The next day, Constantine’s men bore crosses on their shields and carried a Christian standard. Maxentius and his men were driven back to a pontoon bridge over the Tiber, which collapsed under their weight. Thousands were drowned, including Maxentius. Constantine went on to become Rome’s first Christian emperor and his support led to Christianity becoming the dominant religion of Western Europe. Was this crucial moment in history the reason behind the Army of the Ten Billion Spider’s interest?
Maxentius snorted, but Church could see that Veitch’s comment troubled him. The Roman walked into the tepidarium, beckoning for Veitch to follow.
‘The spider is controlling him,’ Church said, ‘but he’s got more free will than the others I’ve seen under their influence.’
‘That’s how they need him. Now get your arse in there.’ Veitch shoved Church roughly.
In the cool air of the large vaulted hall, Maxentius flexed his muscles to acclimatise himself. He gave Church a cursory glance. ‘He does not look like a fearsome enemy.’
‘He’s the one. Now, you better keep close tabs on him because he’s a tricky bastard and if he gets to his sword your guts will be experiencing life on the outside.’
‘It is one of the three great swords?’ Maxentius said hungrily.
‘One of them, but not the greatest. Not Caledfwlch. This stupid bastard has hidden that one so he can find it again in the future to defend the land. Before he even knows what it is.’
‘But it has the power?’ Maxentius urged.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll wring it out like a sponge. You’ll get everything you want. Things are going to turn out in a whole new way.’
There it was: the confirmation Church needed.
‘I’ve had the sword sent to the temple,’ Veitch continued. ‘I’ve got other business here. Can I count on you to get him to the temple without any screw-ups?’
‘Of course.’ Maxentius clapped his hands and several guards emerged from an annexe.
‘Sorry, mate,’ Veitch said to Church superciliously, ‘but as my old nan used to say, your goose is cooked.’
16
The guards propelled Church to the Forum Romanum, which swarmed with life, though only a few paid any attention to his passing. Church bided his time in the hope that an opportunity for escape would present itself.
After a few minutes he was herded down the Argileto, the ancient road between the Basilica Aemilla and the Curia Julia where the senate had met for more than 250 years. There, in a walled compound, stood a temple built of wood, which signified its great age even in a city as ancient as Rome. Two gates at the entrance to the compound stood open, and between them was a bust with four heads.
‘Kneel before the god of gods!’ One of the guards roughly shoved Church to his knees before the bust.
‘The gates are open,’ another said in a tone reminiscent of a ritualistic chant. ‘War has been loosed across the land.’
Church was hauled to his feet and thrust through one of the gates. The guards waited uneasily at the threshold. ‘Into the temple!’ one of them barked.
Church surveyed the small wooden building. It was almost insignificant against the grander stone constructions all around. Church hesitated, but he had no other place to go. The cracked, age-old door swung open with a juddering creak and Church stepped inside.
It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He was in a chamber with a floor of beaten clay, large and airy with several doors on each wall. A spot in the centre of the floor was illuminated by a thin beam of light from a small window in the roof. It was only then that Church realised that the inner dimensions of the room did not fit the building outside which he had stood. The chamber was much larger than it should have been and the doors suggested a complex that would have dwarfed the tiny wooden temple. Behind him, the entrance door was now shut, though he had not heard it close.
An oppressive atmosphere filled the gloomy space. Church sensed some sort of presence close at hand yet always out of view. The tension mounted as though a generator was being cranked, filling the chamber with a sense of impending arrival. A distant scratching rose up behind one of the doors, drawing closer, and behind another, and another, until it sounded as if a multitude was approaching every door.
Doors. Church recalled what the guard had said about kneeling before the god’s god and he knew where he was: in the Temple of Janus, the dual-faced god of doors and new beginnings. The cult of Janus pre-dated all others in Rome, and in the Empire’s list of gods he always came first and carried the surname Divom Deus, the god’s god. Church had always found it strange that Janus was unique: no god like him appeared in any other mythology.
The scratching had become the pounding of tiny feet rushing towards the doors. Church’s breath caught in his throat. One other thought came to him: Janus was also the god of departures, and all that entailed.
One by one the doors began to open. Church fumbled for a handle on the door behind him, but there was none.
The doors swung open with a single, echoing crash. From every opening flooded tiny creatures the size and shape of monkeys but with shiny skin as black as oil and eyes that glowed with a fierce green light. Tumbling and leaping, they swarmed around Church, tearing at his clothes and skin. The sheer weight of their numbers pulled him from his feet and carried him through one of the doors into an even larger hall made of stone.
Tossed and turned on tiny hands, Church occasionally caught sight of a sapphire light and realised it was his sword, hanging in the air, blade down, with no visible means of support. The monkey-creatures dragged him before it and held him tight.
There was movement in the gloom at the back of the chamber, which appeared to stretch on for ever. The apprehension that had been building since he entered the chamber now felt like a rock on his chest.
He’s coming, he thought.
Clouds appeared in the air, folding in on themselves before billowing out as though they were being pumped by an invisible machine. They were backlit by an emerald glow, and as they rushed towards him, Church made out a figure in their midst, either taking shape or moving through them.
