‘I assure you that no traitor is harboured within this house,’ Jacob said quietly. He leaned over me to adjust the blanket. Not realising that the boy had sat every day at the front of Joseph’s class – and in every lesson had earned his grudging praise – Jacob pulled the blanket down, exposing more of the ravaged body to view.
‘Dead?’ Joseph asked. ‘He’ll soon be dead?’
Jacob pointed at the mottling that had now come out all over the boy’s chest like barbarian tattoos.
‘Well, death in one so young is always to be regretted. The Empire makes no war on children.’ It was hard to judge the tone of his voice. But he took a step backwards.
‘Your father tells me that he has an immunity from the Prefect against entry and search,’ he said in a less ambiguous tone. ‘As you know, this means nothing where reason of state is concerned. However, I am satisfied that there is nothing in this house to take up more of my attention. I will only repeat that there is no safety within the Empire for the traitor we seek. Wherever he may fly, we will follow. Wherever he may hide, we will find him. For him, there will be no second trial – no appeal to the uncertain mercy of Caesar. His friends in the Capital are dead or scattered. His technical skills are no longer required. His sentence was pronounced on the first discovery of his treason. All that remains is for sentence to be executed.’ He turned and walked from the room. With a renewed clatter of boots on wood, the soldiers followed.
I continued in my place, hands upstretched to Heaven, listening to the increasingly faint tramp of boots and the shouting of orders. Only when the outer gate slammed shut, and the house fell into a deep silence, did I let myself drop forward to rest on the little cot. I felt Jacob’s hands close around my chest. He pulled me to my feet and guided me back to the chair. He refilled the cup and held it to my lips. Nothing in it now but wine, I drained the contents with a single, chattering gulp.
‘That was a close one,’ Jacob said with a ghastly smile. ‘Still, I think we managed to deceive a pretty senior Greek.’ He relaxed and sat heavily in his own chair.
I didn’t feel up to explaining what had happened. I didn’t know what had happened. My hands and wrists on full view – Wilfred stretched out before him – and Joseph had contented himself with an oddly helpful warning before going off again into the night. I’d need to think a good deal harder than I’d yet managed before I could tell even myself what was happening. If only I’d been able to tell myself this was another product of the opium. But it wasn’t. Joseph really had stood behind me.
‘Tell me, Jacob,’ I asked once my voice was reliably in order. ‘Tell me what was that Greek official wearing?’
Black with a hat that may have had a purple trimming, came the answer – the light made colours hard to tell. I nodded. I knew it was purple. I’d helped choose the design when, after the death of the tyrant Phocas, Heraclius had put me in charge of reordering the Intelligence Bureau. Over the three generations that followed, abuses had crept into my original scheme. One of the most annoying of these had been the custom for everyone to put on the uniform of the grade immediately above. But, even assuming he’d been dressed two or three grades above his own position, there was no doubting that Joseph was at least – to use the Latin title – a Magister Scholarum. He was, that is, one of the departmental heads of the External Ministry. No wonder he’d been close enough to see my every move on the walls of Constantinople as I’d unleashed that irresistible tide of destruction on the Saracen fleets. Not for him to risk it in the killing zones I’d created.
And he’d been sent all the way to Jarrow to watch me. Every day for months, he’d been my chosen companion. And I’d never once suspected he could be other than just another refugee from the world of civilisation. Perhaps age had caught up with me. Alaric in his prime would never have been taken in as old Brother Aelric had been.
‘Moses and all the prophets!’ Ezra cried as he bustled into the room. He looked at Wilfred and dropped his voice. ‘We certainly deceived the Empire then. The tax collectors were nothing compared with this!’ Beneath his tone of relieved cheerfulness, there was something more complex. I looked closely at him. He turned away.
