The Vault of bones bp-2

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  'Zoe! Take our friend, and hurry.' From behind the fire – it burned on a kind of plinth, and I saw we were in a brew-house, for huge copper kettles stood all about us – stepped the little Greek serving girl.

  'Ah, fuck,' said Aimery. You will have to hit me. Wait…' and he pulled off his tunic and waved it over the fire until the hem and one sleeve caught fire. He hastily trod them out and drew the charred thing back on. 'Now, hit me.' He stood before me, palms up, impatient. Why are you…?' I asked him.

  'Because to take an innocent life is a sin. And because to butcher you would dishonour Rollo. For fuck's sake, hit me!'

  I could no more have hit a man at that moment than I could have laid a golden egg, but fortunately Zoe stepped smartly around me and before I could stop her, she raised a huge wooden pestle above her head and brought it down on Aimery s skull.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Zoe seized my hand and tugged at it. 'Come’ she said. I looked down at Aimery. He was still and his mouth was open, though he still breathed. 'I think you broke his skull’ I said, stupidly. 'No. If his skull was broken he would be dead, or snoring like a pig as he died.' She gave an ugly snort. 'He is asleep. Come. Now. The rest of them are just behind us.'

  So I followed her. There was a narrow doorway at the back of the brew-house, and the door had a bolt. Zoe struggled with the heavy, rusted iron, so I slammed it home and looked about me. We were in another corridor, this one much decayed. There was moss on the floor and rubble in heaps. Zoe bent down to snatch up a small bundle that lay just outside the door, and then, without waiting for me, she took to her heels, and I hobbled after as fast as I could go, for my ballocks felt like burning coals and I thought that a rib was surely broken, for there was a burning in my side worse than any stitch. And besides, I had not the faintest idea what had just happened. How did Aimery and this Zoe know each other? The girl, lean and dark as a shadow, darted around the fallen beams and turned a corner, then another. Growling through clenched teeth against the pain, I found her standing next to a door which she opened for me.

  'Go in there’ she said. She followed me in and shut the door.

  We were in a small, high-walled room with no roof. Rags of cloud were scudding past the stars high overhead. On two sides, the room was lined with stone benches into which round holes had been cut. 'A privy?' I asked Zoe, puzzled.

  Yes. Unlike you Franks, we do not shit in the corridors’ she said, haughtily. Wait.' She stepped over to the nearest bench, grabbed the edge of one of the holes and heaved. With a dull scraping, the whole stone top moved, until a gap had appeared between it and the wall.

  'Climb down there’ said Zoe, folding her arms and fixing me with her dark glare. What? Into the'..’

  'There's nothing down there!' she hissed, exasperated. 'No one has used this place for forty years – more. No one knows it is even here. In another year or so, it will not be’ she added, glancing up at the ragged tops of the walls. 'This is how the palace folk come in and out when there is trouble. Climb down – you will find a tunnel. It goes straight and does not divide. Follow it. You will come out in an old cistern outside the palace. It is under a chapel to which no one goes. There is a trap-door up to the crypt. And take this.'

  She thrust her bundle at me. It unravelled in my hands: my old travelling cloak, and a dagger – no, not a dagger, a cook's knife. I looked at it, stupidly. A single edge, pitted grey steel, and a much worn handle of whittled wood. But its single edge was sharp, and it had a point, of sorts. In that way it was as good as Thorn, as good as any blade. And there, heavy and officious, the leaden disc of the pope's decree. I opened my mouth to yell out with relief, but a small foot kicked me hard on the shin. When I looked up, Zoe was pointing, imperiously, to the latrine. Under her gaze I had no choice but to clamber up on to the teetering slab and sit down where countless ancient bums had sat, legs dangling down into the unpromising hole beneath. I tucked the knife into my belt so that the handle lay against the small of my back. Zoe came up behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders. I flinched, but she did not move.

  'My debt is paid. I thank you, Master Frank. Find your way to Hagia Sophia tomorrow evening and go up to the south gallery. Wait by the mosaic of the Deesis – O Frankish dog, Christ with the Theotokos and the Baptist at his side. Someone will come for you’

  I turned, mouth forming a question, but she put her finger to her lips. I suddenly wondered how old she was, for in that instant she could have been a child or some ancient spirit of this cursed city. Then she smiled, and pushed me in.

