Jack of Ravens

by Mark Chadbourn

  ‘Hello, mate,’ he said in an emotionless South London accent. ‘It’s taken a few years to track you down, but I always knew we’d hook up sooner or later.’

  Blankly staring, Church tried to draw on the distant echoes that rang in the gulf where his memory should be.

  ‘Don’t remember me? I’m hurt. The name’s Veitch. Ryan Veitch.’

  Veitch stepped forward and swung his sword. The last thing Church saw was Veitch’s face, filled with venom.

  12

  Church woke to the creak of wood, the rhythmic splash of water and the tang of salt in the air. His head still rang from where it had taken the flat of Veitch’s blade. He was in the dark, damp confines of a ship’s hold, surrounded by amphorae, and the swelling motion of the boat told him he was at sea. Manacles had chafed his wrists raw. He didn’t know how long he had been out, but his throat was arid and his muscles ached from where his arms had been fastened behind him.

  The first coherent thought that sprang to Church’s mind was Veitch. Was he the one who had killed Etain and the others, and had scrawled ‘SCUM’ on the wall? He clearly knew Church. But the weight of his hatred was shocking. What could possibly have happened between them?

  After half an hour, an olive-skinned man with wild black hair brought a bowl of oats and honey which he fed to Church roughly. Church tried to engage his jailer in conversation, but the man ignored him, and wouldn’t meet Church’s eyes.

  Sometime later, when the gloom had deepened, Veitch came to visit. He entered like a ghost; Church didn’t hear a thing and only noticed accidentally that Veitch was watching him, his hallucinogenic tattoos glowing in the shadows.

  ‘Come to taunt or torture?’ Church said.

  ‘Either would work for me.’ He crossed the space between them with the restrained grace and power of a jungle beast. His sword was sheathed, but Church could still sense it; his stomach churned and his teeth went on edge the closer it came to him.

  Veitch leaned on the bulkhead a few feet away, tugging gently on his beard as he eyed Church coldly. Something crackled between them – a weight of history, a connection, rich and deep and complex, but Church had no context in which to place it.

  ‘You’re a tough bastard to catch, I’ll give you that,’ Veitch said.

  ‘You killed Etain and the others in Carn Euny.’

  ‘Yeah, I did. How’s that working out for you? It was, what do you call it?’ He sifted his words carefully. ‘A gesture. A message, from me to you. A million and one things wrapped up in one little picture. Did you get what I was trying to say?’

  ‘How could you do that? They hadn’t done anything to you.’ Church tried to keep his rage under control.

  ‘I wanted it lying on your conscience for all time. Because they wouldn’t have died if it hadn’t been for you. A lot of people are going to die because of you. And you … now I’ve got you, you’re going to die, too.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Yeah, they told me they’d managed to get part of your memory. Shame. It’d screw you up even more if you really knew why I was doing this. You want the short answer? Revenge.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Killing me.’

  Church scanned Veitch’s face to see if the tattooed man was joking, but his eyes gave nothing away. ‘Doesn’t look as if it’s done you much harm.’

  ‘Life’s a bitch and then you die. Except death’s a bitch too and you keep coming back. An endless cycle of bleedin’ misery.’ He paused thoughtfully, then shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I got myself an upgrade from the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders.’

  ‘You’ve proved you’ve got a smart mouth and you’re good at sneering. Now how about giving me something I can work with?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ Veitch pulled up the jailer’s stool and sat eye to eye with Church. ‘You and me used to be mates, back in the days yet to come, when they’ve invented TV and fucking deodorant. You were the brains and I was the brawn, and one couldn’t get along without the other.’

  ‘You were a Brother of Dragons.’

  ‘See, there you go. Like mustard.’ Veitch’s gaze was drawn to a tattoo of a spider on his forearm. Church could see other illustrations that had an eerie resonance – a dragon; a pentacle, the five points tipped in red; a flaming sword.

