There was more whispered dialogue. I could hear it was in Syriac. There were one or two phrases, though, in Greek – just as you’d expect with long-settled immigrants.
‘Orders is plain,’ was the main phrase I caught.
Another cloth came off a lantern. This was brighter than the first, and it threw a pool of light reaching as far as the wall of the church. I could now see that there were four men. Two of them were armed with short swords. They stepped towards me.
‘If I were armed myself’, I said in a casual tone, ‘you’d be unwise to come too close.’
They both stepped smartly back. I folded my hands placidly across my chest and stared back at them. You never show fear with people like these. They had the small size and darting movements usual of Syrians. I’d seen others like them hanging about the main squares. If you could manage the right opening words, they’d agree to any contract of murder.
But there were only four of them, I told myself over and again. Almost certainly, there were no others lurking round corners. And if those swords were their only armament, I had nothing to fear so long as I kept my nerve.
‘It’s turning rather chilly again, don’t you think?’ I observed. ‘I want my bed. I’m sure you want some of my money.’
I reached down and patted my right hip. There was a gratifying chink of gold. I smiled and put my hands together.
The two men who’d so far stood behind the other two now put their lanterns carefully on the ground. The pools of light grew smaller and the almost cheerful glow they had cast outside the church disappeared.
All the men took out short swords of their own and moved towards me.
‘It’s hardly a friendly act to come at me with four swords,’ I said, still conversational.
‘Too right, you fucking piece of Latin trash!’ one of the men snarled. He stood against the light and I couldn’t see his face. But I could hear the triumphant hatred in his voice.
‘Well!’ said I. ‘If I had thought I was coming here to listen to such words, I might have ignored your fake summons and stayed at home. You may be aware that I am a man of the cloth. That surely entitles me to a certain delicacy of address. However, I’d still insist that the four of you would be an unlikely match for someone like me, were I to pull out a sword. I’ll give you double what you’ve been promised.’
Another of the men waved his sword quite close to my face, though he didn’t chance his luck by coming too close.
‘Don’t you worry your pretty little blond empty head,’ he sneered. ‘We’ll be sure to take double – double and treble from a Chalcedonite fucker like you.’
‘And fuckall good of it you’ll have’, I said, ‘if I run you through.’
‘Let’s get this over and done with,’ the same ruffian said. He waved at the others. They spread out around me, and then began to close in.
There was a shrill cry and the clatter of a dropped sword as I got one of them. Still cautious, he’d stretched as far towards me as he could without falling over. As his sword-point came within inches of my cloak, I’d pulled out my own sword and lunged forward and up.
I thought at first I’d taken his hand off at the wrist but discovered later that I’d only sliced off the right knuckles. Still, that must have hurt worse than a mere amputation. Certainly, he was now out of action – down on the ground, twisting and gasping at the unbearable pain.
I kept my sword up. Though my heart was racing, and I felt an almost irresistible urge to jump forward, slashing to right and left, I stayed put and kept my voice as calm and neutral as before.
‘There’s surely no need for more unpleasantness,’ I said. ‘The offer’s this – you tell me who sent you and I give you twice what he paid you. Can I say fairer than that?’
One of the men lowered his sword and stood back again. ‘Have you got sixty solidi?’ he asked in a doubtful tone.
‘That and more,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Put your sword away and go and stand by the lanterns.’
‘You stupid cunt!’ another of the men snarled at him. ‘This ain’t no usual contract. I haven’t told you the half of what’s behind this one. We kill the bastard and then take his gold. Count of three, we go at him.’ He opened his mouth to count down the numbers.
No point in hoping for a parley. They had their orders, and there was no shaking these. I’d have to kill some of them, and I’d find myself with another nice robe fit only for giving to the poor.
Such a waste, I thought. I lifted my sword and wondered who would be the easiest to dispose of first. Even as I arranged my cloak to catch most of the blood, the square behind the men filled with torches and shouting.