‘Where is Edward?’ I asked to change the subject. If Joseph had, for his own reasons, overlooked me and Wilfred, his men would have spotted those northern looks in less than a single heartbeat. Even if, after a few centuries, the remaining Vandal blood in Africa hadn’t been darkened by local mixture, there would still have been the obvious question of what he was doing in a company of Jews. But he’d been spirited straight off, Ezra assured me, into the women’s quarters. He’d be safe enough there. I nodded, trying to ignore the obvious further question about his safety there. It was enough for the moment that the Empire, in a majesty that no one else had been able to notice, had come into the house, and had gone out again.
‘It would be for the best if we left this house as soon as possible,’ I said. As one, all three of us turned and looked at Wilfred. His lips had now drawn back in a snarl that it required no doctor to interpret. Sooner than I’d expected, the shock of the search was wearing away the delicious yet conscious oblivion of the opium, and I could feel the return of guilt. The more I speculated on the meaning of this approaching death, the more crushing the burden of guilt became.
‘We’re safe enough for the moment,’ Jacob assured me.
And, if what judgement I’d so far been able to make was correct, he was right to a degree he’d never understand. Yes, we were safe for the moment.
Jacob took up his half-empty measure. ‘No one will disturb us more this evening. And I do assure you, the boy will continue at least till morning. If there is any change, I will wake you. For now, I will, as your physician for the day, prescribe for a peaceful night.’
Chapter 25
Waking was like the beginning of consciousness in the very young. It was gradual, and was unmarked by any sense of its own arrival. Tucked in bed, I lay for an indefinite time without moving or opening my eyes. Two men beside me had been talking forever in Aramaic. I knew, in some instinctive way, that they were servants. I knew they were there to watch over me. What they were saying had, until just moments before, been unintelligible and without importance. Those five additional drops from Jacob into my wine cup had struck me like the blow to a slaughtered animal. Almost before I’d noticed how soft the pillows were, I was swallowed into a serene and infinite blackness. There had been no visits that night from the many dead I’d known, nor from the yet unborn; no visions of my own grave; no severed hands feeling their way over my face – the opium had brought me sleep and nothing more.
But now I was awake. And, if not willing to show that I was awake, I was fully aware of my surroundings.
‘I told you, Reuben – I told you many times – the Master’s going soft in the head,’ one of the servants was saying. The words aside, I had the impression this was more than his first repetition. ‘He turns up yesterday with three goys, all of them wanted by the Empire. He’s now got another one hidden away in his counting house, and we’re under orders to say bugger all about them. This here old bag of bones is the guest of honour. One of the boys is dying. The other one – well, you’ve heard it for yourself from Miriam. We’re two inches from all being dragged off to Carthage and pulled apart with hot pincers. If you ask me, the Master’s gone fucking mad.’
‘He was up till dawn with Doctor Jacob,’ I heard Reuben say defensively. ‘They was talking and talking. I didn’t hear much of what was said. But trust me – the Master ain’t no fool. He’s done right by the whole house. Just you keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. You’ll see a Passover yet without no bastard Greeks to tell us our ways.’
‘Another one hidden away in his counting house,’ I’d heard. It would have been worth hearing more on that. To hear more, I’d gladly have lain there, my face conveniently half buried under the coverings, till evening. But I heard the door open and a heavy tread on the boards. Both servants were on their fe
et.
‘Isn’t he awake yet?’ Jacob asked. There was a silence that I guessed was a reply of shaking heads. He clicked his tongue impatiently, then went into Greek. ‘Not another overdose!’ he said in the quiet tone of a man who knows he is speaking only to himself. ‘I really must cut down on things.’ I heard him approach the bed. I felt his hand brush lightly on the unshaven stubble above my ears. In a moment, he’d probably have one of my wrists out to see how close to death he’d really dosed me. Nothing else for it. I groaned and moved slightly. I felt him draw back and I went through the motions of opening my eyes and looking confused.
‘You’re among friends,’ Jacob said.
