The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  ‘You mean men like Willem?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps. Yes, I believe so, because they owe us more than even the bonds of blood and ancestry can enforce, more even than belief in the Sight can inspire. Do you know of what I speak, John Hardwick?’

  I nodded. ‘Freedom,’ I replied.

  She spun around, and placed her hands on my chest tenderly, and looked up at me, her face so close to mine that I felt the flutter of her eyelashes against the stubble on my chin.

  ‘Freedom is the only thing worth living for, Captain. And it is the only thing worth dying for.’ For a moment, I thought she was going to kiss me, and I longed for her to do so, but again an instinct within me pulled me away.

  ‘Freedom is a right, which in my country must be earned. Tell me, Rosanna, how many crimes have your followers committed? How many people have they hurt or robbed? And don’t pretend as though they are all latter-day Robin Hoods—I have seen men like Willem before, many times. He may be a likeable rogue, but he is a rogue nonetheless, and if he were not here with you, I imagine he would be serving time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’ No sooner had I uttered the words than she pulled away from me. I regretted my tone instantly, but I cannot say even now that I did not mean what I had said. However, in the presence of a woman so beautiful, so fierce—perhaps I was a fool not to follow my heart. The moment of tenderness was shattered, and she stepped back from me, her face expressionless, illuminated like a masterwork of Rembrandt in the warm glow of the lantern.

  ‘These are my people, Captain. They come from all walks of life, and yes, it is true, they are not all innocents. They are the poor, the meek and the dispossessed. You may also find amongst them thieves, beggars and even murderers. Does that shock you? But listen to me, Captain John Hardwick, with your fine feeling and parade-ground rules: these people are good, for all of the sins of their pasts, and they deserve a second chance. Your government will not grant them that, nor would your Queen, but I can offer them sanctuary. Here they have Romanipen. We survive, my people survive—our way of life survives—by the virtues of the waifs and strays who come to us. They are bound to me as I am to them, and I would not change it for the world. You want the truth? Gregor is wanted for murder. Willem was a pickpocket for all his life. And yet those two men were risking everything just by being in London, because I asked them to work the docks to earn us money. And had I not asked them, they would not have fished you out of the river, and you would be dead. Do you understand?’

  ‘Murder…’ I muttered. ‘Rosanna, I owe them my life, it is true, but does that compensate for the taking of another?’ The tangled web of cause and effect in which I was trapped was beginning to make my head spin. Everything from my liberation in Burma right up to this encounter with Rosanna and her disciples—all of it seemed either startling serendipity or devious design. I was starting to hope that I would not find out where the path would lead, whilst dreading that it was already ‘foreseen’.

  ‘And is murder never justified, Captain? Would you not murder the men who did this to you, given the chance?’ She flourished her hand up and down, indicated my eye, my bandaged shoulder, the whole broken mess of me.

  ‘I would, and I would expect to face severe questions for it. Penalties, even. There are consequences…’

  ‘Those consequences are very different for an officer, a gentleman, and a poor gypsy from across the sea. You must know this; you are no fool.’

  ‘Rosanna I… I don’t know what to say. You know what I am, what I stand for.’ I was still struggling to reconcile the fact that Gregor, my saviour, was a murderer. More than that, I was thinking of what Sir Arthur had told me, that I would be betrayed more than once. I was now among criminals, putting my life in their hands. Would Rosanna betray me? Her people? I certainly had little cause to trust them.

  ‘Pah! Find me twelve men in your city as honest as the men in my camp, and I will pluck the very stars from the sky. I tell you this, John Hardwick—you will have to make your decision tonight. Right this instant. If you want to summon the law and throw my family in jail, then go and do so. The nearest town is that way.’ She pointed violently, her arm outstretched fully for emphasis. Her eyes were wild with passion, and her cheeks were the colour of fire. ‘But if you want my help, then come back to the camp, go to bed, and sleep in the company of those brigands you so despise. If they do not slit your throat in the night, and you wake refreshed in the morning, then we will talk some more.’

