The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  Taulubeg snorts, staring at the wide-eyed wonder shining in the visage of Ulan. Then he cackles and spits a phlegmy gob into the fire.

  ‘Hehe. A Chin. I bet he was a eunuch court official who sat on his arse all day. I don’t know why you believed such nonsense. I would have opened his veins for insulting me with patent lies.’

  He pauses, and his final comment is directed straight at Ulan.

  ‘And that’s what you want. A Great Khan who listens to lying eunuchs all day long. Give me Arigh-Boke any day.’

  Tetuak has also gone as pale as a pewter storm cloud over Venice, and Ulan is rendered speechless. Only Karakuchuk nods as though he agrees with Taulubeg. The room falls silent, and the only sound is the whining of the restless wind outside. And the creaking of the walls as they buckle and swell like ancient bellows with the air soughing in and out. It is as though we are all sitting inside some monster’s chest. I can see the success of my planting the idea of unnatural activity in the minds of those present. I have them scared, and uncertain. In fact, even my pragmatic Venetian brain is jangling in the heavy atmosphere. And the sense of unease that is tangible in the very air everyone sucks into their lungs. I wanted them to be unsure of each other, and they surely are now. Better that than united in their unease about me.

  Besides, all has suddenly become clear to me. I now know who has murdered Eldegai. I just have to convince the others that I am right. And that I had no reason to kill him. In fact, I had every reason for him to prosper. I think back over my last meeting with Eldegai, just before his death. It is what he told me then that I now have used to figure out who the killer is. Along with a few more shrewd observations, and the prophecy of the mystery scribe. But I’m still going to have to extract a confession. And much as I might long for the dark and feverish confines of the Doge’s palace dungeons back in Venice to assist me, I know I have to rely on my own wits. And a little sleight of hand.

  I peruse my companions, sitting huddled around the flickering fire at the heart of the stove-house. The brightness of the flames has faded to a cherry glow that barely illumines all our faces. The outer ring of dark walls has disappeared into the gloom, making the sound of their creaking in the rushing wind more eerie and uncanny. We might as well be sitting in the open under some dreadful, starless sky with a horde of winged beasts flapping down to pick us off like carrion. The unease engendered by the gloom and the tales of monsters lodged in everyone’s minds admirably suits my purpose. Instinctively, the Tartars have moved closer to the fire as the scope of its warmth and brightness has faded. I rise and stalk around the perimeter of the room, which is half in darkness. It is time for a bit of showmanship.

  I kick Kyrill’s skinny haunches to arouse him from sleep and make my voice as sonorous as it can be.

  ‘Come, priest. I feel the soul of Eldegai calling me. It wishes to speak.’

  There is a stirring amongst the Tartars as the import of my words penetrates their skulls. One or two are moved to protest, but Sartakh stops them with an upraised palm. His eyes twinkle with curiosity as he searches my face for the meaning of my actions. I put on my best gambling face and drag Kyrill unwillingly towards the door. When I open it, the blast of cold air hits my face like sand from the lagoon whipped up by a vicious easterly wind. We make a swift job of dragging the stiffened body of Eldegai into the stove- house once again. Sartakh slams the door closed behind us, sealing in the warmth. The body lies close to the stove, and I stand with my back to the door, preventing anyone leaving. I abruptly indicate that everyone should form a circle around the corpse. Then I push into the group and take up my position.

  We are now all sat close together in a ring, with Kyrill at my shoulder. To my left sits the sour-faced Tetuak – the boastful but unproven Tetuak. To his left squats fresh-faced Ulan, like all youths, convinced of his own rightness, but untested in battle. And then beyond him I can make out the wrinkled face of old Karakuchuk, veteran warrior and canny gambler. Between him and me, to my right hand, huddles Taulubeg – believer in demons, whose nervous features betray the fact. He isn’t sure whether he is sitting with a devil even now. Sartakh is sitting slightly back from the ring, as if aloof. I try not to be worried about this. I have discounted him as the killer. He retrieved the gold paizah only as part of his duty as leader of the group, not with theft in mind. But with him sitting dangerously close to my back, I only hope my estimation of his innocence is right.

