Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I nodded, looking my last upon my battered friends. Then the guards seized my arms and hauled me to the block. We passed the place where Dugal lay. I saw that he had lost consciousness again. “Farewell, brother,” I said, though I knew he was past hearing. “You were ever a true friend to me, Dugal.”

  We reached the block whereupon I was thrown to the ground, and they began lashing my hands together. They had almost finished the chore when a commotion arose from across the yard where the slaves were assembled. I heard shouting, and to my surprise I recognized both the voice and the words.

  “Stop!” cried the voice. “Let me take his place.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the figure of an old man hobbling forth as quickly as his wracked body would allow. After a moment, I realized that it was Bishop Cadoc. Gone were the robes and cloak, and gone the eagle-topped cambutta, but his voice was strong and powerful as ever. One of the guards ran to thwart him, but the chief overseer gestured to the man to allow him to come forth.

  “Take me instead,” Cadoc said quickly, puffing with the effort of crossing the yard. I saw then that he was ill, for his eyes were hazy and his breath a laboured wheeze. He stepped nearer, gesturing to the chief overseer to help explain his words. “I will take his place. I will take all their places. Take me, and let them go,” he said, offering himself.

  “Please, Bishop Cadoc, it is better this way,” I pleaded. “I am content and ready to die. God has forsaken me, and I have nothing left. Let it end now.”

  The mine overseer looked from one to the other of us, and decided, I suppose, that he would get more work out of me than out of Cadoc, for he uttered a gruff command and the guards took hold of the bishop. Taking the rope from me, they tied the old man instead.

  “Cadoc!” I began, “It is not right that you—”

  “Listen to me, Aidan,” he said, gently. “There is not much time.” I made to protest to the chief overseer, but Cadoc stopped me, saying, “I am dying, Aidan. I am nearly gone.”

  “Bishop Cadoc…” I cried in agony.

  “Peace, brother,” he soothed. “I have reached the end of my life and I am ready to join my king. But you, Aidan, must live. There is much to do and your life is just beginning.”

  His hands tied now, they pulled him roughly to the ground and bound his feet. Cadoc seemed oblivious to the mistreatment. “You were well chosen, brother. Never doubt that. God will not forsake those who call upon his name. Cling to him, Aidan. He is your rock and your strength.”

  They lifted him to the block and lay him over it, face down, his thin shoulders and legs falling to either side. A rope was passed through the tight leather bonds joining his hands, and another between his ankles; these were then tied to the horses’ harnesses.

  “Always remember,” he said, turning his face to me for the last time, “your life was bought with a price. Remember that when doubt overtakes you. Farewell, Aidan.”

  He then turned his head and closed his eyes. I heard the familiar drone of the Lord’s Prayer.

  The chief overseer spoke out a command, and the pit guard, whip in hand, stepped to the block, pushing me aside. I could not stand and fell to the ground where I rolled in torment on my bruised back. Another guard, a tall, well-muscled dark-skinned Sarazen, took his place on the other side of the block. He reached out his hand and received the curved axe.

  At a nod from the chief overseer, the pit guard gave out a cry to the horses. His whip uncurled in the same instant and the crack echoed in the yard. The slaves all shouted at once. The horses started forth. Poor Cadoc’s body snapped taut like a scrap of rag. The whip cracked again as the pit guard lashed the horses to their work.

  There came a hideous popping sound from Cadoc’s body as the very bones and sinews gave way. Hearing this, the tall guard swung his axe up over his head and down again in one swift motion. The blow was ill-placed, however, for the blade bit deep into the good bishop’s side just above the hip, opening a terrible gash. Out spewed blood and entrails.

  Cadoc cried out. The whip cracked again, and the horses stretched him further. “Kyrie!” he screamed, his great voice crying not in pain but victory. “Kyrie eleison!”

  Unable to look away, I stared in horror as the curved blade slashed again, this time catching Cadoc in the small of the back. The bones severed with a snap and the horses stumbled forward. I saw a gush of bright, bright red, brilliant in the sunlight, as the bishop’s body split in half.

