It was so unexpectedly light that he'd whipped it open to make sure the head was inside before he realised what a bad idea that might be. Just a few days had passed, but already the change was nightmarish, transforming the head of Lykaion into this worm-eaten, rotting thing. Somehow the wooden reliquary had been designed tightly enough that it seemed to contain the smell and the unpleasantness until - like Pandora's box - it was opened to unleash its evil.
Skiouros stood and dry-heaved, spitting onto the rubble pile for a few moments after sealing the box shut once more. He would remember not to do that again.
But in a way it had been cathartic.
What was in there now was just a thing. It was no longer his brother. It represented him, certainly, but it was nothing more than a representation now. He wondered for a time whether it mattered if the thing was dealt with by the workers? Lykaion's memory and spirit would live strong regardless. But the answer was still yes. He had to take the only surviving part of the older son of Nikos the farmer with him until finally he found somewhere appropriate and safe for him to rest.
Pausing at the doorway to make sure the workmen were busy with their labours, Skiouros scurried across the narthex and out through the door into the cold, refreshing air, where the first few chilly lungfuls removed the last hints of decaying taint from his senses.
Dipping to the pile of workmens' gear outside, he grasped a small, torn hemp sack from the rubble and stuffed the box inside as he walked on.
Gradually, the panorama of the city opened up as he moved down the hill, turning corners until he could finally view the great sea of the Propontis splayed out to the distant horizon. Somewhere beyond that lay Crete and the west. His eyes dropped to the shore, where he could see the great port of Theodosius, its harbour walls resembling two arms reaching out to embrace the sea. Ships were already plying their way through the water.
Somehow, despite the fact that he had no plan and no real idea how he was going to go about leaving, he had the feeling that everything would sort itself out. Perhaps it was the unusually positive statements of the Romani witch and her uncanny insights, but he was feeling optimistic and perhaps even lucky.
Not a head turned as he passed through the forum of the Ox, a small trade market being set up at one end. Briefly he was tempted to swipe a pomegranate from a stall as he passed, but he stopped himself in time, even as his arm extended.
This was not him; not his path any more.
With a strange smile, he passed on through the streets, down beneath the great crenelated tower of the Gate of the Jews and out to the harbour.
The place was so different from his last visit. Ships and boats were everywhere, some stationary - others moving. The sound of carpenters and shipbuilders rang out all around, mixing with the calls and shouts of traders and their teamsters, all beneath the cacophony of the gulls that whirled and swooped.
The feeling of positivity rising, Skiouros made for the merchants' hall but came to a sudden stop as he reached the dockside itself. His eyes strayed up to the great dark wood of the solid, beautiful ship that sat by this jetty, its figurehead a once proud and beautiful blonde girl, now weather-cracked and almost colourless.
"Isabella."
It had to be a sign. He'd never been a man to believe in signs or omens, or even the direct interference of God, but hadn't he seen it first-hand in the form of a fiery lance that had destroyed the Nea Ekklasia? God did intervene, but it was said that he helped those who helped themselves (a phrase he'd always rather liked in his thieving days).
He stood for only a few heartbeats, his face turning this way and that, his gaze switching back and forth between the merchants' hall where so many possibilities of travel lay and the bow of the Isabella, slowly rising and falling by the jetty.
"Alright, God. You win."
With a smile, he turned and strode up the jetty. The long, wooden walkway was manic, with stacks of cargo waiting to be loaded and crewmen and port-workers of every age and nationality up and down the space going about the business of preparing for the voyage.
Skiouros ducked in and out of the stacks of crates and heaps of sacks, pausing here and there as workmen sweated past with loads on their backs.
As he rounded what appeared to be a huge stack of fabric bales, Skiouros almost stumbled into the line of figures. In surprise, he stared at the queue of half a dozen men in long black robes, their small black cylindrical hats forming a tell-tale shape beneath the cowls of their cloaks.
Monks!
"Good afternoon" he said amiably to the rearmost one.
