The Curse of Babylon

by Richard Blake

  The old man who hadn’t yet spoken put up an arm for attention. ‘Has My Lord touched the Horn of Babylon?’ he croaked. I think I was supposed to give way to terror at this point. I folded my arms and tried not to look impatient. Aside from the nonsense they speak, the problem with astrologers is that they can beat eunuchs every time for stretching out the most commonplace utterances. ‘Have you taken it from the box in which it was to be insulated forever, and touched it with your bare hands?’ he elaborated.

  ‘I have touched it,’ I said, sounding earnest – I, and whoever last polished the bloody thing, I might have added but didn’t. I ignored the nervous looks and the quiet muttering of the old men. ‘Is this a matter I have cause to regret?’ I asked. ‘I know nothing of your Horn. It was brought to me yesterday, wholly unsought by me.’ I paused and waited for the muttering to die away. ‘What is the Horn of Babylon?’ I asked with sudden firmness. If I wasn’t to be here till nightfall, I’d have to move things along.

  The old man who was standing tottered forward to the nearest of the candles. He stared at me for a long time through dull eyes. I met his look and hoped he wouldn’t begin chanting incantations, or try for a conjuring trick with the candles. That sort of thing could soak up time beyond reckoning – it certainly would if this old fool set fire to his sleeve. But he only wanted to see me properly. Though he was five feet away, I could smell the filthy clothes he wore as if we were in bed together. I was almost glad of the otherwise overpowering background smell.

  ‘Does My Lord know the story of how, in ancient time, King Cyrus took Babylon?’ he shrilled. I knew the account given in Herodotus. I’d heard a few doubtful supplements to this when I was in Ctesiphon. Obviously, it was time to hear it again. I remained silent. ‘When the city fell to the Persians,’ he said, dropping his voice to an aged whine, ‘the last King of Babylon was too busy digging in the foundations of his palace to lead a defence. After the last moment for victory had come and gone, he found what he had been told to seek. This was a sacrificial vessel made not by human hands. It was sent down from the skies by the ancient gods of his country. Anyone who kept it close would infallibly get his heart’s desire – but, in return, would be deprived of all human happiness.

  ‘The Horn was possessed by Cyrus. After its loss by his successors, it was possessed by the Alexander known as the Great. After him, it passed into the hands of those who desired other than worldly power. It is now sought again by those whose power is, or would be, of this world.’

  ‘And who might those be?’ I asked, perking up. The room fell silent. I was aware of a fly at the window. It could have flown straight out by going through a gap in the frame. Instead, it was beating itself against the oiled parchment. Now there was no other sound in the room, I could hear a child saying something in Armenian. It came from a few yards beyond the window, which must be into one of the courtyards. An adult was responding, though in a voice too low for me to hear what was said.

  ‘Can you explain why Heraclius is Emperor, and not Nicetas?’ the old man asked. I tried to make sense of his tone. Was this meant to lead me to enlightenment? Or was he after some from me? His Greek was too oddly accented for me to tell.

  ‘The story is well known and true in its essentials,’ I said, keeping my voice even. When the old man said nothing more, I gave way to the inevitable. ‘Thirteen years ago,’ I summarised, ‘the Emperor Maurice was deposed in a bloody coup – the first break in legal continuity for about three hundred years. He and his five sons were murdered, but it was at first hoped that Phocas the Tyrant would stabilise the frontiers. When he failed to do this, he kept power by launching a reign of terror that squashed all opposition.’ I thought of Priscus, who’d been the most enthusiastic officer of the Terror – in which capacity I’d first encountered him.

  ‘Eventually, his purges and inability to keep out of war with the Persians, and his inability to beat them in war, provoked, or enabled, the Exarch of Africa to start a second revolution. The Exarch put forward two alternative rival Emperors – his son, Heraclius, and his nephew, Nicetas. The deal was that whichever of them got first from Carthage to Constantinople and deposed Phocas would be Emperor. Nicetas came by land but got stuck in Egypt. Heraclius came by sea and had a smooth crossing. There’s more to the story, if you want to look at the details. But that is broadly what happened.’