  ‘The five of us … the best group there’d been in all history,’ Veitch continued. ‘The last best hope of the human race. The gods came back to take our world and we fought them off, and all the stinking beasts that came with them. We lost a lot –’ he held up his mechanical silver hand and examined it in the half-light ‘but we won the battle, and that’s what counts, right? Only it turns out there was a bigger threat hiding behind the one we saw off. It was supposed to be down to us again—’

  ‘Except you went over to the other side.’

  Veitch laughed coldly. ‘Blimey, they did scoop out your brains, didn’t they? I went bad? Mate, you turned on me when we were doing our victory dance and you gutted me like a carp … and sent the world to hell in a handcart at the same time.’

  ‘Now I know you’re screwing with me. Why would I do that?’

  Veitch’s smile faded. ‘Over a woman. She loved me. You wanted her. So you got me out of the way once all the heavy lifting was done.’

  ‘Ruth,’ Church said.

  ‘Ruth Gallagher. The Uber-witch, that’s what that bitch Laura always called her. She was beautiful. Smart. Sexy. And she wanted me. Ryan bleedin’ Veitch, no-hoper and part-time villain from South London. The best thing that ever happened to me, she was. And you couldn’t deal with the fact that she chose me over you. So you stuck me with that fancy magic sword of yours. And you wonder why I’ve got a bit of a grudge?’

  Church was stunned. Veitch could have been lying, but he didn’t look as if he was.

  ‘But, here’s the … irony. That’s a good word, isn’t it? Irony. You’d done your treacherous business, got the woman of your dreams, and then Existence went and booted you back to the dawn of bleedin’ time. You got your punishment, served your “time”.’ He laughed bitterly once more. ‘Now it’s up to me to make sure there’s no pot of gold waiting for you at the end.’

  ‘So let me get this straight – you’ve gone over to the other side because of a grudge against me? The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons are supposed to be the champions of life. The spiders are opposed to us, so what does that make them? The end result is that you’re standing shoulder to shoulder with something that’s fighting against life itself.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m dead so it’s not such a big bleedin’ leap, is it? Wanker.’ Veitch stood up and kicked the stool across the hold. ‘Got my own Brothers and Sisters now. They aren’t too keen on life, or Existence. They aren’t going to stab me in the back, or cut me loose when I need them.’ The hurt in his voice was barely restrained.

  ‘So you’ve made your own Brothers and Sisters of … Spiders. And you’ve got me now. What’s the point of all this?’ Church rattled his chains.

  Veitch opened his mouth to speak, then caught himself. He gave an enigmatic, humourless smile before walking off into the enveloping dark.

  13

  Veitch made his way across the creaking deck, cursing quietly every time he had to fight against the swell for his balance. The silver moon marked a path across the dark ocean. England’s dismal weather was falling behind; warm days beckoned.

  Veitch had thought himself inured to the extremes of human emotion. For a long time he’d been a machine, focusing on the job at hand while keeping his feelings battened down. But seeing Church had brought everything back in one queasy surge, all the pain and the misery, the rage and the relentless urge to kill him. He hated Church even more for making him feel that way.

  He made his way to the captain’s quarters, which were cramped and filled with the fruity aroma of the oil lamp sizzling on the side. The Libertarian sat with his boots on the table, pouring himself a goblet of red wine. His eyes took o
n an unnervingly bloody hue in the lamplight.

  ‘And how is our prisoner?’ he asked laconically.

  Veitch hated his supercilious attitude and the way he often tried to pretend that Veitch was some menial. It wouldn’t take much to prompt Veitch to plunge his black blade into the Libertarian’s heart.

  ‘He wants to know what’s planned for him,’ Veitch replied sullenly.

  ‘But he’s not afraid, is he?’ A smile played on the edges of the Libertarian’s lips.

  ‘He will be.’ Veitch knew it was a lie the moment he uttered it. He’d never known Church to be scared of anything; that’s why Existence had made him the leader of the Five.

  ‘And how about you? Have you indulged yourself with him? A few taunts … a kick here and there to keep the bitterness at bay?’ The Libertarian laughed quietly, sipped his wine.

  Veitch allowed his hand to slip to his sword; as always it whispered soothing words that calmed him. Not now, later. There was always time.