  I take a deep breath and begin.

  ‘Some say Eldegai was a demon . . .’

  Ulan looks startled and begins to protest. But I hold up my hand to silence him. He subsides back on to his haunches, still tense.

  ‘Some say I myself am a demon.’

  I pause, but this time there is no protest. My shock of red hair, my bushy beard that has been untrimmed for months, and my green eyes no doubt enhance my dubious reputation. And I am going to use it to my advantage. I grin wolfishly, and four pairs of Tartar eyes stare nervously back at me. In one pair I can see the eyes of a murderer. Only Sartakh’s eyes are calmly indifferent. I make a large gesture with my right hand, encompassing Kyrill.

  ‘But the priest I travel with is a great magician.’

  Now I have them. They stare goggle-eyed at the figure behind me in the darkness of the tent. I pray Kyrill is alert to his cue. ‘The priest is a fisher of souls.’

  ‘Take care, Venetian,’ mutters Kyrill. ‘Do not blaspheme.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I now know he hasn’t fallen asleep again.

  ‘Just pray for Eldegai’s immortal soul, Father Kyrill,’ I intone, keeping my audience entranced. ‘And I will do the rest.’

  All eyes are fixed on the black shape of the priest as he steps forward and kneels over the bundle that is the mortal remains of Eldegai. They watch as he makes the sign of the cross and says a prayer for the dead man. I myself am praying – that Kyrill has remembered what I have earlier coached him to do. And that he will do it well. The leech jar that I have picked up from the shelf above the stove stirs under my jacket. I tremble as Kyrill lays a hand on the body, then closes his fist as though he is drawing something from the mortal remains. Something like the dead man’s very soul. I suddenly have a feeling that this is going to work.

  With a powerful gesture that I didn’t think he had in him, he casts the invisible contents of his fist to the mat at my feet, beside the embers of the fire. The Tartars stare through the glow, unsure if they can see anything or not. Then I make a pass over the spot, and there, wriggling on the matting, is the black and slippery form of Eldegai’s immortal soul. A communal gasp escapes the lips of the band of Tartars, and they pull back in fear.

  I pick the leech up from the floor by its tail and let it blindly rear its head. I am glad my sleight of hand has not failed me, when I quickly palmed it from the jar and cast it on the floor before it could attach itself to me. I hold on now despite my horror of the slimy creature. We are close to the climax of my performance. I mutter under my breath to Sartakh.

  ‘Tell them Eldegai’s soul is seeking his killer.’

  Sartakh speaks, and even his voice is shaky at what seems to be taking place. But he speaks with conviction. I give him my next command.

  ‘Tell them all to put their right hand over the fire.’

  At Sartakh’s command, four shaking hands are thrust out over the heat of the dying embers. I bring the wriggling worm to the centre of the circle of fingers. Its head probes the air. Tetuak’s eyes follow the wavering form of the leech with horror, but he holds his hand firm. Karakuchuk’s fist is steady too, and his wrinkled face betrays no emotion. His eyes are dead and glassy. Taulubeg’s method of control is to close his eyes firmly, but his lips are still forming a prayer to Tengri. Ulan is the most fearful of all, and his hand trembles as the seeker of truth dips and weaves in the air.

  I hoped to guide the leech towards the killer’s hand myself, but to my astonishment it suddenly goes unerringly for it. Ulan squeals, but the leech fix
es firmly on another hand. That of Karakuchuk. I should have guessed the hand of our animal butcher would be irresistible to a bloodsucker. For I have already figured out that Karakuchuk’s skill has also been used on Eldegai. The butcher’s favourite method of slaughter is to cut open the animal’s chest and to still its heart by squeezing it with his powerful fist. In just such a way did he end Eldegai’s life.

  Screaming, and feverishly trying to brush the harmless leech from the back of his hand, Karakuchuk staggers to the door of the stove-house and tears it open. The wind roars into the room, throwing everyone and everything into confusion. Mats and pots fly through the air in the gust, and it is some time before Ulan and Sartakh together manage to force the door closed again. Leaving Karakuchuk outside in the maelstrom.

  I look into Sartakh’s eyes, questioning what should be done. He shakes his head.

