The Devil's Piper

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘And – had they?’ Richard leaned forward eagerly.

  ‘They had,’ said Isarel, and grinned at Lauren suddenly. ‘We nearly missed it, but it was there.’

  ‘I got a little distracted during the search,’ said Lauren, returning the smile, but handing round sheets of A4 paper. ‘But it was there all right. And if this doesn’t refer to Conrad Vogel, and if that isn’t our missing Devil’s Piper, then I’ll enter a convent, or maybe a monastery.’ This time the mischievous glance was at Ciaran. Moira, taking the print-out, thought Lauren was dividing the favours about equally.

  The computer print-out was very clear. Sharp black lettering stood out at the top, and the layout looked professional, even to Moira’s untrained eye.

  ‘Two-day music festival at Eisenach Castle on the 9th and 10th of next month. Works by J S and C P E Bach, Berlioz’s Damnation of Faust, and Goethe’s Wandering Jew poem, set to music, and read by distinguished actor—’ Here followed a name Moira did not recognise, ‘—on second day. The music of the masters in stunning, medieval castle, with ancient, historical associations. The pinnacle of the Festival will be the first ever public performance of the newly written symphonic piece: Satan’s Lute-Player. The soloists will be—’ More unrecognisable names. ‘Ticket prices include admission, lunch on both days, and champagne buffet supper on second night. Overnight accommodation can be arranged in village.’

  At the top of the poster, in thick bold type, was the heading: SERSE’S PEOPLE, and underneath it, a small logo that bore a resemblance to the Aryan Cross of Light.

  As she laid down the print-out, Isarel said, ‘The ninth and tenth. That means we’ve got three days to get there and get Ahasuerus.’

  Lauren had commandeered the phone and was speaking into it. Moira caught the words, ‘Lufthansa’, and then, impatiently, ‘No, Berlin isn’t near enough – I’d have thought anyone could have—Well, of course, Frankfurt’s more like it.’ She began to feel unreal.

  It was almost seven o’clock. Moira carried the coffee cups into the kitchen and dumped them in the sink. Ciaran and Richard were consulting maps and at any minute somebody was probably going to say something about eating. Moira had absolutely no idea what to do if that happened. Did you ask guests to help you cook a meal, especially when you were a guest yourself? Would Richard help? There was not very much food in the larder, and although there was a deep freeze and a microwave oven, Moira had never dealt with either appliance in her life. Father had regarded freezers as unwholesome and insisted on freshly prepared food, and Mother had thought microwaves dangerous. Moira felt exasperated with both her parents.

  Maybe they would go out, which might be awkward on account of not knowing what was correct behaviour over paying the bill in this situation, and whether you shared it or let yourself be paid for. Also, she had only brought a skirt as well as the jeans she had worn to run away in, and she had no idea how much people dressed up to go out to dinner in London. She began to feel exasperated with herself now for not knowing quite ordinary things.

  Isarel had followed her into the kitchen, and reached for a drying cloth without being asked, which Moira thought unexpected of him, but nice. He said, ‘Lauren’s booking seats with Lufthansa, but it’s anybody’s guess how soon she’ll get them. Richard and Ciaran are poring over maps and looking up references to Eisenach. I wish we knew more about Vogel’s motives. I don’t mean why he wants Ahasuerus, because I think that’s clear: he wants him to reinforce the music.’

  ‘And he wants to reinforce the music so that he can gather in more people like Richard,’ said Moira. It did not seem in the least odd to plunge straight into a conversation like this with someone you had only met two hours earlier. She said, ‘Is it possible that Vogel wants to present Ahasuerus to Serse’s People as some kind of Messianic figure?’ This was an idea that had occurred to her earlier, but she had not said anything in front of everyone in case it sounded ridiculous.

  But Isarel said at once, ‘That’s rather a shrewd idea, Moira. I believe I can almost see Ahasuerus as some kind of charismatic figurehead – Ciaran mightn’t agree, but it’s easy to see how Vogel could sell him to Serse’s People in that guise. And whatever Ahasuerus looks like now, according to Ciaran, the original legends depict him as dazzling and persuasive and altogether irresistible.’

