The Last Four Things tlhogt-2

by Hoffman, Paul

  And so for Bosco the last great problem in pursuit of his goal to become the supreme representative of God on earth had dispersed like the early morning mists in Vallombrosa. It was as if he was standing at the top of an impossible mountain and having, against every obstacle of rock and ice and precipice, arrived at the top only to look down and see truly the sickening horror of what had been attempted. But it was not his life that had been at risk from the terrible fall and the smashing of bones but his immortal soul. Staring at the Chapel of Tears he began to shake – not that even the watchful Gil noticed anything but the usual thoughtful calm. But Bosco’s soul vibrated like the aftermath of the great bronze bell of St Gerard’s struck only on the occasion of the election of a Pope of the Universal Church of the Hanged Redeemer. It was said that if you held a tuning fork to it even a week after it had been struck it would make the fork resonate from the still-vibrating bell. But for Bosco the blow from the horror he had set loose would stay with him until the day he died. The most terrible ideal, after all, lay still in front of him: the purifying death of everything. He almost fainted from the enormity of what he’d done and what was still to do. The strange atmosphere in the room made Gil uneasy, however little he understood its origins. At last he could no longer endure it.

  ‘The ritual of the Argentum Pango has been performed on the late Pontiff and he has been taken to the mortuary for the funeral preparations.’

  The Argentum Pango was a test, its origin long lost in the fog of Redeemer tradition, that involved the striking of three blows to the forehead of the Pontiff with a silver hammer in order to be quite sure he was dead. The Redeemer who struck the first of the three blows had never performed the ritual before, it having been so long since the death of the preceding Pope, and hit the forehead of the corpse with such vigour that it left a dent. A bad-tempered Gil pointed out that he was supposed to wake him up not make sure he was dead, and taking the hammer from him finished the job with two light taps.

  He also confirmed, since he wrongly thought that Bosco seemed unusually calm, the more important information that Cale had indeed used his pursuit of the Laconics as a means of escape and that he was thought already to be in Spanish Leeds with his Purgators.

  There had been a distinct cooling between Gil and Bosco after the former’s suggestion that he be allowed to hurry along the death of the late Pope. Gil still felt deeply aggrieved at the refusal, even though the situation had resolved itself so conveniently without the need to take such a dangerous step. Just luck, was what Gil thought, I was in the right. Bosco had not in any way tried to imply his greater wisdom or judgement in the matter because he also felt he had been fortunate. But then it is in the nature of such resentments that he didn’t have to. Bosco looked out at the smokeless chimney of the Chapel of Tears used to signal the election of a new Pontiff. ‘Any longer,’ he said, ‘and I’ll give them something to cry about.’

  But what was really on their minds was not the Pontifical election, about which there could be no doubt, but Thomas Cale. Only a few days before, Gil would have offered to follow the treacherous little shit to the bottom of the fourth quarter and beyond and have taken great satisfaction in wiping the sweat from his forehead with the impious ingrate’s still-beating heart.

  Now apparently his old master had grown too proud to listen to what he had to say. Still, he could not refuse the chance to pour salt in Bosco’s wounds.

  ‘What do you want done about Cale?’

  Without looking at Gil, Bosco spoke softly.

  ‘Nothing. Leave him to heaven. Our Father has caught him with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread.’

  That’s what you think, Redeemer Gil wanted to say. In his opinion neither of them would see Cale again, not this side of the grave, not if they all lived to the age of Metushelach. Or not unless it was to bring disaster.

  There was a loud banging on the door as if whoever was on the other side was desperate to escape the pursuit of some soul-hungry devil. ‘Redeemer Bosco! Redeemer Bosco! Open the door! Open the door!’

  It was not so easy to alarm Bosco but even through the six inches of wood the confusion and fright of whoever was on the other side were clear. Bosco signalled to Gil who, so alarmed by the terror in the voice, opened the door with one hand and held his other on the butt of his knife. He pulled it open swiftly and stood back.

  At first he barely recognized the man so distorted was his expression by astonishment and fear.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter? Hardy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Lord,’ said the distressed Redeemer.

