The Sword of Damascus

by Richard Blake

  ‘You can let me sleep until I wake by myself,’ I said as the sandals came closer still and stopped just behind me. ‘I’ve made a list of books on this papyrus sheet. Have the goodness to give it to one of the clerks when they come in. I want—’

  I did see the dark cord as it was slipped over my head. But I barely had time to register the fact when I felt the knot against my throat and it being pulled tight. There was a sudden flash of coloured lights in my head as I felt myself pulled up and backwards. I heard the scrape and crash of my chair as it went over. I heard the sharp, excited breathing of the man behind me.

  Unless the cord is so thin that it cuts your head off, strangulation is – compared with most other forms of murder – a pretty slow death. But, supposing the noose is properly arranged, you black out almost at once, and there’s not much to be done in the way of self-defence. That doesn’t make you completely helpless, however. I still had the pen in my hand. Almost without thinking, I swung my right arm upwards and behind me. I hit something hard, and the pen glanced off. I struck out again and again, until I got lucky. I felt the sharp reed sink into something soft. With a cry of pain, the man moved left out of my reach, stooping down until I felt his head just behind mine. The knot loosened just long enough for me to take in a ragged lungful of air. Then it was tight again. I threw my whole upper body forward, and swung back. The hardest part of my head smashed like a club into his face. There was a shocked scream, and I dropped loose on to the floor.

  You really have just moments in this sort of fighting. I knew that I had to be up on my feet and reaching for any weapon at hand. But I rolled, gasping and shaking, on the floor. I couldn’t see past the white flashes still bursting in front of my eyes. Except for the wild thudding of my own heart, I was effectively deaf. I fought desperately to pull myself together. I got hold of the noose that was still about my neck and tore it free. I threw it behind me. As I heaved myself slowly on to hands and knees, I felt my walking stick where it had fallen. I grabbed it, and, wheezing and shuddering, pulled myself to my feet.

  I leaned on my desk for support and looked round. At first, I thought I’d chased the attacker off. But, no – he was on the far side of the room. He wasn’t a big man, but was young and wiry. Leaning with one hand against the wall, he was doubled over. I’d got him hard on the nose, and he was too busy with blood and tears to come after me. I looked round for a weapon. The penknife was useless. Still holding on to the desk with my left hand, I raised the stick in my right. Watching it tremble and shake as I held it before me would have been comical if I hadn’t been in so much danger. I opened my mouth and tried to call for support. But, if my windpipe hadn’t been crushed by that first tug of the noose, nothing came out but a rattled croak.

  The killer was now upright again. He had no knife in his hands, and didn’t seem to have come out with any other weapon beside his noose. He too was looking about for a weapon. Like me, he didn’t find much ready to hand.

  ‘Christ is my Saviour,’ he called in a low, triumphant Syriac. ‘My Saviour is Christ.’ There was no chance of seeing his eyes. Even so, I had the impression that he was high on the usual hashish. He smiled and went into a wrestler’s pose. He moved slowly towards me. I swung round with my stick and began rapping it hard on the desk. I hit out at my cup, and, with a loud noise, it shattered on the floor. I clutched harder at the desk and held the stick out as if it had been a sword.

  ‘Help!’ I was now able to gasp in the feeble voice of the very old. ‘Help – murder!’ I jabbed uncertainly at him with my stick as the killer came forward again, and pulled it back before he could take hold of it. I used the advantage as he jumped out of my way to snatch up the inkwell. I threw it at his head. I missed, and it smashed on the floor, leaving a pool of blackness under his feet.

  Perhaps the penknife might be some use after all, I thought. Unlike with the oarsman, I had no advantage of surprise, and this wasn’t the murderous little instrument that Joseph had given me. But I might be able to get in a lucky cut before those strong outstretched arms got to me and closed too tight round me. The killer saw what I had in mind. He put his arms into a semblance of the praying position.

