Portrait of Shade

by Benjamin Ford

  Abbas and Jabir, Dion’s two eunuchs, entered his bedchamber. The former was too sullen to be really liked and the latter too happy to be admired.

  ‘How might we be of service, Master Dion?’ Jabir murmured.

  For once, noted Dion, Jabir was not wearing his self-satisfied smug grin. He, like Abbas, hovered nervously in the doorway.

  Dion’s smile did little to relieve their unease. ‘Tell me about Old Byzantium,’ he asked in a hushed whisper, lest anyone be listening from the courtyard. ‘Tell me in particular about the secret passages and catacombs beneath this palace.’

  A look of blank incomprehension passed across the face of Abbas, who clearly knew nothing of any catacombs. The look of incredulous terror, stark and uninhibited on Jabir’s face, however, told an altogether different story. It was obvious he knew precisely to what Dion was referring, and, most likely, what he was inferring too.

  ‘Very well, Abbas, you may go about your duties. I believe Jabir will be able to tell me all that I need to know.’

  Abbas looked from Dion to Jabir standing beside him, shocked to see his fellow eunuch trembling with fear. It was disturbing to see such terror in Jabir, for he was the most fearless person Abbas knew. He placed a reassuring hand on Jabir’s arm and smiled. ‘Tell him whatever you know, my friend. You have nothing to fear.’

  Jabir shook his head wildly. The white room was cool, even though the temperature outside was spiralling upwards as the day wore on, yet despite the coolness of the shade, Jabir was sweating profusely. ‘I have sworn allegiance to Hafiz,’ he said. ‘I made a sacred vow that I would never tell about that which lies beneath our great city. Hafiz will cut out my tongue if I break that vow of silence.’

  Dion moved over to him slowly. Something of inordinate importance obviously resided within the catacombs, just as he suspected. Jabir knew what it was, and, most probably, where it was. ‘Who is Hafiz?’ he asked, certain that mere threats from this unknown man would not silence Jabir. What could be so terrifying that it stopped his non-stop chatter, silencing him to the point of lugubriousness?

  ‘I know of only one Hafiz,’ Abbas responded quietly when Jabir did not reply. ‘And you should know him too, for he is the new captain of Selim’s Janissary.’

  ‘He has another more secret position,’ whispered Jabir. He stared at Dion, his made-up eyes huge with unimaginable horrors. ‘Please, I dare not tell you what I know.’

  ‘Whatever you choose to tell me will go no further than this room,’ Dion sighed. He smiled reassuringly, patting Jabir’s shoulder. ‘Have no fear, my friend. I will force you to tell me nothing.’

  Jabir bowed low. ‘Many thanks, Master Dion, I am grateful.’

  Whatever untold terrors awaited those who were unwise enough to venture into the catacombs, it was, thought Abbas, surely more unpleasant to have one’s tongue ripped from one’s mouth. He too had heard tales of Hafiz, a man who made no idle threats, and certainly not a man to trifle with.

  Standing well over six feet in height and built like an ox, he was a veritable one-man-army, always dressed for war in his cuirass and domed steel helmet, which were such permanent fixtures it was almost as if they had grown out of his body. Hafiz’s eyes were as angry and fierce as Jabir’s were gentle; his hair as long as Abbas’s was shorn; his face as dirty and scruffy as Dion’s was clean and smart.

  Jabir himself had the misfortune of meeting Hafiz only once, a few years back when Jabir and his ex-master, Sayyid, had foolishly ventured into the catacombs on an errand of mercy. Sayyid had escaped detection, but Jabir had not been so lucky. He still did not understand why Hafiz had let him live instead of killing him on the spot when he had threatened to do just that. Perhaps it was some form of psychological torture, but since that traumatic incident, Jabir had lived in constant fear – more so since Hafiz’s promotion to Captaincy.

  ‘If you cannot tell me anything, perhaps you know someone who can?’

  Jabir looked at Dion warily. Naturally, Sayyid also knew the secret of the catacombs, as did his young concubine, Najat.

  But just because they knew and were currently safe from harm, it did not necessarily mean that they would be willing to divulge what they knew – especially Najat, by all accounts still haunted by nightmares about what she had been subjected to.

