Portrait of Shade

by Benjamin Ford

  Dion had been gone a whole month now and nobody had seen him. Nobody else knew where he had gone, for Konstantin had made a pact with the harbour master to keep the secret.

  Now for the first time in five years, Dušan was smiling. Not since before the brutal murder of their entire family had anything even remotely resembling a smile danced across his face. The sparkling glitter of happiness once again shone in his eyes, and though Konstantin did not know what had brought about the change in his young brother, he was grateful.

  ‘It is good to see such a display of happiness, brother,’ he said, throwing his arm around Dušan’s shoulder.

  Dušan smiled in return. ‘Oh, Kon, you cannot imagine how good it is to finally feel happy after so many long years in this wretched city!’

  ‘What brings a smile to my brother’s face this day?’ Konstantin asked as he sat on the edge of the divan next to Dušan.

  ‘In sleep I had a dream,’ Dušan sighed wistfully. ‘But it was not a dream of death. Kon, I saw within my mind the most heavenly girl with eyes of amethyst and hair so black it reminded me of Dieudonné!’

  ‘Dieudonné?’ Konstantin smiled at the recollection of the beautiful old cat that had been the family pet back home in Cyprus. None of the cats, which the Sultan offered Dušan since his arrival, could replace her. ‘How strange that you should dream of a woman who reminds you of the only pet you ever really loved!’

  ‘Through my dreams, I know that she had been reborn in human form. She might no longer be feline, but I would recognise Dieudonné anywhere. Unquestionably, the woman in this dream was she. Kon, it is a good omen,’ Dušan continued, his smile still broad on his face. ‘I have been speaking with Selim, and he has agreed to assist us achieve vengeance against those who killed our family.’

  ‘What?’ cried Konstantin. Dušan was certainly full of surprises. He had always been against violence, and whenever Konstantin suggested any kind of retribution, Dušan always opposed it. To fight violence with violence led only to more violence, which made them no better than the butchers who massacred their family. That was something Dušan himself had finally instilled within his brother, and now here he was, suggesting they give in to their rage.

  As if reading his brother’s thoughts, Dušan continued. ‘Kon, violence is unnecessary, though force may be!’

  ‘How do you propose to execute this revenge, brother?’ Konstantin demanded, unable to imagine any peaceful kind of vengeance. By its very nature, violence was impossible to avoid when seeking revenge.

  Dušan shrugged. ‘I have left the details to Selim, but made it clear that violence is to play no part in his plans.’

  Konstantin gaped at his brother incredulously. They both knew the Sultan’s temperament would not allow him to keep to the bargain, though he had always kept his word on other matters in the past. ‘You expect him to honour his vow, brother?’

  ‘It matters not, Constantine, neither you nor I shall be here to witness the revenge.’

  ‘What do you mean by such a remark, brother?’

  Dušan frowned, exchanging the look for one of genuine incomprehension. ‘What remark, Kon?’ he asked, cocking his head to one side curiously.

  ‘The remark about us not being around to witness Selim’s revenge!’

  Dušan laughed. ‘For some time now I have believed you to be on the edge of madness, Kon, and now I know for certain that you truly have crossed that bridge!’

  As Dušan left the chamber without another word, Konstantin’s mouth twitched into a smile. ‘So, Spiridon my friend, you are trying to break free of your bonds within Dušan’s mind. Which can only mean the time of darkness approaches, as was prophesised by Diocletian all those many long years ago. I must be wary. The emperor shall seek passage into our world. I must remain alert, for there is no way to tell where and when he will strike.’ His smile broadened into a wide grin. ‘But it is good to have you back among us, Spiridon. Welcome home.’

  * * *

  Dion Taine stood at the top of the stairs that led up from the catacombs beneath the Seraglio and stared back down into the inky black depths from which he had escaped. He was uncertain how he had found his way back to this point of entry, and was unsure what had actually happened to him whilst he was down there.

  Something has robbed me of my memories!