  Cadoc gave a last cry as the fore-half of his severed trunk, suddenly free, slewed forward. “Kyrie!” he gasped as the breath of life fled his lungs.

  The Arab onlookers raised a shout—a word that sounded like “Bismillah”—calling over and over again. The slaves, ranged opposite the cheering crowd, fell into a sullen silence as the two halves of the good bishop’s corpse were loosed from the horses and dragged off to one side, leaving a dark trail in the dust. My mouth filled with bitter bile and my stomach heaved, but there was nothing in my gut to throw up. I gagged instead.

  Reeling, I felt my hands caught up and quickly lashed together with a strong leather thong. Numb horror stole over me; I raised my eyes to meet the triumphant, mocking sneer of the pit guard, and the truth broke over me: Cadoc’s sacrifice was meaningless and I was next to die.

  The chief overseer had no intention of showing mercy; he killed an old man who had outlived his usefulness as a slave and, just as surely, he would now kill us. The bishop’s gesture, so grand and selfless, an expression of ultimate compassion, was shown to be the act of a blundering old fool. That was the truth, brutal as the Sarazen sun beating down upon the white dust square, blighting all beneath its unrelenting gaze.

  My mind squirmed with dread. I was to die like Cadoc, hacked in half like a meatbone, my inward parts spilled out onto the dusty ground. “Bastard!” I spat at the chief overseer, rage flaring through me with the intensity of the white-hot sun above. “Satan take you all!”

  The smug Arab only laughed, and gestured his men to tie my feet. They pushed me to the ground, and took hold of my legs. I tried to kick at them, but my legs were bruised and stiff from the torture I had endured, it was all I could do to bend them, and the next thing I knew, I was slung up into the air and placed upon the blood-stained block.

  I heard Gunnar shout something, meaning to instill bravery, I think, but I could not hear what it was. All I could hear was the sound of my own heart wildly pounding in my ears. I felt the ropes being passed between my wrists and ankles, and made secure. All I could think was that this was not my fate; my death was otherwise ordained. That I should leave life so miserably was a monumental injustice.

  The ropes snapped tight.

  My arms and legs stretched taut. In a moment the horses would be driven forth and the wicked blade would slice into my side.

  Images cascaded through my mind in a mad, meaningless rush. I glimpsed the green hills of Éire, and the faces of my brother monks going up to the chapel. I saw Dugal striding across the pasture, carrying a lamb, and laughing. I saw Eparch Nicephorus peeling an orange with his long fingers. I saw Gunnar’s son Ulf, running with his fishing pole down the path to the pond, and Ylva feeding geese on meal held in her apron. I glimpsed Harald Bull-Roar standing beneath the handsome prow of his dragon ship, and the purple hills of Byzantium misty in the distance. Lastly, I saw my own hand working over a leaf of close-copied vellum at my desk in the scriptorium, pen quivering in the candlelight.

  The crack of the pit guard’s whip brought me to myself once more, and to the sudden, searing ache in my shoulders and back. I felt the sinews in my sides stretch. The ropes groaned as the horses pulled the harder.

  I heard the whip crack again, and liquid fire spurted into my veins. Instantly, every muscle and bone was aflame. I cried out, and my voice sounded strange in my ears—like the hoarse blat of a ram’s horn when it is blown. The sound came again and I thought, How strange to make such an undignified noise at the moment of death.

  Another voic
e wormed its way into my consciousness—Gunnar or Harald, I could not tell which—was shouting for all he was worth. The words were odd, though, and I could not make out what he was saying. A thick black cloud descended over me then, and I took a deep breath, and another, greedily, knowing it would be my last.

  I felt the axe-blade strike my back. Oddly, it did not hurt. Indeed, it seemed a relief, for the terrible straining tension went out of the ropes.

  Ah! I thought, this is how it ends. The pain simply stops and then you die. Perhaps I am dead even now. If so, why do I still hear the shouting?

  47

  I felt my body lifted up and lowered to the ground. The mist cleared from my eyes and I saw that I was now sitting on the blood-soaked ground with my back against the block; a stranger stood over me, brown-skinned, dressed in a long blue robe and cloak, and white turban.