The monk at the back of the queue, a short and slight figure compared to the rest, turned to Skiouros and the thief could just make out the pale, young face of a handsome boy within the hood before his eyes registered with suspicion the rectangular parcel the young monk was carrying beneath his arm.
His eyes slid down to the box beneath his own armpit. It was almost like looking in a strange monastic mirror. Skiouros fought the urge to laugh.
"You've a familiar looking parcel there."
The young monk simply looked at him, his face immobile, and Skiouros frowned.
"Have I offended you, brother?"
At the head of the line, a tall, narrow figure in the same black cloak turned and Skiouros saw a bushy white beard in the shadow of the cowl.
"He will not answer you. Our novices are expected to remain silent in contemplation of their path." He voice took on an irritated, haughty tone and Skiouros could picture the nostrils flaring in the hood. "And show some respect, as a good Greek should. This is no 'parcel', but a relic of unsurpassed value."
Something inside Skiouros clicked into place and he bowed his head with a slight, almost hidden smile.
"Of course, father. My apologies. May I ask after the nature of this most holy item?"
There was the faint suggestion of a 'huff' of irritation within the cowl.
"We bear the head of Saint Theodoros to safety at the church of Saint Titos in Heraklion, where it will sit in grace next to the skull of that church's great namesake. This heathen hell-hole is no longer a fitting place for a saint's bones. The Patriarch is trying to ship out all relics to good Christian lands."
Skiouros had to fight to stop himself laughing out loud. God certainly did move in ways most mysterious, as priests said. The old father had turned away again, clearly annoyed at these interruptions by the ignorant. As Skiouros stood at the rear of the line, wondering what to do, a man with long, greasy black hair and a pointy beard arrived at the front, tying his locks into a pony tail and folding his arms before addressing the father.
"There are too many of you, father. Your passage was only booked for four, and three of those are in hammocks."
"The hierarch assured me that he had arranged passage for us all. We are expected to join the community at the monastery in Heraklion. This is simply not good enough."
A polite discussion - bordering on argument - ensued between the ship's purser and the head priest. Skiouros looked around. Not a single pair of eyes was on him.
Damn it. It was just too easy.
Some helpful workers had dumped a large pile of used crates next to the one of cloth bales that had already towered next to him.
"Oh come on, God!"
But he'd only promised himself no thieving, and there were a multitude of sins that escaped that appellation. God would surely forgive him? Had the Lord not engineered all this just for him? It was hard to deny it.
The black-clad novice with the box under his arm issued barely a hiss of breath, let alone a squawk as he was suddenly jerked backwards off his feet into the privacy afforded by the two piles of goods.
The four brothers from the Pammakaristos monastery faced the ship, their attention locked on the negotiations between purser and father, the heated debate masking the strange noises from among the piles of goods at their rear. Within half a minute, the novice was back at the end of the line, decorative holy reliquary beneath his arm, clutched tig
ht as though his life depended upon it. One or two flies hovered hopefully near the box.
An agreement was reached between the two men and it was announced that extra hammocks would be provided at no extra charge on the understanding that the church would look favourably on the activities of Captain Parmenio in the future. Skiouros counted three heartbeats before the line of monks started forward towards the boarding plank. He lowered his head so that his face disappeared within the gloom of the cowl. A novice would be expected to keep himself so attired at all times, very helpfully. The only thing that might give him away was the fine quality leather of his boots but, with the shuffling gait set by the old priests, his feet were safely hidden in the voluminous robe.
As a stack of cloth bales was strong-armed past them towards the mobile platform and its winch, Skiouros smiled. Behind him, the empty crates were shoved onto a cart to return to the warehouses, heedless of the rough-sandaled foot that protruded from one of the larger boxes. The novice would wake with a headache, and for that Skiouros couldn't help but feel sorry, but there it was: God helped those who helped themselves. By the time word of the lad's failure to board reached Crete, Skiouros would be long gone.
