The head sat on the rough ground some twenty feet from the church door, a flaming torch planted either side of it illuminating it in ghastly detail. Even at this distance, Skiouros could make out details he'd rather not.
The eyes were gone, as were the ears, the mouth rent and covered in blood, suggesting strongly that the tongue had been removed also. The base of the neck where it met the ground was jagged and messy, with crimson fleshy tendrils hanging loose. There was nothing neat or surgical about this decapitation.
Skiouros closed his eyes as he felt the next shudder almost pull him back off the tomb.
Momentarily, he cast up a prayer to the Lord - and to Allah, just in case - that Lykaion had died quickly and that this defilement had occurred after the soul had gone. Not that he believed it, but he had to hope.
His world collapsed.
Standing on the tomb, shaking, his gaze locked on the illuminated head, Skiouros was suddenly bereft of everything. For so many years he had lived with his brother's absence in the knowledge that despite all the arguments and ill-feeling, at least he was still there and still strong. They might not talk cordially, but they had never failed to acknowledge their link. The regular meetings had failed to reconcile them, but there had always been hope. Even through all that time, Skiouros had never allowed himself to contemplate the possibility of a life without Lykaion.
He tried to focus; to concentrate on the important - the here and now.
But his eyes just would not tear themselves away from the desecrated head of his brother, and that gruesome sight filled his mind and senses and left no room for rational thought.
The glazed half-moon window suddenly exploded in shards of jagged greenish glass as an arrow nicked Skiouros' ear before clattering off the wall and disappearing off into the exonarthex. Instinctively, the young thief's eyes closed in an instant, probably saving his sight as fragments of glass scored his face.
Unable to maintain his precarious stance, Skiouros fell back from the tomb, landing with a heavy thud on the marble floor of the passage.
In an instant, Skiouros was alert once more, starting to scramble to his feet. The shattering glass had forced him to shut his eyes and that had finally detached him from Lykaion, freeing some part of his mind to deal with the immediate problem.
There was no way to confirm how many people there were out there but Skiouros would be willing to wager that the attacker numbered only one. Were it the authorities, there would have been none of this grisly showmanship, but a brutal assault on the church - possibly with gunfire - and capture. So that left only the assassins. Lykaion had apparently been careless or unlucky and the man he'd been observing had caught him.
That meant that there was only one man out there. But it also meant that he was a trained killer.
Could he flee? Certainly one man would have difficulty keeping watch on the entire exterior of the church. But he had a bow, and that seriously diminished the chances of Skiouros reaching the safety of nearby housing. He would have to be fast as lightning to cross the wasteland graveyard before the assassin could get off a bowshot, unless the assassin were to be distracted somehow.
Fleeing would probably do no good anyway. If these assassins were good enough to track down Skiouros' room purely through his brother's associations, and then this place, there was little chance of him finding any level of safety.
No; unless the opportunity of escape suddenly presented itself, he had to deal with this killer; but how?
He was no soldier or assassin. He had a little skill with his knife, but had never taken a life and had never intended to. How could such a man deal with the trained killers of the Mamluks?
Briefly, his mind's eye reminded him of Lykaion's sword, wrapped in a shabby sack, lying next to the straw mattress. It would be easy enough to get, but would it do him any good? He'd never used a sword in his life. The theory was obvious, of course: you held the rounded bit and used the pointy and sharp bit to damage the enemy. But to think he might be able to best the assassin was sheer idiocy.
Quickly he discarded the sword as a possibility. He would be better unencumbered. The only advantages he had were the ones he'd always had: wits and speed.
What to do, then?
Perhaps he could buy himself enough time with a trick; enough time to get away from the place without being within arrow shot?
Again, the belfry presented itself as an option, and he glanced across to the doorway of the spiral stairs before discarding it once more. Being trapped in a tower was asking for trouble.
A soft click from the main door brought home the urgency of the situation, and he was up on his feet and running in an instant, heading towards the tower stairs purely because that happened to be the way he was looking as he stood.
Behind him, the door creaked open. Even as the figure moved inside, the cloaked head swinging this way and that, trying to ascertain the location of his quarry and any source of danger, Skiouros had disappeared around the corner, his back to the wall, trying to control his breathing.
A distraction was what he needed; but what?
He could hear the swish of the assassin's cloak as he turned on the spot, his eyes picking out every detail of the exonarthex in the gloom. Taking a deep breath, Skiouros reached into his pouch and drew out a single coin, trying to muffle the sounds as best he could inside his doublet. With a short, fervent prayer, he tossed the coin across the open space and into the stairwell to the belfry.
He may be no fighter, but years of living by his agility had lent Skiouros excellent throwing skills. The small, silver akce disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell and hit the wall high up, tinkling as it bounced back down and coming to rest on the lowest step.
Without waiting to see if his ruse had worked, Skiouros turned and tip-toed through the door into the inner narthex. It was a gamble. If the assassin ignored the somewhat obvious coin-toss and walked straight forward, they would be face to face any moment.