  ‘You might try asking the harbour master, Sayyid,’ Jabir said at length.

  Dion nodded. He did not know Sayyid personally, but most people in Constantinople had heard of him because of his daring exploits with Sulaiman the Magnificent. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I shall do that.’

  * * *

  Down at the harbour, Dion could not help but stare at all the boats and ships as they bobbed up and down gently on the dark water, their sails and banners undulating serenely in the gentle breeze that wafted cooling moisture off the water’s surface.

  Set outside the battlements of the city, the old stone house that served as the harbourmaster’s quarters beside the quayside was larger than Dion recalled from the day he arrived in Constantinople so many years ago, but then he had not actually set foot beyond the city’s boundary walls since his arrival.

  He saw Carracks and Brigantines and Barques, and there were even a couple of trader Galleons anchored offshore in the harbour, one of which was getting ready to set sail.

  ‘Pardon me, but could you tell me which of these men is Sayyid?’ he asked a swarthy looking man.

  The man, who stood no taller than five feet, wore robes of such a deep shade of blue that they almost appeared black, whilst around his waist was tied a scarlet sash, into which was tucked his jewel-handled scimitar, glinting in the afternoon sunshine. The man, whose steel-blue eyes gleamed with malicious malcontent, stroked his beard thoughtfully. His rich olive complexion, coupled with the blackness of his hair and beard, and the darkness of his clothes, made his eyes appear so deeply set in his face that they would have almost disappeared had they not been of such a vibrant colour.

  ‘Who wishes to know?’ he demanded coldly, displaying rotting teeth.

  ‘My name is Dion Taine. I wish to know about the catacombs.’

  The man displayed alarm at Dion’s loudly uttered question. Dion decided he had found Sayyid already, and so lowered his voice. ‘Clearly something unspeakable lurks in the darkness beneath the city, but I need to know about it, and I have been led to believe you can reveal the truth!’

  Sayyid dragged Dion into the cool morning twilight of the harbourmaster’s house. ‘Why do you need to know about the Catacombs of Death beneath our beloved city? They are aptly named, my friend. It is a foolhardy man who seeks the knowledge of that which lies in wait in the depths below Old Byzantium.’

  ‘Then I am a foolhardy man, Sayyid, for I intend to go down there. I would prefer to go forewarned about what lies ahead of me, but I will go whether I find out what I need to know or not.’

  Sayyid seated himself on one of the large cushions scattered around the middle of the large, dingy yet airy room, and indicated that Dion should join him. He seemed a little friendlier now he was in the safety of his home, but there was genuine concern etched on his face.

  ‘I would advise against it, my friend, but I can do nothing to stop you. If you wish to destroy your very soul then that is your business. I cannot prevent it, but I can warn you, and try to dissuade you from making such a cardinal error.’

  Dion managed a smile. ‘I thank you for your concern, Sayyid, but my mind is made up. My soul is lost already, and much as I might hate the thought of endangering my life, the prophecy of doom cannot be averted.’

  ‘Prophecy?’ There was abject horror in Sayyid’s eyes now. He murmured a brief incantation to protect his house from evil spirits. ‘Whence comes this prophecy? From the Seer herself?’

  Dion frowned. ‘If this Seer of whom you speak is able to penetrate a mind and invade one’s dreams, then yes, perhaps it was she who gave me the prophecy. Is she what lies in wait beneath the city?’

  Sayyid nodded. ‘You
would do well to avoid contact with the Seer. She is evil incarnate, and the dark catacombs have been her dwelling place for two centuries, so legend dictates. Living at such length, alone in the darkness, has driven her mad, and though she possesses still her miraculous powers, she now uses them for evil purposes.’

  ‘She is a prophetess, what the Ancient Grecians would have us call the Oracle? Like Cassandra?’

  Sayyid nodded again. ‘I see you know your Grecian history, my friend. It is possible that the Seer and the woman known as Cassandra are one and the same, for that is her name too. Two hundred years ago, the Seer’s prophecies came true. When she was then threatened with execution, she prophesised that should she die by the hand of man then the city of Constantinople would fall, and so she was instead banished to the catacombs, and it was forbidden for anyone to descend into the depths of Old Byzantium.’

  ‘How can a person still be alive after so many years?’ asked Dion, who felt this statement too much of a stretch to believe.

