Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

Sumner led Sarah and her father to a display case about halfway along the gallery. Inside were various artefacts, all of them cracked and chipped and worn: a small wooden statue in a rough approximation of the female form but with hugely enlarged hips and breasts; several arrowheads; a hollowed-out stone bowl; a small cup that looked as if it had been fashioned from bone …

  Resting on a small plinth behind these was the stone axe-head. Sarah recognised it at once, even without the small typed card that listed it as ‘The Doll–Child’s Axe’ along with a reference number. It was in surprisingly good condition compared with the other relics in the case.

  ‘It’s smaller than I expected,’ she said. The whole artefact was only about four inches across at its widest point.

  ‘It’s ceremonial rather than practical,’ Sumner said. ‘It belonged to a small town museum in Idaho,’ he went on. ‘They were losing money, looked like they’d have to close. So I made them an offer, and now they can stay open. For a while, anyway.’

  ‘It’s made of stone?’ Sarah’s father asked.

  ‘Yeah, seems to be, though it’s worn well as you can see. No way of dating it for certain, but it’s thought to be from about the tenth century. So pretty ancient.’

  ‘And it originated in Idaho?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Who knows? If you asked me, I’d say it probably didn’t originate in North America at all. But the museum curator swore blind the local Indians venerated it for centuries as the axe used to cut the tree in the legend of the doll-child.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m an enthusiastic collector, but I’m not an expert. So who am I to argue?’

  ‘So why’s it important, Sarah?’ Diamond asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Blessed if I know. But people are looking for it.’

  ‘Nazis?’ Sumner asked.

  ‘Probably. And others. You might do best to keep it in a vault.’

  Sumner gave a nervous laugh. ‘You really think someone’s gonna try and steal it from here?’

  * * *

  They’d told Jed he could get his camera back tomorrow – provided he agreed not to use any of the pictures he had taken without permission. So what good was that?

  He was annoyed – as much with himself as anything. He’d need the camera back before he returned to Wiles’s farm. He should have waited, got photos of something worth photographing rather than the Mayor and some minor local celebrities. And Davy Wiles of course, he was in the background of a couple of the shots – just standing there looking totally out of place.

  Jed looked round for Wiles to see if he’d managed to collar Sumner yet. He saw Sumner before he saw Wiles – leaving through a back door with a pretty young blonde woman in a striking backless dress. There was an older guy with them too – old enough to be the woman’s father. No prizes for guessing what might be going on there, out of sight of the other guests.

  As he watched, he caught sight of Wiles – distinctive in his dark blue suit. Where the hell had he got that? Where the hell had he got the money to get that? Wiles was pushing past several other guests without a word of apology and following Sumner and the man and woman from the room. Well, that could be embarrassing. Jed smiled at the thought of how Sumner’s heavies would treat Wiles if he got in the way.

  On the other hand, he realised, he needed Wiles sweet and amenable for the moment. Best to warn him off – help him choose a better time. Jed hurried after them. He glanced round to make sure none of the waiters was watching before he slipped through the door after Wiles.

  * * *

  Something brushed against Sarah’s ankle. She stifled a gasp of surprise and looked down. A cat glanced back up at her, before slinking off down the gallery. A black cat – was that good or bad luck? She could never remember.

  Sumner was telling them he’d rather not remove the axe from the display case right now. ‘After everyone’s been through, wait behind then and you can examine the hell out of it. For all the good it will do you – it’s just stone.’

  The cat had stopped and was looking back at them. Its eyes glinted green with reflected light. And Sarah felt a sudden chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the cut of her dress.

  ‘Do you have a cat?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’ Sumner frowned. Her father was staring at her, equally surprised by the question.

  ‘It’s important – do you have a cat? Here at the gallery?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Sumner peered into the darkness, at the cat staring back at them. ‘I’ll have someone put it outside.’

  He turned to gesture to a figure approaching along the gallery. At first Sarah thought it was the waiter, but she could still see the white of his jacket further down the room. This man was dressed in a dark suit. Behind him, another man was running towards them. As he passed under one of the infrequent lights, Sarah saw that it was the photographer.

