The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘Brothers Filippo and Adams did.’

  ‘What did they find?’

  ‘Nothing too unusual. He was murdered by a weapon of some sort. I wager a knife.’

  ‘What would bring you to that conclusion?’

  ‘His throat was cut,’ Vittore replied.

  ‘That was the killing stroke?’

  ‘Brother Filippo could not be sure. He said the wound had putrefied from lying in the river so long,’ Vittore explained, and then hesitated. ‘There were more wounds across the arms and shoulders, but not deep enough to kill him.’

  ‘Bring me Brother Filippo,’ William said to Peruzo. He nodded and walked away to fetch the monk.

  Vittore breathed out heavily. ‘I’m not sure what more I can tell you, Captain Saxon.’

  ‘You haven’t told me a great deal, Lieutenant.’

  ‘I am not a physician, Captain. I’ve only relayed what Filippo has told me.’

  Brother Filippo came over. ‘Captain,’ he said, and stood to attention.

  ‘I want you to describe Greynell’s throat wound to me,’ William said impatiently.

  ‘It was deep and . . .’ Filippo hesitated.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not a straight cut. It was a little inaccurate.’

  ‘Too inaccurate to be done at close quarters?’

  Filippo thought about this. ‘Most of the throat had been torn out. The blade would have been barbed, or jagged . . .’

  ‘Not the usual blade a thief would carry, then?’ William said, and glanced at Vittore, whose cheeks reddened. ‘What of the other wounds?’

  ‘Jagged again, but shallow.’

  ‘In your opinion, were the wounds random? Did they suggest an expert attack?’

  ‘Not really. They were quite wild, Captain. Across the shoulders and arms. There was a raking blow across the chest, but again it was shallow.’

  ‘Not something you expect at close quarters,’ Peruzo suggested. ‘Especially from a vampyre.’

  ‘If it was a vampyre,’ Vittore said.

  ‘They could have been delivered at a distance,’ William said.

  ‘None of the wounds could have been made by a firearm or throwing knife, sir,’ Filippo said. ‘The cuts do not match those types of weapon.’

  ‘What would be able to strike a man across the neck and deliver unusual wounds at a distance?’ Peruzo asked.

  After some moments of thought, Vittore said: ‘There is one weapon, sir.’ He looked at William apologetically. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.’

  ‘Go on, Lieutenant,’ William urged him.

  ‘We of the Order do not use it, for it requires a skill greater than we possess. It is a half-moon flail. A weapon with long chains, almost ten feet in length, that are swung until highest momentum is attained. At the end of each chain is a sharpened half-moon blade, the width of your hand. They are flung forwards or sideways and can cut through armour. If used by a skilful arm, they would deliver such wounds.’

  ‘Half-moon flail,’ William repeated to himself, imagining it. ‘You’d have to be a giant to use that. Or extremely strong.’

  ‘I’ve seen it used only once. Its wielder slaughtered several tribesmen in a heartbeat. It was something that defied your eyes,’ Vittore replied with a certain tone of dread, ‘and something that I would not wish to face a second time.’

  William looked at him long and hard. ‘A vampyre?’

  Vittore nodded ruefully. ‘Yes, Captain. The half-moon flail is a vampyre’s weapon.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Sins of the Quarter

  I

  Brother Nico slipped a dagger into his bootstrap and then stowed the hatchet at his hip, before pulling his coat about him as he stood with Brother Leone in the cool air outside the inn. They spoke in hushed voices to the guards at the doorway, harmless quips that were the banter of any soldier, religious or not.

  When William and Peruzo appeared the chatter abated and discipline returned. Silently the four men walked off into the evening, William leading the way.

  ‘Vittore has provided directions to where Greynell was last seen,’ William said at the end of the street. ‘He was lodging at an inn called The Sun over Kadesh. It lies a couple of miles east of here’

  They said little as they made their way under darkening skies, the diverse buildings leaning over them as the four foreigners slipped down street after street with only a few curious glances cast their way from locals as they retired inside for the night.