Three heartbeats with no sign of the killer, and finally Skiouros heard the gentle sounds of the man's light footsteps as he moved towards the tower.
With a small sense of relief, Skiouros moved along the inner corridor to where its doorway opened up to the exonarthex and the main church door. If the assassin actually climbed the stairs, he could get away, could even take Lykaion's remains with him.
Taking a steadying breath, he leaned round the corner and then pulled his head back sharply. The assassin was at the tower stairs but had not begun the ascent, his head moving back and forth like some sort of predator, scenting out his prey. Skiouros noted with grim acceptance that the man had shut and barred the church door behind him as he entered. It would not take much effort for Skiouros to move the bar, but it would slow him down and the sound would be obvious.
His eyes dropped to the floor and took in the glittering points of dozens of caltrops scattered across the inside of the door.
Quite clearly no escape that way, then.
He knew from earlier explorations that there were two other exits from the church, but the one in the south wall had been sealed up thoroughly when the building had been deconsecrated, and the northern one was blocked by piles of workmen's rubble outside. It was one thing to know that your hideout only had one approachable entrance, but when you were trapped in it and that one entrance became only one exit, the benefits were considerably less beneficial.
With a sinking feeling, he realised that the chances of running had all-but evaporated. No matter how much time he could buy now it would not be enough to get him away from the killer.
A quick glance around the corner confirmed the worst. The assassin had not fallen for the trick, and had turned, peering down the corridors of the parekklesion and the exonarthex. Skiouros managed to duck back just as the man's gaze swept past him.
What to do? Skiouros' desperation was becoming palpable now. He was truly trapped.
Carefully and as quietly as he could manage, Skiouros backed away from the door and
prepared to creep along the corridor and into the north chapel, the opposite direction to the assassin and as far from him as it was possible to get within the building.
What happened next came as a blur in seeming slow motion.
Even as he stepped back from the door into the centre of the inner narthex, so the assassin also stepped from the outer corner to the inner narthex doorway.
Skiouros caught a glimpse of the movement out of the corner of his eye and threw himself forward and into the church's main 'naos' hall even as a thrown knife, only two inches in length, ripped through the shoulder of his doublet, becoming fast within it.
It had not been an elegant dive, and Skiouros had to recover himself quickly in the church's cavernous centre before running once more, horribly aware of the pounding feet out in the corridor behind him.
What had been a silent stalking of hunter and prey had now become a chase.
Grateful for his solid knowledge of the church's plan, Skiouros crossed the naos and ducked through the small door into the north chapel, almost falling over a workman's barrow as he did so. Weaving past the barrow, he ran into the main long, decorative chapel, pausing only to confirm that the assassin was following him and that he hadn't doubled back to wait for him ahead.
A moment later, he turned the corner into the inner narthex once more.
How long could he realistically keep this up? He was fast and nimble, and he knew the layout well, but the assassin would be just as fast, and every step he took in this pursuit increased his knowledge of the place.
Realising his options were running out, Skiouros pounded down the inner narthex and through the door into the parekklesion.
As he rounded the corner two small blades clattered off the stonework next to him, chipping the centuries-old images of saints.
The plan formed even as he looked down the parekklesion, trying to figure his next move. His feet were already running, but he slowed his pace. It wouldn't work if he was always a corridor ahead.
There was an inherent danger, of course.
Clearly, the assassin had discarded his bow as he came inside - shouldered it most likely. A bow was no weapon for fighting in a building. That left only his short throwing knives or any number of horrible hand weapons he might carry. He had to trust to luck that he would not fall to a thrown blade before the plan could pay off.
The assassin was almost at the corner now, and Skiouros had barely moved.
They were close enough. The killer needed to be close enough that he kept his attention on Skiouros and not his surroundings.
Picking up the pace again, Skiouros ran down the parekklesion, the assassin only a few steps behind him - almost close enough to smell the spicy scent of the man and to hear his measured breaths with each stride.
Much to the thief's relief, the assassin drew a curved blade from his belt. A strange relief it was, but at least that horrible razor sharp blade in hand meant no more thrown knives.
Without even looking down, sure of his surroundings, Skiouros turned his run into a short, gazelle-like leap, landing and continuing to pound on into the dead end of the curved parekklesion chapel where he put out his hands to stop himself at the beautifully-painted apsidal wall.
His success was announced by a panicked squawk.
Turning at the wall and heaving in a deep breath, Skiouros looked back along the passage. There was no sign of the assassin.
Two or three times in the past days, Skiouros had debated over whether to cover over the deep hole that had almost claimed Lykaion on that first evening. Clearly the saints were with him that he'd never got round to it.
Gingerly, he approached the hole that he'd leapt mid-run and which had befouled his pursuer. The man probably had more throwing knives.
The assassin lay on the floor of the vault below, his leg and an arm twisted at an impossible angle, groaning with pain.
Skiouros stepped back.
As his breathing and pulse began to settle back down to their normal pace, a cold and angry scowl reached his face, contorting his usually-genial features. Paying no further heed to the man's groaning, he stepped off to the side, where a small pile of debris remained testament to the workmen's labours. Selecting an appropriately-hefty piece of cracked marble cornice, he bent and lifted it with some difficulty.