  ‘Wait!’ he called. ‘Mr Wiles – Davy – not now!’

  Sumner had seen him too. He was holding up his hand and shaking his head as he stepped forward. ‘No, no, no. No interviews, no background pieces, no personal information. Tonight is all about the gallery, not about me.’

  The man in the suit didn’t break step. He grabbed Sumner by the lapels of his jacket, lifted the small man bodily into the air, then hurled him aside. Sumner crashed to the floor with a cry of surprise and pain.

  The photographer was running towards them. The waiter too, stocky and well-built, barrelled down the gallery. Sarah grabbed her father, pulling him out of the way as the man in the dark suit smashed his fist into the front of the display case, shattering the glass.

  ‘He’s come for the axe-head!’ she gasped.

  ‘The hell he has!’

  For a moment they were caught frozen in place. Sarah holding her father back. Sumner struggling to his feet. The photographer and the waiter running. The man reaching into the shattered display cabinet. The cat watching from further down the room.

  Caught in a blinding flash of light as something huge and bright descended on to the lawn outside. There was a roar of sound and the whole window exploded inwards, showering glass along the gallery.

  CHAPTER 9

  They spent the best part of the morning watching the monastery. It was on the edge of the small market town of St Jean-Baptiste de Seine, one side bordered by extensive woods. The original stone-built medieval structure had been extended in the last century. From the vehicles parked outside the newer section, and from observing the various comings and goings, it was apparent that the newer block was where the Gestapo had set up their headquarters.

  Guy and Leo Davenport were concealed in the woodland, lying in the dense undergrowth. From here they had a good view of the back and side of the buildings. Through an arched opening in the wall, they could see several monks tending a small kitchen garden. The dark, shapeless habits were a contrast to the smart uniforms the Gestapo officers wore, very similar to the uniform of the SS.

  The ground was damp and cold. Guy was getting cramped, and with every minute he seemed to become more aware of the stones and sticks digging into him. He shifted to try to get more comfortable.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ Leo replied, ‘the simplest approach is often the best.’

  ‘You think we can just wander in and ask to see their collection of rare historic books?’

  ‘I think we probably can, actually.’ Leo smiled at Guy’s surprise. ‘We’d need a reason. A couple of academics visiting from Paris, perhaps?’

  Guy looked at Leo’s rather bedraggled appearance. It had rained quite heavily in the night and he suspected he looked just as dishevelled and unkempt. ‘Do we look like Parisian academics?’

  ‘Who knows? But we might. I’m open to any other suggestions. I guess we could wait until tonight and break in. But then we have to find the library, and the manuscript we want, and who knows what hours they keep in a monastery. Never mind our friends next door.’

  He nodded at a Kubelwagon drawing up outside
the Gestapo building. Two men in grey uniform dragged a young woman out of the back of the vehicle and pushed her roughly ahead of them towards the door. She stumbled, regained her balance enough to spit at them, and was shoved forwards again.

  Guy felt his anger rising. His fists clenched at his side. Leo put his hand on Guy’s shoulder, shaking his head. They both knew there was nothing they could do.

  ‘We’ll wait until late afternoon,’ Leo said. ‘Our clothes will have dried, so long as it doesn’t start raining again. The monks should be tiring by then; they’ve been up since five. And if it’s starting to get dark, they’re less likely just to turn us away.’

  ‘You hope.’

  ‘Life is built on hope. Certainties just get in the way.’

  Guy couldn’t help but smile. ‘Does that actually mean anything, or does it just sound as if it should?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Leo confessed. ‘It’s probably a quote from something, I rather lose track.’ He rolled onto his side and pulled something from his coat pocket. It was a pack of cards. ‘Now then, how about a few hands of whist while we wait?’

  * * *

  It stayed dry for most of the afternoon, but it was starting to rain again as Guy and Leo approached the main door to the monastery. Guy hoped that might work in their favour. Surely it was part of the monks’ remit to be sympathetic to the needs and comfort of others?