  ‘Calm down.’ Gil turned to Bosco. ‘This is the Redeemer in charge of funeral rites for the Pontiff.’

  ‘My Lord,’ began Burdett. It was all clearly too much for him. He began to gasp so noisily they were like the sobs of a terrified child.

  ‘Control yourself, Redeemer,’ said Bosco softly. ‘We’ll wait for you.’

  Burdett stared at him, wide-eyed, utterly shattered. ‘You must come, Lord.’

  Seeing that they would get nothing more out of the deeply distracted Redeemer, Bosco told him to lead the way and they followed in silence, but they, too, now feeling as if hammers, and not silver ones, were beating them on the head. The silence was interrupted only by the still frenzied gasps of the Redeemer leading them deep into the cellars of the great cathedral. In no more than five minutes they were down in a part of the complex they had never imagined existed, ugly and drab and brown with endless streets of corridors leading off the dimly lit route and into the vasty dark beyond.

  After a few minutes Hardy stopped in front of a purple door and opened it wide without knocking, holding the door open for the two men whose presence seemed to terrify him more with each passing moment. Both of them were used to the fear of others in their presence but there was something deeply unsettling about this man, dread rather than fear.

  Bosco first, they entered suspicious and apprehensive, utterly clueless as to what disaster waited, though they could sense disaster it was. The room was windowless but well lit with the best candles, including one almost the thickness of a man’s waist just next to something that looked like a bed but was not. On the embalming table covered up to his neck in a linen sheet was the late Pope. Either side of him, it was clear from their aprons and gloves, were two embalmers, faces the yellowy white of old ivory, with expressions that gave off the same exquisite anxiety. Burdett shut the door behind them but still said nothing.

  ‘Enough now,’ said Bosco. ‘What’s this about?’

  Burdett looked at the two embalmers as if he could barely stop himself from being sick and nodded. The embalmers reached for the linen sheet that covered the Pope’s body and quickly rolled it down to his feet and removed it without drama. The body of the late Pope was naked, thin, pasty pale, wrinkled and saggingly ancient. His legs though were unusually parted, slightly more than you would expect when displaying the naked body of a Pope. There was a most terrible silence, perhaps one unlike any other in the history of silence. It was Gil who spoke first.

  ‘My God, they’ve stolen the Pope’s cock!’

  25

  ‘Don’t be an idiot!’ said Bosco, cold and angry. ‘It’s a woman.’

  This was harsh. It was not Gil’s fault that he was completely ignorant of the anatomy of women. How could he be otherwise? If the conclusion he leapt to seemed outlandish it was surely nothing like as monstrous as the truth: that the rock on which the Holy Church of the Hanged Redeemer had been built for the last twenty years was a creature regarded by many moderate theologians as possibly not having a soul at all. Before the stroke had ruined the Pontiff ’s mind it was one much admired by Bosco for its clarity and ruthlessness. Even in the fog of a broken brain this Pope had sought with passion and great enthusiasm the terrible death of the Maid of Blackbird Leys. Gil was almost too stunned, but not quite, to be insulted.r />
  ‘Give me the keys to the room,’ said Bosco to Burdett. There was a considerable jangling as Burdett loosened the key of the cremulatory from his vast collection. ‘Have you said anything about this to anyone else?’

  ‘No, Lord,’ said Burdett.

  Bosco looked at the first embalmer.

  ‘Have you said anything to anyone else?’

  ‘No, Lord.’

  He looked at the second.

  ‘Have you said anything about this to anyone else?’

  The man shook his head, horror-dumb.

  ‘Stay here until I send Redeemer Gil for you. And cover up that monstrosity.’ He ushered Gil out and locked the door behind him.

  It was half an hour, having twice lost their way in the under-streets of Chartres, before Bosco and Gil were back in the Vamian Room. Even then it was ten minutes before either of them spoke – the earthquake still shaking in their souls.

  ‘How could this have happened?’ asked Gil.

  ‘It hasn’t. You will arrange for the body to be displayed as normal. In fact everything will proceed as normal. Because nothing that is not normal has happened.’

  ‘What if there are others?’

