“There is no rotting flesh down here. The skeletons here were stripped bare centuries ago.”
A chill draught caused Hervor to shiver.
“Should we search the chamber?”
“No, anything of value has long since been looted this close to the entrance. If we are to find the Donation, we must go deeper.”
Beyond the chamber the tunnel separated into two branches. Abu Nuwas considered them.
“Left or right? Which path should we take?”
“Right.”
Abu Nuwas raised the torch and studied Hervor’s face, clearly surprised by the alacrity of her response. Then he turned and marched down the left hand passage.
A few moments later, he appeared back at the junction, where Hervor waited, tapping her foot.
“It was a dead end. How did you know?”
Hervor allowed herself a little grin of satisfaction.
“If you had observed the curve of the hill as we approached, you would have seen that the left tunnel could not run far, given the position of the entrance.”
Abu Nuwas sniffed.
“Or possibly you just guessed correctly on an even bet, and now seek to make yourself look clever with spurious justifications.”
Hervor glared at him, and set off down the right tunnel, with Abu Nuwas following. The passage down which they walked was lined with niches carved out of the rock. These had once been sealed, but the slabs had mostly been shattered by grave robbers. In some of the alcoves grim heaps of human bone could still be glimpsed.
“The scavengers have done a pretty thorough job. What makes you think there is anything left here to find?”
Abu Nuwas shrugged.
“To tell you the truth, I cannot be certain. But I trust Vadomar. He was rarely wrong about these things.”
The tunnel now declined steeply. To their right small rooms had been cut into the wall, each with resting places for one or two skeletons; even in death the rich occupied a better class of accommodation. Hervor stepped into one, but Abu Nuwas pushed past her and continued along the passage.
“That is not the tomb of a Bishop of Rome.”
The further they penetrated the catacomb, the worse the stench became. Hervor found that her eyes were watering and her throat growing sore, and remembered the tale of the dragon, who had killed men with his noxious breath. However she was ashamed to voice such childish fears to Abu Nuwas, who was striding rapidly along the tunnel, so that she had to hurry to avoid being left behind in the darkness.
The tunnel seemed endless, but at last they came to a junction where passages stretched away to left and right. Even by the deceptive light of the torches, they could see that the path ahead came to an end after only a few paces. Abu Nuwas turned back to Hervor.
“Erm… left or right?”
She was tempted to pretend to some arcane knowledge, but the foul air made her feel sick, and it did not seem like a time for playing games. She shook her head.
“I have no idea.”
“Neither do I. In that case, we must consider — wait! What is that, on the ground there?”
At some distance down the right hand passage, his sharp eyes had spotted a dark shape on the tunnel floor. As they approached, Hervor could see that it was the body of a man, lying face down. This was no ancient skeleton, but a fresh, fleshy corpse, fully clothed with cloak and hood. Abu Nuwas rolled the body over, and Hervor gasped.
“I know him. His name is Fortunatus. He is an agent in the service of the Pope.”
“Well, he is not very fortunate any more.”
Abu Nuwas looked up at her pale face, and frowned.
“I am sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”
“Don’t apologise. I hated him. He was a louse. Angilbert must have sent him to snatch the Donation ahead of us after all. Oh, don’t give me that look. Of course I told Angilbert what we had discovered, what did you expect?”
Abu Nuwas said nothing, but searched the body thoroughly.
“If he did find the document, he no longer has it now. Perhaps he had a companion who abandoned him here.”
“How did he die?”
Abu Nuwas pulled back the man’s collar to reveal his neck.
“I don’t know. There are no marks suggesting violence.”
“So do we go on, knowing we may already be too late?”
The Arab’s face was set.
“Yes, we go on. Until we are certain.”
The presence of the corpse had decided them in favour of the right hand path. There were no niches in the walls here, only a rough bore carrying them ever deeper into the hill. Abu Nuwas began to cough, and Hervor felt an odd sense of relief that he was not immune to the effects of the malodorous miasma which made her head throb. At the end of the tunnel they were again faced with a choice of passageways.