  Leo worked an iron bell-pull beside the door. It had no discernible effect, but within a few moments they heard footsteps approaching, and the door opened.

  The monk allowed them inside the hallway, which was as bare and spartan as Guy had anticipated. A plain wooden chest stood in an alcove, but that was the only furniture or adornment. Guy explained to the monk that they had travelled from Paris with the hope of being allowed access to the monastery’s famous library. Leo’s French was more than adequate, but he let Guy do the talking.

  ‘We were delayed on the way. So many checkpoints, and the weather…’ Guy shrugged. ‘I am sorry we are here so late in the afternoon. I suppose,’ he said, hoping his tone conveyed how much of an inconvenience this would be, ‘that we could make arrangements to stay in the town for tonight and return in the morning.’

  The monk was sympathetic. He would have to speak to the Abbot. Usually the library was open only to those who made appointments well in advance. Had they made an appointment perhaps? They had not. And the Abbot was currently occupied. He was at prayers and not to be disturbed.

  ‘If you are happy to wait until he is free?’ the monk suggested.

  Guy assured him that they were.

  ‘You can wait with Brother Pierre. We have no librarian as such, but Pierre knows the books better than any of us. Even if the Abbot is unwilling to allow you to see the library, Pierre may be able to help you.’

  ‘You think the Abbot might not grant us access?’ Davenport asked. ‘We have come a very long way.’

  The monk opened his hands sympathetically. ‘Alas, it is not entirely up to the Abbot. We live in strange times, as you know. The library itself is in the building currently occupied by the German authorities. They would also have to agree.’

  ‘The Gestapo,’ Guy murmured.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ the monk replied. ‘Whether they will agree, I cannot predict. In this as in so much they are rather capricious. So let us hope Brother Pierre can help you.’

  Brother Pierre was reading. He sat at a small, plain, wooden table in a small, plain, stone-walled room. He was a tall man, thin with wispy grey hair and deep-set eyes. His face was weathered and lined, and seemed to relax into an easy smile. He gestured for Guy and Leo to sit on the low bench on the other side of the table while they explained who they were and what they wanted.

  ‘Ah yes, Plutarch.’ He nodded. His voice was gentle and quiet. ‘The Lamprias Manuscript, yes?’

  ‘You know it?’ Guy asked.

  ‘I have read it, certainly. I recall certain sections of it, but of course there is no substitute for seeing the real thing. Tell me, why are you interested in such an obscure volume?’

  Guy glanced at Leo before answering. It was difficult to know how much to divulge, but Brother Pierre’s memory might be as close as they ever got to the actual manuscript. ‘We are researching the myth of the Axe of Theseus.’

  Pierre nodded slowly. ‘How unusual. But it seems that scholarship becomes more narrow and focused all the time.’

  ‘The manuscript mentions the axe, I believe,’ Leo prompted.

  Pierre leaned back, tapping the ends of his fingers together and closing his eyes. ‘Let me see if I can remember. It mentions several axes. Three in total, I believe. You understand,’ he went on, opening his eyes again and leaning forwards, ‘that the manuscript recounts a variety of myths and legends gathered from across Europe during antiquity. Plutarch adds his own interpretations, but much of the time he merely recounts earlier work, in particular the writings of Lamprias.’

  ‘So we believe,’ Leo said. ‘It is the details that interest us.’

  ‘Then you may be disappointed. It is quite vague. There is a summary of the various distinct myths, but then the author – Plutarch or Lamprias or whoever actually wrote it, there is some doubt as to which sections derive from which sources – then the author attempts to amalgamate them and ascribe a common root to the stories.’

  ‘Isn’t that working backwards?’ Guy said.

  Leo shook his head. ‘Oh no, it’s just a question of whether you think there are several axes, each with its own story, or just one axe about which several stories have sprung up.’

  ‘And there are similarities between the three axe stories that are cited, from what I recall. That is the point the author tries to make.’

