by Donald Tyson
The passage of hours ceased to hold any meaning. All my awareness contracted to the blackened tip of my pen. Once I heard a cock crow, and dimly in the back part of my mind I realized it must be morning. Every so often, the watchers rose to stretch their legs and make use of the chamber pot, or went through the locked rear door to the mysterious room that lay on the other side. I could only guess what might be done there. No sound emanated from the closed portal. On one such occasion, when the shorter man was absent and the taller momentarily turned his back, I seized the opportunity to renew the glamour of my features.
When I had labored without rest for some eight or nine hours, I asked for food and drink. The silent scribe arose at once, as though he had expected this request, and left by the rear door. In a few minutes he returned with a large silver tray that brimmed over with all manner of delicacies beside a glass pitcher of strong red wine. He began to fill a silver goblet with wine, but I perceived the hidden purpose of this extravagant abundance and laid my hand upon his wrist to stop him.
“No wine,” I said with a tight smile. “Water. And bring brown bread. These foods are too rich for my stomach.”
If he felt disappointment, he took care not to show it. Without a word he removed the platter, and returned with a smaller plate of wood that held only a single bun of bread and a leather bottle of clear water beside a plain tin cup. So keen was my hunger, I enjoyed the bread more than I would have savored the delicacies, and the water tasted as sweet as any wine on my parched tongue. I wasted no time eating, but finished as quickly as I could chew and returned to my work before the plate was removed from beside my elbow.
It was in the interests of the Jew who owned the scroll to limit the number of accurate and complete reproductions, I reflected as I continued to labor. The fewer perfect copies of the book that existed in the world, the more value possessed by the original. If his clients could be induced to waste their precious time sampling his delicacies or addling their brains on his fortified wine, so much the better. Their copies would be unfinished, or would contain errors. Idly, I wondered what agents enforced the terms of the contract that carried the imprint of my blood. I could not drive the movement of the wax seal from my memory, and when I thought of it my pen was apt to pause. There was something more than natural in the lines of the symbol impressed on the red wax. I judged that it would be imprudent in the highest degree to make a copy of a copy of this text.
Some inner sense warned me that my time grew short. Several cubits remained at the base of the scroll to be transcribed. I increased my pace, so that my pen flew across the papyrus sheets. Those I had completed formed a substantial pile and numbered over a hundred. They were penned only on one side. It seemed foolish to be economical with my materials, when I was given an endless supply with which to work. I developed a watery blister on the inside of my middle finger, where the pen rested, but took no notice of its sharp twinges. Of more concern was the cramping of my right hand. Every few minutes it became necessary to release the pen and flex my fingers, so that I could go on with the copying. My eyes were hot in their sockets and itched, but I knew they would not fail me. I have always had good eyes for reading and writing.
At last I saw the tip of the dragon’s tail, and set the final line upon the middle of the last numbered papyrus sheet. With a sigh of relief, I set down my pen and straightened my back. My spine emitted a series of cracks, and sharp needles of fire pricked at the muscles below my shoulder blades. After a few moments, the pain subsided. I had been sitting in the same position for hours without moving. My heart leapt like a bird from a cage when I laid the last sheet upon the pile.
“Have you finished?” the tall scribe inquired in a tone of surprise from his chair at my left side.
I reached into my coat and drew forth the tiny vial of green liquid that Martala had given me in the common room at the inn. Pretending to cough, I plucked out its stopper with my teeth and drank its contents, then slid the empty vial and stopper back into my pocket. The potion felt like peppermint on my tongue, both hot and cold. I was aware of it spreading down my gullet and expanding in my stomach.
As the scribe rose from his seat and approached behind me to examine my work, I stood and turned in one movement to confront him. Parting my lips, I exhaled so that my breath touched his face. It issued from my lips like green smoke, but melted to nothingness an instant after it touched his cheeks. He stopped, his eyes vacant, and stood expressionless. I stepped back from him as though puzzled and turned to the other attendant, who stood slowly from his chair with his hand on his sword hilt. I shrugged and spread my hands in a gesture of bemusement.
With slow steps, he approached, eyes narrowed to slits. I saw him glance at the scroll on the table. Deliberately, I stepped away from it, and held my empty hands from my body in a posture that I hoped would look harmless and docile. His attention turned to his companion. He reached out and touched the taller man on the shoulder. The entranced scribe swayed slightly but made no response. While he puzzled over this, I moved closer with an expression of concern, and exhaled upon his face. The thin green smoke writhed around his cheeks and nose for a few seconds before dissipating. All awareness left his eyes. He stood with arms slack at his sides, unblinking.
Speaking quickly but clearly, I uttered the words of the charm conveyed to me by Martala at the inn. Animation returned to the features of the two men. They looked at me with interest, but no trace of hostility.