  ‘The High Priest from the past,’ said Moira thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that Vogel’s making him out to be the New Redeemer or the Risen Christ or Buddha Reincarnated for those poor misled children.’

  ‘Why are they called Serse’s People?’ asked Moira. ‘I kept meaning to ask Kate if she knew, but I never got round to it.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Isarel. ‘And I talked to Richard just now – he’s got a brilliant mind, hasn’t he, that’s a very great tragedy—’ He stopped before continuing. ‘Richard says that some sources equate the first Ahasuerus – the one in the Old Testament – with a Persian King dating back to around five hundred B.C. He was the son of Darius, but he was more usually known as Xerxes.’

  ‘Xerxes – Serse.’ Moira tried it out.

  ‘Handel wrote an opera called Serse,’ said Isarel. ‘In it the character of Serse – more properly Xerxes I think – sings the aria most people know as Handel’s Largo.’

  ‘Handel knew about the Black Chant?’ said Moira incredulously, and wondered how many more famous composers were going to emerge as having known about it.

  ‘Not necessarily. But I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Isarel, ‘how many of the really great composers escaped its influence. In fact, I’m beginning to feel thoroughly cynical about every piece of music that purports to be an original composition at the moment.’

  ‘What did you think of the concert poster?’

  ‘I felt cynical about that as well,’ said Isarel. ‘And I thought it was a piece of monstrous cheek. “Satan’s Lute-Player”, my God, who does Vogel think he’s fooling! And Goethe’s Wandering Jew.’

  ‘I didn’t grasp the significance of that.’

  ‘It’s the very ancient legend of the doorkeeper or servant or something who was asked by Christ on His way to Calvary if He could rest there,’ said Isarel.

  ‘Oh, I do know it, then,’ said Moira. ‘The doorkeeper refused, didn’t he, and Christ is supposed to have cursed him. Something like, “I will rest here, but thou will walk the world for ever.” But I still don’t see the connection—’

  ‘Whatever name the Jew had to start with – if he existed outside of romantic myth – Goethe called him Ahasuerus,’ said Isarel.

  ‘The Wandering Jew was called Ahasuerus?’

  ‘Well, according to Goethe he was.’

  ‘There’re a lot of legends, aren’t there?’ said Moira, after a moment. ‘About Ahasuerus, I mean. Well, and the music. There’re strands and bits here and there. And some of them mesh together.’

  ‘Things filter down,’ said Isarel. ‘That’s one of the fascinating things about—’ He stopped, as Lauren came into the kitchen. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, my dears,’ said Lauren, sounding pleased with herself. ‘It’s all fixed. Midnight flight from Heathrow. And listen, I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely starving.’

  These were the words Moira had been hoping nobody would say. She started to explain that there were only eggs and cheese in the fridge, and to ask would omelettes be acceptable, but Lauren said, ‘So I guess I’ll order pizzas if that’s all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Isarel. ‘Everything on mine except anchovies.’

  ‘Moira?’

  ‘I don’t—’ Moira stopped and then said firmly, ‘Yes, the same for me, please.’

  ‘OK. We’ve got plenty of time before you need to leave. It’s Heathrow to Frankfurt, did I say? It’s not as near to Eisenach as it might be, but it’s the best I could get. You can take the hire-car to Heathrow and trade it for one at the other end. You ought to be able to reach Eisenach before the concert kic
ks off. I booked for the three of you, of course.’

  ‘Three—’

  ‘You two and Ciaran. I’d like to come with you, but somebody’s got to mind the store. And it’s out of the question for Richard.’

  Moira, frantically calculating her money said, ‘The tickets—’

  But Lauren at once said, ‘Hell, honey, I paid by credit card, it’s no big deal. I’ll put it down to expenses and get most of it back by tax.’ A sudden smile. ‘Ciaran thinks you shouldn’t go,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Ciaran, coming into the kitchen.

  ‘He’s remembering the conventions,’ said Lauren wickedly.