  ‘Then the threat to the One True Faith is deadly. You will prepare an investigation into that possibility but do so in the greatest possible secrecy. You will also prepare an encyclical statement that it is a mortal sin punishable by eternal damnation in the fires of hell to raise the woman question.’

  ‘The woman question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  There was a beat.

  ‘What is the woman question?’

  Bosco looked at him but it was unclear if he was joking or not.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I require guidance.’

  Bosco looked at him for a moment. ‘The woman question concerns what kind of sin it is to enter into any discussion of the ordination of women. The answer is that it is a sin crying out to heaven for vengeance.’

  Gil was puzzled. ‘Is anyone discussing it?’

  Bosco looked at him. ‘You can ask me – with that hideous gynocoid lying in the basement?’ There was no obvious answer to this.

  ‘And the three Redeemers in the mortuary. What shall I do about them?’

  Bosco sighed. ‘Do you remember the story of Uriah the Hittite.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Reassure yourself that they’ll say nothing. I don’t want any more innocent blood on my hands but you must be sure of them. Say nothing. Allow nothing to be said. Do not allow anyone to say anything.’

  Something out of the window caught Redeemer Gil’s eye – from the great chimney of the Chapel of Tears white smoke oozed droopily into the damp air.

  ‘We have a Pope,’ he said to Bosco. ‘Congratulations, Your Holiness.’

  26

  Chancellor Vipond hurried into his rooms followed by IdrisPukke. If this sounds grand for someone who was no longer the Chancellor of anything but the rump of an idea there were only two of these rooms, neither of them very large. The heavy, if grubby, curtains were pulled even though it was the middle of the day and he had already opened them himself that morning. IdrisPukke by nature more alert to small oddities was about to stop him but his half-brother was too quick and whisked the curtains open with great and sudden briskness.

  ‘Good God!’ shouted Vipond. IdrisPukke had put his hand to his sword as soon as the curtain started to open and it was out and raised by the time Vipond stepped back in such great alarm. Both looked on astonished at the sight of Cale sitting in the thick window ledge with a knife on his lap and staring at them.

  ‘You want to be careful with that,’ he said, looking at IdrisPukke. ‘You’ll have someone’s eye out.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you playing at?’ shouted Vipond.

  Cale stepped down from the ledge and put away the knife.

  ‘I’d have got the butler to announce me properly but I didn’t like the look of him. His eyes were too close together.’

  ‘You did that deliberately,’ said Vipond and sat down. Cale did not reply.

  ‘You know, Cale, the Ghurkhas swear a vow that they’ll never sheath their sword until it’s tasted blood.’

  ‘Lucky for you you’re not a Ghurkha then.’

  ‘Where’s Vague Henri?’

  ‘He’s hurt – bad. He took an arrow in the face at the border. Can’t get it out. We need a surgeon.’

  ‘There are two, I think, with us here. I’ll see ...’

  ‘Not a Materazzi surgeon. No offence.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s with three of my men in a farm about ten miles away.’

  ‘So it’s not just you and him?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  He explained about the Purgators.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Vipond, ‘you’ve brought a hundred and sixty Redeemers here.’

  ‘They’re not really Redeemers.’

  ‘And what do you expect me to do with these hundred and sixty non-Redeemers?’

  ‘Well, I won’t tell anyone who they are if you don’t. Have you ever seen a Khazak mercenary?’

  ‘No,’ said Vipond.

  Cale looked at IdrisPukke.

  ‘No,’ he said at last.

  ‘Then they’re Khazak mercenaries. Who’s going to know different?’

  ‘It’s a bit thin,’ said IdrisPukke.

  ‘It’ll have to do. I’ll worry about it later. Vague Henri is the point.’

  ‘He must be in great pain.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Every philosopher can stand the toothache except the one who has it, right?’

  ‘No. You’ve seen that kit I have for stitching wounds and that.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘It’s got a small cake of opium in it.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Sounds a bit indulgent for Redeemers,’ said IdrisPukke.