For the space of a dozen heartbeats I considered my circumstances. Martala had known nothing about the contract of the blood oath, or she would have mentioned it at the inn. That was the first matter to be corrected. The tall scribe made no protest when I drew the key chain off his neck and carried it to the rear door. Taking care to make no sound, I unlocked and opened it. I half expected to see a bearded Jew sitting behind a desk on the other side of the portal, and almost felt disappointment when the light of a single lamp hanging on chains from the ceiling revealed only a windowless storeroom. There was a door on the far end of the room, but when I tried it I found it locked. Neither of the keys on the chain fitted it. The shelves that lined the walls were empty save one, which held various foods on plates and several flasks and pitchers, along with an assortment of cups. The silver tray laden with delicacies rested beside them. Next to my sword and dagger lay a large leather wallet.
Sliding the wallet toward me, I undid the red ribbon that bound its flap and flipped it open. It held a single sheet, my contract. I drew it out and regarded it. The urge was strong to break into pieces the wax seal, but some instinct warned me against this action. Instead, I carefully tore away the corner of the papyrus sheet that bore my thumb print, then returned the contract to the wallet and sealed it before sliding it back to its original position on the shelf. I left the room, locked its door behind me, and returned the keys to the neck of the tall scribe. Holding the scrap of papyrus over the flame of one of the table lamps, I let it burn until the fire had completely consumed my blood mark, then carried the still-flaming remnant across to the chamber pot in the corner and dropped it in. It hissed when it struck the piss in the bottom of the pot and sent up a final wisp of smoke.
The two entranced scribes watched all this with placid expressions on their faces. Rounding the table, I stood before them and waited until I was sure their attention focused upon my eyes.
“All is as it should be. You remember nothing from the moment I completed the copy until now. You will watch me pick up my copy of the scroll from the table. Do you both understand?”
Both men nodded.
They turned to watch me as I rolled shut the dragon scroll on its bone roller and placed it into an inner pocket of my coat.
“Return the original scroll that rests upon the table to its box, then forget that I have spoken these instructions to you.”
When I stepped back from the table, they reverently rolled up my copied sheets an
d placed them into the carved box, closed its three silver clasps and returned it to the chest of oak, then locked its brass lock. In a quiet voice I spoke the single word of release the girl had taught me. A slight shudder passed through the bodies of the two men. They blinked and gazed around as though waking from a dream.
I had finished my work with some little time to spare. I asked if the platter of delicacies that had been offered previously could be brought out once again. The silent scribe cast a glance of inquiry at his companion, who shrugged his shoulders. With a scowl, the first man went into the rear room and returned with the savors and wine. I began to sample each type. Some were strange to me, but others I recognized. Lark’s tongues. Goat’s eyes. Sugared orange slices. The wine was as good as any I have ever tasted. I offered the pitcher to the scribes, but they frowned with ascetic distaste and left me to my enjoyment. I was still eating when the measured knock came on the front door.
Chapter 33
No time was wasted on formalities. As soon as I reclaimed my weapons and donned the hood, I was pulled into the street and heard the door of the copy room bang shut behind me. Someone put my left hand on the familiar lean shoulder of Altrus. Through his cloak and tunic I felt the steel rings of his chain mail vest. I allowed myself to be guided along a maze of empty streets, the only sound apart from our footfalls the infrequent bark of a dog, or cough of a late reveler staggering back to his bed.
When we had walked a quarter hour or more, boots scuffed the cobbles with quickened pace. Altrus cursed and stepped out from under my hand. Someone stumbled against me, and I would have fallen had my shoulder not struck a brick wall. I stood blinded by the hood, wondering what to do. The clash of steel against stone decided my action. Tearing the hood from my head, I drew my sword.
Four shadowy figures confronted my masked companions, who stood on either side of me with swords extended. Our accosters wasted no time in talk, but attacked in unison before I could view their dim faces under the weak glow of the moon. I found myself fighting the smallest of the four, who pressed his sword strokes like a demon from hell. It took all my skill merely to ward them off. They descended on my good Damascus blade like a flock of hungry sparrows on a piece of bread.
From the corner of my sight, I perceived that Altrus at my left was as able a fighter as I had presumed him to be. Already he had wounded on the arm one of the two foes who pressed him, and I saw the tip of his sword cut the other man on the thigh. The protector on my right side handled his blade less artfully. He cried out in pain and staggered to one knee. I did my best to shield him with my sword parries, but he took a second slash somewhere on his body that drew a howl from his lips.
My sword met the sword of the slightly built shadow who attacked me with such passion that sparks were struck. By their momentary light I recognized the square-jaw and thin lips of Farri’s daughter, Zayna, who had tried to kill me with her bow at Memphis. At the flash of the next spark she met my gaze with mocking dark eyes, widened in battle passion, then her face was lost in the night.