  My mind was beclouded; I could make nothing of what was happening around me. I heard someone speaking rapidly and looked around to see a man sitting on a fine white horse, spear in hand, his face hard and angry. With him were four mounted warriors in blue turbans, holding spears and long blue-painted shields.

  It came to me that this was the same man I had seen the previous day. Apparently, he had returned and was not well pleased with what he saw; he sat on his horse, berating the chief overseer in a loud voice. They were arguing in Arabic so that I did not know what they said, but the chief overseer was shouting and shaking his fists at the stranger on the horse.

  The white-turbaned stranger, grim-faced, eyes narrowed, turned in the saddle and gestured to the warrior standing over me. At once the warrior began untying my wrists and ankles. He was quickly joined by another warrior and together they raised me between them. I could not stand, so they were forced to bear me up.

  Livid with rage, the chief overseer started towards the two warriors supporting me. He took a quick step, and I saw the glint of a blade in his hand. Another few steps and he would reach us. There was nothing I could do to prevent the attack. Indeed, I had not the strength or wit to so much as cry out to warn my protectors.

  Then a curious thing happened: as the chief overseer drew back his arm to strike, a sharp-angled metal point appeared in the centre of his chest. He shuddered forward a step or two, and then stopped to look down as a bright red bloom of blood spread from the protruding point. The knife fell from his hand, and he clawed at the thing in his chest, raking his fingers against it.

  The chief overseer staggered forward one more step and then crashed to his knees. Staring at me, he gave a choked cry and pitched forward face-down in the dust. The long shaft of a spear stood upright in the centre of his back. The slaves began shouting as one, ecstatic that their tormentor had been struck down.

  The white-turbaned man moved his mount to where the fallen overseer lay and retrieved his spear without so much as rising from his saddle. Spear in hand, he called in a warning voice to the guards and slave drivers who stood looking on, and then motioned for the two warriors holding me to follow. They carried me to a horse and hoisted me onto it. I could not sit upright, but slumped on the animal’s neck and clung on with the last of my strength. Soon we were racing headlong down through the narrow streets of the mining settlement towards the gate—one warrior leading my horse, and another riding alongside, keeping me in the saddle. The flight was almost as painful as any of my beatings and I cried out with every jolting step.

  I do not know how far we fled—once beyond the gate, I swooned and cannot remember anything more until I awoke in a dusky twilight. The stranger in the white turban was kneeling beside me, pressing a wet cloth to my forehead. When he saw that I had wakened, he held a cup to my lips and gave me water to drink.

  “Allah, Most Merciful, be praised,” he said, “you awake in the land of the living.”

  I gazed at the man’s face as he spoke, and I remembered where I had seen him before—with the amir, in Trebizond. “I know you,” I told him, my voice a rasping whisper in my ears.

  “I know you, too. I am Faysal,” he replied. “I have been looking for you.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “That is for Lord Sadiq to tell,” he replied.

  “My friends—” I said, remembering Gunnar and Dugal suddenly. I tried to sit up; pain burst behind my eyes and I fell back, panting with the effort. My shoulder felt as if it were being prodded with white-hot irons.

  “I know nothing of your friends,” Faysal replied bluntly. “But tell me, is Eparch Nicephorus dead?”

  Unable to speak, I nodded.

  “We are taking you to the amir. He is in Ja’fariya, which is several days’ ride from here.”

  I roused myself to protest. “Please,” I gasped, “I cannot leave my friends.”

  Faysal seemed not to hear. He rose, saying, “Rest now and regain your strength.”

  Though I slept the remainder of the day, by nightfall my condition had worsened. I could no longer lift my head, much less stand, and it hurt to breathe. My whole body pulsed with pain, especially my shoulder and deep in my chest. Waking by firelight, I found Faysal sitting beside me, his dark eyes shadowed with worry.

  “Drink this,” he said, offering me a cup. “I have brought you some food also.”

  I raised my hand and reached for the cup and pain seared me from elbow to neck. Tears came to my eyes. I lay back groaning and gasping for breath.