  After an hour’s walk, they found the street Vittore had described, a long winding avenue of tall houses and shacks. Here rich and poor seemed to exist side by side within an assortment of styles that clashed in the throes of construction and corruption. There were women there, selling themselves to passers-by, and it jarred with the fine balconies above them, draped with lush fabrics.

  William was relieved to find The Sun over Kadesh marked out clearly from the rest – no need to consult with some local whore or vagabond. The inn stood, or rather appeared to lean, as though its architect had forced its construction to swagger upwards against its neighbour. It was painted in a lush green and yellow that put the nearest buildings to shame. A long its walls were foreign symbols or words, and a painting that William recognized as a king of Egypt, a Pharaoh, at the head of a vast army.

  ‘A fine picture,’ Peruzo remarked.

  ‘It depicts Ramses’s victory at Kadesh,’ William replied, quite pleased with himself. ‘We will look here, I think.’

  The innkeeper and his staff were less than helpful. When they unearthed the owner skulking in a small grubby room, he looked afraid. William asked about Charles Greynell, but the conversation was protracted and arduous. While Brother Leone did his best to translate, neither party truly understood the other and talk was further hampered by doubt and fear from the innkeeper.

  Eventually they came to an understanding, or rather William parted with several gold coins and was shown where Charles Greynell had been living in recent weeks. The owner did not stay, not even to open the door to the lodgings, but dashed away with one of the staff in tow.

  ‘Did you see how terrified that man was?’ Peruzo remarked.

  William nodded. ‘Something has happened here,’ he said, and stared down suspiciously at the door. The innkeeper had given him a key.

  ‘There’s nothing to show the door was forced open,’ Peruzo said after examining it.

  ‘Vampyres don’t always knock,’ William replied.

  ‘The window?’

  William nodded and tried the lock as the monks readied their swords.

  The key turned and the door opened.

  The room before them was in turmoil. Paper littered the floor like oversized confetti, and clothes were strewn from the door to the open window, hanging from the bedposts and the back of the chair. Peruzo walked cautiously across it all.

  ‘Someone has been busy,’ he said.

  William ordered Leone and Nico to stand guard in the hall, and then closed the door behind him as he stepped inside.

  ‘What were they looking for, do you think?’ Peruzo asked, staring down at the shirts and breeches scattered on the floor.

  ‘It’s hard to tell.’ William knelt down. There were spots of dried blood on the bare boards. ‘There was a struggle here.’

  Peruzo looked over to the window where the blinds swung from one broken hinge. The slats were splintered, and several lay shattered on the floor.

  ‘They came in through the window . . .’ Peruzo began, tracing the attack through the air. He noticed another spot of blood on the chair. ‘Greynell was sitting. He wouldn’t have known they were coming.’ The lieutenant found more blood on the shattered mirror strewn over the table top.

  ‘They didn’t kill him here,’ he said finally.

  William stood up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Too many people around,’ Peruzo said thoughtfully. ‘No. They took him away from here
. Once they couldn’t find what they wanted.’

  ‘But what was it they were searching for? A map? Directions to the Hoard itself?’ William said and sighed. They spent some time sifting through the debris but found nothing.

  ‘So where next?’ Peruzo asked.

  William sat down on the chair and pulled the letter from his shirt. He read it again, hoping a sign would reveal itself after standing in the man’s room. Peruzo looked on curiously.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Riddles. Or nothing of the sort,’ William admitted, deflated. He read the letter aloud to Peruzo.

  ‘Fires? And “wanderers of the desert”?’ Peruzo remarked.

  ‘You think it’s a clue?’

  ‘As a riddle, it signifies something. Though what, only a scholar or Greynell himself would know,’ Peruzo confessed.

  William was forced to agree. The mere thought of the riddle had him racking his brains, with an irritation born out of desperation and frustration. He cast his eyes around the room again in case there was anything he had missed. They had turned out everything, from drawers to bags and cases, yet it only revealed that Charles Greynell was a man of expensive tastes. Whatever clues had been in the room had since been removed by others.