  Not all his memory was a blank though. There were hazy pieces: fragments of what had occurred, fragments of what was yet to come. They came to him sporadically, intermittently frightening him more than his inability to remember something that he felt sure was equally important.

  Vague images of an unreal reality drifted into his mind now as he stood at the top of the stone steps.

  She is a woman short in stature, her slight build misleading as she displays an impossible strength for one of such limited musculature. Her face looks about twenty-five years in age. A brief snatch of air blows into the flame lit chamber, catching the kaftan that covers her slight form and exposing her body for a brief moment. She emits a slight cry and covers herself once more, but not before he has seen her body.

  Dion grimaced at the recollection.

  The skin is blackened, slack with great age; so many wrinkles and age spots; so much decay. The body, inconsistent with the face, is that of a hundred year old hag, totally at odds with the face of a nubile young virgin. He knows she is deadly as a scorpion. He knows exactly who she is. He knows precisely what she is. She is Cassandra, the Seer. She is ageless. She is timeless.

  Why have you come here?

  He is confused. He hears her voice, yet her lips do not move. He responds, though he is terrified in her presence. ‘I seek your help, Great Seer!’

  She smiles.

  A mere mortal seeks help from Cassandra? I am intrigued. Come closer, fool. Tell me more.

  He does not move. The pair of ancient men, who captured him in the catacombs and brought him to this place, shove him roughly forward. He falls to his knees.

  She laughs.

  All bow down to Cassandra, the Great Visionary of Old Byzantium! Tell me what it is you want.

  Her smile is as mocking as her tone. It is almost as though she already knows what he wants and is merely testing his courage. Then he knows she has been expecting him. He stands bravely. ‘Why should I tell you when it is clear you already know why I am here?’

  She laughs again.

  You are unafraid of me – I like that. But is it not polite to ask favours of a person, even if that person does already know what you want?

  He nods. What she says is true enough. So he tells her why he is there and asks for her help.

  Why should the Great Cassandra help one such as you?

  ‘Because this is a new experience for you. Nobody has asked for your help before.’

  It is true, you are the first. I shall help, but I demand payment in return.

  ‘What payment?’

  Your soul!

  Dion shivered at the intrusive memory. He had refused – he could remember that now. He claimed her price was too great. He was unwilling to surrender his soul to her.

  She laughs in the face of his refusal, and he is confused. Surely if she is furious, why then does she laugh?

  Oh Dion Taine, you are a fool. If I cannot have yours then I shall have the soul of another, but I shall not grant your request without payment. Remember this: none may look upon the face of Cassandra, the Great Visionary, and live. You must therefore be sacrificed and your soul shall be mine anyway, but that would be a waste. Surrender your soul freely and I shall grant your request. I shall release that which is trapped within your mind. The prophecy shall become reality, and you shall attain the immortality you seek.

  He thinks. He considers her words with great care. And he delivers his response.

  Dion shook his head, trying hard to clear the jumble of confused thoughts. Were they thoughts, or were they memories? If they were memories, then he certainly had no recollection of his response to Cassandra. He was still alive t
hough… so it was likely that he had succumbed to her request, and the Great Visionary was in possession of his soul. Had he perhaps escaped, or had the Seer performed her ritualistic torture upon him and sacrificed him to some unknown demigod?

  If that were so then what had been released from within the confines of his mind? He had no memory of that either.

  Suddenly he was very tired. Whatever Cassandra had done to him had sapped his strength. All he wanted now was to retire to his bedchamber and sleep. Perhaps when he awoke he might recall some more of what had happened, or perhaps that which was trapped would remain hidden in the secret places of his mind?

  He yawned as he searched once more in the darkness below for any sign of pursuers. There was none. The darkness below was as complete and absolute as the silence of the Palace – which in itself was odd, for even at night the Palace was alive.

