At any rate, once Philokalas vanished, Arabia began looking for the useful icon-painter herself. And now she’d double-crossed me. Not only was she running off with my share of Florentius’s payment, she also had whatever the rival collector had paid her.
How could she? It didn’t seem fair. I would never have killed her. Even if I’d had the chance. I swear I wouldn’t have killed her.
There had to be a rival collector, the way I saw it. Despite what they said, the guards and the man who had killed Florentius weren’t sent by the Patriarch – who was well known to be violently opposed to icons. That was why Leo made him Patriarch. He wouldn’t be concerned if the image were damaged when transported, as his supposed men had carelessly indicated he would.
Not everyone would have noticed that little slip, but I did.
It could only mean those men were sent by someone else who had heard about the icon’s survival or been informed about it by Arabia. Doubtless she’d managed to get the collector’s name from Florentius, who’d evidently been taking advantage of her by his own admission.
I was exhausted, but there wasn’t enough room on the pillar’s platform to lie down, so I leaned against its railing and looked out over the city. The glowing dome of the Great Church seemed to throw orange sparks along the streets and into windows and on ships in the harbour. I could almost feel the gaze of monstrous eyes staring down out of the black vault of the heavens, but there was nothing to see up there except the glittering cold points of stars, and ragged wraiths of cloud fleeing before a rising wind.
People say Hades is underground, but I found it up there in cold loneliness.
And it was the iron hound who guarded the entrance to the path I took that led me there.
I wouldn’t have killed Arabia. When I wasn’t looking up I looked down at the piece of brick beside my feet, the unused symbol of my mercy.
15
At dawn I began to cry out for Patriarch Anastasius.
People pay no attention to stylites, but then most stylites don’t demand to see the Patriarch and shout about stolen icons.
I’m not certain what I expected. After days down there in the dark with a gigantic demon staring at me, and then a frigid night atop a pillar too close to that big being in the sky, I was probably not in my right mind. But I could not be certain I was not still being sought in order to silence me forever.
The one result of my plea I didn’t expect was for Patriarch Anastasius himself to appear.
Yes, possibly it was a vision. The other day I saw Satan perched like a huge bat on Justinian’s statue atop the column in the Augustaion. I’m fairly certain that was a vision. And I’ve seen other things as well. You get a new perspective from one of these stylite’s columns.
But whether the visitation was real or not – and what difference does it make to someone in my position? – a regal-looking man, swathed in layers of heavily embroidered robes, entered the square accompanied by a company of retainers, most carrying lances.
The Patriarch climbed up stairs concealed inside my pillar – a feature I wished I had known about when fleeing – and emerged on the narrow, windswept platform.
He was not an old man. He wore a beard, cut in the manner of the icon with whom I had recently grown acquainted. His eyes were not as large as the image’s, but they were almost as deep and his mouth was as cruel.
“Excellency,” I began, having no idea how you addressed a Patriarch. “A traitor rescued the Chalke Christ you wished destroyed, another found it, and yet another traitor—”
He put up a hand. “We can speak freely here since nobody will hear us except, perhaps, heaven. I was informed that the watchman I ordered stationed on this pillar was behaving oddly. Since he had already been relieved of his duty once my icon was retrieved, I was curious.”
“Watchman? Your icon? What happened to the stylite?”
He smiled but did not answer all my questions. “Have you noticed there’s a good view of that scabby dog from up here? And there’s no other way into that part of the labyrinth apart from through a door in a certain courtyard.”
“But you ordered the icon burned!”
“What choice did I have? The holy image had been taken down and brought to stay overnight in my residence. Then when the splintered remains were brought out to be set on fire, the pile of bits of painted boards was so large that nobody realized part of it was missing.”
“And you concealed the upper portion? But why?”
“We must always think of the future, in this world as in the one to which we will go in due course. The next emperor may have different notions and wish icons to be restored. You see I speak frankly. If I realized the earthquake had fractured the wall of the vault in which that upper panel was hidden, I wouldn’t have allowed the workman down there. He stole it. Carted it off and hid it.”