‘I want them alive!’ I roared above the commotion, realising what must have happened. ‘I’ll personally kill any man who injures them.’
‘Throw those swords down over there,’ I said curtly to the confused ruffians. They were looking open-mouthed at the little army that blocked every exit from the square. ‘And you will sit by your wounded friend, hands spread in front of you. Try anything fancy, and I’ll start by having your toes nipped off. Do you understand me?’
As one of them nodded, Theophanes came into view.
‘My dear Aelric,’ he cried plaintively, ‘I can only ask what on earth you thought you were doing? I praise God that I had need of Martin’s company tonight.’ Was that a blush? Hard to say in the torchlight.
Dressed in black, a shawl over his head, Theophanes tried to look military. Torch in hand, Alypius stood beside him. I smiled grimly, but could think of nothing to say. For what it was worth, I’d show him the message soon. Theophanes, I had no doubt, would be astonished by the signature it carried.
Yes – Priscus had gone too far this time. That forgery, plus whatever testimony we could get out of those Syrians, would give him much explaining to do at his next meeting with the Emperor.
A shutter overhead flew open and a flickering light seeped out. The occupant looked down at us, realised this was state business, and closed it again with desperate force.
‘If you please, do bring that torch over here,’ I asked of Alypius.
I peered into the faces of the three sitting men. There’s something about Syrians – especially bearded ones. They all tend to look alike. But I was fixing on any peculiarities of expression. I wanted to remember those faces
The one I’d injured was in some kind of spasm from the pain. But a mild jab with a sword-point got him to look up. There was little worth remembering in the contorted expression. Instead I looked closely at the mutilated right hand. I noted the dark tattooed crosses on his remaining two knuckles.
I drew Theophanes over towards the church. ‘Please,’ I said, speaking low, ‘I’d like all four put in solitary under the Ministry. I want each one deprived of all sound and light. No food. No water. Naked and chained. No medical attention for the one with the wounded hand.
‘I want the cells guarded by your own people. No one goes into them except you or me – no one else at all. We’ll interrogate them tomorrow evening. Any sooner, and I’m not sure if they’d give us the truth.’
‘It will all be as you ask,’ said Theophanes. I could see the questioning look on his face.
‘It was’, said Theophanes, cup in hand, ‘the neatest double ambush you could ever have wanted to see. One moment, our hero was confronted by four low ruffians. The next, they were grovelling at his feet and blinking in the light of a dozen torches.’
Martin grunted and looked over to the sleeping Maximin. I could see he still wasn’t pleased that I’d gone without thinking into the night. Had Theophanes not turned up to demand a sudden report on me, I might be lying face down in a gutter.
‘Don’t worry,’ I’d said. ‘Really, I was never in the slightest danger – and we might be able to reduce the number of our enemies because of this.’
He’d paid no attention as he fussed over an inkpot.
‘Have some wine, Martin,’ I now said, leaning forward with the jug.
‘No thank you, s
ir,’ he said, still very stiff. He looked away.
‘Suit yourself,’ I said with a clumsy attempt at lightness. I waved to Gutrune to fetch some more of the spiced melon pulp for Theophanes.
‘Martin,’ said Theophanes with a slight emphasis, ‘you will be aware that at least our present game is approaching its end. Hera clius has nearly thirty thousand men outside the walls. Thirty thousand men – and barely enough food and shelter for half that number. If he doesn’t make his move in the next two days, he might as well not bother. But you and I know he will attack – don’t we?’
‘Yes,’ Martin said flatly.
I pretended not to notice the indirect warning. My own game was nowhere close to finished.
‘There will be an attack,’ Theophanes continued. ‘It may fail – in which case we shall have many more jolly parties ahead of us. If not, all that we have so far gone through together must be the whole sum of our relationship.
‘We shall meet again tomorrow in the course of business, and perhaps also the next day. But there may be no more of these little gatherings from which I have come to draw so much honest enjoyment.’