  Down in the catacombs, a fetid wind had blown in from somewhere. The air had chilled him to the bone. Now he was at the surface there was no breeze to stir the air, and though the oppressive atmosphere was altogether too close and humid for Dion, it was preferable to the dankness of the catacombs. He had spent so much of his life in such humid weather, yet suddenly he was unused to the temperature. He felt strangely dizzy and disoriented. He was confused.

  ‘Where am I?’ he whispered.

  ‘This is Constantinople,’ he responded.

  Dion blinked suddenly. The first question, though spoken through his lips, came not from his own consciousness, and he had answered his question as though someone else had spoken.

  ‘What is the year?’ asked the strange voice.

  Dion felt compelled to respond. ‘Fifteen Hundred and Sixty Eight.’ A chill ran down his spine. It was disconcerting to be conversing with himself, almost as though he had a split personality. He was glad there was no one around to witness the bizarre events.

  ‘So – twelve and a half centuries have passed.’

  ‘I do not understand. Who are you? Why do you speak through my lips? Why do you invade my mind so?’

  ‘This mind is mine; this body, my vessel of vengeance.’

  ‘But who are you?’

  ‘I am the Emperor Diocletian! And now, my friend, it is time for you to depart. I have use for your intellect and knowledge, but your personality is intrusive.’

  A scream and an evil triumphal laugh issued forth from Dion’s lips and then there was silence, which not even the sound of his breathing could break.

  Then suddenly, as though they had previously been switched off in some way, all the noises of the Palace returned. Voices and footsteps passed close to the entrance where Dion hovered uncertainly, and then he continued on his way back into the Palace through the hidden door.

  Now my search for Spiridon begins, Diocletian thought as he passed other palace guests, unhindered. They saw Dion Taine, the Sultan’s favourite artist, and thought no more of him.

  Ah yes, mine enemy, I know you are here somewhere, and when I find you I shall destroy you once and for all.

  He smiled and tapped his forehead thoughtfully.

  And I know now how to attain my vengeance!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dušan enjoyed his daily walks around the cloisters of the palace. That way he could get his regular exercise without the intrusion of the peasants and others who lived in the City.

  The very last person he expected to see this particular morning was Dion Taine. Dion had been missing for six weeks, during which time there had been no sign of him. Nobody seemed to know where he was, and not many people appeared to care. If – as Selim hoped – he had left Constantinople, then it was a case of good riddance. Selim had made it clear to his Janissary that should the artist return then he was to be forcibly ejected from the Palace forthwith, and if he put up a fight then he was to be imprisoned or executed – dependent upon the Sultan’s mood at the time.

  Dion may have shown no courtesy or friendship towards Konstantin and him, but Dušan decided it was only fair to warn the man what fate had in store for him should he remain in the Palace. Dion would then have two choices. He could laugh in Dušan’s face and ignore the warning, or he could graciously accept it and get out of the Palace and Constantinople at the earliest opportunity. Knowing Hafiz, the recently promoted Captain of Selim’s Janissary, execution would be preferable to banishment.

  Dion walked in a vaguely stealthy manner, head bent low. It was, mused Dušan, almost as though Dion knew he should not be inside the Palace. It seemed to him that Dion was hiding something and was afraid of being caught.

  He stepped out from behind the ornately carved fountain in the centre of the otherwise deserted courtyard. ‘Dion,’ he called, trying to keep his voice low to avoid alerting any patrolling guard to the artist’s presence. ‘Dion, where have you been?’

  Dušan was somewhat taken aback when Dion blatantly ignored him. Perhaps he had much on his mind, but that was certainly not enough to warrant complete ignorance. Perhaps then, Dion had not heard his voice. Dušan opened his mouth to call again, but closed it and hastily retreated behind the fountain once more when Hafiz appeared from around the far corner of the cloisters, which led to the Sultan’s inner sanctum.

  Dušan wanted to shout for Dion to run and save himself, but that would endanger his own life so he remained silent. He could not hear what the two men were saying as they approached each other, but from their mannerisms, they were speaking as if they were old friends.

  Dion laughed.

  Hafiz smiled.