  ‘Blow the conventions,’ said Ciaran, as Moira stared at him. ‘I’m thinking about the danger. We don’t know what we’re going into. Moira ought to stay here.’

  ‘With Richard? Now that’s really unconventional—’

  ‘We can’t take Richard,’ said Isarel, at once. ‘No, it’s nothing to do with him not coping, he’d cope perfectly well. But what if this is a ploy of Vogel’s to get Richard into his hands?’

  There was a sudden silence. Then Moira said, ‘Yes, because if you think about it, Vogel’s hardly bothered to cover his tracks, and if he’d really intended to get clear he could have done it easily – faked messages, false kidnap notes. We might spot the red herrings but the police would go straight after them.’

  ‘And,’ said Isarel, ‘while all that was going on, Vogel could be getting himself beyond everybody’s reach. Moira’s right; it wouldn’t be hard to lay a false trail, it wouldn’t stand up for long, but it’d stand up for long enough for him to get clear with Ahasuerus, if that was what he really wanted. Maybe even into a country without an Extradition Treaty. You’re right about the danger, Ciaran, but you’re wrong about not taking Moira.’ He sent Moira another of the sudden smiles. ‘Moira ought to come with us,’ he said. ‘We’re primarily concerned with Kate, that goes without saying. But we’re also trying to get Ahasuerus.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ demanded Ciaran. ‘Getting Ahasuerus hasn’t got anything to do with Moira coming with us.’

  Lauren, who was leaning against the sink with her arms crossed and listening to this interchange with huge enjoyment, said, ‘You’re turning out to be afemme fatale, Moira. I’d kill to have these two fighting over me.’

  Isarel was regarding Ciaran with exasperation. ‘Either you’ve been spinning me a parcel of lies for the past week or the drink’s befuddling your mind,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder how we’re going to lure Ahasuerus back?’

  ‘The music –’ began Ciaran. ‘The shofar –’, and Isarel made an angry dismissive gesture.

  ‘We’ll be competing against that accursed concert and from what I’ve heard about Conrad Vogel so far, it doesn’t sound as if he does anything by halves!’ He indicated the print-out impatiently. ‘He’s presenting Bach and Berlioz, and although you can get away with an organ and a couple of violins for a lot of the Bachs, you can’t play The Damnation of Faust with anything less than a full-blown orchestra! And that, Brother Ciaran, can mean anything between forty and a hundred musicians! If you think Jude’s shofar can compete against that, I don’t!’

  ‘If we can’t use the shofar, what—’

  ‘God give me strength, we have to take Moira as bait,’ said Isarel. ‘That’s if she’ll agree,’ he said suddenly. ‘Moira, what about it? Are you prepared to lure the Devil’s Piper into your arms, and then back into his coffin?’ The sudden smile lifted his face, and Moira blinked. ‘It’s a hell of a thing to ask, but you won’t be in any danger,’ said Isarel. ‘I won’t let you be. We’ll both be there with you, even this dissolute Irish monk who has to have a fact spelled out to him.’

  He paused, and Moira stared at him and heard her voice say, ‘All right.’

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good girl.’ Isarel looked back at Ciaran. ‘Do you still not know why?’ he said.

  Ciaran was staring at Moira. ‘Dear heaven, I do,’ he said. ‘It’s because—’

  He stopped, and Isarel said softy, ‘It’s because in all of the legends, Ahasuerus had ever a weakness for red hair.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The small, stone dungeon in the Tower was dreadfully reminiscent of the underground cellar at the Temple, where Ahasuerus had lain in chains waiting for the Sanhedrin to pronounce sentence. As he lay in the cold, mean room now, shivering with cold and light-headed from hunger, his mind spun helplessly between the two worlds. Which one am I in? I must remember which world I am in.

  But his mind was blurred with weakness, and all he could see was Susannah’s enigmatic smile and all he could hear was Susannah’s voice saying that the walls of Time were thinner than most people ever guessed, and that if you could control the music, you could control Time. The dungeon wavered, until it was as if he was seeing it under water, and he was back in Jerusalem, the world where once he had been powerful. Susannah’s world, scented with olives and sun and sweet, resinous wine. The world where they had dragged him out to the plain behind the Temple, to suffer the second of his agonies.