  It was a short drop, only my body's length and a little more, and I did not have time to protest. I landed on what felt like old turf but I knew was not. There was a grinding above me and I looked up in time to see a hand, framed against the stars by the rim of a latrine hole. It waved once and was gone. I heard the door clank shut. For a moment I considered hoisting myself out of this ghastly place and finding another way out, but then I reasoned that I might as well die on my own terms in a quiet jakes than be flayed in front of a gang of laughing fools. So I dropped on to all fours and felt about me. I soon found the mouth of the tunnel, and indeed a faint breeze came from within, so, wincing, I crawled in.

  Immediately there was utter darkness. I was in a space perhaps a hand's span wider than my body on each side and above. The floor was dry and spongy, and felt like peat. I tried not to think about it, but in truth it smelled somewhat like a peat-bog: raw and ripe, but not fetid. I crawled on, keeping a hand outstretched before me, barking my elbows against the sides at first and once, when my hand found a thick skein of cobweb, banging my head when I raised it, startled. Like a badger or some other plodding, subterranean beast I blundered, losing all sense of time and distance, until my hand came down and found nothing. I almost pitched forward but stopped myself. I had reached the cistern.

  It was utterly dark in here as well, and I did not wish to discover by touch what might be lurking around me, so I decided to stay in the tunnel. I hoped that the light of day would show me at least a glimmer of where the trap-door might be. Meanwhile, I had decided that the encrusted shit of millennia was as comfortable a bed as I could hope for this night. I curled up, hugging myself for warmth, and fell, suddenly, into a deep, stunned sleep.

  When I awoke it was still nothing but heavy, silky darkness all about me, so I lay there, fretting and giving thanks by turns – for I did not feel so badly hurt and the rib was not, I thought, broken after all, only cracked – until, indeed, a faint outline showed, like four long golden hairs suspended in the blackness. It was the trap-door, and it was unlocked, and in a few moments I stood in the crypt that Zoe had described. Daylight does not belong in a crypt, but half of the roof had fallen in upon the grave-slabs and the stacks of rotted wooden chairs. I climbed cautiously into the chapel above: it was deserted and cold, and smelled of piss. The rood-screen had been desecrated, and yet someone had recently been here, for fresh candle-stubs stood in a little bowl of clean sand that had been placed before a mosaic of some armoured saint-warrior. I opened the door and peeped out into clear, early sunshine.

  The chapel was halfway along a street of shuttered houses. There was a walled garden to the right, fig trees and un-pruned vines spilling over the stones. At the end of the street to my left I saw the sea, blue and serene. So I was facing west. I had done some thinking down there in the sewer. Go to Hagia Sophia, the girl had said. Someone will come for you. But who? It had slowly come to me that my best hope would be to reach a Pisan or Genoese ska’a and try to talk my way on to a ship bound for Italy, or indeed anywhere. They might even remember me at the place the Captain and I had spent our first night. They would feed me. And perhaps there would be news of the French envoys: surely they could not be far off now, and they would vouch for me, for I would tell them of the captain, and of the pope… It was an excellent plan, made all the more tempting by the mild, hopeful air of morning. But no, Querini would be looking to meet the envoys at sea, and turn them back to
Venice. Ach, I would promise them money from the Cormaran’s funds, and I could work my passage. What else could I do? There was no point leaving my bones in this sewer for want of strong nerves. So I set out towards the Golden Horn.