  ‘Leave him to his fate. He will not survive out there on his own.’

  After the confusion caused by the wind is rectified, an uncanny silence descends on the interior. Only Sartakh is moved to speak.

  ‘Tell me, Zuliani. How did you know it was Karakuchuk? Once you had realized Eldegai was an envoy from the Il-Khan coming to Sarai, you should have suspected Ulan. Karakuchuk would not have killed someone who sided with Arigh-Boke and the traditionalists.’

  ‘You really don’t know, do you?’

  Sartakh looks a little put out at my comment, but his voice is firm and unwavering. ‘Know what?’

  ‘That Eldegai was not offering Hulegu’s alliance with Boke. He told me himself that he was bringing bad news. The Il-Khan was throwing in his lot with the other brother. The older brother.’

  ‘Why would Eldegai tell you that?’

  I hesitate, not wanting to explain the little matter of a long trade scam and the opportunities suggested by Eldegai in Cathay. And how I was going to have used Eldegai. I do tell him Eldegai informed me ‘the old man’ knew his intentions. Sartakh’s face breaks into a smile of comprehension.

  ‘You thought he meant me. But then, when I told you Eldegai was going to Sarai to offer Hulegu’s alliance, and clearly didn’t know what his message was—’

  ‘I had to think again. Ulan didn’t know the true course of events either. So it could have been him who killed Eldegai. As indeed with Tetuak or Taulubeg, for other reasons. But there was one stumbling block. They all spoke the truth to me. Everyone spoke the truth to me, except one. And I was reminded of a prophetic bit of doggerel.’

  In fact, it was that verse at the end of the Black Book written as a warning by the copyist to anyone taking the prophecies too seriously. It went:

  Though portents dire do fill with dread

  And great significance implanted here,

  Take care to always use your head,

  Seek out the lie, for then your way is clear.

  ‘Only Karakuchuk lied. He implied he’d never been to Cathay, when Ulan spoke in admiration of the place. He had clearly forgotten about telling me where he learned Sic Bo, the game we played much earlier in the evening. He had fought on campaign in Cathay, and he hated the place and all it stood for. He would stop at nothing to aid Arigh-Boke’s cause against his brother. He did stop at nothing, murdering Eldegai, and gouging out the eyes to make it look as if a demon had done it. He even hinted that I might be that demon. But to show I do not place my trust in portents and magic—’

  I draw the slim black book from my jacket and with only a small hesitation toss it into the stove. The flames hungrily consume the dry pages, burning like the fires of hell. Each section flares up before curling into a blackened leaf that drifts up the chimney in the hot air currents. In truth, I am glad to get rid of the cursed book. Despite the aid the last quatrain gave me, I feel that no one should have an insight into their future. It is too dangerous and fearful a thing. As I watch the pages blacken, I briefly wonder if this is the only copy. Or if the original still exists, and whether it will continue to puzzle and vex others down the years. I turn back to Sartakh.

  ‘You know, it would not surprise me if Karakuchuk also drugged the kumiss skin he offered up that had us all so drunk. I truly have never experienced so swift a response to such a skinful.’

  Sartakh laughs and slaps me on the shoulder.

  ‘You are a veritable demon. From now on I shall call you not Zuliani but Zhong Kui.’ He pauses. ‘Listen. The storm has ended.’

  It is true. The hut no longer shakes and twists, and sweet silence hangs over the encampment. Sartakh unfastens the door, and we both stoop through the low entrance and emerge into a peaceful world. The sky has cleared, and the morning sun is staining the snow a blood red. It feels good to be alive and no longer suspected of murder. Sartakh is gazing out towards the sunrise.

  ‘You will have to replan your route, it seems. Your real goal is further east than you had thought.’

  He means the Cathay-loving brother’s domain. And he is right. I have already determined to return to Sudak and Friar Giovanni Alberoni. I am certain I can wheedle my way back into his favour and convince him that the Black Book of Brân was no more than a faker’s scam. I recall the place which the good friar wanted to go to from the very beginning.

  ‘Yes. I am bound to the court of Kubilai Khan, to the summer palace of Shang-tu, that some call by the name of Xanadu.’