  ‘Christ is my Saviour!’ he cried, now exultant. ‘My Saviour is Christ!’ He stepped towards me across the office. In just that one step, he’d covered half the distance that separated us. He stopped and giggled, and spun round and round, his arms trailing outward beside him. ‘Christ is my Saviour! My Saviour is Christ! Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Christ is my Saviour! My Saviour is Christ!’

  His little sermon over, he took another step towards me. I tested the weight of my stick and held it up before me. I held it as if it had been half sword, half truncheon. It was neither, and neither would have been much good in these trembling hands. I told myself not to whimper, and stood up straight.

  As I looked, now steady, into his eyes, and thought I could see only death reflected back at me, the door of the office flew open. Standing in the doorway, stark naked, was Edward.

  Chapter 37

  Edward was silently taking in what he’d seen. His hair was untied, and it floated about him in the lamplight like a golden haze. The killer turned to face him. He laughed again and moved towards the door.

  ‘An old man,’ he grated, still in Syriac, ‘and a boy to guard him!’

  Edward’s response was a mouthful of obscenities in English, and then a lunge forward into the room. He set about the killer with the sort of cane you use for beating uppity slaves. Surprised, the man retreated at first, protecting his face with outstretched arms. He kicked another chair over, and it looked for a moment as if he might pull an entire book rack down on himself. But, if not very big, he was twice Edward’s size and weight. Surprise is everything when dealing with a superior opponent, and Edward had worn his out too fast to make it count.

  The killer reached out and snatched the cane. He took it clean out of Edward’s hands, almost as if he’d been taking a rattle from an annoying child. He held it in both hands and put his head back for a low, chilling laugh.

  ‘I am sent to kill an old man,’ he called, speaking a sort of Greek, ‘and now a boy as well!’ He laughed again, and went on the attack. He slashed out at Edward and caught him about the shoulders. He beat out again and again. It was a cruel and thoroughly experienced beating. I heard the continual hiss of thin wood and its impact on bare flesh. Edward dodged behind the fallen chair and tried to push it towards the killer. It was too heavy. He succeeded only in exposing himself to more of those terrible blows. Once more, the killer laughed. He looked at me. I was still propped, useless, against the desk. He shouted loud in a burst of wild, drug-inspired pleasure, and turned his full attention on the boy.

  Not once, under that beating, did Edward cry out. He held up his arms for protection. He did his best to shield his face. But, all the time, he lunged at the killer, trying to land a blow – hoping perhaps to regain possession of the cane. I watched until the killer turned and began driving Edward towards the office door. It was now that I went into action. I stepped forward and got him from behind with a blow of my own, much heavier stick. I missed his head, but got him a hard blow on the collarbone. There was a howl of pain, and he wheeled round to face me. I stabbed at his throat, and got him on the cheek. I raised the stick and swung hard. I felt the impact as I hit his left wrist. He howled again and made a grab for the stick.

  Edward was on his feet again. He jumped on to the man’s back and tried to pull him down to the floor. He was too light. But the man was clutching with his good hand at the hold on his neck. He pitched forward and back, and from side to side. I heard the thud of the boy’s thigh against one of the book racks. But there was no breaking his grip. Edward tried to get his fingers up the man’s nose and to pull. He scratched at the eyes. He ignored the still punishing backward slashes of the cane. I moved in closer with a hard jab into the genitals, and then another poke in the face. Using the stick in place of a stabbing s
word, I went at every soft part of the body I could reach, concentrating on face and stomach. All the time, Edward stayed clamped on his back, pulling and shoving. I cursed my weakness and the hard thumping in my chest that almost seemed to knock me off what little balance I had. But I got the genitals again. This time, I must have got one of his balls. With a loud shriek of pain, he lunged backwards. Edward managed to swing himself sideways just in time to avoid being caught under the killer as he hit the floor. I took my stick in both hands and threw myself forward, landing with my stick across the lower part of his throat. I pushed hard.