He turned to me. ‘Aelric,’ he said, ‘when the attack does come, I advise you to lock the main gate and barricade yourself in here. Do not advertise your presence. Pray that no one who might break in tries to set fire to the building. Wait patiently – in this beautiful home you have created within a drab official residence – wait until, one way or another, order has been restored. What you do then must be for you to decide in the circumstances prevailing.
‘But why give thought to the things of the morrow? Now let us drink and make merry.’
To Gutrune: ‘My dear woman, I will take just a little wine. Do please add plenty of water.’
She had enough Latin to understand ‘wine’. ‘Water’ was outside her vocabulary.
‘Do you remember, Martin,’ I asked, ‘the look on the Great One’s face as Theophanes began juggling those heads?’
So, keeping our voices down for Maximin, and for any spies who might be listening, we caroused till dawn.
53
Going out of the Legation next morning, I bumped into a band of about a dozen students from the University. One of them was wearing a breastplate far too large for his body. Another had perched a bronze helmet on his head that looked so like something in an ancient bas relief, he must have got it from a tomb.
They told me they had asked if they could join the first line of defence down at the docks, and had been honoured with an acceptance. Would I bless their weapons? one of them asked me. All the Greek priests they’d met had made excuses and scurried away.
And quite properly too, I’ll say. Men of God should only get involved in civil wars when it’s clear which side has won. I called an ambiguous blessing on the arms of the Emperor and continued about my own business.
I didn’t get far in the crowded streets. At the first main barricade, I met Priscus. He was patiently drilling some members of the Blue Faction in how to discharge their slingshots in a slow volley.
‘Oh, my darling vision of beauty!’ he exclaimed as I tried to sidle past. ‘How we insult your dignity by allowing you to wander about the City on foot and unguarded. I was only mentioning this to His Majesty yesterday – how we should keep our most distinguished guest out of danger.’
‘The time you spare from your own duties to think of me, dear Priscus,’ I said, ‘warms my heart. Is it true the Charisian Gate was open all night?’
Priscus scowled. He took hold of my arm and drew me aside. ‘Of course it fucking wasn’t,’ he snarled. ‘If ever I find who started that rumour, I’ll flay him with my own hands.’
He took out his leather pouch and began fussing over its many compartments.
‘One rumour I can promise is true’, he went on, his selection made, his mood restored, ‘is that Thomas snuffed it earlier this morning. He cursed all Latins and their ways, and then made a noise that reminded me of two mating hyenas. I can tell you this is so. I was there.’
‘So we have another clerical vacancy,’ I observed.
‘Sadly, you’ll not be filling that one as well,’ said Priscus with one of his charming smiles. ‘I’ve already recommended Sergius,’ he added proudly. ‘Phocas will have the announcement made at evening service.’
We stopped for yet another column of armed citizens to straggle past. These were wearing armour made from dismantled wine vats and carried bronze railings they had stripped from one of the parks to serve as spears.
Priscus took their salute and made a brief speech about the duties of patriotism.
As the great wooden gate of the Legation swung shut behind us, Priscus sagged straight out of his military pose.
‘Fuck me, Alaric!’ he moaned. ‘Much more of this and I’ll join a bloody monastery.’
He threw himself on to the couch in my office and breathed a handful of yellow powder up his nose. As ever, I refused to join him and reached for the jug of heavily watered wine that had appeared on my desk.
I could hear Gutrune down the corridor. She was singing something mournful to Maximin in her own language. I couldn’t tell through the two shut doors if it was cheering him, but he wasn’t crying.
‘We’re up Shit Creek, you know,’ said Priscus in conversational tone when his convulsions had moderated. ‘Do believe me that no gates were left open last night. But if the gates do open – correction: when they open – there’ll be two days of bloodshed on the streets.’
‘If it does come to that,’ I said, looking round the settled comfort of the room, ‘it might be hard for you.’
Priscus pulled himself up and went over to look out on to the balcony. He turned back to me.