Straining and grunting with the effort he staggered back to the pit where, carefully peering into the darkness to identify the shape of the crippled assassin, he held the stone out as far as he could before his arms gave out, and then let go.
The heavy marble block fell the ten or more feet into the crypt, smashing onto the fallen assassin's ribs and splintering them to tiny fragments, flattening organs and crushing him to death quicker than Skiouros would really have liked.
The assassin let out an agonised wail that echoed around the corridors and rooms of the church - a wail that turned, as it descended, into a rattle and hiss and then finally, silence.
Skiouros peered down, swaying slightly and having to step back from the edge in case he joined the assassin in his cold tomb.
As he turned away, back to the parekklesion, emotions flooded him and he suddenly felt overcome. His knees seemed to lose the ability to hold him up, and he collapsed to the floor. After a minute or so he realised that the agonised wailing that was filling the church like the singing of the most heart-breaking, disharmonious liturgical hymn was, in fact, himself.
For countless eons he sat on the floor of the parekklesion, screaming out his grief at being the last of the family of Nikos the farmer. Wracked, he shook and sobbed, crying, his hands continually curling and uncurling as if trying to hold onto something that was as tangible as smoke.
Skiouros couldn't have said how long he stayed there, but by the time he stood, slowly, on shaking legs, the moonlight that had filtered into the church and given it its only illumination had gone, leaving the place dark, and the sound of light rain battered the roof above, like a distant sizzle.
Resolutely ignoring the hole in the floor with its crushed occupant, Skiouros walked slowly and unsteadily back towards the entrance of the church. A quick side-trip into the naos and he collected one of the rough, twig brooms the workmen had left, which he used to sweep the numerous, barbed caltrops away from the door.
Slowly, with weary, weakened muscles, he hauled the blocking bar from the exit and dropped it aside, pulling open the door.
The rain must have started some time ago, completely unnoticed by Skiouros, for it had extinguished both torches, and Lykaion's head was now visible only as a faint circular shadow on the floor.
Ignoring the cold downpour, Skiouros stepped outside and strode across the intervening space, bending and picking up his brother's head by the hair.
Somehow the realisation that his brother's body would almost certainly never show up was actually worse than lifting his severed head. Lykaion, even in death, would never be whole again.
And nor would Skiouros.
Turning, he strode back into the church, the head swinging by his side.
A dim recollection struck him - a memory of something he'd seen when he'd scouted out the interior that first night and, with a sour and unpleasant sense of purpose, he turned and strode into the north chapel. At the far end of the place a pile of debris from the workmen's exertions was piled up beside the altar. The front of the holy table had been stove in, to get at the holy relics within presumably, but among the pile of refuse beside it sat the thing that Skiouros remembered and sought.
Crouching, he retrieved the wood and leather container. Some time in the past it had rested in that very reliquary, containing probably the skull of a saint, given its size. The gold edging had been ripped from the container, but the box itself remained intact and usable… and the right size for a head.
Carefully, Skiouros placed the box on the holy table and opened it. There was, as expected, nothing inside, and it smelled faintly musty with great age.
With a fresh tear from eyes that had almost b
een drained of moisture, Skiouros lowered his brother's head into the box and closed it. Crouching, he slid it into the reliquary space in the centre of the altar once more.
"I'm sorry, brother, if this is wrong, but it's the best I can do. Whether your God or mine actually exist, both of them should appreciate having the remnants of a good man interred here temporarily."
He straightened, his sense of purpose filling him.
It would be temporary.
As soon as it was light, he would make his way down to the Theodosian harbour and book that damn passage to Crete. Then he would go and see Judah Ben Isaac, collect his money, and then this casket, and make his way down to set sail.
Whatever he'd vowed with his brother back in the ruined church of Saint Polyeuktos a few days ago, it was now rendered null and void. Lykaion was dead, and nothing remained to keep him in the city.
Still cold to the bone with grief, Skiouros returned to his straw pallet and lay upon it, pulling his cloak about him for its scant warmth, and failed to sleep.
Chapter 9 – An Anatolian Tempest
* Pazar (Sunday) morning *
Skiouros rolled onto his back. The night had not been kind. The cold had lifted a little with the growing overcast - not enough to take the chill out of the air, but the winds had become wicked, battering the deserted church and tearing the branches off trees in the locale, ripping tiles from roofs and destroying anything not thoroughly shut tight.
The rain had come and gone numerous times, though with the power of the wind behind it, it was more often than not horizontal and driving. The intermittent hiss and clatter of it on the church had been interrupted violently at one point when it had actually managed to break a fragile window in the north chapel.
Such conditions would not normally have perturbed the thief, who had spent much of his recent life in a rickety, cheap wooden room with cracks and holes in the walls and inadequate shutters, but with the fresh memory of Lykaion's brutal demise the previous evening and the ensuing grief still ever-present, it had simply removed any possibility of calm or relief.
Thief's Tale Page 20