“Those were your men who came for the icon? It was you who paid Arabia?”
“My former servant, you mean? The girl who went to work for Florentius? A lovely girl. I’ve come to know her quite well. A pity about Florentius. He was found murdered in an alley not far from here. Such is the state of the city, no doubt the villains responsible will never be apprehended.”
The Patriarch looked away and scanned the panorama around us. “I’ve often wondered what you holy men could see from here. It’s magnificent.”
“But I’m not a holy man!”
“I disagree. I believe you are. Look, your hands are blue with cold. Suffering sharpens faith. The more tenuous our connection to our pitiful fleshly husks, the closer we are to heaven. You are blessed, my friend. It is difficult to feel the holy presence while wrapped in fine robes and surrounded by luxury.” He gave a sorrowful shake of his head and smiled faintly. “Yet can those of us who choose to serve him refuse the harsh sacrifices as we are asked to make?”
He fixed me in his demon’s gaze. “You know too much to ever descend from this pillar. I shall allow you to stay here and glory in the presence of the Lord. I will arrange to have acolytes, armed for your protection, stationed below day and night.”
It took an instant for me to understand the horror of my situation. “No, excellency,” I cried. “Why not kill me? Why leave me here?”
“Because,” the patriarch said as he turned to go down the stairs, “it pleases me.”
16
“Did you truly believe you would never see me again?”
Arabia smiled sweetly up at me. As usual, my armed guards retired out of earshot when she waved them away.
A warm dawn breeze ruffled her brightly coloured silks. All around, the ruins and vacant spaces of Constantinople were coming alive with the myriad greens of spring. I could almost smell her perfume.
“After the Patriarch left, I wondered,” I said. “I considered throwing myself to the ground, but a colleague of mine died in a fall, and, well …”
“A nasty death,” she agreed.
“Yes. I could never bring myself to do it though I would at least be lying down. Sometimes I long for a doorway to lie in and be out of the rain.”
Her lips formed a red pout. “Then you did doubt me.”
“Oh, yes, I did at times. The morning I woke up with ice in my hair, and the night the angels descended from the clouds and set the sea on fire. Those were the worst.”
“It’s a fine house, isn’t it?” she said. “Even if it isn’t a farmhouse.”
“Yes, though I can only see the corner of it, just past the Great Church and the Patriarch’s residence.”
“It’s very convenient to the Patriarch’s house, that’s true.”
I yanked on the rope and hauled the basket up. Arabia waved to me before pulling the curtain of her litter shut. Her attendants picked the chair up and trotted away across the square. But she would be back. She visits often.
She always brings me a big basket full of boiled eggs.
I wished I’d had a boiled egg that long ago morning. Maybe if I hadn’t eaten the eyes of the Lord, thi
ngs would have turned out differently.
Night of the Snow Wolf
Peter Tremayne
We move back a century from the previous story and the Byzantine world, to the Celtic world of seventh century Ireland and the time of Sister Fidelma. She is a dalaigh, or advocate of the law courts of Ireland, and was the daughter of the King of Muman, ancient Munster. As Tremayne reveals at the website of the International Sister Fidelma Society (http://www.sisterfidelma.com/), “Her main role could be compared to a modern Scottish sheriff substitute whose job is to gather and assess the evidence, independent of the police, to see if there is a case to be answered.” Fidelma has been conducting her investigations through nineteen novels, so far, and two collections of stories. The series began with Absolution by Murder (1994) set in the year 664. The nineteenth novel, Chalice of Blood (2010) has reached the year 670, and Fidelma is still only 34 years old, so there’s scope for many more stories. The following, which takes place in the winter of 670, is set in the Silvermines Mountains of north-west Tipperary.
Sister Fidelma realized that she had taken the wrong turning the moment the track began to ascend at an unusually steep angle. By this time she knew that she should be on level ground, as her intended route passed along the valley floor between the mountains instead of ascending towards the higher reaches. But the snow was still falling, cold, thick and blinding, so that she saw only whiteness shrouding everything around her. She realized, too, that nightfall was not far off.