The turbulent clouds came to a halt nine feet from Church. The emerging figure was dressed in long, flowing robes of what appeared to be black satin, shimmering as if a thousand stars were sewn into the fabric. One thin, long-fingered hand clutched an oversized gold key with a large loop for a handle, and in the other hand was an ironwood stick: one to open the doors and the other to drive away those who had no right to cross the threshold.
At first Church couldn’t make out the god’s features – they swam like oil and water as his brain sought to perceive something that was beyond perception. His grasping mind superimposed several images: a politician whose name he couldn’t recall; someone who resembled Aleister Crowley; Alexander the Great. Finally one set of features coalesced into relief: bone-white skin framed by lank, black hair, gaunt cheeks with an aquiline nose, slanted piercing eyes. The face remained that way for a moment before shifting to a negative image – sable skin, white hair – and then back again. It continued to shift disconcertingly.
‘I am the opener and closer of ways,’ he said in a voice like a knife on glass. ‘I oversee all beginnings. I am the daybreak and the twilight. I am the chaos that was prevalent when you all began, and the chaos when it all falls to nothing.’
Church felt sickened by the waves of power coming off the figure. It was not like the faint electricity he felt near Niamh, but something altogether darker and more terrible.
Janus fixed his dual gaze on Church, who felt it pass through his skull and into his brain. ‘You are the Brother of Dragons, the first and the last. The Daughters of the Night told me of your existence. Once I had chosen the path upon which I now walk, it was inevitable that you would arrive at my temple.’ He gave a satisfied smile. ‘So powerful for a Fragile Creature, yet here, in my temple. If proof were needed that the path of Existence is wrong, it is here.’
; Church read the meaning in Janus’s words. ‘You’re on the spiders’ side.’
‘And here you are, caught in the web.’
17
Church felt the pain that swathed him as much on a spiritual and psychological level as he did the wracking agony that filled his limbs. He hung in the air in a dark chamber identical to a hundred other dark chambers through which he had been brought. The walls and ceilings were lost to the gloom; all sense of time had disappeared along with his sense of space.
He recalled Janus dragging those long, thin fingers across his forehead, and then a period of fragmentary unconsciousness when he had been carried by the monkey-creatures to wherever he was now suspended by invisible strings. The sword hung nearby, its faint blue light a comfort. But that light was fading, like Church’s own light.
Black bands like the strands of a giant web crisscrossed the chamber. They wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and they were attached to Church’s fingers and arms, feet, groin, torso and head, where it felt as if they passed through his skin and bone and into the very depths of his consciousness.
The strands were linked to what looked like a hunk of black meat, sweaty and glistening, high above his head. Every now and then it pulsed, and he felt a corresponding pain deep within him, as though his insides were being sucked out through the strands. He knew what it meant: the Pendragon Spirit was being leached out of him, and from Llyrwyn. Soon he would be a Fragile Creature in every sense, and then the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders could do whatever it wanted to him.
If he strained his head back he could see one strand, thicker than the others, running from the black meat to something that had at first made his head swim in the same way that Janus’s features had. Eventually it had come to resemble an Arabian lamp. The genie was being put back in the bottle.
Though he was weakening by the hour, Church still strained to break free, but every time he moved a coil of the black meat cinched a notch tighter around his neck. If he put enough pressure on one of the meaty strands, he hoped he would be able to break it; and if one went, then the others would follow. Gritting his teeth, he tried again. The strand around his throat jerked tighter. His vision swam and he could barely get any air into his lungs.
Rationally, he knew it was hopeless, but he was determined not to give in; too much was relying on him. Making his neck muscles rigid to hold off the ligature, he tried again. The strand stretched but did not break and agony flooded his system. He tried one more time and his air supply was cut off completely. He thrashed impotently for a moment as he choked dryly, and then he blacked out again.
When he came round the ligature had loosened a little.
‘I know what you’re thinking, mate.’
Church jumped at Veitch’s voice, coming from somewhere in the shadows.
‘ “Boohoo, why is this happening to me? All I wanted to do was help people.” It’s a bastard, isn’t it? No good deed shall go unpunished.’
Church found it an effort to speak. ‘You’re enjoying being … a traitor …’
After a period of heavy silence, Veitch replied, ‘You’re the traitor.’ He tried to modulate his voice, but hurt and anger laced his words. ‘There’s no need to fight about that any more. I’ve won. You’ve lost. Game over. You know what I’m going to do now? I’m going back to my little home in the Otherworld for some r ’n’ r, then I’m going to hook up with my own little band of Brothers and Sisters and spend the next few centuries dropping in and out of this world, killing every single Brother and Sister of Dragons I come across. You can lie here and think about that. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. And all their blood is going to be on your hands, just like the first four.’
By the time Church had accepted the full implications of Veitch’s words, the ringing silence told him he was alone. Overhead the hunk of black meat pulsed and another drop of Pendragon Spirit drained away. A black wash of despair flowed in to replace it.
‘Don’t give in to it.’