  I tried to say something to stay her ire, but the words would not come. And then I was taken by surprise as she snatched up the lantern with one hand, grabbed a handful of my hair in the other, and kissed me hard. I dissolved in an instant; there was such fury and passion and life in her that I had neither the will nor the inclination to resist. And then she pulled away once more, and with fire in her eyes she pushed me hard in the chest. The pain flared up in my shoulder, and I fell backwards into a patch of ferns, such that for a moment I was engulfed in a dark green sea. I heard her say, with an air of petulance: ‘A kiss, Captain Hardwick, so that perhaps you might remember what it is like to feel.’ And with that she was gone.

  When I finally clambered out of the undergrowth, I was alone on a dark forest path, with no sign of Rosanna or the lantern, and only the trees and stars as witnesses to the kiss that still lingered on my lips.

  * * *

  The next morning I greeted the day with an aching head and leaden limbs. My shoulder burned with pain and my head spun from the wine. I was in the tent again, and the sound of industry and toil could be heard all around me through the muffling canvas walls. I was half dressed—I recalled stumbling through the woods in pitch darkness, before finding the camp again after God knows how long. I had sneaked to the tent like a thief in the night, shame-faced at my treatment of Rosanna, angry at her treatment of me, and more than a little embarrassed at my moral transgression. My situation was not unlike my time in India; what would I have said to the men under my command if they had fraternised with the locals, and taken romantic evening strolls with the sultry, barefoot girls of that far-off land?

  I rubbed at my face in an effort to expunge the grogginess, and with no small effort managed to sit up and pull on my britches. No sooner had I done so than a man appeared at the flap of the tent. It was Gregor. I had not yet given him a thought, but now he was at my door it all came rushing back to me—how on earth could I stay with these people, who harboured such men? And yet I said nothing. Gregor had a broad smile on his face, and a jug of water in his hand.

  ‘My friend, you drank too much last night, eh?’

  I managed to nod. My whole perception of Gregor had changed overnight.

  ‘Rosanna said to bring you water and medicine, and make sure you get some rest. You make her mad last night, no?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I managed to reply. He handed me the water and two small, pale blue pills. ‘What are these?’ I asked suspiciously. Gregor shrugged.

  ‘From doctor. Stop you getting sick again.’

  The pills did not resemble anything that I knew better to avoid, and so at Gregor’s insistence I took them. I drank the water thirstily, cup after cup until it was gone.

  ‘Now,’ said Gregor, ‘you should rest. Another day, maybe two, and you will be strong again. I bring you food now, then you sleep.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, as he turned to leave. ‘I feel well, honestly. What time is it?’

  ‘Almost noon. But you are sick. We will talk more later.’ And with that, the burly gypsy was gone again. I was half tempted to leave anyway, but when I tried to stand I felt light-headed. For a horrible moment I thought I really had been drugged, but I quickly reminded myself of my injuries, the volume of river water I must have swallowed recently, and the amount of spiced wine I had consumed the night before. I sat down on the bed again.

  There was a chair by the bed, where Rosanna had sat when she’d nursed me. Again I reproached myself, for although she had had another motive for helping me, certainly, she
had still done me a great kindness. And if what she had said last night was true, she did so despite the harm it would bring her people, and that showed a strength of character that I admired. I noticed that there was a book on the chair, and I picked it up idly—it was a copy of Dickens’ Great Expectations, its marbled jacket faded and bent, and its pages well thumbed. There was an inscription on the first folio: To Rosanna, my guiding star.

  ‘I see you decided to return.’ The voice shocked me, and I dropped the book on the chair, and looked around to see Rosanna standing at the foot of the cot bed. Her hair was tied back under a braided headscarf, and her dress was white and long. I was too mindful of the previous night’s events to make good conversation, and I barely managed to mutter some nonsense to the affirmative.

  ‘It is good that you are back, Captain. I did not know for sure if you would go to the town and bring back an army of policemen. I am glad you did not.’

  ‘Rosanna… I am sorry to have caused you offence,’ I said. It was not the best apology, but it was a start.