  ‘There are?’ Perhaps this was useful.

  Pierre counted them off on his fingers. ‘Thor’s axe awakens elemental powers from their long sleep – Odin and the other old gods. The Axe of Theseus is also related to sleep – perhaps tenuously, but he uses it to destroy the bed of Procrustes, which itself was a death bed. Sleep again, you see.’

  ‘You mentioned three axes,’ Guy prompted.

  ‘The manuscript is vague about the third, but it’s related to Roman mythology. So it would be a section that was added by Plutarch himself. This third axe was apparently used by the god of war, Mars, to break down the gates of a fortress where several of the other gods, including Jupiter, had been tricked into drinking a sleeping potion. But the author says the axe has vanished. Which is interesting as it suggests that for all his arguments for conflating the stories, the other axes could still at the time be accounted for.’

  ‘Perhaps it found its way to America,’ Leo said quietly to Guy.

  ‘Where it brought the doll-child to life and awakened the winds, or something.’

  The monk who had admitted them to the monastery returned with news that the Abbot was now available and waiting to see them.

  Leo asked if Brother Pierre would come with them. ‘You could perhaps help us to convince him that we are genuinely interested in the manuscript.’

  In the event, it was not their interest that the Abbot doubted, but their academic credentials.

  ‘You have no letter of introduction, nothing to identify you as being from where you say you are.’ The Abbot was an elderly man, completely bald, but with clear and alert blue eyes. ‘Your papers tell me nothing. Oh, I don’t doubt your academic interest, but you will appreciate we cannot simply open the doors of our library to anyone who turns up unannounced and asks to be let in. It would be highly irresponsible.’

  ‘But we’ve come a long way. All the way from Paris,’ Guy protested.

  ‘So you say.’ The Abbot sighed, and leaned back in his chair. ‘I am not being obstructive simply for the sake of it, believe me. And if you are happy to stay with us until tomorrow morning I think there is a simple solution that will satisfy both my need for assurances, and yours for entry to our library.’

  ‘And what is that?’ Guy asked.<
br />
  ‘Just give me the name of the head of your department, and when the university is open tomorrow I shall ask the Gestapo if I may use their telephone to call and check your references.’

  Guy and Leo exchanged glances. This was not lost on the Abbot.

  ‘Or is there a reason why I should not telephone?’

  ‘I think we should tell him,’ Leo said. It took Guy a moment to realise he had said it in English. So the decision was already made.

  The Abbot and Brother Pierre listened without comment to Guy’s rapid explanation that the manuscript might contain information that was vital to the Allied war effort. He was deliberately vague, acutely aware that the Abbot might simply call for help and then hand them over to the Germans.

  He was certainly angry. As soon as Guy had finished, the man slammed his fist down on the table in front of him. ‘Occupation by a foreign power is one thing. An inconvenience, an imposition. We don’t like it. But this is more than that. You dare to bring your war in here? To a place of peace and prayer?’

  ‘You do share it with the Gestapo,’ Leo pointed out.

  ‘And we came and asked. We didn’t just break in and take what we need,’ Guy added quickly.

  ‘But if the Gestapo were not here, I think you might have done.’

  He couldn’t argue with that – it was certainly possible, if not likely. ‘Look,’ Guy said, ‘we’re not asking you to do anything other than let us see a manuscript in your library. It won’t have any repercussions for you. The Germans will never find out, and if they did you can just say that you believed our story about being from the university in Paris.’

  ‘You are assuming that I want to help you,’ the Abbot said.

  ‘But we must,’ Pierre told him. It was the first time he had spoken. ‘Anything we can do to liberate our country. I can’t be the only one who hears what is happening next door. Even through the thick stone walls.’

  ‘Next door is a police station. It is where they question criminals.’

  ‘It is where they torture our countrymen,’ Pierre countered. ‘These men are right – the Germans will never know we have helped them. But to stand by, to send them on their way without helping, that surely would be a sin of omission.’