  The old man leaned forward. ‘So Heraclius is Emperor simply because he got here first?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Of course, there was more to it than that. Heraclius, if sickly, wasn’t an invalid. Heraclius wasn’t completely incapable of taking decisions. The old men were cackling away again in Syriac. One of them now switched into a different language, his voice rising to an ecstatic babble:

  Ta-ak-bi-a-at pi-ka li-kal-li-ma i-na-ka

  li-ip-ti-k.?u pa-da-nam pi-h˘?? i-tam

  h˘? ?arrana li-iš-ta-zi-ik a-na ki-ib-si-ka

  šá-di-a li-iš-ta-zi-ik a-na šêpi-ka

  He ended in a long fit of coughing. ‘Well spoken, my brother!’ one of the others called out, ‘The ancient words of the Horn are filled with wisdom – if only we could understand them.’ Once again, I thought of the time. I could stand here as some kind of supplicant, and get nowhere very fast, or I could take a chance.

  ‘I understand that Heraclius has been consulting you.’ I said. I looked at the suddenly shocked and silent faces and tried not to burst out laughing. Had these transparent frauds been the best our Great Augustus could find? ‘He wanted your help to win the Persian War,’ I improvised with more confidence. ‘You procured the Horn of Babylon and assured him it would bring him victory. It was then stolen before you could give it to him. You have brought me here because you need it back. You need it because, when he returns to Constantinople, he will not be pleased to learn that the object you have told him is of the utmost power is now in other hands – other deeply unfriendly hands.’

  I smiled and moved my weight to my right leg. There was no doubt I’d cut out hours of dancing round the subject. Just before Christmas, Heraclius had burned two astrologers alive in the Circus, and had afterwards given a pious lecture to the mob on the Satanic nature of horoscopes. All that showed, of course, was that he believed in astrology. No surprise, then, he was now wasting the poor taxpayers’ money on some for himself. He was credulous without limit. The real wonder was that, after four years of military failure, he’d stopped at consulting the stars. Why hadn’t he also tried sacrifices to the Old Gods, or conversion to the fire worship of the Persians? Perhaps he had.

  I went back to the question I’d been asked. ‘Where does Nicetas fit into this?’ I asked. I waited for an answer. Where did he fit in? Had his people stolen the Horn? I could assume there was some connection between him and Simon. I’d overheard Simon confessing that he’d missed getting the cup for himself. Who had got to it first? What had Nicetas wanted with it? Did he want its power for himself? He was another superstitious fool – though too besotted with his monks to risk his soul with magic. Perhaps he’d wanted to use the cup and other evidences of blasphemy to blackmail Heraclius into abdicating. Or perhaps he’d simply wanted to spare Heraclius from the sin of astrology. But Shahin – where did he fit in?

  So many questions, though where to begin? One of the old men now found his voice again. ‘Has the young barbarian read the words?’ he asked the compounder. ‘Can he be aware that whoever reads the words engraved by unworldly hands upon the Horn of Babylon will start a process that cannot be stopped and will end in the collapse upon itself of the entire universe?’ The compounder let out a terrified yelp and rocked back and forth in terror. Evidently pleased, the old men went back to their own conversation.

  This would never do. I clapped my hands together. When the room was silent, I walked over to the curtain. Looking as outraged as I was impatient, I turned back to face everyone. ‘Whether or not you claim the Emperor as your master,’ I cried in Syriac, ‘you are all traitors by your own confession. You are traitors and bl
asphemers. I think we all know the penalties.’ That got their minds off the end of the universe. Most Greeks never learn Syriac. These men had taken it as read a barbarian wouldn’t know it. Crap astrologers that showed them to be, I might add. I walked back to the middle of the room. ‘If you want me to walk out of here and never come back, I suggest you should put yourselves in order and start answering my questions.’

  ‘My Lord is right in the essentials,’ one of the old men allowed, still in his own language. ‘But you must understand the danger in which you have placed yourself. The Emperor provided us with a box to shield him from the power of the Horn when it was given to him. You have touched the Horn with your bare hands. This is not safe for anyone who lacks the necessary training. None shall know happiness, though he get his heart’s desire . . .’