“Right will take us back on ourselves. Left leads further down to a lower level. I think our choice is clear.”
Hervor was suddenly aware of the great weight of earth above their heads, and of the fragility of their situation. She sucked air desperately, and stumbled against the walls, unsteady on her feet. The tunnel twisted around and down, and even Abu Nuwas seemed to be losing confidence.
“How far do these catacombs stretch?”
“I don’t know. Miles, I think.”
He stopped, and Hervor bumped into him. She grabbed his arm.
“We must go back. I cannot breathe.”
His own eyes streamed as though he were weeping, but his voice was steady.
“Such sour air is common in deep mines. You can return to the surface if you wish. I have not come this far to turn back now.”
He walked away, and was soon out of sight. Hervor leaned against the wall, barely able to stand. The thought of going on made her nauseous, but she feared more to be left alone with the dead in the underworld. Then a shout made her jump.
“Here — quickly!”
She stumbled after Abu Nuwas, who was not far ahead. She found him standing in what could only be described as a small chapel, with murals on the walls and a stone altar at one end. Behind the altar was a recess, in which lay a complete human skeleton.
It was the mortal remains of Pope Sylvester. She knew this in part because of the inscription, which though worn with age could clearly be read: “SYLVESTERPPEPISCOPUSROMAE.” More striking, however, was the fact that the recess had been painted with an image of a fearsome dragon, mouth open in a silent roar. The dragon’s mouth seemed to be brighter than the surrounding paint, a lurid blood-red maw drawing her in toward a crushing death. Hervor stepped forward involuntarily, and was vaguely aware of Abu Nuwas talking.
“He sewed up the serpent’s mouth with thread, and sealed it with the sign of the cross… Give me your knife.”
Hervor did not realise he was speaking to her until he impatiently snatched the dagger from her belt. He plunged the blade into the dragon’s mouth. Instead of the clang of metal clashing against rock, there was a ripping noise, and a terrible roar. Then the sky fell in.
The shieldmaiden dreamed that she was back home, in the land of the Rus. Her mother, who had died twenty years before, was pressing her to her breast, and Hervor revelled in the maternal embrace. Something was wrong, though, and Hervor could not breathe. Her mother became a serpent, crushing her in its scaly coils, suffocating her slowly. The serpent’s tail beat against her face, and she drew in a huge gasp, to find that she was still in the catacomb, with Abu Nuwas slapping her face.
“Wake up, or you will never wake again. The sour air is choking us, and you passed out. We must get out of here as quickly as we can.”
She staggered to her feet, and Abu Nuwas dragged her out of the chamber and up the tunnel. He was walking with difficulty, and Hervor wondered whether the toxic air had affected him more than he was admitting. It was only when they passed the body of Fortunatus that she thought to croak out the question.
“The Donation… did you get it?”
Despite the tear
s that streaked his cheeks, he flashed her a grin.
“Yes, I got it. Fortunatus must have perished without finding the hiding place. The document was in the mouth of the dragon. The cavity was concealed by a piece of fabric, painted to appear part of the fresco. It seems that a knowledge of unlikely old legends has its uses after all.”
They wasted no more breath on talking. Despite their slow progress the return to the entrance seemed to pass much quicker than the descent, and the air became clearer as they neared the surface. By the time they reached the gateway she was able to stand unaided, and had begun to plot how she might obtain the Donation from Abu Nuwas. The Arab’s eyes were wide, like one in the grip of a mania. As they ascended the final stair he began to babble excitedly.
“Poor Fortunatus… he must have been searching and searching, poking through the bones, while he slowly choked. When he felt the poison dimming his sight, he crawled away, gagging on the stench of failure. He could not flee fast enough, though, to escape the dragon’s breath. Whereas I am just a little quicker, just a little smarter, and that is why I now possess the document. That is why — good evening, gentlemen.”