She adjusted her woollen cloak closer around her neck in a vain effort to keep out the cold, before halting her horse for a moment to consider the situation. Night and the snow were falling too fast for her to have any hope in finding the right track, even if she turned back. The route that she was taking seemed to lead in the same general direction, perhaps parallel to the track along the valley floor along which she had intended to follow. There was always the expectation that the path she was on might descend and rejoin her original route; although that was a slim expectation, indeed.
Whichever path she took, she would have to find shelter very soon for there was no chance of her reaching her destination before dark. She wondered if Brother Eadulf was already at the settlement of Béal Átha Gabhann, “the mouth of the ford of the smith”, for it was there that she had arranged to meet him in order that they might travel back to Cashel together. She shivered again. The oncoming night was bringing a cold wind with it. There was no doubt that she could not ride much further without seeking shelter. Even if she could find her way down to lower ground, she had to cross a valley and a broad river before negotiating another pass through Sliabh an Airgid, the Silver Mountains, before arriving at her intended objective.
The mournful cry of a wolf came faintly, muffled by the barrier of falling snow. It was taken up by an answering cry but, in these conditions, it was difficult to judge the direction and distance of the sound.
Fidelma’s horse started nervously, tossing its head with its thick mane.
“Steady, steady there, Aonbharr,” Fidelma called, leaning forward and patting its short neck encouragingly. The horse calmed immediately. Aonbharr was of an ancient breed, a gift from her brother, bought from a Gaulish trader. It was usually of a calm temperament, intelligent and agile. She had named him ‘the supreme one” after the horse of Manannán mac Lir, the god of the oceans, who had been worshipped before the coming of the New Faith. According to legend, the horse could run across land or sea, fly across mountains, and could not be killed by man or god. Fidelma smiled softly. At this moment she wished that Aonbharr had the same abilities as his mythical namesake so that she could reach her destination before nightfall.
There came another plaintive cry, both beautiful and chilling. The mournful wolf-call that, although she had heard it often enough, sent a shiver down her spine. This time it seemed closer and slightly above her, somewhere up on the higher reaches of the mountain.
She urged her horse forward gently along the snowy track, blinking against the icy pellicles that blew against her face in the gusting wind. They hit her face like hurtful darts.
She was conscious now of the darkening sky, even through the falling snow, which made the oncoming night more of a curious twilight.
Then there came a new sound, a new cry, from somewhere above her. It was not the cry of a wolf, but something like a woeful bellow. Frowning, she tugged slightly on the rein and obediently her horse came to a halt. She listened carefully, head to one side, trying to analyse the sounds that mingled with the gusting wind. The bellow came again. She was right. It was the distressed cry of a cow. She glanced up the hill, screwing up her eyes to penetrate the driving snow, trying to locate the beast, and wondering what kind of a farmer would leave his animal outside on such a night as this.
The snow flurries eased for a moment and she saw the dark outline of some buildings just a short way up the hill. She suddenly relaxed and smiled. The cow must be in one of the sheds, and the buildings indicated it was a hill-farm. That meant shelter, warmth and hospitality for the night. All she had to do was find the path that led upwards to the farmstead. It was not far away but the precipitous slopes were dangerous unless one followed a path. But it was a question of finding the path.
She slid from her horse and, leading it by the reins, began to walk slowly along the track, peering carefully at the ground and bordering embankment. It did not take her long to spot a depression through the snowy banks, that indicated where a path left the main track and wound up the hillside towards the buildings. Even then, Fidelma would not endanger her horse by returning to its back. She walked carefully forward, leading the animal upwards along the path. In this manner it was some time before she arrived at the buildings, which, by their outline, appeared to be a bóthan or large cabin, and a barn beyond that – containing a chicken run, by the sound of the angry clucking.
But the buildings were all in darkness and, apart from the sounds of the animals, there seemed an uncanny silence.
Fidelma paused and shouted: “Hóigh!”