  Peruzo kicked a discarded bottle at his feet and it rolled across the boards to collide with William’s chair with a loud clink. William looked down, and his eyes alighted on something. Plucking the bottle from the floor he regarded it closely: it was plain brown glass, but marked with a moon and sun around its neck. He stared at it for a moment and then rose from the chair.

  ‘Recognize this?’ He pointed at the symbol.

  Peruzo shook his head.

  ‘Me neither,’ William said. ‘I wonder if the innkeeper does.’

  Leaving the room, they went downstairs and found the owner counting his coins, still with that haunted expression as though he expected someone or something nasty to pay him a visit.

  William thrust the brown bottle onto the desk top with a sudden thud that made the man start in surprise, scattering the coins with a wayward hand. William stared at him and pointed at the symbol.

  ‘Leone, ask him where this bottle comes from.’

  The innkeeper frowned and his hands began to shake. He shook his head slightly and turned back to gather the coins. He ignored Leone as though the monk did not exist.

  William clattered the glass against the wood again. ‘Greynell . . . This bottle . . . Where?’ he said, bringing out three more gold coins.

  The innkeeper’s hands hovered over them and then he smiled weakly ‘Babel’s,’ he replied.

  II

  The streets to Babel’s were narrow and smelt of rotting refuse. Dogs skulked in the gutters competing with vagabonds who loitered in doorways and eyed the four strangers who walked by.

  The map scrawled out by one of the innkeeper’s staff was crude, yet William had marvelled how Leone had managed to gesture and encourage someone to draw directions. It had cost them though, in gold and time. Night had fallen by now, and the streets were dangerously gloomy.

  ‘I think this is the road,’ Peruzo said, a little too unsure for William’s comfort. When his lieutenant began turning the map sideways, he grew concerned.

  ‘Are we lost?’

  The elder officer ran his fingers across his grey-flecked beard and smiled. ‘This is not the finest map of Rashid,’ he conceded.

  ‘It will have to do, William replied. ‘So which way now?’

  Peruzo studied the map, and then looked back at the street. Up ahead it narrowed to a point so that several sandstone buildings were leaning over towards each other, their balconies almost meeting. To the left was a side street reeking with refuse, while to the right was a wooden gate that had aged to the point of collapse.

  ‘The map tells me nothing,’ Peruzo sighed finally, ‘but my instincts tell me to continue straight ahead.’

  ‘I would trust your instincts any day my friend,’ William grinned, leading them down the diminishing sand track. As they passed under the balconies above, they heard sounds around the corner, followed by raised voices and the cackling of women.

  The four men marched into the next street and were surprised by its brilliance. The street was short, but considerably wider than the last one, and flanked by numerous buildings. In every window were lamps and candles that gave off a glare that eclipsed some of the shapes before them, blurring the street people’s outlines in shadow and light.

  William brought his group to a halt as he looked about. One building was unconventional, a layered monstrosity of balcony after balcony, receding to the top of four storeys, until the highest point seemed to shelve away into the night. Hanging from each balcony was a tapestry that was Byzantine in style yet covered in bestial depictions that flickered in the lamplight, a parody of saints and martyrs in a maelstrom of nature that wrapped itself around each figure with roots and rivers, toppling with moons and stars.

  ‘Babel means chaos,’ William murmured to Peruzo. ‘What is the most chaotic building in this street?’

  Peruzo nodded towards the one with the tapestries. As they came closer, The depictions were blasphemous and Peruzo appeared uncomfortable. ‘Greynell would find himself here?’

  William studied the foot of the building, noting how the women seemed dressed in neat yet baggy clothing, so that by the merest reach or gesture, a thigh would be uncovered, or a breast would peek out. One wore a gown that was transparent in the lamplight so that the dark triangle of her pubic hair showed as a shadowy cleft between her thighs.