  ‘Captain Hardwick, I fear I overestimated you. I thought that you were ready, but it was too much, too soon. Perhaps we can try again, when you are well.’

  I did not know whether she was talking about my ‘foreseen’ destiny again, or something else. In either case I was inclined to agree; but before I could answer she moved to where I was sitting and took up the book that I had been looking at.

  ‘Great Expectations… not the most cheerful tale, but one that I have read many times. I read it while I watched over you, John Hardwick, and I wondered what kind of a man you would turn out to be when you woke. Perhaps you would be Bentley Drummle, Magwitch, or maybe even Pip. I imagined you as them as you slept.’

  I had not read the book for many years, but I recalled the story quite well. I believe she was weighing me up as either the roguish bully who was only outwardly a gentleman; the piteous fugitive who was also the most honest man of the tale; or the young hero, so foolish at first, only claims the woman he loves after causing himself and her great pain. I was not sure it was really fair to compare me to any of them, but I knew which I currently appeared to be, and I tried not to grimace at the thought.

  ‘And which of them am I?’ I asked, as optimistically as I could.

  ‘None. You are Joe Gargery, I think. It seems I will be for ever condemned to wait for my Prince Charming.’

  She looked at me for a moment, and I was at a loss for words. Did she mean to say that I was unambitious and hen-pecked? Or earthy and kind? Then she laughed, and I felt relieved; it had been just one night, but I had missed her laughter.

  ‘John Hardwick, you are such a serious man. Perhaps Dickens was like you as a boy, which is why many of his stories are so bleak?’

  ‘Who is it from? The book, I mean?’

  ‘My father. He was a clever man—he taught himself to read when he was a youth, and he taught me and my sisters. I read it every year on the anniversary of his death. He was a good man, a good leader of these people.’

  ‘I… I did not realise that it is a sensitive time. I am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Do not apologise,’ she said, perhaps misunderstanding the sentiment. ‘I was mourning, yes, but then you came along, my brave soldier, and took my mind off it. I did not have to nurse you myself, but it was better than spending the nights alone with Mr. Charles Dickens.’

  She sat beside me on the bed, and I took great care not to look at her askance, or do anything that might suggest impropriety. My adherence to decorum only seemed to encourage her, and she shuffled closer, and took my hand. ‘I have asked Gregor to look after you today. It would do you good to talk to him—I mean it, John. Ask of him whatever you need to salve your conscience. And then get some rest, take the air—but no drinking today!’

  She stood, and I felt suitably chided. She looked down at me and shook her head.

  ‘What am I to do with you, John Hardwick?’ she asked. ‘I know—when you are stronger we will go riding. I will show you such countryside as will lighten even your heavy heart. And then we shall see how you feel about our little family, eh?’

  ‘I would like that,’ I said. Then, almost as an afterthought I asked: ‘You said before there was a town nearby—which is it?’

  ‘Always wanting to get back to your old life,’ she chastened me. ‘The way you court danger, Captain Hardwick, I think you are more eager to see the next, no?’

  ‘Please,’ I said, perhaps too pleadingly. She sighed at me, in her customary way.

  ‘It is called Faversham, I think. We can go there if you like; they are not too disapproving of my kind, if you can stand to be seen with a gypsy woman.’

  Faversham! Again I was left befuddled by a string of coincidence.

  ‘Faversham is close to my old home,’ I remarked. ‘This is… uncanny.’

  Rosanna looked as surprised as I sounded.

  ‘John,’ she said softly, placing a hand against my cheek, ‘perhaps it is time you stopped fighting against the signs. Perhaps it is time to see where they are leading you.’

  I put my hand to hers, brushing it gently with my fingertips. My senses were full of her; I could notice nothing but her lavender scent, her warmth. It was somehow comforting, and where my head had been full to bursting with thoughts of destiny and precognition just moments before, I was immediately soothed. What a spell she had cast on me, this dusky witch of the Romani.

  She smiled, stepped away from me, and turned to leave. ‘Eat, rest, and grow strong,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow we will talk, and see what lies in store for us.’ With those cryptic, mildly encouraging words, she made to leave, but I called her back.