  ‘They can be very generous when it comes to themselves. Nobody likes the idea of dying in agony if they don’t have to. Anyway, with a hundred and sixty of us we can keep him toked until the cows come home. We got the shaft out but it snapped off and the head is stuck real deep.’

  In the end IdrisPukke persuaded Cale to bring Vague Henri into Spanish Leeds while he sorted out the surgeon. Cale took two days of rations for the Purgators in one of two wagons and sent it on to a wood twenty miles away with the two Purgators who’d been guarding Vague Henri. Then along with Hooke, who fancied himself as a bit of a doctor, he made his way back to Spanish Leeds with the nearly unconscious Vague Henri lying in the back of the other wagon. As long as they could keep him from his occasional fits of shouting they’d have a good chance of getting into the city. The borders might be jumpy but Spanish Leeds was a merchant town and the men who’d made it rich didn’t see that it was necessary yet to start annoying customers or encouraging the authorities to begin sticking their noses into things that didn’t concern them. So Hooke gave Vague Henri an extra half-cake of opium to keep him quiet and shoved a pile of blankets over him. They passed into the city without a problem and soon Vague Henri was snoring away back to a lighter state of unconsciousness in Vipond’s bedroom being examined by the uneasy surgeon, a John Bradmore, who IdrisPukke had managed to bribe to come and offer his opinion.

  The surgeon spent twenty minutes examining Vague Henri and dictating to a secretary.

  ‘The arrowhead has entered the patient’s face just under the eye.’ He felt along the side of Vague Henri’s neck. A groan. ‘Fortunately it is, I think, a narrow bodkin type, head – five or six inches perhaps. Um ... no question of pushing it through the wound – we’d take half his brain with it.’ He sniffed and grimaced. ‘Close to the jugular. Tricky.’ For a further three or four minutes he touched and squeezed, apparently indifferent to the continuing smothered cries of poor Vague Henri. He dictated a few more notes and then turned to IdrisPukke.


  ‘What did Painter tell you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ evaded IdrisPukke.

  ‘I know you consulted him. Besides, you needn’t tell me, I already know. He said the wound should be left for up to fourteen days until it becomes loosened by pus. No?’

  IdrisPukke shrugged.

  ‘That’ll work – once the wound has filled with rot the arrow will be easy enough to remove. Mind you, he’ll die – slowly of blood poisoning or pretty quickly as the withdrawal bursts his putrefied jugular vein on the way out.’ Bradmore sighed. ‘It’s very difficult, you see. The head of the arrow is jammed in against the bone. It’s a question of getting a grip on the head but it’s in too deep and stuck so far. That’s why Painter wants to let it decay its way out.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Not that anyway. The wound must be cleansed and deeply – an infection has started already. It must be stopped while I work out some way to grip the arrowhead.’

  There was a short silence broken by Hooke, who had crept in unnoticed and hidden himself at the back of the room.

  ‘I think I can help.’

  There was another muffled groan from Vague Henri. It was not a cry of pain but of protest. Unfortunately the wound and the opium meant that no one could understand a word he said.

  27

  While Vague Henri was unwillingly having his life put in the hands of a man in whom he had absolutely no confidence, Kleist was also fighting to stay alive in the mountains along with fewer than a hundred Klephts.

  The Redeemers who had murdered the old, the women and the children in the escaping Klepht train had returned to the mountains and attacked the men in Lydon Gorge from the rear. Unable to go forward or back they began to take casualties in far greater numbers. The Redeemers were now in no hurry, picking off the Klephts with bolts or arrows and by heavily armoured forays that lasted only a few minutes but inflicted heavy casualties. In two more days they would have finished the job with barely any harm to their own number, but the Redeemers from the massacre made the mistake of shouting out at night what they had done to the Klepht women and children only three days before. To bring a man to despair is a very desirable thing if hope, or freedom, safety, a return to a loving family, is what keeps him fighting. It was in their attitude to sacrifice, or, to be more precise, self-sacrifice, that the Klephts differed so greatly from almost all other men. Now in the terrible jeers of the Redeemers the priests unwittingly released the Klephts of that high hope that came above everything. Despair robbed them of their greatest weakness as soldiers: a willingness to kill but not to die in the process.