Thirteenth Night

by Alan Gordon

  People gasped and parted as the Cross was wheeled in with Mark splayed pitifully upon it. In brief dumbshow he was taken down and placed in the sepulchre. He lay still until his mourners left, then stood and rolled aside the rock. The choir sang of Resurrection. When they finished, he strode confidently to the mouth of Hell. He turned to face his audience, his hands out to bless them as the Prologue ended.

  “Hard ways have I gone,” he declaimed forcefully and clearly. “Many sorrows have I suffered.” And the sight of this noble boy who had so recently lost his father brought tears to the cheeks of many. Mothers wept who had lost husbands and sons, sons wept who had lost their fathers, Sir Andrew wept beside me.

  “Listen to him,” he whispered proudly. “Was there ever such a boy?”

  As Mark finished his speech, Satan leapt on top of the Gates, his red cloak swirling around him.

  “Who is this that I see here?” he cackled. “I bid Him speak no more! For all that He may do He shall come to us, too! How we play here He shall learn, and find how fierce our fire burns!”

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Stephen, first son of a wealthy merchant,” replied Sir Andrew. “A natural choice to play the Devil, some say.”

  “He certainly is enjoying the role.”

  The demons trooped out. What was an inept band of amateurs a few days ago was now an expert comedy team. They had maintained the ice patch in front of the Devil’s mouth and used it to full advantage. One in particular, a skinny, trembling fellow, drew the most laughs, and several people pointed knowingly in Sir Andrew’s direction. He seemed oblivious to them, concentrating on the dialogue.

  The Keeper of the Gates appeared, a demon with an oversized key. The choir sang, and Sir Andrew nudged me.

  “The powder is in those two bags on top of the Gates,” he explained. “There will be two flashes. The first is when Jesus enters the Gates. That’s the one on the right.”

  “The three bags, you mean,” I said.

  “What?”

  “There are three bags up there.”

  He looked where I was pointing.

  “That’s odd,” he muttered. “There should only be two. I put them there myself. Why…” His eyes widened, then abruptly he leapt down the steps, shoving people out of his path with surprising force. “Let me through!” he shouted. The onlookers laughed at the ridiculous knight. Many, seeing an opportunity for mischief, crowded into the poor man who bounced from one to another with increasing panic. With sudden foreboding, I ran after him. I incurred my own pummeling but managed to keep my balance and spin through until I reached Sir Andrew. Together we formed a two-man wedge and pushed through almost to the front of the crowd, some thirty feet from the performance.

  “Mark!” he shouted, jumping and waving his arms to attract his attention, but the choir drowned him out and the Duke was concentrating on his role. As they finished, Mark stepped before the curtains at the entrance to Hell and held up his hand.

  “Hell’s Gates will I fall, and take out Mine all,” he intoned. “Satan, I bind thee! Here thou shalt lay, until finally cometh Doomsday!” He parted the curtains and stepped inside. In that instant, a huge flash of red flame and smoke shot from the top of the gates. The spectators cheered and applauded. In a last burst of strength, Andrew broke through the front of the screaming crowd, slid on the ice patch into the mouth of Hell, and tackled Mark. There was another flash, and the screams turned to terror as the flames roared swiftly through the entire construction. Mark looked up in terror as the roof of the set began to collapse on him. Andrew dragged the boy through the damask curtains just as they ignited, and I caught the two of them and pulled them to safety.

  Spectators next to the Gates fled, shrieking as their garments caught fire. The more quick-thinking villagers grabbed them and threw them to the ground, rolling them in snow to douse the flames. The crowd, which had overflowed the square, was now trying to flee it, and many were trampled as they fell beneath the feet of their faster companions.

  Viola ran up, screaming for Mark. I waved her over, and she dived at him, locking him in a tight embrace, crying. I pulled them up. “Get him out of here,” I shouted. “Get yourselves home and guard the gates.” She looked at me dumbly, then nodded and hauled him away. He was dazed but all right.