  There was a time when I’d have crushed his windpipe as if it were a foot of leather hose, and got up to watch him choke. But I’d lost both weight and strength over the years, and I might as well have been pressing against solid bone. The man was dazed from the fall backwards, and I was on top of him. But the killing blow I’d had in mind was out of the question. So I raised the stick again. Still gripping it in both hands, I turned it vertical and brought it down hard. I missed his right eye, and carved a gash two inches long under his hairline. He squealed, and I felt his arms come up from behind to flutter about my throat. I held the stick aloft once more and struck with more precision. This time, its half inch went straight in. It grated against the socket, and there was a momentary pressure on the softness of the eye. Then, it crunched into the bone at the base of the socket.

  The screams were deafening. As if I’d thrown him on to those burning coals beside Saint Flatularis, the killer went into a frenzy. He curled into a ball. He clutched at his eyes, trying to pull the stick out of his ruined socket. The merest touch increased the agony, and he stretched out on his belly – as if trying to find some resting position in which the pain might at least stabilise. There was none. Sounding barely human, he howled. He beat frantically on the tiled floor. Again and again, he smashed both knuckles down until the bones must have broken. But there was nothing to relieve that all-devouring pain. And, surely beside the physical pain, must have been the horrified realisation of what I’d done to him. He curled into a ball again. He straightened out and arched his back, and screamed till his breath failed him. He clutched at his beard with both hands and pulled. He threw his arms wide and let out another long, bubbling scream.

  But, still, he wasn’t finished. With an angry roar that seemed to fill the room, he heaved himself to a sitting position and was reaching about for me. With a scream that was even louder, he tugged the stick from his eye and threw it aside. I grabbed at the fallen stick and, with all my remaining force, got myself to my feet. I swung another blow at him, and knocked him to the floor. I could have stood there, panting and clutching at my chest, to watch the man writhe in the only hell he’d ever know. But he was high on hashish and high on God. Astonishingly, he was scrabbling with his arms to roll over and get up again. I knocked at his other eye, and missed. I caught him a blow on the forehead with the handle of the stick, and knocked him flat again.

  ‘Take hold of his shoulders,’ I gasped at Edward. ‘Put all your weight on his chest. Try to keep him on his back.’ I stood at right angles to the killer, his head at my feet. I watched a moment, trying to predict his convulsive, still shrieking movements. Then I lifted the stick again. As if spearing a fish in the sea, I rammed it with all my aged force into his open mouth. I felt his front teeth shave the polished wood, and the softness of his palate. I felt the momentary resistance of his tongue, as, rammed like wadding into a blocked latrine pipe, it went downwards into his throat. I felt the grating resistance of bones beyond the back of his throat. Edward still gripping like mad on to the shoulders, I stepped back for a better position. Using it as a lever, I pulled the stick towards me. The man’s upper body arched. His arms went up in a last, despairing flail. Then his screams turned suddenly to a dull, frothing choke. If there was the click of snapping bones in his neck, I didn’t hear. But the good eye opened wide and the whole body went limp.

  I flopped down on the dead man’s chest and clutched at myself. My heart was going like the drum at the end of an erotic dance, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I shut my eyes and tried to ignore the renewed white flashes. I let myself go loose and rolled off the man on the hard floor. I could feel a burning pressure in my nose and a spurting wetness all over my upper lip. Given a little more time to think, I might have reflected on an end that my barbarian ancestors would have thoroughly approved. But this wasn’t the end – not yet. I did catch my breath, and, slowly, my heart returned to a bearable, if uncertain pounding.

  I grabbed at the dead man’s clothing and pulled myself into a sitting position. I shook my head and opened my eyes and looked round. At first, I thought Edward had been badly injured. Gasping and shaking, he was on all fours, his head pressed against the cold tiles. He looked to be in a spasm of unbearable agony. I raised a hand uselessly towards him, and tried to cry his name. But it was only an orgasm. The hard flogging, and then the thrill of violent death had been too much for the boy. He sobbed uncontrollably as he reached the point of total crisis, and bit hard on his forearm until blood mingled with saliva. By the time he was done, and he lay quivering, face down on the floor, I was well out of danger. I still was in no condition to try standing. But I reached forward, and let a hand fall on his chilly, sweating back. He lifted his head on to his forearm and looked back at me with a dreamy smile.