  Crucifixion . . .

  He blinked and tried to thrust the searing images away, but this place, this evil river prison had raked cruelly at the long-ago memories and the terrible miasma of despair and pain that had soaked into the stones of this place was dragging the nightmares through Time’s paper-thin walls and forcing them into the present.

  He might have been lying helpless beneath the Temple again, listening for the light, quick footsteps that would mean Susannah had brought help.

  She had not done so, of course: Ahasuerus thought he had been mad to have hoped for it. The Elders would never allow the renegade High Priest to escape the punishment; guards would be stationed everywhere and even Susannah would not get through them.

  But he had continued to hope she would try. He had held on to the thought – Susannah and the ancient music – and it had carried him through the scourging, which had been the first of the agonies. It had carried him all through that last despairing night as well, when he had lain beneath the Temple, chained and helpless, hearing the sounds of hammering as they constructed the instrument of the second torture.

  The cruciform . . .

  It had been finished by the time they brought him up, and the instant he had seen it he thought he had never seen anything so sinister and so menacing. It was a towering structure of thick solid oak, the centre portion at least ten feet in height, the crosspiece nailed two thirds of the way up.

  They had already driven it into the ground, and as the guards pushed him forward the sun was setting behind it, so that it stood out stark and black against the glowing red sky. As Ahasuerus approached it, its shadow fell over him, and he stood motionless for a moment staring upwards in sick dread. Soon I shall hang from that. Soon I shall be silhouetted against the sky, dying in agony.

  The crowd stepped back, silent and fearful, and as the gaolers pushed him forward he scanned the watchers, searching for the tumble of red hair, the slanting cat-eyes. During the scourging he had prayed that she should not witness his humiliation, but now he wanted her to be here, he ached for a last glimpse of her. Did she then care so little that she can not be here for me now! his mind cried in silent anguish. Am I to go into Death without seeing her for a last moment? Susannah, you bitch, are you deserting me?

  They were hoisting him upwards, using wooden ladders propped against the centre-piece. Beyond the Temple, towards the western side of the valley, he could make out smoke rising from dozens of cooking fires and the faint, sweet tinkle of goat-bells was borne on the wind. A sudden desperate longing seized him for the ordinary things that he had known so well and that he would never know again. Because even if the music calls me back, it will not call me back into this world. I shall never see this Jerusalem again.

  And then they were winding the chains around his arms and chest to keep him
in place until the nails were driven home, and his mind rocked in horror as the nails were brought up, cruel iron spikes, each one the length of a man’s forearm, sharpened to vicious points. As the guards placed them over his wrists his heart began to pound violently and sweat poured over his brow, half blinding him.

  He fixed his eyes on the distant landscape again: the unseen horizon, far, far beyond the evil, red-streaked sky, worlds away from the plain that smelt of death and fear and betrayal and agony. Rose-tinted dawns and wine-dark seas . . . Susannah’s music and Susannah beside him, tasting of love and sweet sinless rapture . . . Are you out there, you faithless cat? Perhaps standing with the black-robed Brotherhood, the Fratres Cruciferi who will take my body away and lose it in some bottomless pit when this is all over?

  The guards brought the great, heavy-headed mallets down and the nails plunged straight through his wrists and embedded in the wood behind, severing tendons, splintering bone, tearing muscle and flesh. Blind screaming agony ripped through his arms and Ahasuerus cried out, his whole body shuddering in spasms of torment. It was excruciating, it was a hundred, a thousand times worse than the scourging. Pain undreamed-of. He felt the blood streaming over his arms, dripping off the cruciform, on to the ground beneath.

  I’m dying, he thought. Nobody could suffer this torture and live. Yes, but what of the Nazarene who had hung like this for three harrowing days? And what of the final part of Ahasuerus’s own sentence? He looked down and saw that the guards were already bringing the braziers to the foot of the cross, and that a pile of wooden faggots stood ready.

  Panic engulfed him and despair scalded his mind, mingling with the raw agony of his body. Let me die before they light the fires.