  The flames raced along the set in an unearthly fashion, as if they had a malignant will of their own. Perun galloped up. For once, I was glad to see him.

  “Get back!” he commanded the crowd. “Guards, ho! Pull that thing down.” Two guards came running with long metal poles with hooks at the ends and began tugging at the top of the set. The intense heat forced one of them back. The other bag of flash powder went off, causing more panic from the crowd. The winds powered the flames and carried pieces of burning debris about the square. Paradise caught fire, and the two thrones quickly followed.

  “Get buckets!” shouted Perun. “Get the water barrels.”

  “No,” I yelled at him, and he looked down at me in astonished fury. “Get sand from the shore. Don’t you recognize it? It’s Greek fire. Water won’t stop it.”

  As realization dawned, he spurred his horse to the edge of the crowd and commandeered a horse and wagon from a farmer. “Come on,” he ordered me, and I jumped on the back with two guards and a townsman. Perun snapped the reins, and the startled animal galloped through the crowd at breakneck speed, people leaping out of our path on all sides. One of the guards jumped off as we passed through the southwest gate. He collected some shovels from the guard tower and ran after us to the beach.

  We dug through the snow to a patch of sand and frantically filled the wagon. More wagons joined us.

  “Back!” shouted Perun. “Don’t waste time filling them up. Get what you can and get back to the square.”

  The horse labored heavily as Perun whipped it back through the gate, and we leapt off the wagon and pushed it to speed things up. We got back to the square to find the Devil’s head burning furiously. The whole thing must have been drenched with Greek fire. We grabbed shovels and started heaving the sand onto the flames.

  Perun was next to me, working like a demon. “How do you know of Greek fire, merchant?” he shouted as we shoveled away.

  “I saw it used in Aleppo once, to repel a pirate fleet,” I replied. “They sprayed it on the ships from towers by the harbor. They burned like kindling even though they were in the middle of a thunderstorm. All the crews perished. It is a sight one does not easily forget.”

  “Nor is it a sight often seen,” he shouted. “You are no merchant, whatever you may say.”

  “I am a friend to this town,” I retorted.

  The Bishop ran up, his false beard still on. He clutched Perun by the shoulder. The Captain whirled and shoved him away, not realizing who was beneath the disguise. Then he recognized him and started to apologize.

  “The Cathedral!” screamed the Bishop. “Save the Cathedral!”

  The sheet from Paradise came loose from its moorings and soared through the air, flapping and flaming like an avenging angel. It came to rest on the scaffolding. We hadn’t had any snow since Saint Stephen’s Day, and the wood and canvas were bone-dry. They started to smolder, then catch.

  Perun turned to me. “If you are a friend of this town, follow me,” he said, almost mockingly. He drew his sword and ran to the scaffolding, then began to climb it, ignoring the spreading flames.

  And I, being a fool, followed him.

  “I hope you aren’t afraid of heights,” he yelled. “We have to get to the top and start cutting the canvas loose. With luck, we’ll save the building.”

  I pulled myself up after him. The height didn’t bother me. The flames snapping at my heels did.

  Perun reached the top and began hacking away at the knots binding the canvas to the scaffolding. I ran to the other end and did the same. The top row of canvas sheeting fluttered to the ground as we met in the middle, and two of his men pulled it to the middle of the square. We had five rows to
go, and the middle one was burning fiercely now.

  “Hurry,” he commanded, but I needed no urging. I grabbed a crossbeam and swung down to the level below. I wasted no more time with the knots but sliced through the corners where they were tied. Swordplay at last, I thought. The smoke swirled around me, and I quickly wrapped my scarf over my mouth and nose to buy some time. The second row came down. It was winter, and I was sweating like a baker.

  The scaffolding below us ignited as we clambered down to the next level. We were still thirty feet above the steps. I could see over the wall to the Elephant and the harbor beyond. “How do we get down if it goes?” I yelled to Perun as we worked our way to the middle.

