The Burning Altar

by Sarah Rayne

  It’s almost dark now and we have eaten our supper (tsampa and strips of salted pork courtesy of Fenris’s people), and each had a tot of brandy – well, actually we have had several tots.

  Note: I seem to be spending this entire journey either drunk, dehydrated or in an advanced state of satyriasis, and whoever finally gets his (or her) hands on these pages will certainly have marked me down (or written me off) as an intemperate lecher by now.

  Theo has undergone a complete volte-face (think this is result of brandy), and is filled with a pioneering spirit and reassuring me that we should simply walk in through the gates, since cultured and refined people would never refuse succour to benighted travellers, and also we are British, dammit. They will offer us food and shelter, he says confidently, and once we have eaten their salt they will be bound by the ancient laws of hospitality.

  Unsure of what good being British and eating salt will do out here, and would not place too much reliance on the refinements of Touaris’s people either, since defying the Pharaoh and indulging in licentious fertility rituals ever since does not suggest a particularly high level of refinement. However, am too grateful for Theo’s optimism to argue and have given him another swig of brandy on strength of it. Suspect that Fenris blew the gaff about Touaris’s four score handmaidens, and it’s that that’s cheering him up, because it’s my opinion that he’s rather susceptible on the quiet. I’m extremely susceptible and it’s cheering me up no end.

  (Must here record with deep thankfulness that the slight weakness I experienced inside the leper colony has proved to be of an extremely short-lived nature, and that as Shakespeare has it, my nobler part once again betrays my body’s gross treason. In other words, I’m standing like an autumn crocus at the thought of the four score females of outstanding beauty, to say nothing of the licentious fertility rituals . . .)

  All the same, I admit to a certain feeling of nervous apprehension about what is ahead of us.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ginevra had drawn a complete blank in the underground tunnels, and she had drawn a complete blank everywhere else.

  She had finally come back up to the flat, and had turned on the hot shower-spray, standing under it and trying to sluice away the smell of the tunnels. She tipped Elinor’s scented shower essence over her and massaged rich creamy shampoo into her hair until her scalp tingled. I’m using up all your nice scents, Nell, and for all I know you’re at the bottom of the river. Or are you bathing in Joy – the scent as well as the emotion – with the rich and fascinating Sir Lewis? I hope you are and I hope he’s terrific in bed.

  She roughly dried her hair and wrapped herself in her thick towelling robe, and then put the chicken pieces in the oven with a strip of bacon over each one. She had just put the kettle to boil for coffee and she thought she was really pretty calm, when there was a sharp knock at the door.

  The unexpected sound and the abrupt realisation that somebody had come up the iron stairs without her hearing, betrayed the fact that she was not quite as calm as she had hoped. She jumped and spilled instant coffee over the sink.

  ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ It came out shriller than she had intended. ‘Who is it?’ she said again, and this time her voice sounded more normal.

  ‘Ginevra? It’s Raffael. Something’s happened and I think I’ll have to bring you in on it. Can I come in? Or if you prefer, can you come out? We can even meet in the pub on the corner or something if you want.’

  Ginevra hesitated for a split second. Most of her wanted to trust Raffael very much, but a tiny part was still unsure. Oh, what the hell! It was probably a time to go by instinct. And he had offered her the chance to meet him outside.

  She said, ‘Give me about ten seconds and I’ll open the door. I was just in the shower.’ She dived into the bedroom and pulled on jeans and a loose shirt and then padded across to the door in bare feet. If the romantic poet was about to turn into a ravening sex maniac – or any kind of maniac – it would not be a good idea to open the door wearing only a bathrobe.

  But Raffael did not turn into a maniac. He sat in the chair by the window and unfolded the most remarkable story Ginevra had ever heard outside of fiction. She curled up by the fire to let her hair dry and listened to him, and thought: I was right about Scheherazade at any rate, except that tonight it’s Schahriar telling the tale.

  Raffael was not thinking about telling a good story; he was thinking about persuading this unusual girl that she was in danger and that the bizarre story he was about to tell was the truth. It flickered on his mind with grim irony that it was not so very long since no one would have thought of doubting his every utterance.