The only answer was the cries of the animals. There was neither sound nor movement from the bóthan.
Fidelma took a step forward towards the door of the bothán and found that Aonbharr was tugging on the reins, pulling backwards. The sudden tug hurt her arm and she turned round in surprise. The horse’s eyes were wide, eyeballs rolling and nostrils flaring.
“Steady, boy, steady,” she coaxed, reaching out a hand to rub his muzzle. He calmed down a little, standing still but trembling. She peered round, trying to find what had upset the horse. She noticed a mound of snow before the door. Whatever lay beneath, she realized there was a dark red stain there. Blood! The mound was too small to be that of a human. She turned and led Aonbharr towards the barn, where she noticed there was a stretch of fencing and a rail. She secured the reins to the fence and turned back to the mound.
Bending down, she scraped some of the snow away. It soon became clear that it was the short, leggy body of a dog. It had a dense, wiry coat and wore a collar with a leash attached. When she tugged at it, Fidelma found the leash was also attached to a metal ring by the door. The dog was a terrier. Such a breed was commonly used to hunt small game in this area but they were also alert and courageous guard dogs. What was immediately obvious were the facts that someone had smashed the skull of the animal with a blunt instrument and that it had happened not very long ago, as the blood was not yet congealing.
Fidelma’s mouth compressed in a grim line and she rose to her feet, glancing around with eyes narrowed. There was no movement anywhere. Aonbharr stood patiently tethered. The cow was still plaintively lowing, the chickens clucking. As she turned towards the dark door of the bóthan she heard, once more, the nearby cry of a wolf.
Unconsciously, she squared her shoulders ready to face the unexpected, and moved towards the door. She raised her fist and hammered on it twice and paused. As she expected, there was no sound of movement, no answer. She lowered her hand to the door-catch and
raised it. To her surprise – for she fully expected to find it locked or bolted – the door swung inwards into the blackness.
“Is anyone there?” she called, feeling a little foolish at the question.
She hesitated on the threshold a moment or so and took a pace inside. Within the curious twilight from the reflected snow outside, a gloomy half-light that permeated from the door and a single small window, there was little discernible. The chill was almost as bad inside as it was outside. She hesitated a moment before stepping towards the outline of a table where she could just make out an oil lamp.
From her shoulder she removed the strap from which hung her sursaing-bholg, her girdle bag, which she always carried on journeys. In it reposed various items, including her cior-bholg or comb-bag that contained toiletries which all women carried. But, more importantly, it was also where she kept her tenlach-teined, the means of producing “hand-fire”; a flint, steel and a tinder-box. As part of their training, warriors had to practise the art of swiftly lighting fires and Fidelma, growing up among those whose task was to guard her family – for was she not the daughter of Failbe Flann, King of Muman – she would often pass happy days being taught this art by kindly warriors until she was as adept at it as they were. Indeed, it did not take her long to ignite the tinder and light the oil lamp; it was a rough earthenware pot with a snout to support the wick.
Now she had a better light she took it in her hand and peered round the inside of the cabin. Its walls were of dry stone and its roof was of timber. It was poorly furnished. The stout wooden table, on which the oil lamp had sat, also had two earthenware bowls and wooden spoons nearby, as if in preparation for a meal. Two chairs were at the table. A cot stood with blankets near the far corner of the fireplace, which contained grey ash, but there was faint warmth coming from it. There was plenty of kindling and logs piled near the fireplace. A large lantern hung unlit over the fireplace, a sturdy type of lamp, whose wick was protected so that it could be used outside, even in a high wind. Also by the fire, to one side of the pile of logs, stood a hunter’s bow and a sheaf of arrows. Even as quickly as she made the examination, Fidelma knew that they were not of good quality workmanship, but of the sort a hill-farmer might make himself and use for hunting. Apart from an old wooden chest and some cupboards, there was nothing else in the cabin. Nor was there any indication of why or when the occupants had left, except that it was less than a day or so ago because the fire, with its smouldering ashes, could not have lasted much longer before dying entirely.
The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction Page 12