  “Quickly, I imagine,” he replied. “Go, if you want.”

  What possessed me, I do not know, but I attacked the canvas with a fury unlike anything I had felt in years. No subtleties with this enemy. He was licking at my boots, and either I sent him packing or I would end up a charred morsel for crows. My feet grew uncomfortably hot. I looked down to see flame burst through the platform, then it buckled underneath me. Perun’s hand snaked through the smoke to grab mine in an iron grip. He hauled me to momentary safety.

  “No time for the canvas,” he decided. “Let’s cut loose the entire scaffolding. You get this end, I’ll get the other. When you finish, get down.” I attacked the ropes that held the framework to the Cathedral while he worked his way through the flames to the other side, negotiating the slenderest of beams with ease. I finished the last of them and slid down a pole to the steps. I yelled to the guards with the hooks to drag the scaffolding down and started pushing it from the other side as Perun reached the steps. Slowly, the structure began to topple away from the Cathedral. Then it collapsed in a flaming heap at the base of the steps, pinning one guard underneath a pile of burning canvas. He screamed in agony while his fellows picked their way to him and carried him to safety. His face, unprotected by any armor, was horribly burned.

  Dear God, I thought. We just risked our lives to save a church.

  The Bishop stood a safe distance away, looking at his future seat of power, tears streaming. I turned to see how it had fared. Not too badly. The marble was scorched here and there, and some of the mortar had cracked in the heat.

  “This is terrible, simply terrible,” wailed the Bishop. I looked at him, then at the burned guard, who was being carried away by his fellows. I said nothing.

  The crowd reappeared slowly, silently looking at the damage. Adam and Eve clung to each other and wept. Masks were removed, instruments lay silent. Then another hideous scream rent the air.

  “Murderers!” howled Sir Andrew, staggering through them, holding the limp body of Lucius in his arms. The boy was badly burned, his face barely recognizable, but that was not the cause of death. His chest was stained with blood, the haft of a dagger still protruding from it.

  “Cowards!” cried Sir Andrew. “Which one of you did this?” He collapsed in a jagged heap near the ashes that had been the gates of Hell. “He was just a boy,” he whispered, and rocked the unfortunate lad in his arms. Perun knelt before them, removed the dagger from the boy’s body, and examined it. Then he walked to where I was standing.

  I was numb. I hadn’t expected any of it. A woman ran up screaming and buried her face in Lucius’s chest. His mother, I guessed. I looked at the boy again, and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  “I suppose someone killed the boy and rigged that set to burst into flame,” said Perun. He looked older, to my eyes, weary from his exertions, his face covered with soot.

  “It does look that way.”

  He looked at me coldly. “I don’t much care who you work for anymore,” he said. “The Twelve Days are over, and with them ends your shield. I shall meet you on the morrow.”

  “Give me one more day, and you shall be satisfied,” I begged him. “You owe me that much for helping you.”

  He looked out at the scene. The smoke rising, the burned guard screaming, Lucius’s mother, the Bishop, and Sir Andrew crying, all for different reasons. He laughed suddenly, an unexpected sound.

  “Why not?” he said. “None of it matters. One more day of life, merchant. Enjoy it while you can.”

  SIXTEEN

  Mès meuz vaut apert folie ke trop coverte felonie.

  (But open folly is much better than concealed villainy.)

  FROM THE PROVERBS OF MARY MAGDALEN

  I noticed one of the villa’s burlier servants leaning against the wall near Bobo’s room, casually cleaning his nails with a long knife. I nodded at him pleasantly, and he ignored me, concentrating on his cuticles. I ducked through the doorway and whispered, “Pick a language.”

  He glanced at the door and said, “How’s your Spanish?”

  “Adequate,” I replied, and we continued in that language, speaking in hushed tones.

  “I’m being watched,” I informed him.