  At the end of the street I turned a corner and found myself up against the outer wall of the Bucoleon Palace. Of course: I had not crawled very far, although it had seemed like a league or more in the dark. I backtracked, and found a street that seemed to be going in the direction of Hagia Sophia, and sure enough the great dome soon showed where a line of buildings had collapsed. There were few people about, just Greeks heading towards the palace and a few children up early to plan their mischief. I kept to the shadow-side of the streets, but had started to feel almost confident when a rattle of hooves sounded from behind. I had time to vault into a garden, from where I watched a Catalan mounted on a pony crash past, scattering the cats and calling down curses from the few tenanted windows. It was the sort of bullying nonsense that the occupiers did to pass the time, and so I started on my way again. But I had only gone a few more yards when another pony dashed across the way ahead of me. Soon I heard hooves everywhere. I edged along, looking around each corner. One alley led to the square before Hagia Sophia, and even from where I stood I could see that there were armed men milling about. I pressed on, but then a group of frightened people appeared, herded by two mounted Catalans. They protested, and one of the soldiers leaned down and whipped a woman across the face with his crop. Then they rode off, leaving the Greeks waving their arms in consternation. I turned aside and started down another street, towards the sea this time, thinking to work my way back to the chapel and hide there until nightfall, for clearly something was amiss in the city.

  I heard a shout behind me. I turned around to find a Catalan standing at the top of the street. He beckoned to me. I turned and ran, only to run full tilt into the flank of a pony which was walking out from a side street. The beast flinched and I looked up into the bearded face of a soldier, a swarthy mercenary from the north or east. He leered and before I could move, grabbed a fistful of my hair. In a frenzy I seized his boot and pulled with my full weight. For a horrible moment I hung suspended by the hair, but I had put the man off balance and with a shout of anger he crashed down on top of me. I was up first, and kicked him in the face, but missed my aim and caught him on the ear. The pony was whinnying and so I got hold of the reins and tried to get my foot into a stirrup. The beast was frightened, though, and kept dancing, sending the mercenary scrabbling away from its hooves. At the last second I saw that I was about to be crushed between pony and wall and dropped to the ground, squirmed beneath the shaggy belly and took to my heels up the empty alleyway. Behind me I heard a bellowed curse and then the winding of a hunting-horn. Immediately the sound was taken up from somewhere all too near at hand, then another horn rang, then another. Booted feet pounded on cobblestones. I looked behind me one last time, to see a company of men-at-arms spilling out into the street. They had seen me. I tripped, got my balance and saw a narrow stepped way to one side, leading uphill.

  I ran up the shallow steps, feet falling uncertainly upon crumbling plaster and slimy moss. A dying cat watched me through incurious, crusting eyes. Reaching the top I burst into open space and blazing sun: a little open square, ancient, sunken church at one end, windowless houses all around. A contorted olive tree wrestled in the strangling grasp of ivy as it guarded a broken marble well. And in front of the well, a naked man sprawled, headless. His skin was the creamy hue of a plucked chicken, made more yellow by the scarlet insult of the severed neck. I stopped in my tracks. A pair of women were making their way, crab-like, from the direction of the church, edging sideways, their heads twitching with apprehension. They wrung their hands and tore at their clothing in a way that seemed strangely inhuman, as if the conflict of grief and fear had reduced them to marionettes. I stepped back into the shade and squinted at the body. He had been tall and black-haired, and whoever had chopped off his head had subjected him to a long torment, judging by the bruises and slashes that were scattered over his chest and legs. This was the stock-in-trade of those men who were at this moment hunting me, and that thought sent me sprinting out from the shadows and across the square. The two women shrieked again when they saw me. I glanced at the corpse as I dashed past, and wished I had not done so, for I would not then have seen the pulpy void where the genitals should have been. Bile spiking the back of my throat I looked for the way out, saw an opening behind the church and bolted past the women, who fled away from me. Then I was back in the cat-scented shade again, and running down a level street. A wider thoroughfare crossed in front of me, and as I came out into the brightness again I heard the clicking of hooves. A company of soldiers were marching towards me, flanked by three men on horseback. In the moment it took me to take this in I saw that one of the horsemen wore palace livery and another was a beaky man who had often been in the Regent's company. I recognised him as he recognised me, and as the shadows swallowed me again the sudden tumult of spurred horses and shouted commands echoed from the walls.

  Everything was ruined here. The great fires of thirty years ago had gutted every house and left the windows and doors blank. Soot stains ran down the walls like black tears, and weed trees were bursting from the ruins. The street ran straight, and I cursed the ancients, who had planned their city so well. My feet were crashing on the flagstones.