They emerged from the catacomb to find half a dozen men standing around the gateway. It was obvious that they were waiting for Abu Nuwas and Hervor to appear; and obvious, too, that they were not doing so in order to congratulate them on their success. These were not bragging guttersnipes like the youths from the island, but hard, scarred men, with boiled leather tunics and polished dirks. Uttering no boasts or threats, they closed in implacably.
It occurred to Hervor that they could retreat back to the catacomb. Even if the men followed them, their numbers would count for nothing in the narrow corridor. In the next breath, however, she realised that she would rather be cut down where she stood than go back into the crypt. She drew her sword and prepared to fight.
She was exhausted, though, weakened by the poison. As the first attacker approached she swung her torch and lunged with the sword, but the man easily parried her attack. A gloved fist smashed into the side of her head, and for the second time that night she plunged into oblivion.
***
When Hervor was next aware of anything, she was aware only of pain. So overwhelming was the sensation that she thought for a moment she must have died and been condemned to the infernal punishment that her dissolute life had merited. Then she began to distinguish individual notes in the cacophony of agony that engulfed her senses. Loudest of these was the throb of her bruised temple pressing on cold stone. This, at least, suggested that she was still alive.
Her head pounded, and her mouth was dry. Her muscles ached, and when she moved to ease them by stretching her limbs, she found that her arms and legs were trussed so tightly she could not even wriggle. She tried to raise her head, but it was trapped between the stone floor and something flat and solid a few inches above her.
“Do I see movement? The girl is awake. Good; that will make things easier.”
The voice seemed at once familiar and strange to her. Hervor blinked furiously in the hope of clearing her vision, and saw a pair of booted feet nearby. Beyond it were only dancing shadows.
“She can tell you nothing, because she knows nothing.”
The second voice was that of Abu Nuwas, hoarse but defiant. The first speaker sniggered.
“Yes, I am sure that her ignorance is comprehensive. I did not imagine for a moment that you would have told her what you have done with the Donation. However, it will be easier if she is conscious because, for all your bombast, you are soft and sentimental. When you hear her screams you will beg me to make a swift end of her, and give me whatever I ask. I know you too well, Pater Cincinnorum, Father of Locks.”
There was a third presence in the room, Hervor realised, but he said nothing, only betraying himself through the soft rumble of his breathing. It sounded almost as though he were snoring. Hervor struggled to speak through puffy lips.
“I am on your side, you fool! I serve the King too. Let me out of here!”
Her captor sniggered again.
“The stupidity of the girl is truly wondrous. Are all of your kind so dense? Does the cold northern air dull your intellect? I know you serve the King, you silly little whore. I, however, do not. I serve your master’s master: Irene, Emperor of the Romans.”
“You are the Emperor’s spy? You are Nihil? But… how did you know where to find us? Who betrayed us?”
“You betrayed yourselves, girl. All I had to do was sit here and wait for you to come and tell me everything you had done, and everything you were going to do.”
The booted feet walked towards her, then disappeared as their owner knelt down. A face loomed into view.
“Good evening, my lady.”
“Ziri!”
The keeper was subtly transformed in appearance as he was in voice. He seemed younger, and a dangerous cruelty possessed his features.
“Yes, that has been my name, for the last few months at least. Ziri the keeper, a mere menial, fit only for shovelling shit. A nothing indeed, a man so inconsequential that you would discuss your great secrets in front of him as if he did not even exist. Now I will crush you to nothing; that is, my friend Abu’l Abbas will.”
At last Hervor recognised her surroundings. She was in the pen at the amphitheatre, where the previous night she and Abu Nuwas had unravelled Vadomar’s message right in front of their most dangerous enemy. And the object that hovered just above her head, ready to descend and flatten her skull just as it had Vadomar’s, was the foot of the elephant, whose breath rumbled in the cold air.
“Let us both go, and I will give you the Donation.”
Ziri’s face vanished as he got back to his feet.
“You seek to bargain with me, Father of Locks? Your life is forfeit, whether I obtain the document or not. All that remains is for me to determine the manner of your death. A pleasure so long deferred should not be rushed at its consummation.