  ACT THREE

  When three Popes all murdered lie,

  And Christ’s own kingdom desecrated,

  The third age then shall hasten by,

  And Antichrist with bloody slaughter sated.

  Feast Day of the Translation of St Thomas,2

  Eighteenth year of the reign of King Edward II

  When his fingers touched it, he grunted with satisfaction.

  Teetering tiptoed, precariously balanced on three stacked chests that wobbled alarmingly as he pried each crevice, he found a moving stone. Even as his grin widened, the topmost step of his makeshift ladder moved, and the smile was snatched away. He clung to the great pillar, cheek pressed to the stonework in a desperate embrace.

  Heart beating like a war-drum, he closed his eyes and blew out his breath, a shiver of pure ice running through his spine as he gently set his feet flat once more. Dear God, but this was fearsome. He daren’t fail – and to fall would be to fail. He’d be damned if he’d do that.

  But there was no possibility of success up here like this. Brother Alexander relinquished his hold on the pillar and cautiously returned to the crypt’s floor. There, he eyed the chests with a frowning contemplation. It was clear enough that they weren’t high enough, all set square on the ground like that – but if he were to put the longest one on end, and a smaller on top of that, he may gain an extra foot of height, as well as being granted the comfort of knowing that the boxes were resting more squarely.

  The longer chest was soon lifted, not without effort, grunting, and two curses for which he would have to make penance later, and then he lifted the smallest chest atop. Glancing up at the pillar again, he started to climb.

  A few moments later he had it. The mortar between two stones of the pillar had been eased away, leaving a narrow gap into which his book would just fit.

  It was a scuffed, tatty old book, yet if half of what Alexander had heard was true, it was one of the most dangerous tomes in all Christendom. If he could, he would have taken it to the calefactory and hurled it on the fire. The flames would quickly destroy its malevolent messages. Not that he could. Books were his life.

  He remained for some while sitting on the larger chest, his hands on the ancient marked covers. He had his instructions, and he was keen to complete his mission, but, even as he tried to rise, his lips set in a stubborn line, he felt his hands move almost of their own volition towards the pages of pure, yellowed vellum. He shouldn’t look. He’d been warned about the danger. Yet there was something that drove him on. His fingers felt the roughened edges, feeling how the years had scraped at them. Then his eyes caught the first quatrain, and he frowned in the lousy candleli
ght, peering to make sense of the words.

  The first was incomprehensible; and the second and third. He began to frown with perplexity as he riffled through, searching for something that would make sense, but none did.

  It was then, his bewilderment growing, that he heard the noise.

  At first he told himself it must be rats. God alone knew how many of the cursed creatures lived here. The damned things were all over the place, coming in from the sewer that led out to the river Tyburn near the wall encircling the Palace of Westminster, right next to the abbey. Novices were told that the scrabbling sounds were excommunicated souls seeking an entrance so they might find their way to the altar, thence to heaven. It was ballocks, of course. They all knew the sound of a rat gnawing – but still, there were moments when even a farmer’s son could almost believe he heard the voices of the damned in the middle of a wintry night when the wind blew and the rats gnawed more furiously. A little imagination was a terrible thing to a novice.

  This wasn’t a rat, though. It was a measured, steady tread. And – oh, Christ’s cods – it was coming this way!

  He hurriedly moved to the door. From here he would have to pass along the corridor, and a man coming this way must see him. He hesitated, and in that moment his life was forfeit.

  It was some while later that his screams woke the community of the abbey at Westminster.

  Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was breaking his fast in a leisurely manner when the young man appeared in Bishop Walter Stapledon’s hall.

  ‘My Lord Bishop!’

  Motioning to the fellow, Bishop Walter indicated that he should approach the table. Baldwin cast a glance over the fellow. He was of middle height and clad in a worn habit. Baldwin assumed he was a clerk – but then he saw that the man had a tonsure. A young monk, then. Perhaps a novice. There seemed little of interest about the fellow, as he was introduced as a messenger from the monks of Westminster. Only a remarkable pallor about his thin, pinched features. But many monks were half-starved. It was no surprise that this one looked hungry.