were in the house with him. He was tired, but instinct and habit made him search the house from room to room. In the kitchen, he found the desiccated body of a woman lying by the fireplace used for cooking. Her clothes were rich, of fine carded wool with silk threads woven into the cloth. In the bedroom he found the body of a man and woman lying together side by side. He was glad it was dark so that he didn't have to look at them. The odor was enough to make a vulture ill.
In the last room, at the rear of the second floor, he found one other corpse, that of a younger man, judging from the build, lying near a chest of carved dark wood. Obviously, the dead man had been trying to get to the chest. Therefore, it had to be important. Casca moved the body out of the way by pulling the man's sleeve. Once the body was clear, he opened the chest after breaking the lock with a twist of his sword blade. The chest contained articles of jewelry, silks, and several small bags of silver and gold.
The man had been trying to get to it when the death took him. Perhaps it would serve another purpose. Casca removed the chest, carrying it with him to an empty room, where he made a thin pallet of his cloak and lay down to get what sleep he could until it was time to go. He had his plan worked out for getting over the wall without being spotted before he went to sleep. He set his mental clock for the right number of hours to rest before awakening.
At the right moment, his eyes clicked open; he was instantly alert. It was the right time. He had two hours before dawn. Scrounging around the room, he found a lamp made of terra cotta. Striking off the flint from his fire kit onto a patch of lint, he ignited the oil in the lamp. By the thin red glow, he was able to go through the chest and remove the items he would need later. The silver and gold he put into his own, nearly empty pouch, keeping one sack of each to use later. Once he had Ireina and Demos, they would have need for money to make good their escape.
He covered his own, too recognizable warrior's garments with a robe of fine green silk from the chest. On his wrists he placed bracelets of gold and silver where they could be seen easily. Once he had finished with his costume, he was ready. The lamp was extinguished, plunging the room back into darkness.
He returned to the empty streets. In the distance, he could hear the howling of a dog, punctuated by the pealing of bells from the cathedrals. Low wisps of mist rose from the stones of the streets and gutters and were moved gently by the night air. Pulling up the hood of his new robe, he quickly retraced his steps to the place of the eunuch Gregory. If the sentries there were like most, the changing of the guard would not take place for at least another two hours. That was all the time he would have. It should be enough. The stench of decay walked with him, permeating the damp air blown in from the Bosphorus.
Finding his original position by the walls, Casca moved close to the gate. There wasn't any way for him to get over the walls without aid. He would have to come in from the front. He tried to make himself smaller. Twisting his shoulders and walking with stiff heavy steps, he kept his face averted from the glow of the torch in an iron bracket by the barred gate to Gregory's palace. In the flickering of the flame, he could see eyes watching his approach from an arc
her's aperture in the watch gate.
Stumbling forward, he half collapsed. Beating at the door with a feeble hand, he choked out a weak cry: "Help me, please let me in. All my family is dead. Let me in." He whimpered, "I don't want to die." He coughed, raising a hand to his mouth and letting the gold and silver bracelets sparkle in the glow of the torch.
He heard a movement behind the walls. Perhaps they needed a bit more incentive. He fell to his knees; holding his hands clasped as if in prayer, he begged them to let him in. Fumbling under his robe, he took out his purse and raised it above his head, crying out to them: "I have gold and jewels, enough to make you rich men for the rest of your lives. If only you'll let me in; it's all yours, take it all." He sobbed, turning the sack upside down to let the coins of gold and silver fall in a bright rain to the ground as his body shook and shuddered. He had seen death come enough times to know the symptoms.
The sounds behind the wall had increased when he opened the purse. He knew that he had their attention. Now for the coup de grace. Casca fell face forward to the wall, hands outstretched. He cried, "I have more much more on me; it's all yours." He doubled himself over as if cramps were tearing at his abdomen. From his throat came the sounds of choking. His body went into a convulsive spasm and then was still.
Behind the wall, the two sentries argued over what they should do. They knew that it meant death for them to let anyone from the outside in. But the man outside was dead, and the gold he carried would be taken by some filthy slaves if they didn't take it for themselves first. Surely there could be no harm if they opened the gate for just enough time to strip the body. No one would ever be the wiser as long as they kept their mouths shut. And there was enough to split between them that they might be able to get out of the city and find safety for themselves, away from the plague.
Casca could hear the sound of the gate being unlatched and then a thin squeak as the door opened just enough to permit one of the two sentries inside to squeeze his body out. He held his breath. Beneath his robe, his sword was already drawn. He would need it to keep the gate from being shut on him.
The guard took a quick look left and right down the street to make sure there was no one out to tell of this later; then he moved quickly to what he thought was the body. Reaching over to remove the bracelets from the wrists of the corpse, he felt a hand grasping his own wrist, holding it in a vise, as a weak trembling voice came from the dead man: "Help me, please."
The guard tried to pull away, standing back up. As he did, he pulled the plague victim to his feet with him. The weight of the sick man leaned against him, forcing him back against the gate. The guard tried to move his hand to where he could draw his sword, but the power of the diseased man's grip threatened to break his wrist. The two stumbled against the gate, and the guard called for his friend inside to come and help him.
"Get this crazy son of a bitch off me! Kill him!"
There was no need to ask his comrade to come out; Casca was ready to go in. He stuck his sword blade in the small opening remaining in the gate to prevent it from being closed. He shifted his grip from the wrist to the throat, placing the thumb down low on the esophagus, the fingers sinking deep into the thick muscles of the broad strip of meat that ran from the base of the head to the shoulder. Twisting, he forced the man's head back into an off angle, forcing the sentry's body around until it lost balance, forcing him to his knees, where his face met the knee of the man he had come to rob. Casca dropped him and hit the door with his shoulder, forcing it open, driving back the man who was holding it.