  ‘My dear boy,’ I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could, ‘you really need to control these urges. One day, I promise, they’ll put you at a serious disadvantage.’

  Not moving his head, he raised his free hand and brushed a lock of damp hair from his eyes. ‘We killed the fucker,’ he said in English. ‘We did it together.’ He squeezed his eyes shut and repeated himself, now exultant: ‘We did it together.’

  ‘We did indeed,’ I said. ‘And you fought like a lion.’ I paused and chose my words. ‘I’m proud of you,’ I ended simply. I thought of reaching for that fallen chair and using it to pull myself to my feet. But that effort could wait until I was in better breath. ‘Now, be a good lad,’ I went on in a more businesslike tone. ‘Go and pull on that cord over there. The sooner we get help from downstairs, the better. We don’t know if this man was the only one sent.’

  Edward smiled again and sat up. ‘There’s a dead slave outside the door,’ he said. ‘Other than that, we’re alone.’

  I was no judge of that. It seemed still and silent all around. But, with my hearing, there might have been a riot in progress a few doors round that inner corridor.

  ‘And your own night company?’ I asked with unusual delicacy.

  He smiled brightly and pointed at the now abandoned cane. ‘I beat her unconscious,’ he said. ‘She didn’t even wake up when the noise started.’ He jumped up, whole patches of his body marked and bloody in the lamplight.

  ‘You’d better get some clothes on,’ I said flatly. ‘I suppose we might also wait for your – your signs of excitement to pass off.’ He looked down and laughed. He moved his feet apart and stretched his arms. He stamped on the floor and laughed again.

  ‘Oh, that won’t go down in a hurry,’ he cried, again exultant. ‘After this, I don’t think it will ever go down.’ He put his head back and laughed louder, and arched his entire body. Then, silent, he looked down at me, his face now taking on a strange, doubtful expression. He came and sat between me and the twisted body of the man we’d just killed. He swallowed and leaned forward. He put a hand on my shoulder. I took his hand and slapped it softly. I laughed weakly until I thought I’d have my first coughing fit in ages. I took the hem of my robe and wiped away some of the blood from around my nose.

  ‘My dear young man,’ I said. ‘All else aside, this is hardly the time or place for such things. Our wisest course of action, I do suggest . . .’ I trailed off. The boy wasn’t listening. And when did I ever behave wisely? If I’d behaved with an ounce of wisdom, Edward would by now be spending some of Ezra’s money in Spain, and I’d be hidden away in some desert monastery, waiting for dea
th. Instead, we were sitting in the heart of the Caliph’s empire as his guests, with the body of some drugged-out religious assassin freshly dead beside us.

  And, now the killing was over, it really was very still and quiet.

  Chapter 38

  ‘But I’d never have thought it possible!’ Karim shouted, all trace of the cautious diplomat erased from his voice. ‘I cannot express how proud . . .’ He paused and remembered his calling. He turned back for another look at the twisted, now stiff corpse at his feet. ‘Dog of an unbeliever!’ he snarled. He kicked hard at the body, then bent down for another inspection of the congealed blackness of the right eye and the congealed brown mass within the open, sagging mouth. I had another rueful look at my walking stick. Covered in muck, its bottom length ruined, someone had pulled this out, and it lay unregarded beside the body. He stood up and grinned at me. ‘Nice work, My Lord. I can tell you that few survive an encounter with the Angels of the Lord. Yes – very nice work!’

  I got to my feet and winced at the pain that flooded in from every joint. I leaned on the broom handle one of the slaves had given me as an improvised new stick, and pointed at the body.