  ‘Rosanna, there is one thing I need, though I don’t know if you can help.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘I need some good clothes. If we are to go riding, these just won’t do,’ I laughed.

  ‘My Captain, I think perhaps your heart has not fully left the city. I will see what I can do, no? But in return, you must get some rest.’ With that, she left me to my own devices.

  I must confess that the idea of lollygagging around for the day seemed somewhat appealing, but instead I dragged myself from my cot a short while later, determined to ignore Rosanna’s advice and make myself useful.

  The camp was a little busier than it had been on the previous afternoon, but still there were few of the men around to ask for work, except for some of Andre’s friends, who I would have spoken to only if they were the last men on Earth. Instead, I reacquainted myself with Drina, who in turn introduced me to another of the Five Sisters, Esme. When I told them I wanted to work to pay my way, they gave me queer looks, and told me that I was ill-suited to heavy work in my condition. However, I persisted, and offered to do anything that would prove useful: fetch water, wash clothes, and so on. Finally they relented, and took me to a group of old women who were on their way to carry out those very tasks at a brook on the eastern side of the woods. Some of my new-found workmates could barely speak English, and poked fun at me relentlessly, grinning at me toothlessly and laughing through wrinkled lips. Still, I went with them, determined that I was good for something.

  The day did not pass as quickly as I had hoped, for my industry was painstaking with one arm, and the washer-women were not the greatest conversationalists. Despite the drawbacks, I managed to pick up a few words of the Rom tongue, which I was surprised to discover was not too dissimilar to Rajasthani, a language I had some grasp of. It was not enough to converse, but certainly enough to catch the gist.

  When the time came to return to camp, I believe I had earned their acceptance, if not their approval. The same could not be said, however, of the gypsy men. When I returned with the old women and set down my pail of water, I noticed a small group of rough-looking sorts pointing at me and laughing. Standing not far from them, in the shadow of a large elm, was Andre, who glowered at me. With him, again, was William—the two had become thick as thieves. I wanted to go over to the men who mocked me
for doing ‘women’s work’, to say something terribly clever to put them in their places. Instead, I held my peace, and when one of the old women tugged at my shirtsleeve and ordered me to carry the pail to the centre of the camp, the little gang of gypsy men burst into laughter at my expense. I reddened, but did not rise to it. I did as I was bid, and when the work was done I returned to my tent in a most irritable mood.

  I kept my own counsel for a while, scouring the old newspaper—which I had clung to jealously—for every scrap of news and gossip, and even leafing through Rosanna’s copy of Great Expectations, though I could not concentrate on the prose. I was too absorbed in my thoughts; whenever I was alone I found myself brooding on Lazarus, on Lillian, on Ambrose, and wondering how on earth I could return to London, or whether I ever could. Even these dark thoughts helped to take my mind from my withdrawal, for the sickening hollow within me was often so strong that I almost stormed to Rosanna’s caravan more than once to find the half-bottle of laudanum.

  I did not pop my head outside of the tent for several hours. Presently, Gregor entered the tent, returned from a day’s work at one of the factories near Faversham.

  ‘Friend John,’ he said, ‘I have something for you.’

  Gregor handed me a package. I tore through the brown paper and found a serviceable suit of clothes, about my size. Finally I had a clean shirt, trousers without holes, and a thick tweed jacket that made me look more like a local landowner than a wandering gypsy. I thanked Gregor profusely, and asked if there was anything I could do in return, but he would not hear of it.

  ‘It is nothing,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow you go out with Rosanna, and maybe you will impress her in your fine clothes, no? Or maybe you do not understand Romani women at all, eh? We will see.’ He grinned at me as he said this. ‘It will soon be time to eat,’ he said. ‘Now you can, how do you say? “Dress for dinner”.’ With a hearty laugh, he left the tent. Unlike William, whose motives and loyalties I could not fathom, Gregor was an open book, and good-natured. I reminded myself again that he was a murderer on the run, and scowled. I wondered where the clothes had come from—a landowner’s washing-line, I had no doubt—but decided it was better not to ask.