  He had sat for a long time in his rooms after Timur and Iwane left, for once unaware of the cold shabbiness of the place, his mind in tumult, trying to see a way of reaching Elinor and Grendel. And of keeping Ginevra safe from Timur’s threats.

  The threats to the Catholic Church were on a different plane, of course; Raffael did not like them, but he thought that if he had to he could probably call on the might of the whole College of Cardinals. St Peter’s Armies crusading all over again.

  But threats to people were different, and seated opposite to Ginevra in Chance House again he knew that he was going to tell her the whole story. She was a bit flippant and she was certainly a bit frivolous, but she possessed something of the same quality that Raffael had sensed in Elinor. Integrity? Inner strength? Whatever it was and whatever you called it, she could not be given half-truths or evasions, and the question of not trusting her was absurd. Raffael had not heard confessions from two generations of penitents or listened to the mild guilty secrets of struggling ordinands without knowing who could be trusted and who could not.

  It was likely that Ginevra would disbelieve him of course, and it was even likelier that she would think he was crazy. But it was possible that she would believe him and ally herself with him. The word ‘ally’ gave Raffael a sudden feeling of warmth.

  Ginevra, trying to sort the merely dubious from the downright incredible, thought this was just about the most astonishing tale she had ever heard. It was almost astonishing enough to be true. The Decalogue – the half-mythical, half-historical Ten Commandments of Satan – and the League of Tamerlane that the Vatican wanted to quench, and Timur and Iwane warning Raffael not to interfere – making that sinister threat against Ginevra herself in the process. Ginevra managed not to shiver or look stealthily over her shoulder, but it was a close thing.

  Raffael related it all in such a quiet and understated way that despite her caution, Ginevra found herself believing him. She tested each separate fact carefully. Priceless old documents chronicling obscure fragments of history did exist, of course – and if not inside the Vatican vaults, then where, for goodness’ sake? And strange pre-Christian religions did linger in remote corners of the world: the ancient cult of the exiled Bubasti tribe was perfectly credible.

  The poor mad creature Grendel was credible as well. It was not so many years since people had shut away mad relatives in attics and kidnapping was a fact of life in any culture.

  I don’t want to believe any of this, said half of Ginevra’s mind. But whether I want to believe it or not wouldn’t stop it being true. I don’t want to believe in nuclear waste dumping and Third World starvation and vivisection, but they all exist.

  Whether she trusted Raffael and whether she believed him – whether this Tamerlane League really had threatened to drop Ginevra on to a grisly pre-Christian altar! – his presence in the flat was a charm against the growing feeling of menace. Ginevra returned to the kitchen, which was filling up with the everyday scent of cooking chicken and banged the cups around as she finished making coffee, deriving obscure comfort from the clatter. When Raffael took the coffee cup from her his hand brushed hers, and Ginevra repressed a sudden longing to reach out and touch him. Don’t do it! I’ll acknowledge this astonishing story, but I’m damned if I’ll acknowledge anything else! Certainly not this sudden sizzle of attracti
on. Did he feel it as well?

  But he had stepped back, and although there was a faint colour across his cheekbones, when he lifted the coffee cup his hands were perfectly steady. One-way traffic only, thought Ginevra, half relieved, half disappointed.

  ‘This is a bizarre situation,’ said Raffael. ‘I’ve no idea how Lewis and Elinor’s disappearance fits in – if it fits in at all.’

  ‘It’s a bit coincidental. Do you really believe that whatshisname – Timur – hasn’t got Lewis?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Raffael. ‘Their culture’s so wildly different to ours that it’d be difficult to know if they were telling the truth or practising some subtle form of deceit.’ He paused, drinking his coffee. ‘They were entirely open about taking Grendel and about guarding the Decalogue,’ he said. He thought: and also about sacrificing you, Ginevra. But he did not say it.