  'There! There!' Excited voices behind me. I put my chin to my chest and hurtled on. The buildings on either side seemed to taper off into infinity before me like the landscape of a nightmare. I ran and ran, my breath growing shorter and tasting of blood. Oh Christ, where did this street lead? – to the Golden Horn, I prayed, but perhaps it just went on and on, to Novgorod or the barbarous wastes of the Tartars. I tripped and flailed, then recovered. The charred air was sour and damp. I gulped desperately. Then, like a blink of an eye, sunlight flashed to my right. I tried to stop, but tripped again and slapped into the wall, barking my hands, which came away sooty and grazed. But there was a tiny opening between two buildings, an alleyway. I fell into it.

  The sun streamed down on to burned beams, tumbled marble and the tossing, yellowing leaves of an elderberry thicket. The bushes were heavy with the burden of black fruit, and a great cloud of sparrows, which had been feasting, flew up around me. I beat at them in a panic, crashing through the brittle twigs, ripe berries popping in my face like black raindrops. I was almost caught, for there were brambles with wickedly long thorns tangled all through the thicket. Then my foot hit something hard and in another moment I was scrambling up a heap of tumbled stones. My eyes were screwed shut for fear of the brambles, but my hands guided me up. Suddenly my fingers sunk into crumbling dampness and then thin air, and I tumbled forward into nothing.

  I fell for an awful, belly-cramping instant, then landed on more wood – or so it must have been, for the rotten, chimney-tar stench of it scoured my nose and mouth – before pitching downward again on to something hard and angular. Stone steps, pale in the deep shadows. I rolled and jounced down and down, clawing for a handhold and finding none, before I reached the bottom and came to rest on mossy flagstones. There I lay, panting and battered, eyes shut, watching lights weave and pop behind my lids. When at long last I opened them, I beheld the stairway down which I had fallen reaching far up to a small, ragged patch of leaf-fretted daylight. Finding my neck and back were as yet unbroken, I sat up and looked about me.

  I was in a large cellar, although it was the grandest cellar I had ever seen. An undulation of brick arches made up the ceiling, and although I could only make out one wall, that was of fine ashlar. I had narrowly avoided cracking my head on a stone pillar carved with vines and goggle-eyed birds, and many more of them grew up all around, a petrified, sunken forest.

  'Here! He came this way!' Shouting came from high above me, and drifted down, thin and hollow. I could make out a Catalan snarling angrily, and the softer accent of some northerner. Then a crisp Frankish voice sile
nced them.

  'He's gone down here. After him, you boys – terriers after a rat. Go on!'

  I sprang up, bruised limbs objecting, set my back against the pillar and pulled out my butchers knife. Much good it would do me. I swallowed, staring at the little square of daylight through which my killers would shortly come for me. I thought of the headless man I had seen, and my stomach lurched. Better to die now than to give such beasts their fun with me. I whimpered, and felt the blade's edge: sharp enough. Dear God. How best to do this? A thrust into my heart, or a slash across the throat? Not the throat, no! I would not drown in my own blood. The heart, then – it would be quick. I dropped down to my knees again and took the greasy old wooden handle in both my cold, damp hands. The blade quivered and I stilled the point against my chest. Do it now. Do it now! The little blue window of sky was so beautiful, blue as a jay's feather, as the summer sky over high Dartmoor. The tip of the blade jabbed my flesh and I flinched. I could not leave like this. The promise of that glorious blue was too strong. Let me at least sell my life dearly: let the last blood. I spilled be that of those barbarous huntsmen. I lowered the knife and backed away into the shadows, keeping my eyes fixed to the top of the stairway. Another pillar. I slipped behind it, into the darkness, and crouched.

  From up amongst the elderberries came a tumult of snapping branches and curses. A few dead leaves drifted down into the cellar. Boot-studs scraped on stone. Then the Frank's sharp voice rang out: 'Here! No, pigs, here?

  'Let him fuck his old mother,' said someone very loudly in Catalan. The man must be right by the cellar-hole. In the way that one's mind works in times of great danger or fear, I found myself wondering whether the Frankish lord understood the tongue of his mercenaries. It did not seem all that likely. I hunkered down: they were coming.