  ‘Whores,’ William murmured. ‘Babel’s is a brothel.’

  Peruzo grinned, but both Brothers Nico and Leone looked worried, something not lost on William.

  ‘Peruzo, wait outside with Nico,’ William said. ‘Brother Leone and I will go alone.’

  Peruzo nodded, but William could sense he disapproved.

  As William and Leone walked to the steps, William inclined his head to him. ‘I wasn’t sure if you had taken the vow or not,’ he whispered.

  ‘I have, Captain. But do not worry, I have faced sterner tests than this,’ Leone replied quickly. ‘Any man who has ventured into the piazzas of Rome can be tested any moment of any day. I am no different.’

  William chuckled, the first light moment he’d felt all day.

  Several women at the steps noticed the two strangers, and began to detach from their admirers, local men or scruffy-looking merchants. These same men regarded William suspiciously, as rivals might.

  The women sidled up to William, brushing against him, a hand touching his arm, his hip, His rump. One woman, not much older than Adriana and quite beautiful, confronted him and began purring some suggestion in his ear. The words were unfamiliar; the gestures were not.

  He grew uncomfortable with the attention and pushed through them. At once the women’s demeanours turned from pussycat to gorgon, hissing and insulting them both as they never looked back. One woman spat and gestured with her fingers, while another insulted their sexuality.

  ‘Friendly, a ren’t they?’ Leone said uncomfortably.

  ‘Only when they want something,’ William replied as they passed through the entrance and into a cavernous atrium beyond. It was as high as the building, and the balconies outside opened up onto terraces built inside the atrium. Here staircases ran across levels of landings grafted randomly against the walls of the enormous space, a web of steps and balconies without much logic or respect for architecture. It was simply babelesque in design.

  On each landing and stair were women and their customers. Some were laughing, teasing and caressing, while sexual acts took up corners of the layout where customers either could not afford a room or in their lust had not made it to a place of privacy.

  Around these acts were others equally flagrant, yet as William’s eyes roved from one to another, they seemed to dull into the background, a moving picture of carnal urges, dampened only by the heavy veil of pipe smoke and the smell of bur
ning incense mixed with the tang of sex.

  Leone’s eyebrows had not lowered as he looked about, quite in awe. ‘I have seen decadence before, Captain, but this . . .’

  William nodded, impressed and repulsed in equal measure. They walked through a throng swallowed up in its own desires. When William bumped into one coupling, the two of them barely noticed, so engrossed were they in each other. For a moment the newcomers were trapped in a ring of people; merchants with money to burn and plenty of women ready to be bought, bottles of wine spilling over tables and across the smirched wooden floors.

  As William and Leone looked for a way around them, arms appeared out of nowhere and began wrapping themselves around William like pairs of tentacles. They were of different sizes and ages, and the moaning at his ear caused him to back away, turning to the three women, short, tall and large, who continued to advance with looks of greed.

  ‘That way,’ William said quickly to Leone and they made their escape, smiling outwardly like gentlemen, yet secretly dismayed by the women’s advances.

  Finally, they came to a bar where several women bare to the waist served drinks to the customers. A voice nearby slurred words, but they were unintelligible. William wasn’t even sure if it was they who were being addressed. He turned to his left and found the speaker, a tall man in a well-tailored suit and broad-brimmed hat. His hair was long and curled, and his short beard ended in a point. He seemed to be drunk.

  Again the man spoke, but the words were lost on William. He shrugged and then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I do not understand.’

  The man in the hat nodded and smiled quizzically.

  Leone was feeling harassed. There were only so many ways he could say ‘No’ to the women about him, and he questioned his own ability to speak Arabic when even saying ‘no’ did not dissuade them. ‘Captain, do you really think we’ll find any clues here?’ he whispered.

  William started to believe they would not. ‘Most of these people are fishermen.’

  Leone nodded. ‘Rich fishermen, by the looks of it.’

  ‘It certainly is an odd place for a man like Greynell to frequent,’ William added.