Another voice, this time warm, hopeful, familiar. ‘Who?’ Church croaked.
‘That hurts. Forgotten so quickly.’
Church strained to look around, but he was alone.
‘The Romans loved a good deus ex machina, so this is rather fitting. I’m the god from the machine of Existence. I’m always with you, Church – I’m in everything. I’m your very own Jiminy Cricket, here to whisper in your ear when times get darkest. No? Okay, let’s open the bomb-bay doors.’
‘Hal?’ Church recalled the voice in the Blue Fire in the strange place beneath Boskawen-Un. ‘Where are you?’
‘I told you – here, there and everywhere.’ Church heard a hissing sound and noticed a blue glow emanating from the Arabian lamp. ‘My consciousness exists in the Blue Fire, Church, and the Blue Fire is in everything – you, the world, every single human being. It links our world to T’ir n’a n’Og and all the other worlds beyond. It’s the lifeblood of Existence, the stuff that holds it all together, so I guess that’s what I am, too.’
‘Come to tell me how I’ve failed the master plan?’
‘Don’t talk. Conserve your strength. I told you before that I’m not going to tell you everything – the process of learning is one of the things that’s going to make you or break you – but I can give you one or two carrots just to tide you over until dinner time. Okay, as you’ve probably guessed, I used to be like you: a Fragile Creature – and a Brother of Dragons – but I was one of the next generation after yours, the last in the line. Our team didn’t do so well, Church. We failed. Not completely, though. Our one little victory was that I would give up my life to allow my consciousness to enter the Blue Fire. But that’s what being a Brother and Sister of Dragons is all about, right? Sacrifice for the greater good. Once I’d entered the Blue, I was outside all the stupid physical laws we’re used to. I got to exist in alltimes and all-places at once, ’cause that’s what the Blue Fire does. And I got to see reality from the outside. Boy, Church, it makes a lot more sense from here, I can tell you.’
‘Why did you—?’
‘Why did I give up the ghost? To bring you back, of course. Your group of Brothers and Sisters of Dragons – you, Ruth, Shavi, Laura, even Veitch – you were the team supreme. Everyone knew that. And if Ruth was the Uber-witch, you were the Uber-king, the first amongst equals. I know you can’t see it from your perspective, but you’re a good man determined to do good things whatever the personal cost. And you’d be surprised to know how few and far between people like that are.’
Church wanted to ask Hal all the other questions rampaging through his mind, but he knew he wouldn’t get any answers. ‘I need to get out of here—’
‘Of course you do, and that’s where I come in. But don’t think I’m going to make a habit of it. If you get yourself into a mess like this again, you fail on your own terms and everything else goes with it. Right?’
‘Right.’
The Pendragon Spirit will give you the strength to get free from the web, but the strength won’t last. You need to get out of here with the sword and the lamp. There’s a part of you in there, part of your Pendragon Spirit. You need to get it back inside you if you’re going to be any use.’
‘Okay. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Good. From here on out it’s all going to be down to you.’
18
Chamber after chamber passed in waves of darkness and pain. On the dull edge of his senses, Church occasionally heard the scurrying of the monkey-creatures, but he never encountered them, and of Janus there was no sign, though the god’s presence hung over the entire temple.
Finally he stumbled out into brilliant morning sunlight and the thick, queasy smells and cacophony of Rome at the height of its power. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the radiance only to realise it had all been for nothing. Maxentius’s guards were waiting patiently just beyond the open gates.
Within moments, Church was being dragged through the seething streets. He had no strength to fight back, could ba
rely lift the sword that hung limply at his side.
‘He should not have exited the temple,’ one of the guards said. ‘Maxentius will not be pleased.’
‘Maxentius does not have to know,’ another guard said ominously. They fell silent as they weighed their options.
Church glimpsed the actor in the sun mask who he had seen on the way to the temple. He was practising intricate hand and body motions in silence at the side of the street, incongruous in his brilliant yellow toga and wildly ornate headdress.
The crowds pressed heavily on either side. A large man in a hood and cloak lurched against one of the guards supporting Church, prompting a brief, furious foul-mouthed exchange.
The guards moved on. Through his daze, Church caught a surreptitious glance and nod passing between the two guards holding his arms, and then he was being moved towards one of the quieter side streets.
Faces came and went in the throng, some that even looked familiar. Church briefly thought he was back in London, meeting Ruth for the first time.
‘Halt! Where are you taking him?’
The guards stopped sheepishly as Maxentius strode up.
‘The prisoner escaped from the temple,’ the guard at Church’s right said unconvincingly. ‘We were bringing him back for further instructions.’
Maxentius and the guard engaged in a hushed, strained conversation, but Church’s attention was drawn to a strange sight: an owl sitting on top of one of the busts that lined the route. It stared at him with large green eyes.
‘Take him back to the temple!’ Maxentius barked.
He has a spider in his chest, Church thought obliquely. Do you know?
A commotion erupted nearby. The actor in the sun mask was now engaged in a series of breathtaking tumbles that drew an impressed crowd. Smatterings of applause turned into loud cheering.
Jack of Ravens Page 17