His nostrils were still stinging with the pungent stink of rotten meat, despite the fact that the sea air had blown the smell away almost instantly, and he flapped the flies away from the box as he approached the boarding plank.
The journey to Crete would take almost two weeks, unless Captain Parmenio felt the need to push things. It could be difficult to keep the persona of the novice with the box for all that time, but Skiouros had a feeling that the young man was hardly expected to do anything more than hold the box and shut up, so perhaps it would not be as tough as all that. He'd given up thieving… not lying. Maybe that would be next when they reached Crete.
Off to the right, between the third jetty where he had boarded and the Syrian merchantman that sat at the second, an old, unadorned wooden box continued to bob in the harbour's water for a few moments before disappearing beneath the surface, taking the fabled head of Saint Theodorus with it.
* Heraklion, Crete: Year of Our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Ninety *
It had not been an easy crossing of the Cretan Sea since the last stop at Santirini, with the winter gales now truly here and the howling winds whipping the oft glass-like surface into white peaks and green-grey troughs that threatened to smash and swallow the Venetian caravel. Skiouros had never sailed before, other than short crossings of the Bosporos in ferry boats, but had quickly discovered, that it felt natural and freeing. In fact, he would have loved the voyage had he not discovered through judicious eavesdropping that first afternoon on the ship before they sailed, that Brother Ianni, the novice whose place he had taken, was a martyr to sea-sickness. Consequently, he had been forced to overeat the worst, fattiest and most rotten foods on board in order to appear ill at all times and dutifully throw up repeatedly, spending much of the passage at the ship's rail, day and night.
But now, even as his pale green-grey face, hidden in the robe's voluminous hood, puckered for another session triggered by the piece of old fish he'd found beneath his hammock and stuffed into his mouth this morning, he eyed the approaching land and sighed with relief as he leaned across the rail and emptied his gut.
Heraklion was accorded all the honour of a capital, and it certainly was sizeable and well defended, but to one who had come from Istanbul - the most powerful city in the world - it still seemed a little provincial.
The enormous, solid shape of the harbour fortress bobbed towards them, occasionally obscured by the crash of a salty wave against the ship's side, soaking Skiouros' already sodden robe.
Beyond the huge, heavy bulk of that square castle the harbour walls enclosed a port that looked calm and quiet compared with the sea beyond. Behind that the city opened up, huge strong walls stretching out to each side to protect the island's main city.
It would be good to set foot on land. He had loved the journey and the chance to see so many ancient and fantastical places en-route, but the constant guise-required sickness had drained him and made his sight-seeing as much a chore as a joy.
In a way, although the illness deception had left Skiouros exhausted and frail, thin and colourless, it had really been a Godsend. Despite the requirement to maintain his garments and keep his peace, it would have been exceeding difficult to maintain the guise of the novice constantly throughout the journey, particularly at meal times. The fact that he could not eat with the other passengers, as he only nibbled when desperate and even then often vomited shortly after, made his seclusion easier. His seemingly constant illness and foul smell kept everyone at bay, crew and travellers alike, and that was the true saving grace to his disguise. In fact he had hardly had even a moment of human contact since the journey had begun, barring the one strange incident, of course.
Four nights ago, the Isabella had put into port at Agios Kirykos on the isle of Ikaria, a small merchant port on a beleaguered island under the protection of the Knights of Rhodes and regularly beset by Ottoman pirates. Captain Parmenio had felt that, despite his carrying trade authorisations from the Vizier in Istanbul, it was better to seek the protection of such a place for the slight detour than to run directly through enemy infested waters without restocking and seeking the latest reports of pirate activity.
The men of the ship's crew had variously stayed aboard to go about their tasks or headed for the nearest drinking and whoring establishments in town, and the other five monks had made for the church to pay their respects and devotions. Skiouros had found that, once again, he was ignored and left to his own sickly devices.