  ‘Is his name really Grendel?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Just that it’s an extraordinary name for anyone to have. Have you ever heard of the Old English poem Beowulf?’ said Ginevra. ‘It’s one of those odd mixtures of Christianity and paganism and it’s incredibly ancient – eighth century or something – but in it, Grendel’s the monster who has to be slain, and after him his mother.’

  ‘I do know of it, Miss Craven.’

  ‘You can drop the formality, you know. I’m Ginevra to most people. Preferably not Ginnie, but occasionally Gina. What do you know about this cat goddess?’

  ‘Touaris,’ said Raffael. ‘As far as I can make out she was some kind of immortal divinity. The Touaris of the Egyptians was the deity of fertility and childbirth – depicted as a hippopotamus and extremely ugly, I think. But this is a bastard version of the original Egyptian cult and it might contain all manner of things.’

  ‘Including a few fragments of Christianity?’

  ‘Oh yes, I should think so,’ said Raffael at once. ‘But if you scratch the surface of most religions you’ll find a great many similarities; a lot of Christian festivals are based on pagan ones, in fact. The early monks were much cannier than most people give them credit for: they believed that if you put new wine into old bottles, eventually the new wine would smell of the cask. It’s one of the ways they converted the Western world to Christianity.’

  ‘You sound very cynical.’ Ginevra rather prided herself on her scientific approach to religion – what you can’t prove doesn’t exist – but underneath was a sneaking hope that there might be something in it after all. But Raffael sounded as if he had believed and trusted and been let down, which was rather daunting.

  ‘The cult of Touaris,’ said Raffael, ‘is far older than Christianity, Ginevra.’ He smiled unexpectedly, and at once the austere ex-priest vanished, and in his place was a mischievous sensualist. ‘Also,’ he said, ‘I suspect that it’s a lot more physical than Christianity.’

  ‘Tell me about Grendel.’ It would not do to plunge too deeply into discussions about physical manifestations of ancient religions with an ex-priest, fascinating as the subject – and the ex-priest – might be. ‘What’s his condition?’ said Ginevra. ‘I mean – is it some kind of schizophrenia or dementia or what? I don’t want that to sound flippant. I know very little about mental illness.’

  ‘So do I. And I don’t know if there’s a medical term for what he has, or what he is,’ said Raffael. ‘But whatever he is, I don’t think I can let Timur and his nasty little League take him. I certainly can’t let them use him as a puppet in some wretched political coup, which is what I suspect they’re planning.’ He looked at her. ‘And I certainly can’t let them take you, Ginevra,’ he said.

  They stared at one another, and just before the silence crossed over into real intimacy, Ginevra managed to say, ‘What about the Decalogue? What about your original commission?’

  ‘Would you call it a commission? I’d say it’s more of a suicide mission. But it still stands, of course. The whole future of the Roman Catholic Church is in jeopardy – if it ever came out that the Vatican had been guarding that document—’

  ‘The Maleficarum Decalogue—’

  ‘Yes. If it was known that such an evil document even existed, there’d be the most monumental outcry. The entire integrity of the Church would be thrown into doubt.’ He looked at her sharply, and said abruptly, ‘You do believe all this, don’t you? Because if you’re in the least doubtful . . .’

  ‘There’s no need at all—’

  ‘I can arrange for you to meet Fleury and de Migli—’

  ‘Truly it isn’t necessary.’ Ginevra thought that a Roman Catholic priest – even a dismissed one – was as much as she could cope with in one day; to add a brace of cardinals would be indigestible.

  She said, ‘Is this League of Tamerlane some kind of liberation front, do you think?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t know if there’s anyone inside Tashkara who even needs liberating. Fleury thinks the League want to bring the place into prominence – but for all the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t Tashkara be brought into prominence?’ Ginevra did not much like the sound of Timur or the League, but she read the New Statesman and Society and was conscientious about attending Famine Relief rallies and open-air charity concerts for aid to Third World countries. ‘Haven’t we a duty to bring the plight of underdeveloped nations to people’s notice? Parts of Tibet are pretty primitive.’ This sounded quite good, but it did not really, accord with ancient civilisations and cat goddesses and smuggled Stone Tablets. It certainly did not make her feel any braver about the Burning Altar threat.