  ‘’Course,’ Veitch said, ‘things would be a lot simpler if you could just reach in and snap his neck, or whatever it is you do. Can’t, though, can you?’

  A flicker of a shadow crossed the Libertarian’s face. ‘The years move fast, and soon I will be able to do what I want. I am a patient man. I can afford to bide my time.’

  At the back of the cabin was an even smaller room. Veitch entered and closed the door behind him. Two benches faced each other, with a single chair beyond. A candle flickered greasily in one corner. On one bench sat Etain and Tannis, on the other Branwen and Owein. Their eyes snapped towards him as one with an eerie mechanical motion. Their faces were filled with pale horror.

  Veitch sat in the chair and stretched, feeling the calm return. ‘All right, team. How we doin’?’ he said.

  No one answered.

  14

  Church didn’t see Veitch again for the rest of the long journey. His silent jailer was the only person he encountered, and then at just one meal-time each day. There were times when he was sure the ship was sinking, so rough were the waves that almost turned the vessel on its end, flooding freezing sea water through the hold. At other times, a swell of nine feet or more left Church retching until his stomach was empty.

  Eventually the ship reached calmer waters where the temperature grew balmy, and not long after Church heard the hungry cries of gulls. Finally the ship came to rest with a bump, followed by the thunderous grind of the anchor chain running over the deck into the water.

  An hour later his jailer tied a stinking sack over Church’s head, unlocked his manacles, tied his hands behind his back and hauled him on deck. Church guessed the sack was more for humiliation than to hide his identity; he would be seen as a broken prisoner, not a champion of life.

  He was led down a shaking gangplank onto solid ground. The June sun was hot on his shoulders, the atmosphere dry. All around he could hear the sounds of a busy port, the shouts of workmen, the snorts of beasts of burden, the creak of ropes and the crash of wooden crates on stone.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked, not expecting an answer.

  Someone leaned in close. ‘Ostia. Know where that is, smart boy?’ It was Veitch.

  ‘The port of Rome,’ he replied.

  15

  The journey from Ostia to the centre of Rome took what felt like hours to Church, as he was jolted black and blue in the back of a cart. As they neared, the noise grew louder until it became an unbearable hubbub that must have driven the residents mad. The Romans spent most of their lives on the street, trading, arguing, eating food cooked on portable stoves, and their activities created an atmosphere that was both exciting and oppressive.

  Finally the cart came to a halt. ‘We walk from here,’ Veitch said. ‘No wagons in the city during the day.’

  Church stumbled after a few steps, falling flat on a rutted street ankle-deep in rubbish and excrement. Veitch laughed hard, then dragged Church to his feet and ripped off the sack. ‘Don’t want you breaking your neck before we’re done with you,’ he said.

  Despite his predicament, Church felt a rush of excitement at seeing history alive around him. Open-fronted shops lined the crowded street, with apartment blocks – insulae – rising up five or six storeys all around. Despite the gulf of centuries, it was not unlike modern cities – noisy, dirty, exciting, fast-living, cosmopolitan.

  Veitch led him past dogs scavenging in the rubbish and children playing some kind of dice game with animal knucklebones. ‘So much for culture,’ he said. ‘This place stinks.’

  Church nodded to a series of large vats simmering in the hot sun. ‘That would be the liquamen – fish sauce made from fermented fish guts. They boil it up everywhere. Or it’s those jars of piss.’ Nearby, an elderly man had pulled his toga aside to urinate in a pot. ‘They sell it to laundries and fullers for dissolving the animal fats and grease in fresh wool.’ Church watched Veitch’s expression grow thoughtful. ‘What’s on your mind?’ Church asked. ‘Thinking of the best place to murder me?’

  ‘I’m always thinking about that.’ He surveyed the street scene. ‘You used to tell me all that kind of bollocks when we were on the same side.’

  ‘Learn a lot?’

  A pause. ‘Yeah, I did.’