  “And I’m being guarded,” he replied. “Their caretaking has been unusually solicitous since yesterday.”

  “You heard what happened.”

  “Yes, we chatted. Quite a day you had. And Sir Andrew’s a hero, I hear. Of all people.”

  “He saved the Duke’s life. But he’s quite broken up over Lucius.”

  “You can’t save everybody,” he said, looking at me sharply.

  “No,” I agreed. “But I’m going to try and save what’s left of them and end this game today. How are you feeling?”

  “Much improved, thank you.”

  “Able to move in a hurry if things go badly?”

  He laughed. “You mean they can get worse? What is your plan?”

  I leaned forward to whisper. “I’ve discovered an unlikely ally. Mark seems to trust me. He’s agreed to summon all the principals of the town together this afternoon.”

  “I hope they don’t expect me to entertain,” said Bobo with a sigh.

  “I’ll take care of the entertainment,” I promised. “Follow my lead. And just in case, I’ve moved Zeus and Fez to the Elephant’s stables. From there, you can cross the river easily and head south to Spalato.” There were footsteps nearby. We clasped hands and I left him gathering his gear into his bag.

  * * *

  Mark was waiting in my room, seated on the windowsill, looking out towards the gap in the eastern ridge. “I’ve done what you wanted,” he said. “Will you tell me what this is all about?”

  “All in good time, Milord,” I said. “You will learn much that will distress you. Be forewarned, and be brave.” I hated using the boy like this, but I had to.

  “Why is it that I trust you so much on such short acquaintance?” he mused.

  “Milord, men are ultimately unknowable,” I replied. “As Duke, you will make great decisions about whom to rely upon with scant information about them. Some you may trust upon short acquaintance, others you may know a lifetime and still never be sure of their motives. Some men live their lives trusting no one, some trusting all. Neither way is right, but in between lies uncertainty. Be certain of this, Milord. I am here to help you, to protect you and your family and your town. You will know me better by the end of the day, that I can promise you.”

  He walked to the door, then turned. “And tomorrow, Herr Octavius?”

  “We shall see,” I said. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  He left, and like a good professional, I took a nap. Who knew when I would sleep again?

  * * *

  I was roused by Malachi, who shook me none too gently. “I have carried out your instructions,” he said softly. “All is in readiness.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I warn you, if anything happens to the Duke or the Duchess, I will hold you responsible.”

  “I place myself at your mercy, good Malachi. Now, may I beg of you one more small service?”

  He smiled grimly. “None of them has been small so far.”

  “This one is but a trifle. A bowl of warm water and some soap, if you would be so kind.”


  He looked a bit puzzled but bowed and left. A good man. I enjoyed being waited upon, I must say. It had been a long time.

  Viola appeared shortly thereafter, holding a parcel. “You needed this?” she asked, pulling the icon from the wrappings.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking it and placing it on the table by the window for the best light. I opened the wooden panels, then the false front to reveal the glass within. I gazed at my reflection for a moment, then turned to the Duchess.

  “I cannot judge my own face,” I said. “It looks worn and old to me. Has life etched any character in it?”

  “Chiseled more than etched, I would say,” she replied, inspecting it critically. “It has been much exposed to the elements. But the foundation seems strong. Much could be built upon it.”

  “Then first I must clear it of tree and brush,” I said as Malachi returned and placed the bowl and soap in front of me.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m going to shave off this damn beard,” I said, reaching for the soap.

  I peeked through the curtain of the Great Hall, watching them mill about. The original players, the new suspects, the casual bystanders, the greedy, the needy, and the disinterested. Isaac looked around curiously as if he had never been there before. Perhaps he hadn’t. Bobo rested comfortably on a chair, chatting amiably with well-wishers. Clumps of conversation formed, broke off, drifted towards the food. Olivia sat serenely amidst a group of men, gossiping about recent events. I lifted the hood of my cloak over my head and waited in the shadows.