  Raffael said, ‘Of course we have a duty to help them. In fact the Catholic Church gives more than most people realise. It just does it quietly, without rock concerts or TV marathons. If the Tashkarans wanted help it would be forthcoming, Ginevra, you must know that. A single TV documentary, and money and practical help would flood the country. Remember Geldof and Ethiopia and Live Aid? And Romania and Bosnia? Charity-raising is big business these days.’

  ‘You’re being cynical again.’ Ginevra sat up on the hearthrug, prepared for a battle and Raffael grinned down at her. Ginevra wondered how she could ever have thought he was rough trade.

  ‘I’m not being cynical, I’m being logical,’ said Raffael. ‘Timur’s wretched League are out for themselves: it’s why they’re making use of Grendel and it’s certainly why they’re threatening to use the Decalogue.’ He paused. ‘Fleury believes if the Decalogue’s existence becomes public it would be a deathblow to the Church.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Raffael smiled again. ‘People don’t set very much store by religion or Christianity any longer,’ he said. ‘But it’s been going for a very long time, Ginevra. It’s wearing a bit threadbare, but it must be preserved. That’s why the Decalogue has to be destroyed or suppressed. It bothers you, doesn’t it? My link with the Church?’

  Ginevra said carefully, ‘The thing is that I’ve never actually met a – a former priest—’

  ‘Unfortunately there’s a growing number of us these days. But I was only dispensed from my vows, you know, and it was more or less mutual. Defrocking’s reserved for the really serious cases.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘I believe you have to be caught in bed with the bishop’s daughter – or the bishop himself, of course – or actually intoning the Black Mass with the crucifix upside down and using consecrated wafers to—’

  ‘I know that bit,’ said Ginevra hastily, and then wondered why she was suddenly being prim. Everyone knew about devil worshippers masturbating on to consecrated wafers, for heaven’s sake! ‘What do you do now?’ she said. ‘I mean, what kind of job do you have?’

  ‘I don’t. But the Church uses me occasionally to deal with odd problems it can’t acknowledge,’ said Raffael. ‘I’m a maverick. Brought in to mop up the unsavoury jobs.’

  The cynicism was there again, and the faint self-mockery. Ginevra was trying to frame a suitable reply, when Raffael suddenly said, ‘I think something’
s burning in the kitchen.’

  The chicken was not burned, but it was a close thing. Ginevra arranged it on two plates, tipped lettuce, tomatoes and watercress into a shallow bowl and rummaged in the bread bin. It was no time to be worrying about haute cuisine, and it was no time to be wondering about seduction plots, either. If Raffael was trying to get her into bed he was going about it in the most bizarre fashion Ginevra had ever heard of. But she reminded herself very firmly of the isolation of Chance House and the loneliness of the flat. Still, if he pounces on me there’s always the bread knife. But if he’s a homicidal maniac I’ll get me to a nunnery . . .

  She found a loaf of French bread, foraged for butter and cheese, and carried the whole lot through to the gate-leg table under the window.

  ‘The most sinister part about all this,’ said Raffael, as they ate, ‘the most worrying part – aside from Lewis Chance and your aunt’s disappearance, and your own danger, of course—’

  ‘Timur’s reference to Grendel’s initiation at the Burning Altar tomorrow night.’

  ‘Precisely.’ He smiled and Ginevra felt absurdly pleased, as if she had been set some kind of test and come through it.

  ‘Would they really sacrifice humans?’ she said, watching Raffael butter a wedge of bread. ‘And then – eat their flesh?’

  Raffael laid down the bread and looked very straightly at her. ‘I know how it sounds, Ginevra, but it’s what Timur said and I’m afraid it’s probably true. Patrick Chance’s diaries hint at the eating of human flesh inside Tashkara, and even Sir Lewis—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think Lewis knows more about Timur’s people than anyone realises,’ said Raffael, his tone deliberately non-committal. ‘And ritual cannibalism – what Frazer’s Golden Bough calls exophagism – is found in several parts of the world, even today.’