He had waited until everyone else had gone ashore or busied themselves, and had then finally disembarked and sought the one place he knew none of the sailors would go: a quiet local tavern. After days confined aboard ship, the men of Parmenio's vessel sought companionship and raucous entertainment, not a quiet repast. Let them have it. After days of eating rotten fish and soggy biscuits and even half a rat at one point, Skiouros had sought real, honest food and a cup of plain, even watered, wine. It stood to reason that, though the town would have probably more than one bawdy house for visiting sailors, many of the locals would prefer to frequent a quiet, sensible inn.
He was right.
It took very little time or effort to locate the 'Poseidon's Table' and confirm that its clientele consisted almost entirely of old island men, fishermen and farmers, every one an indigenous soul. Outside the door he had removed the monk's robe, hat and hood, returning to the plain, if filthy clothes beneath, before entering. He had gratefully ordered a plain meal of lamb, bread, olives and vegetables, paid for it and a cup of wine and sunk into a seat by a table near the roaring log fire. It was the most comfortable he'd been in weeks.
Perhaps the desire for that was what had made him drop his guard so much. Stupid, really. Four days from the end of the voyage and he'd put his guise in danger for the sake of a warm fire and a good meal.
He had almost shrivelled into his seat when the two men walked in.
Captain Parmenio had looked around the inn with satisfaction, his eyes lingering for just a moment too long on Skiouros before returning to the bar. Nicolo, the Venetian purser with the pony tail and pointy beard, had transacted with the innkeeper and the two men had then undergone what looked to Skiouros like a completely fictitious deliberation about where to sit before crossing to Skiouros' table and asking in polite Greek whether they could take the empty seats.
The two officers had spent the following hour discussing the ship and its cargo, possible destinations for their next voyage, trouble they were having with two Spaniards on the crew and other such mundanities, occasionally conversing genially with Skiouros, politely enquiring as to the situation on the island and the piracy in the local waters.
Skiouros had fluffed his way through local gossip with standard replies that would fit almost any island town. When it came to piracy he avowed no knowledge, being a simple s
hepherd, and suggested they ask one of the Knights at the watch house by the other end of the bay. Parmenio had smiled and agreed, turning back to his conversation with Nicolo.
As soon as Skiouros had finished his meal and downed his wine, he had made as polite an excuse as he could and hurried from the bar, unravelling the monastic cloak and slightly crushed hat he had been using as a cushion and shrugging into it as he descended the dark, winding street back to the small dock where the Isabella sat gently bobbing in the dark waters.
For some time that night and the next day, Skiouros had judiciously avoided both the officers in his choice of vomiting positions, but the pair had paid no particular attention to him anyway, and his panic had soon eased. It was a coincidence. After all, neither man had ever seen Skiouros' face before without its darkened, Turkish pigmentation or concealing shadowed hood, so there was no real reason they should have thought him anything other than an islander.
Still when, two days later, the caravel had stopped at Santirini due to the sighting of potentially enemy vessels, Skiouros had opted to stay on board and play the sick novice once more.
Since then things had run as smoothly as a writhing, bucking, dipping and swaying ship could allow, and now Skiouros felt his spirits lift as they neared the harbour.
The box containing Lykaion's head had been taken from him on the first night by one of the senior priests, who seemed not to trust the abilities of the sea-sick young novice to keep it safe. They appeared to think that he would accidentally drop it over the side in his constant retching. Truth be told, he was glad of their decision. After all, he would be relinquishing the box into their hands when they arrived, so they might as well carry it while aboard.
The great fortress at Heraklion's harbour entrance slipped past, heavy cannon bristling from every embrasure to cover the nautical approaches to this city, Venice's eastern jewel. The change in the ship's motion as it slipped from the choppy waters of the sea into the calm harbour was instantly noticeable and Skiouros peered into the spray, aware that the clouds above the island were threatening drizzle, and watching the huge warehouses, arsenals and mercantile buildings of the port sliding towards them, the jetties reaching out in welcome.
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