He shouldered his way through, one hand grabbing the guard's throat to choke off any outcry, the other driving the sword into the belly between the scaled plates of armor, entering the large artery running along the spine. He let the body drop to drain on the earth.
He was inside. Now to find someone who could tell him where his woman and child were being held. Then he would tend to Brother Gregory. Gregory's palace was of two stories, surrounding a central park with fountains and Greek statuary. Twice he heard the voices of sentries patrolling the grounds in pairs. Laying low in decorative bushes, he let them pass.
Moving to a window that had been left open to allow the night air to circulate, he climbed over a low balustrade and dropped down to a long hall, wishing he knew more about the layout of the house. But if it went according to plan, the master's rooms would be on the second floor, where he could take advantage of the night breeze, with his aide or secretary in a room close to him. That's where he would go: the second floor.
Staying close to the walls, he tried to blend in with the shadows in the darkened interior of the palace. At junctions, there were lamps of oil swinging from censures overhead, but not many. The master was a frugal person, and oil was expensive.
He paused at each door, listened, and moved on to the next. At the room next to the end of the hallway, a rustle came through the carved oak door. He waited, trying to hold down the pounding of his heart in his ears. He wondered where the rest of the household guards were. There had to be more of them around than he had seen.
Gingerly, he tried the latch. To his relief, it turned easily. Holding his breath, he opened it enough to permit entry and slid sideways inside, sword to the front. Nothing other than the thin grumbling of someone in a troubled sleep reached his ears.
Silently, he moved into the interior of the room. A light breeze rustled curtains by an open window, letting a dim glow seep through to cast a pale light by which he saw a figure in sleep on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, knees drawn up nearly to the chest. He moved closer, careful to make no sound to wake the sleeper before he was ready. He looked down on the face of the fair-haired man. Timoteus rolled over to his side, straightened his legs, and mumbled in his sleep. Casca hoped he was having an unpleasant dream so that what was going to happen to him in the next few minutes might not prove to be too much of a shock.
He exchanged his sword for the dagger. It was handier when working in close, though he knew it was unlikely that he would need it to handle the sleeper. His hands were able to do the job, with the strength in the fingers that grasped the oars of a slave galley for longer than this sleeper had lived.
One hand covered Timoteus's throat. Casca squeezed; it was a gentle squeeze, but it was enough that no sound could issue from the sleeper's mouth when his eyes opened and tried to focus in terror, not really certain that he wasn't still dreaming. If this wasn't a nightmare, it deserved to be one, especially when he caught a look at the face of the man holding him pinned to his bed.
Casca eased the pressure on the throat. He didn't want Timoteus to pass out. Moving his grip so that he had a thick finger dug into the tender nerves under the ear, he whispered, "Your name?"
Timoteus started to call for help, but a warning squeeze that threatened to crush the cartilage of his throat made him think better of it. He changed in mid-voice from a would-be yell to a thin, tiny whisper. "Timoteus, secretary to the-"
Casca was pleased at the answer. He jerked the man out of his bed.
Timoteus nearly screamed when his face hit the floor. A crushing weight on his spine and the point of a dagger at his throat reminded him that he wasn't to make any noise.
He couldn't see his attacker, but after the first question, he had no doubt about who it was.
"Where are my son and wife?" the voice hissed. "Tell me the truth and live. Lie to me, and I'll rip your heart out."
Timoteus tried to answer but found that his throat had suddenly gone as dry as the desert. Desperately, he tried to salivate. This was assisted when the point of the dagger sunk an eighth of an inch into the flesh behind his ear.
Bleatingly, he came to a decision. "You promise that you'll let me live if I tell you the truth?" he whined.
Casca cursed him and agreed to the terms. “Tell me where they are and you'll live. This I promise."
Timoteus held his breath a moment, trying to figure out the best way to tell the story. "Remember," he wheedled, "you p
romised."
Impatient, Casca prodded him with the point of the dagger. "Keep stalling much longer and you won't live long enough to keep your end of our bargain. Tell me now!"
The acolyte realized that he had no choice in the matter and was convinced that if he lied, he would die. "Your woman is in a room to the rear of the master's. There is no way to reach her without going through his chambers first. She is unharmed."
Casca prodded him again. "And my son; where is he?"
He took longer to answer this, but the feel of blood running down the back of his neck from his punctured mastoid made his mind up for him. "He is dead." Spurting the words in a rush, he blurted, "The Elder killed him to see if he was the same as you, to see if he would truly die."
Pain struck Casca's chest, stopping the beat of his heart as the shock of the words took effect. The blood drained from his face, leaving him cold inside. He pushed the point of the dagger in a bit farther, resisting the urge to rip open his prisoner's neck. "Do you mean that Gregory has killed my son, or did one of you pieces of shit do it?"
Timoteus squealed in terror. "It was Gregory. I swear by the sacred blood of Jesus, it was Gregory who killed him. No one else touched the boy."
The cherubic face of Demos swam before his eyes, the bright smile and soft gentle lips of his child.
He rolled him over to look at the man's eyes. The hate in his voice came from deep inside his chest, exhaled with his every breath. "You have killed my son for no reason!"
Timoteus saw his death in Casca's eyes as the dagger was raised over him.
Tears burst from his eyes as he sobbed out, "You promised I wouldn't die. You promised me if I told the truth, you would let me live."
Casca cut off his protests with a death grip around his throat, holding him firmly to the stone floor as his knife descended. He responded to Timoteus's pleadings just before the knife entered the acolyte's chest: "Sometimes I lie." He ripped him open from the navel to the sternum. Rising from the body, Casca stumbled against the wall, resting his head against the marble facing.