“As for the girl, she has seen my face, and cannot be allowed to live. No, your choice remains the same. Hand over the Donation, and Abu’l Abbas will stamp his foot, snuffing her out like a candle. Deny me, and he will press down slowly, so that she can feel her cranium crack and her brain squeezing out of her ears. Which is it to be?”
Despite her desperate predicament, all Hervor could think about was how Abu Nuwas had managed to hide the Donation during their hurried flight from the catacomb. He must have secreted it while she was unconscious. Or perhaps he had not actually found the document after all? She had not seen it herself. If he was lying, it had proved to be a dangerous, perhaps fatal, deception.
She craned her head round, looking for the Arab, and saw a pair of naked, hairy feet. The legs above them were tied to a chair. She guessed that Ziri must have stripped him in search of the document. When Abu Nuwas spoke, he sounded defeated.
“My cudgel. If you unscrew the hilt, it is hollow inside. That is where I have hidden the Donation of Constantinus.”
She saw Ziri’s boots stomp over to a heap on the ground, then his hands rifling through it. From it he plucked the Arab’s club, and raised it out of Hervor’s sight.
“If you are lying to me, Father of Locks, both you and the girl will pay. I see, though, that the hilt does indeed unscrew, and it does appear to be hollow. And within it, we find — aah!”
Something dropped at Ziri’s feet. At first Hervor thought it was a strip of leather, but then she noticed how it writhed and slithered, before Ziri crushed it under his boot. At the same moment Abu Nuwas lurched forward. His legs were still strapped to the chair, but as he and Ziri crashed to the ground she could see that the coils of rope around his arms were loosening, falling away, and even in the uncertain light she could make out the frayed ends flapping.
Abu Nuwas and Ziri grappled on the floor. Abu Nuwas, bigger and heavier, pinned Ziri down and battered the spy’s face with his fists. The ropes still hampered him though, and Ziri wormed away. He crouched on all fours, dripping
blood from his nose and cuts on his cheeks. Then he yelled up at the elephant.
“Abu’l Abbas, sum baith! Sum baith, you bastard!”
The elephant reared up on its hind legs, ready to strike the fatal blow. Hervor tried to roll out of the way, but knew it was hopeless. Abu’l Abbas looked down on her with its mournful yellow eyes, needing only to place its foot to end her life. Oddly, she found herself wondering where its penis was. Surely such a gargantuan beast would have a member of similar proportions? That was her final thought before the feet came down, and Hervor closed her eyes.
She felt the ground shake around her, but the impact did not come, and she cautiously opened her eyes again. Abu’l Abbas had planted his feet with meticulous precision on either side of her head, and now ambled toward its keeper, who was screaming at it.
“Sum baith, sum baith! Crush her, you dumb brute! What are you doing? I am your —”
A naked body landed across Hervor, blocking her view. It was Abu Nuwas, who had managed to free himself from the chair.
“Don’t look. Trust me, you will sleep better in future years.”
Hervor was going to protest that she was a warrior, a shieldmaiden of the Rus, that she had killed many men herself, and watched many more die. However, as she listened to Ziri’s agonised shrieks and the crack of breaking bone, she decided that he might be right.
Abu Nuwas took a knife from the heap of his belongings and slashed Hervor’s bonds. She rubbed and slapped her legs, trying to bring them back to life. While Abu Nuwas pulled on his clothes he gazed down at the remains of the snake which had been hidden in his cudgel.
“Farewell then, Azi. You were a vicious little bastard, but I was very fond of you.”
He helped Hervor up.
“But how did you cut the ropes that bound you?”
“I should not reveal my secrets to you. We may not always be friends. However, since there is nobody else around to admire my cleverness, I shall advise you to toughen the calluses on your pretty hands. You can then conceal beneath the hard skin a piece of sharp blade with which to saw through any cords that restrain you; provided, of course, you can keep your enemy talking long enough.”
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