  “Please,” Faysal said, and proceeded to loosen my clothing. Though he worked most gently, even the smallest movement caused me to cry out. He took one quick look and sat back on his heels. “It is not good,” he told me. “The bones of your arm have been separated from their place. I can help you if you will allow me—though I warn you, there will be much pain.”

  As I could not imagine anything more painful than that which I had already endured, I gave my silent assent. Faysal left me then, and I heard low, urgent voices for a moment before drifting into unconsciousness again. Returning some while later, he roused me and said, “It is best done quickly.”

  Kneeling before me, he motioned to two of the men with him to attend me. They lifted me to a sitting posture, and one put his arms around my waist and the other held me about the chest. “Put this between your teeth,” Faysal instructed, placing a tight-folded cloth in my mouth. When he was satisfied with these precautions, Faysal took my arm between his hands and slowly raised it until it was level with my shoulder; I winced and bit into the cloth, but did not scream.

  Slowly, slowly, Faysal rotated my arm. Pain burst in bright fireballs; I felt him tighten his grip on my arm, and I closed my eyes.

  Without the least warning, he pulled my arm straight out. In the same moment, the man holding my chest pulled me back. I heard a grating pop as my arm gave way. I thought I would swoon with the pain. Instantly, Faysal released his grip and the pain ceased. “There,” he said, taking the cloth from between my teeth, “the bone is returned to its proper place.”

  They then crossed my arm over my chest and bound it there with a long strip of cloth torn from one of their cloaks. This finished, I fell back sweating and shaking with exhaustion. Faysal covered me with a cloak and I slept until dawn when they brought me water and a little bread dipped in honey. I was able to swallow a bit of it, and felt somewhat revived.

  I could not stand. Every limb had been bludgeoned and every joint cruelly twisted. The bruises on my flesh were dark, angry blue-black in colour, and there was not a solitary patch of skin that was not discoloured; due to the swelling, the skin had burst in several places. Faysal did not like the look of my wounds and told me so. “I fear for you, my friend,” he said. “I think we dare not stay here any longer.”

  Since I was in no way fit to sit a horse, they constructed a carrier of sorts made of a wide piece of stout cloth slung between two horses and tied somehow to the saddles. Into this sling I was placed, like a baby bundled into a cradle, and we set off.

  Clearly, Faysal was anxious to reach Ja’fariya, for we did not stop all that day, and only once
the next day. I lay in my sling, drifting in and out of consciousness. The riders were such masterful horsemen, that I rarely suffered the slightest bump or jolt, but swung gently to the rhythmic swaying of the horses.

  The incessant, drumming ache in my joints and muscles—every part of my body had either been bludgeoned or stretched—increased through the second day. My right shoulder still throbbed, and the pain in my chest was gradually replaced by a burning sensation which made breathing difficult. My periods of awareness grew shorter and my sleep deeper; I could rouse myself, but only with extreme effort, and as time passed that effort no longer seemed worthwhile. During my brief periods of lucidity, I reckoned we were travelling rapidly, but could not tell in which direction. We rested only briefly during the hottest part of the day, and pushed on well into the night.

  Once, I awoke, opening my eyes to see the full moon hanging like a glowing face above me, perfectly round and ablaze with pale gold light in a sky of deepest blue. Stars in their hundreds of thousands gleamed like so much silver dust scattered by a wildly generous hand. I did not know if I was still in my sling, or lying on the ground, and felt a distinct urgency to learn which it might be, but soon passed into unconsciousness without discovering the answer to this mystery.

  Another day passed—or, then again, it may have been the same day, or one of a long succession of days, for all I could tell—and we arrived at the amir’s palace. I cannot say which way we had travelled, nor how long the journey lasted—two days, four, or maybe less or more—such was beyond my ken.

  All I can say with certainty is that I awoke suddenly to find that I was being carried along a panelled corridor to the accompaniment of hushed voices. They brought me to a small, bare cell of a room where I was placed on a covered pallet. Sunlight slashed into the room through a narrow slit of a windhole; dust motes swirled lazily in the sharp shaft of light. Those who had carried me to the room departed and I was left alone for a moment.