  Sayyid shrugged. ‘I care not about such things. It is said that none have seen her face and lived!’

  ‘You did!’

  Sayyid shook his head. ‘I did not look upon the Seer’s aspect. Had I done so I would surely be dead.’

  ‘But you have been down there? You know the way into the catacombs?’

  Sayyid was tempted to lie. This man Dion Taine seemed unconcerned that the Seer would not allow him to leave the catacombs alive. Even if by some miracle he did survive any encounter with the vile prophetess, her minions would see to it that he paid dearly for the privilege. However, Sayyid also knew that Dion was foolhardy enough to find a way down to the depths of hell without his help. ‘Why do you seek the Seer?’ he demanded.

  ‘I need her help.’

  Sayyid laughed mirthlessly. ‘The Seer offers assistance to nobody.’

  ‘Has anyone actually asked for her help before?’

  Sayyid thought for a moment, and then conceded that he did not know the answer to Dion’s question.

  ‘So is it not reasonable to assume she might help?’

  Sayyid sighed. ‘What you say is true.’

  ‘So will you lead me into the catacombs?’

  It was clear the harbourmaster was terrified still, and Dion thought he might yet refuse, but eventually a decidedly reluctant nod rewarded his patience and perseverance.

  ‘I shall take you to one of the secret entry ways, and I will give you what directions I can recall, but I will not step one foot inside the catacombs!’

  Dion exhaled deeply. ‘Thank you, Sayyid. Your help is much appreciated.’

  ‘I wish you would change your mind about this foolhardy misadventure, Dion Taine!’ When Dion shook his head, Sayyid touched his arm. ‘In view of your obstinacy, I feel it only fair to give you a warning you will not forget in a hurry. Come with me. I wish you to meet my wife, Najat.’

  Sayyid led Dion through a curtained archway at the rear of the room, and Dion found himself in a slightly smaller, even more dimly lit room. As there were no windows, the only feeble daylight filtered through the gap in the curtain as it was opened, and the main illumination came from a handful of sporadically positioned candles, which filled the room with a pungent aroma. In the centre of the room, a girl lay on a circular divan, surrounded by more cushions and bolsters covered in gaudy silks and satins. A breeze wafted in through the curtain, gently stirring the fine cotton gauze that completely enclosed the bed.

  From a distance, through the gauze and in the half-light, the girl appeared quite beautiful, her long black hair splayed out across the largest bolster. She stirred restlessly as though in the midst of some terrible nightmare, and Dion felt quite convinced she would awaken suddenly with a scream.

  ‘Najat?’ Sayyid spoke the name softly, almost as though he was afraid to disturb the sleeping beauty lest he startle her.

  Sayyid motioned Dion to remain where he was at the edge of the room, while he crossed to the divan. Parting the gauzy drapes, he sat on the edge of the bed, tenderly stroking the girl’s hair as she finally awoke.

  When she spoke, her voice was little more than a cracked whisper. ‘Sayyid, what is wrong?’ The harbourmaster whispered something in the girl’s ear, which Dion could not hear. ‘Sayyid, you must not allow it,’ she croaked, glancing over her shoulder in Dion’s direction. In the eye that he could see, compassionate concern arced outwards towards him. Najat slowly sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the divan, and when she finally stood, the first thing Dion noticed was that she required Sayyid’s assistance as she hobbled like an old woman towards him.

  Her long dark hair fell across her face, obscuring her face in soft waves, obscuring much of her features, but even so, what Dion could see looked even more beautiful than his first impression.

  ‘It is a foolish man who seeks an audience with Cassandra,’ Najat croaked.

  Allowing her to put her entire weight on him, Sayyid formally introduced her as his wife. ‘Look upon Najat well, my friend, and see what Cassandra has done to her. See what the Seer will do to you, given the opportunity, and reconsider your rash decision.’

  As Sayyid and Najat came closer, Dion’s breath caught in his throat as he glimpsed a vivid scar down the right side of her neck, disfiguring her otherwise quite intoxicating beauty. He instinctively fingered his own, substantially less severe scar, and when Najat pushed her hair fully off her face, Dion’s blood froze and his heart almost stopped as he saw the full extent of her appalling injuries. The scar that slashed up from her throat became livid raw tissue where her right eye had once been.