  ‘Oh, shut up and be seated!’ I snapped. ‘I’ll have no more of this nonsense. The stars tell us nothing. The Horn of Babylon is a piece of silver looted from a tomb. You’ve already admitted you can’t understand whatever’s written on it.’ I looked from one shaking face to another. ‘If your methods gave true knowledge about the world, I think we’d have seen better results after so many thousands of years.’ There I stopped. I hadn’t time or patience for lectures on the nature of true science. I’d softened them for questioning and I’d now have some answers. ‘The Horn of Babylon,’ I said, ‘is wanted by a man called Simon. I want to know what connection he has with the Emperor’s cousin. I also want to know to what extent both these men are connected with the Persians, and why.’

  I could say what I wanted. Fat chance I had of getting it. There was a loud cry of warning that came through the window. It rose to a shrill scream before suddenly ending. It was followed by a wild scraping of boots and a shouting of orders and by a firm banging of sword pommels on wood.

  Chapter 28

  I turned and pulled the curtain down. In the light from the candles, I could see that the door’s one bolt wouldn’t stand a hard shove from the other side. I looked about for something to wedge against it. Even before I could give up on that idea, someone banged loudly.

  ‘Alaric,’ Simon shouted, ‘I know you’re in there. I’ve given orders that you aren’t to be harmed. Put your sword down and stand away from the door.’

  ‘O Reverend Masters,’ the compounder begged, ‘let me stand within your pentagram of safety.’ Not speaking, the old men moved to its centre and clutched at each other.

  I didn’t ask for permission. I stepped over the chalked line and kicked one of the candles over. ‘You can have this back in a moment,’ I said, picking up its iron holder. I carried it over to the window. I heard a scrape of many feet outside the door. ‘I’ve got my sword ready, Simon,’ I shouted. ‘Whoever comes in first gets it in his guts.’ That would buy me a little time. I swung the candleholder against the shutter. The whole rickety thing fell outwards and I blinked in the sudden brightness. It was a small window. I’d have to go out diagonally. Men were banging on the door and shouting. The men in the room were deep in argument over who had a right to be within the chalked line on the floor. I put my hands on the frame and heaved myself through into the daylight.

  The bottom of the window was level with the ground and I came out on my hands and knees. ‘There he is!’ someone shouted from my left. I jumped up and went for my sword. Picking their way forward over the broken ground and forming a loose crescent as they came, there were a dozen men who hadn’t gone with Simon inside the building. He may have been telling the truth. Perhaps I wasn’t to be killed this time. If so, I could make a dash forward and cut my way to freedom. But these were big men and they were armed. Mad as it seemed, the only escape was back inside the building.

  ‘Don’t read the inscription, Alaric!’ I heard one of the old men shout feebly from the room. The next sound had to be the compounder’s dying scream. For another few moments it would be chaos in there and more men would be hurrying down to join it. I waved my sword at the nearest armed man and stumbled back inside the building.

  I nearly bumped into someone at the top of the first flight of stairs. He had time to fall back and pull out his knife. Before he could shout for help though, I’d got the point of my sword under his chin. I pushed until it hit the back of his head. I pulled it free and stepped over his twitching body. From the far end of the corridor came a noise of approaching boots. ‘Remember, I want him alive!’ Simon shouted. ‘I don’t care if he’s wounded. But I want him alive.’ It was worth hearing that. But there were men behind me now and I’d soon be caught from both sides. I tried to keep my feet from making any noise and darted up the next flight of stairs.

  Most buildings in the poor districts are designed for rapid escape – that, or the inhabitants prefer to avoid stepping into those stinking puddles when calling on their more distant neighbours. On first entering, I’d instinctively looked for and seen the slender walkway of planks held together with rope that connected this building to another across the yard. That’s what I was now looking for. At the top of every flight, I expected to see a hole knocked into the wall and my means of escape. Below me, I could hear a sound of smashed wood and of screams mingled with loud shouting. Simon was dividing his forces with a search of the whole building. No one yet behind me, I raced higher and higher upward in the stone tower. I found nothing until the topmost flight of stairs. This ended in a wooden door. I sheathed my sword and hurried towards it.

  Just in time, I realised I’d overshot the walkway. I’d almost overshot the roof. I threw myself back from the dazzling sunshine and a wild fluttering of birds. It was only because the door was unlocked that I hadn’t smashed through it and plunged sixty feet to my death. I gripped the doorframe and looked down into the yard.