‘It won’t be too good for anyone closely associated with His Majesty,’ he said with an odd laugh. ‘How do you suppose you’ll get out?’
‘I believe I have full immunity as the Pope’s representative,’ I said.
Priscus laughed again. ‘I’d look more to the strength of those gates – or, better still, a fast ship out,’ he said.
I got up and pulled on a bell cord I’d recently had fitted. This would bring up a slave from the kitchen with the bread and cheese I’d earlier specified for lunch.
‘You’ll join me for some food, Priscus?’ I asked. ‘I can’t promise anything special, but you’ll surely find it wholesome.’
‘Now when did you last see me do anything wholesome?’ Priscus responded with a nasty grin. ‘I’ve got a vial somewhere of my special black liquid. I think I can chance a few drops of that in some wine – though, mind you, only in white wine. Red with this stuff is bad for my stomach.’
He asked if I’d found any hidden ways into the Legation from the street. I gave a noncommittal grunt. I wasn’t telling Priscus that Martin was at this moment on an intensive search for some other way out in an emergency.
‘I used to come here quite a bit when the Permanent Legate was still receiving guests,’ he said, ‘but I never went beyond the state rooms. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me if there were some passageway. As it might save your life at the right moment, I suppose I’d better help you find it.’
A very good reason, I thought, for not accepting his offer. But I smiled. ‘You are always so good to me, Priscus,’ I said.
‘Once a friend, always a friend, is my guiding motto,’ he replied.
We made our way down to the main garden and headed left towards the back buildings of the Legation. I’d agreed with Martin that the most likely hidden exit would be close by the Permanent Legate’s own quarters. So I wanted Priscus as far away from that as possible. It would never do to let him hear Martin rummaging through the cellars.
As we crossed the gardens, we were joined by two of the Black Agents. One of them handed Priscus a sealed message. He frowned as he read it.
‘It seems that greasy old eunuch has sealed off the Ministry to my people,’ he said, passing the message back. ‘I regard this as an act of open war against me. I
’ll tell as much to Phocas when I dine with him this evening. Even at this late stage, there’s always room for one more under the Ministry.’
I wondered how Martin might be doing.
We stopped at the pigsties. Priscus was beginning to sweat heavily. It was a warm afternoon, but that and the trembling probably had more to do with his idea of lunch.
The pigs were happy. A slave was ladling acorns out of a bucket, and they squealed and grunted with pleasure as they nosed through the carpet of liquefied shit to get at them. As we leaned on the gate to watch the pigs feeding I noticed that Priscus was breathing heavily, his face the colour of new papyrus. I began to hope he might have a seizure. That would remove one complication from my life. But he recovered himself with an effort of will and turned to me.
‘Wonderful things are pigs, you know,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I added. ‘I’ve always found them more intelligent than dogs.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Priscus. ‘But, certainly, they know what’s up when killing-time comes round. When I was a boy, and out for innocent fun, I used to hide the knife behind my back. Still, I’d see the fear in their eyes as they backed away. And they taste good. Every body part has its own flavour. Do you ever have cups of blood brought to you when one is freshly killed?’
‘Not a pleasure I’ve yet sampled,’ I said, ‘though my people do make the most gorgeous blood sausages – much better than I’ve had outside England.’
‘Oh yes, you’re from there,’ said Priscus, sounding bored. ‘Phocas once gave me a lecture on the place when he was more than usually pissed. He said it was full of blacks and headless dwarves. Did I hear aright in the Circus that you came here with letters of submission from one of the local kings?’
I gave a noncommittal sniff and turned back to the pigs, who’d started fighting over some rotten cabbages.
‘They’ll eat anything, of course,’ said Priscus, stepping back to avoid getting splashed. ‘When I was carving the Persians up back in the days of Maurice, I once fed some live prisoners to the pigs I had with me. They were Syrian double agents, you see, and I wanted to make an example of them. Like Jews and Egyptians, many of them have a horror of pork.
The Terror of Constantinople a-2 Page 34