  ‘Cassandra did this?’ gasped Dion, wishing it to be untrue. At the same time, he knew that neither Najat nor Sayyid lied.

  This could not be the same Cassandra of Grecian history!

  ‘Her protectors allow none who venture down there to live,’ Sayyid sighed. ‘I do not know whether Najat was lucky or unlucky to have been the sole exception. Even then, Cassandra punished us all with an earthquake that could have easily destroyed our great city. Do you still wish to meet with the Seer?’

  Shaking his head, Dion admitted that he did not. ‘But I really have no choice, Sayyid,’ he muttered with a despairing sigh. ‘What one wants to do and what one has to do – what one is compelled to do by destiny – must, by the laws of circumstance, be two entirely different things.’

  Sayyid sighed. Najat had been his last hope, but now he knew there could be no salvation for Dion Taine, and that nothing could change the impulsively stubborn foreigner’s mind. ‘I have done all that is within my power to dissuade you from entering the Catacombs of Death, and so now it is all upon your own head. I just pray it does not become detached from the rest of your body.’

  Dion repressed his urgent desire to laugh hysterically. He knew Sayyid was still trying to scare him off, and he certainly did not appreciate the fact that the harbour-master was doing an impressively good job. The fact that he had been shown the direct result of Cassandra’s evil made his new sudden terror of the unknown even more horrifyingly real than it had previously been. However, Dion had promised himself that nothing would dissuade him from the task that lay ahead of him, not even the prospect of ending up a sacrifice to some ancient demigod, or being carved up into small pieces – a fate Najat had only narrowly escaped.

  ‘I understand your concern, Sayyid, but you must yourself understand that I have no choice in this matter. If Cassandra will help me, it will delay the prophecy, and if she kills me then the prophecy will come true. Either way, I must speak with her!’

  Sayyid nodded solemnly. ‘Very well, my friend.’

  Najat clutched his arm painfully. ‘My husband, you cannot take him to her. She will surely kill him!’

  Sayyid knew it would be impossible to placate Najat, whom he knew was more concerned about his safety that that of the foreigner. ‘My wife, he is aware of the dangers, and he is prepared to face them. I know you fear for my own safety, Najat, but you must not concern yoursel
f. I have agreed only to take him as far as the hidden entrance that leads to the upper chambers of the catacombs beneath the Seraglio. I shall go no further, I promise!’

  Najat nodded in compliance. ‘Take care, my husband.’ She kissed Sayyid tenderly on each cheek, and then turned away without acknowledging Dion.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Konstantin and Dušan had fled to Constantinople following the savage murder of their parents, and until that awful incident, they had lived in relative peace amongst the peasants of Cyprus. The two young men had no idea why their parents had been killed nor who killed them, neither had they any recollection of how they managed their escape, but since that day, they had vowed to return to their homeland to avenge those they loved.

  Notorious for his unremitting unfriendliness, Selim’s motives for befriending them and allowing them to remain within the Seraglio was a continued mystery to the brothers, but they were eternally grateful for his friendship, and never once openly questioned his hospitality.

  Because of their close comradeship with the Sultan, many people within the city requested their friendship, which in some cases Konstantin was only too willing to give – though he quickly grew to decipher the nefarious intentions of those who would misuse their trust.

  They counted most of Selim’s Janissary amongst their friends, with the exception of Hafiz whom, it appeared, nobody particularly liked, few admired, but many respected because he was undeniably the best at what he did: protect the Sultan and kill those who would betray him.

  Dion Taine initially seemed a genuinely likeable man, and since he had lived in the Palace much longer than they had, they attempted to maintain some semblance of friendship with him. However, because of Selim’s behaviour towards him, and because of the way Dion seemed to perceive the brothers as having usurped his authority within the Palace court, the artist made no effort to reciprocate their friendship.

  Konstantin and Dušan also counted Sayyid and his tragic young wife amongst their close friends. Having met in one of the Palace courtyards a month earlier, when Sayyid told Konstantin that Dion had descended to the catacombs, he and Dušan had prayed for the safe return of the man who hated them, though both knew any such prayers would go unanswered, for few returned alive from the catacombs.