  Dušan flinched.

  Dion lashed out at Hafiz, whose smile turned into a grimace. He clutched Dion’s hand, his face uncomprehending. He moaned in agony, and then crumpled to his knees. Reaching down, Dion steadied himself against Hafiz’s shoulder and slowly plucked out the long bladed dagger he had thrust with such casual ruthlessness into the Janissary Captain’s heart. He pushed Hafiz away, and the man’s inert body fell dead to the floor. Dion stepped over the corpse and calmly made his way around to the door that led to the inner corridors, clearly heading to his own chambers.

  Feeling light-headed and sick, Dušan leaned heavily against the fountain. Hot and cold flushes shuddered their way through his body as he trembled with fear, thankful now that Dion had not heard him call out.

  He knew he should report the murder to the Sultan, but some indefinable sense of dread stopped him. It was nothing he could describe, nothing he could identify; something he had never experienced before, nor wished to experience again. Yet as the feeling lingered it became peculiarly familiar.

  He knew he should tell Selim that Dion Taine had killed the Captain of the Janissary, but some inner instinct warned him that ultimately it would be the wrong decision.

  That man was not Dion Taine, he thought as he sat heavily on the edge of the fountain, looking at Hafiz’s body. It was a strange thing to think, but there was no doubt at all in Dušan’s mind that his belief was correct.

  But how did he know this and why, and if the man was not Dion Taine, then just who was he?

  ‘Konstantin will know what to do,’ he whispered, rising to his feet. ‘I must tell my brother.’

  * * *

  She sees everything. Is she not, after all, the Great Visionary; the Seer; the Foreteller; the Auger: Cassandra, Ruler of Old Byzantium. She views the murder of her guardian without emotion. It is as meaningless to her as all other deaths. It is a shame, she muses silently. Hafiz was a good custodian. He was a faithful guardian who served her well. But she feels neither pity nor anger.

  Guardians are easy to find in Constantinople. To lure a person into the catacombs is simplicity itself. Merely place some desirable commodity in their view, and let greed do the rest.

  Ammar, I would have a word!

  * * *

  At one hundred and sixteen, Khalid was possibly the oldest living man within the walls of Constantinople, though he looked and acted half his age. His unlined, white be-whiskered face was always alight with merriment. Many asked
how he could be of such great age, to which he always replied that it was because he enjoyed being alive. Many asked how he continued to look so young, and again he replied that it was because he enjoyed his life. Few believed him. To the superstitious folk around him, the only way a person could live to be his age was to sell their soul to the Seer who was strongly rumoured to inhabit the catacombs. Everyone knew this to be the truth, but Cassandra’s powers were immense and none wished to speak ill of her for fear of the consequences.

  Khalid lived in a small shabby hut at the end of a long row of equally rundown buildings, about a quarter of a league from the perimeter wall of the Seraglio. The narrow, squalid street was barely wide enough for two people to pass without touching.

  Khalid kept mainly to himself, rarely venturing out from the sanctuary of his home. Seldom seen by anyone, it was widely believed that he might finally have passed on. Those who lived in the neighbouring huts believed differently, for an equally ancient man known as Ammar visited daily.

  Two men, however old, spending so much time together was bound to cause rumour. It was intoxicating and intriguing to the neighbours. None knew what went on inside the hut, but rumours spread fast in such a close community.

  Makdil, the forty-year-old man who lived to the left of Khalid’s hut, swore he and his beautiful wife, Gathbiyya, frequently heard strange noises emanating from within Khalid’s hut during the hours of darkness. When pressed by friends as to the nature of the nocturnal noises, the couple could only describe them as inhuman moaning, banging, and the odd scream – of either pain or laughter.

  Gathbiyya was outside her home with her young daughter and son, when she saw Ammar exit Khalid’s house, and to her surprise, Khalid accompanied him. As they set off down the narrow lane, Gathbiyya leaned in through the open doorway. ‘Makdil,’ she called. ‘Makdil, come quick.’