A priest – no, make that a toadying courtier, or, better still, some diplomat sent out to make trouble among the barbarians – would have had trouble matching the absolute conviction in his voice. Then again, he was a doctor and a Jew. One of the servants helped me as I struggled to sit up. I looked about the room. The bed set up for Edward was as neatly made as it had been the night before. I could tell nothing from that, mind you. Everyone else had been up and about for ages. There was no direct sunlight in this room. But the light that came in from the garden had an afternoon quality. I drank from a cup of honeyed wine diluted with fruit juice and asked about Wilfred. Jacob pulled a long face and took on a more openly professional appearance. He didn’t need to say much. It hadn’t been to get my lunch orders that he’d come to see if I was awake. On a chair by the window, there was a newish robe set out for me. Unlike the one I’d been given in Cartenna, it was neither faded tat nor too big. The colour was too light for what I had in mind. But it would do.
‘I think we’ll have to skip the confession,’ I said in Aramaic. Jacob nodded. I wondered if he hadn’t been a little enthusiastic with the belladonna. But Wilfred, I’d been told, had woken in considerable pain while I slept, and a doctor’s recognised duty is to his patient’s body. Now, he lay before me, semi-conscious but rigid from the administration of this and the other drugs.
‘Confirm to me, if you can,’ I said loudly, now in Latin, ‘that you have received all other rites of the Faith. These include baptism and communion.’ Just in case, I repeated myself in English. It was a redundant question, but had to be asked if the last rite was to be correctly administered. The pale eyes blinked slightly. ‘You know, then,’ I continued, ‘that I am qualified by virtue of my priestly office to administer these rites.’ No doubt, my qualifications were decidedly iffy. But, since no one in England had seen fit to question them on my arrival there, now wasn’t the time to disabuse poor Wilfred of their validity. All told, I’d sooner have had a real priest brought in. I hadn’t bothered raising this with Jacob. He could certainly have got me one – just as he’d managed to gather the necessary props. But now wasn’t the time for introducing more Christians into the house. And all that really mattered was that Wilfred believed me. If death really was other than an infinite sleep still deeper than the one from which I was lately recovered, it would be a most perverse God who took against him on my account.
With dramatic emphases and pauses that any real priest would have envied rotten, I went through the prayers as I’d heard them said by others any number of times. The gaunt fingers fluttered ever so little on the wooden crucifix, and a thin trickle of the olive oil I’d just blessed ran down from his forehead on to the bed clothes. At last, I produced a fragment of the Host. I broke it in two and placed the smaller part between the dry lips. As I did so, they trembled and a faint effort was made to move them.
And it was now done. All that remained was the final prayer. I opened my mouth again and, Edward joining in, launched into the ancient words:
‘O Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons: We humbly commend the soul of this thy servant, our dear brother, into thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Saviour; most humbly beseeching thee, that it may be precious in thy sight. Wash it, we pray thee, in the blood of that immaculate Lamb, that was slain to take away the sins of the world . . .’
The lips moved again. This time, Wilfred was able to speak.
‘Brother Aelric,’ he whispered. ‘Brother Aelric.’
I moved closer to the dying boy’s mouth. ‘Be at peace, my child,’ I said in my reassuring voice. ‘There is nothing now to fear, in this world or the next. Of all you might have confessed I have now absolved you.’ That should have sorted things. But, no – the lips moved again.
‘I have sinned, Brother Aelric,’ he gasped with urgent though failing energy. ‘Such sins have I committed and never confessed to you. It was my plan – but God has called me so soon . . .’
He trailed off, and I thought this would be it. Jacob moved forward with a beaker of something aromatic to put under his nose. But the boy struggled with the feeble ghost of one of his coughing fits. I waved Jacob back.
Then, with an immense effort, Wilfred continued in a desperate croak: ‘You must know that Brother Cuthbert – yes, Brother Cuthbert . . . He commanded, and I obeyed. He told me – he said . . . I discovered . . .’