  A procession of actors passed by in gaudy costumes and masks. The most striking mask resembled a rising sun with rays spiking out a full foot around the actor’s head. Church knew they were preparing for one of the spectacles that marked the week-long Ludi Apollinares, the celebration of the god Apollo that would take place in a few short weeks, in July. A connection sparked in his mind: did the timing have something to do with the disappearance of Lugh, another sun god?

  ‘I don’t remember doing the things you claim,’ Church said.

  ‘Trust me. You did.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking it over since you told me. I can’t imagine any situation where I would murder an ally … a friend.’

  There was none of the angry denial that Church had anticipated. Veitch said simply, ‘She’s a great woman. Worth killing for.’

  ‘Nobody’s worth killing for.’

  ‘You really have forgotten a lot.’

  ‘I know what I feel for her, but—’

  ‘You love her. I love her. The winner is the one left standing at the end.’

  Church felt uncomfortable talking to Veitch about Ruth and changed the subject. ‘Are you going to tell me how come you’re here, all hale and hearty, if I killed you?’

  ‘Death isn’t the end of it, mate. It’s not just turning out the light. It’s …’ He stared dreamily into the middle distance, squinting against the bright Roman light. ‘It’s like leaving a room. You go through a door and you’re somewhere else. And then there’s another door. And another. There’s always more doors.’

  ‘So you found your way back, is that what you’re saying?’

  Veitch nodded to a young man talking animatedly to a bored, white-haired senator. ‘Let’s just say I found myself a patron.’

  As a group of men passed by noisily, Church turned sharply and headbutted Veitch full in the face. He knew it was probably his only chance to break free. It was difficult to run with his hands tied behind his back, and he hadn’t got far when a centurion brought him down.

  ‘Know your place, slave,’ he snarled. Church tried to throw him off, but the centurion had the leverage to pin Church flat until Veitch caught up. Veitch thanked the centurion and then launched a series of furious kicks at Church. He thought he felt a rib crack, but managed to return a couple of kicks before Veitch booted him in the face and knocked him out.

  He came round as Veitch dragged him up to the grand bath-house of Diocletian. ‘Try that again and I’ll break your fucking neck,’ Veitch hissed.

  ‘If I get the chance, you know I’ll do it.’

  ‘Just try it. Make me happy.’

  The scale of the newly built complex took Church’s breath away; it covered thirty-two acres and could accommodate up to 3,000 bathers. They pa
ssed the crowds swarming at the entrance and went through an open-roofed lounge where men and women sunbathed or took part in traditional Roman pastimes: gossiping, playing board games, wrestling naked, their skin oiled and glistening, or playing the catch game trigon with sand-filled balls.

  Several long corridors eventually led them to a private changing room where a man was undressing with the help of two slaves. He had curly black hair, a beard and moustache and skin darker than the average Roman’s. There was a subtle air of desperation about him.

  He remained aloof, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of fear when he saw Veitch. ‘Is this the one?’

  ‘Jack Churchill, Brother of Dragons. The first and last.’

  The man nodded thoughtfully as the slaves removed his toga. A black metallic spider gleamed on his left breast.

  ‘My name is Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maxentius,’ he said to Church without looking at him. ‘This city is mine. Soon this Empire will be mine. And you are mine now, as all things shall fall to me.’

  ‘Don’t bother talking down to him,’ Veitch said dispassionately. ‘He’s a smartarse. He probably knows more about you than you know about yourself.’

  Church did know Maxentius. Despite the bravado the Roman exhibited, he was a man defined by failure. He was the son of the emperor Maximian, but had suffered the indignity of being passed over for high office when both Maximian and Diocletian had resigned the previous year.

  His future held even worse. In a few weeks, after the death of Constantius in Eboracum, his son Constantine would gain the rank of Caesar, leaving Maxentius out in the cold once again. It would drive Maxentius to months of political intrigue to gain the title of Augustus he so desperately wanted, only to lose it, and his life, in a war with Constantine six years hence.

  Church recalled all the textbooks he had read about that turning point in world history. When Constantine’s army met Maxentius’s forces on the Plain of Mihian outside the gates of Rome, Constantine was said to have sought the aid of the gods and was rewarded by the appearance of a flaming cross in the sky.