No more than a minute passed between the first and final blow, but to my aroused perceptions, it seemed the battle endured an hour. Altrus thrust his sword through the chest of one of the four with a bellow of triumph. They drew away from us like savage wolves that snap their jaws in frustration when driven from their prey. I had my first chance to take a complete breath. With surprise, I realized that I had not been cut. The masked hireling at my right still crouched on one knee, clutching his ribs with his free hand while extending his sword in defense. Altrus did not look injured, but in the dim moonlight it was impossible to be sure.
While the woman stood on guard, two of our foes lifted by the arms the limp body of the one struck through the chest. He was either unconscious or dead. His head lolled on his neck. They stepped backward and melted into the darkness. We listened to the stealthy brush of their boot soles until they passed out of hearing. Only then did Altrus help his companion to his feet. The injured man trembled with weakness, one bloody hand against the wall at our backs.
“I thought your master Farri protected you,” Altrus said.
There was cynical amusement in his voice, and something more, a deep joy. I realized that what had just passed was what he lived for.
“Someone must have overheard Farri speak about the book he intends to buy from me.”
“Either that, or he decided to save himself the price of purchase and steal it from your corpse.”
I shook my head.
“I can’t believe that of my master. He is an honorable man.”
He pulled the leather mask from his sweating face and grinned at me as though I were a fool, his teeth white against the darkness of his beard, the burn on his cheek black in the moonlight.
“You know that if you reveal the contents of your copy of the scroll to any other, your life is forfeit?”
“I know it now,” I said, putting bitterness into my tone. “I did not know it when I agreed to acquire the book.”
He laughed at my predicament and clapped me on the shoulder in a companionable way.
“It’s my job to get you safely back to the inn. After that, you’re on your own.”
“I can’t go back to the inn. They’ll be waiting.”
“That may be so, but I’m not paid to take you anywhere else.”
“Leave me, then. You have discharged your duty, and more, by defending me.”
He paused to consider. A moan of pain from the clenched teeth of his companion decided him. With a grunt of disgust, he wrapped the right arm of the ailing man over his shoulders, so that his own right hand would remain free to reach his sword.
“Go, then. Watch your back.”
Leaving the two agents of the Jew to make their slow way together where they would, I hurried in the opposite direction, my ears alert for footfalls. All the streets looked strange to me. I knew only the way Martala and I had walked from my house to the inn, and even that must appear completely changed under the weak light of the quarter moon. Before long I regretted not allowing the mercenary to complete his assigned task. Even were Farri’s agents lurking in the street of the Green Peacock, at least I would have been able to find my way from there back to my house. Now that Farri had revealed his presence in Alexandria, it seemed certain he would attack the house, if he had not already done so.
For more than an hour I ranged back and forth across the great city of Alexandria, searching for some landmark that was familiar and cursing beneath my breath at my stupidity. Eventually, I found myself on the waterfront, and made my way with care along its length. Each time I came to a street, I followed it into the city, and when I saw nothing I recognized, retraced my steps back to the docks to try the next street. The Green Peacock was near the ocean, that much I knew. The vastness of the place amazed me. It was many times the size of Sana’a, and greater in size than any other city I had seen in Egypt. I began to despair of finding the accursed inn before daylight. Sashi sympathized with my distress, but admitted sorrowfully that she did not know the way.
I stood near a large dock, uncertain which street to search next, when retching broke the stillness of the night. It came from an alley behind a storage building. The alley ended on a blank brick wall with no other exit. It was very dark. For a moment I thought I had been mistaken, until my nose caught the scent of vomit. A shadow moved near the ground. My boot slipped in something wet, so that I had to catch the wall to keep my balance. A drunken mumble was cut off by another paroxysm of violent vomiting. Nothing splashed forth onto the cobbles. The stomach of the wine-sotted fool was already empty, but the heaving would not subside. At last I heard the sound of several spits, and the shadow pushed itself to its feet, holding onto the wall with both arms.
“Can you help me find my way? I’m looking for the Green Peacock.”
“Peacocks? I don’t have any peacocks.”
“Which way is the street of the Green Peacock?” I asked, speaking slowly and clearly in Coptic, which appeared to be her tongue.
She shook her head.
“The inn of the Green Peacock. An inn across from the temple of Hermes.”
At this she nodded. Some glimmer of sense came into her eyes.
“I know the old temple of Hermes.”
“Where is it?”
She looked from side to side, then raised her hand and pointed across the open square at the mouth of a street.
I released her. She swayed, but continued to stand. Putting her hand on her hip, she attempted to strike a pose of allurement.
“You’re a fine-looking young man. Want a little fun?”
She reached out and held the wall with her left hand, then bent and drew up the hem of her skirts with her right. She wore no surwal. I saw the black triangle of her pubic mound against the pallor of her thighs. Not bothering to reply, I took my purse and felt for the solitary coin within, then cast it onto the cobbles without looking at it. It rang as it struck. With an inarticulate cry in her throat, she fell to her knees and crawled after the sound, fumbling the shadows with her fingers.