He trailed off once more, and now closed his eyes. Jacob moved forward again, beaker still in hand. There was no point letting him try anything more. I’ve seen the shadow of death pass over any number of faces. It’s not so much a darkening of colour as a loss of something. I’ve also held the hands of the dying so often. With its usual rapidity, I could now feel the mysterious transformation of living flesh and bone into the sort of meat you buy in a butcher’s market. I didn’t need to see the eyes turn up, or the mouth open wide for that last, rattling sigh, to know it was all up with the boy. He was as near gone as mattered. Even if some spark of life continued deep within, there was no point in supposing he was aware of anything outside himself. Still, I continued with the prayer to the end. Deathbeds are as much for the living as the dead. Besides, if what Edward believed was his own affair, there was a Jew present, and a certain appearance had to be kept up. I finished the prayer, then waited. As the lips sagged fully, and all tension went out of the body, I stood back and allowed Jacob to press his mirror to the boy’s face. He drew it back and held it up for me, still unmisted. It really was over.
I sat down and took the full cup in both hands. I looked at Edward, who was still staring, still impassive – except, I was pleased to notice, for the single tear he’d managed to squeeze out – at the lifeless, shrivelled body. If you hadn’t known that his fourteenth birthday would have been a full month later, you’d have thought this the body of an old man, broken down by years of sickness. On his arrival in the monastery, Wilfred had told me of his ambition to train for the priesthood, and join the mission the English Church was fitting out for the conversion of the Germans. Except for the collapse of his health – only slightly arrested by our passage through the Narrow Straits – I rather thought he’d enjoyed the adventure forced on him by Edward. In place of all his hopes, though, here he lay dead. And I, more than seven times his age, had prayed him over the threshold of death. How many more of those round me would I outlive before I finally turned to rancid butcher’s meat?
But it was a pointless question. I drained the cup and held it out for a refill. Jacob pulled the sheet up over the face and muttered something about arranging a funeral. For a Jew, he had surprising contacts in the Church. Then again, he was a doctor, and few who need the healing art bother with which God – if any – its practitioners may care to worship.
‘This has been a sad event,’ I said lamely – and what point was there in making a fuss? What point in saying what might be really in my heart? ‘But let us be inspired as Christians by the calm resolution with which Wilfred was taken unto God.’
No – that wouldn’t do! It was a worthless pretence. Including the two old women who’d step forward in a moment to lay out the body, there were five of us in the room. Three of us weren’t even supposed to be Christians. The other two believed bugger all. My words did
n’t touch one of us. When something as empty of meaning as death happens, silence may be the best response. I wanted to get out into the garden, and walk round and round in the sun, looking at the flowers and the fountain, and thinking about what to do next.
‘Edward, I will speak with you later this afternoon,’ I said. ‘What has just happened – together with other matters – alters all our plans. I need to discuss these with you. There are some decisions that only you can make. Until then, I suggest you go to our room and lie down.’ He had the dark circles under his eyes of one who hasn’t slept. If I cared to notice this at all, I might prefer to think that grief had kept him awake.
Chapter 26
‘His illness was, I am assured, one of excessive internal heat,’ Jacob said firmly. ‘It was brought on by a reaction to the excessive cold and wetness of his native land. That would explain why its like has never been known here in Africa. It also confirms that the illness had its roots in his native land.’
I nodded and gave a non-committal grunt. Jacob sighed and continued walking beside me in silence. I had completed five circuits of the garden, and, now rested from a long pause beside the fountain, had begun a sixth. The sun and the return of everyday normality had failed to lift my spirits. I might as well still have been sitting beside the deathbed.
‘It was the opinion of Aristotle himself, that dry heat—’ Jacob tried again.
I stopped at the mention of the hated name and scowled at him. ‘If he’d confined himself to literary criticism and pure logic chopping,’ I said coldly, ‘Aristotle might be more deserving of our respect. As it is, the man corrupted every natural science he touched. All knowledge of things, as opposed to the manipulation of ideas, begins with a rejection of Aristotle. I don’t believe that story about how the Saracens burned the library in Alexandria. But if they really did heat their baths with the collected works of that man, they surely made the world a more enlightened place.’ I looked at Jacob’s shocked face. For the first time that afternoon, I smiled. I untensed my shoulders and put a hand on his arm. He was trying to help. He was the son of a host who’d saved my life. I stepped forward again on our sixth circuit.
The Sword of Damascus Page 16