  ‘He’s up there!’ Simon shouted. He’d left the building and, shading his eyes, was looking up at me from the courtyard. ‘Look – he’s on the roof!’ He laughed happily and, making quickly for the entrance to the building, rapped out a stream of orders that I couldn’t hear. Behind me, there was already a clatter of boots on the stairs. The walkway was ten feet below me and another eight to my right. I hadn’t seen it on my way up because it led from one of the lodging rooms. I ran fingers though my hair and tried to think. Trying to jump from here was a desperate last resort. I was some way from that. I looked at the crumbling roof tiles I’d have to crawl across to be able to jump down to the walkway. Keeping hold of the doorframe, I leaned forward into nothingness and twisted round to see how easily I could heave myself on to the roof.

  A few yards behind me, someone shouted a warning. I turned and drew my sword again. He dodged my main blow but I managed a slicing cut to the side of his neck. With a scream of horror, he fell back, clutching at himself, blood spraying from where I’d got him. He was a big man and his body blocked the way for the other two men who’d come up with him – not that either who stood back from the twitching, blood-soaked thing I’d thrown at them seemed inclined to try his luck. Keeping my sword ready, I pulled off the cloak the compounder had given me and threw it at the men. I thought longer than I should about my outer tunic. It was of cotton, brought all the way as a made-up garment from India, and dyed a lovely blue. Its price would have paid any rent in this district for a hundred years. But I took it off and threw this down as well. I sheathed my sword and blew a kiss at the two men. Before either could make a dash to stop me, I’d sprung with a force and agility that would have made even Glaucus cheer and was spreadeagled, face down, on the roof.

  Or would Glaucus have cheered? I had intended one roll to the left, followed by an easy jump down to the walkway. When you’re still feeling the rush of a quick kill, everything looks possible. I’d made my calculations and I had no reason to doubt them. But I’ve never been one for heights and, for one sickening instant, I felt myself gather speed as I slid down the roof. With a ripping of silk on wooden holding pegs, I stabilised. But this only gave me the time to go into a full panic. My stomach had turned to ice and my limbs felt as if they’d tur
ned to stone.

  One of the men pushed his bearded face above the doorframe to see where I’d gone. ‘Come back, you fool!’ he shouted. He stretched a hand forward and scrabbled on tiles about nine inches from me. Deep inside the building, someone was shouting for Simon.

  I wanted a triumphant cry of ‘Fuck you!’ All I managed was a faint squawk, followed by another wave of panic as the man pulled his hand back and I saw what seemed to be my one chance of staying alive move out of reach. He stretched forward again, this time only dislodging one of the tiles. I saw it slip out of sight. What seemed an age later, I heard it strike something solid in the yard. I pressed my sweating face closer against the roof and forced myself to think. Now, the tile peg that had got itself tangled in my inner tunic snapped and, if I didn’t move yet, I had the awful feeling that one breath would send me on my way. Willing my wrist not to move, I dug the fingers of my left hand underneath one of the tiles. It snapped halfway up as if it had been made of dried mud and slid down with a clatter, ending in a silence that set off a dull roaring in my head. I controlled myself and got my fingers under what remained. This time, it came fully away, and there was a three inch gap where the tile below didn’t cover. I plunged my whole arm down, dislodging more tiles, until I was clutching at one of the more solid battens. With another ripping of silk, I pulled myself into a sitting position and recovered a semblance of nerve while staring across a sea of other roofs, until the view was blocked by the clouds of steam that rose above the tanneries.

  ‘Fuck you!’ I did now cry. ‘If you want me, you come and get me.’ No answer. In place of another grab at me, there was a splintering of wood in the room directly below me. I looked forward. I was just about level with the walkway. If I dithered here much longer, those big men would grab hold of my legs and pull me back inside. I bit my lip and edged forward to where the tiles were unbroken. My stomach was twisting into funny knots and I wondered if I’d find the nerve to jump straight down. Once I was away from where I’d been able to hold on, though, it was like going down a children’s slide. Gathering speed, and attended by a clatter of more dislodged tiles, I was over the edge before I could realise the full madness of what I was doing. After a moment of nothingness, I hit the walkway chest first and with a loud smack that trailed off into an echo that reminded me of a plucked harp string.