Acquel looked up again. “I robbed a tomb in the Ara. Saint Elded’s tomb.”
Strykar whistled. “A very ambitious greyrobe.” Lieutenant Poule had wandered over in his short padded arming doublet, his hole-shot hose, one leg white and the other red, dangling loosely over one thigh. His cod-piece was half-untrussed and urine had splashed his leg.
“So what have we caught here, Captain? Is the bird singing his song?”
Strykar laughed, his deep crow’s feet creasing as he did so. For his thirty-six years, he looked older than he was, black hair streaked lightly with grey and already receding. “He’s been grave robbing from some very important dead. The Lawgiver himself, he says.”
Poule snatched an apple from a wicker basket on the back of a camp cook who was hurrying past. “So… where’s the swag? Up his arse?”
Acquel reached into the pocket of his cassock. It was no use now, he thought. He could not conceal it if they searched him and, he reasoned, it might just buy him an ounce of gratitude from the rondelieri. He held out the golden amulet, set with ten tiny stones of lapis, and let it dangle from its chain as he extended his hand towards the captain.
Strykar raised an eyebrow as he extended his palm and Acquel dropped the shining treasure gently into it and let the chain follow, coiling into the mercenary’s large hand. He picked up the amulet and examined it. It was round and no more than a thumb length in diameter, intricately and delicately etched with what looked like a sunburst. The round shape was complemented by the tiny cut lapis stone, deep ultramarine blue. The reverse was also etched along the border, in fine black enamel, and it held some writing on it—ten small lines of text. Although Strykar held it up and squinted, he could not recognise the tongue. Old Valdurian perhaps. But he knew gold when he saw it and this was pure.
Styrkar looked at Poule and then back to Acquel. “You lifted this from the Saint’s tomb? From his bones?”
Acquel quickly realised he had to weave a story that was believable if not completely true. “Well, it was in the cavern below the Ara… near the tomb. I stumbled on it and… lapsed into sin.”
Poule was soon ogling the amulet over Strykar’s shoulder. “And what the hell was a greyrobe like you doing skulking down in the tombs?” he asked. Strykar nodded in agreement.
There was a sudden crash and clanking of poles as a large round tent of green canvas collapsed behind them, followed by much cursing and swearing by the men underneath. Acquel prayed his story would not end up the same. He spread his hands, almost in supplication, and spoke firmly, his voice as assured as he could make it sound. “There was an earth tremor a few days ago in the city. Bad enough to topple some buildings and crack the town walls. The High Priest sent the Magister to arrange a party to delve into the caverns to see if the tomb of the Lawgiver had been sundered. I was chosen to go down there and that is how I found the amulet. I was wrong to have taken this thing.”
Strykar swung the amulet gently at Acquel. “You are a very bad monk, my friend. But I can relieve you of this burden, have no fear.”
Acquel’s heart sank a little—not too much—but enough, as he knew he was penniless with no chance of a return to his previous life. A golden amulet could have helped him along. “You have saved my life, sir. I have nothing else to offer you in return than this.” And he tipped his head downwards.
Strykar smiled. “Poule… get one of the sergeants to take our monk here—” And he turned his head back to Acquel. “What is your name, brother monk?”
“Acquel.”
“Tell him to take Brother Acquel over to see the Widow. Put it on my account.”
Poule nodded quickly enough, but his eyes had narrowed slightly. “Aye, sir.”
A minute later Acquel was led off, bowing profusely, and not really knowing where he was going, who the Widow was, or what would befall him by sundown.
Strykar turned the amulet over, studying it. It smelled old and acrid… of the tomb. Poule had finished lacing up his hose and codpiece and was now hollering for his doublet. He looked back at his captain.
“Do you believe him?”
Strykar shrugged and placed the amulet into his pocket.
Poule turned to face him squarely. “I think it stinks of deceit. And I’m not sure keeping him is worth having Temple soldiers barging into the camp around cock crow.”
Strykar looked up, expressionless, his deep-set eyes boring into those of his lieutenant. “It’s a puzzle, Lieutenant Poule. A puzzle. Don’t you like puzzles?”
Poule inclined his head slightly and grinned a little. He knew when to leave well enough alone. “Aye. I suppose so.”
Strykar nodded slowly. “We’ll just have to see what happens next. I don’t think our Brother Acquel will be going very far without us. But for now—for now at least—the company has a holy man again. And we have a delivery to make in Palestro, don’t we?”
“That we do, sir.”
Strykar waved him off, but then called after him. “And lieutenant… double the guard tonight.” He then threw up his arms expansively over his head, twirling his hands in mock submission. “See, I do listen to my officers’ counsel!”
ACQUEL’S HEAD SWAM with dozens of images of the last day—all nightmarish. He was led through the still-rising maze of tents accompanied by a cacophony of shouts, laughter, hammerings and clangings. Just what had happened to him, and was still happening, he had barely begun to digest. Only the rank fear of the chase, his near execution, and his timely rescue kept filling his mind’s eye, fogging his capacity to think his way out of the situation in which he now found himself.
Where could he run to now? Not having yet taken his final vows to become a blackrobe, was he even still a monk? His guide turned left behind a cook wagon and Acquel followed. The soldier stopped and turned back to him, roughly pulling him by the shoulder with one hand and pointing to a large painted wagon.
The Widow was not what he expected. As Acquel drew near to the red and yellow wagon, a woman emerged from the rear and stood, hands on hips. She took off her wide-brimmed straw hat and watched as the newcomers approached. She could not have been long a widow. She was young and slim, her smallish bosom cinched into her bodice, hips round but not matronly. The faded skirt of the ankle-length kirtle she wore, once russet red and now a pale brown, swished through the trampled dry grass as she moved to meet them.
“Who have we got here then, young Ricardo?” she asked, a sly grin forming on her browned face.
The sergeant threw a comradely arm around Acquel’s neck. “We’ve got ourselves a holy man for the road. The captain wants him…” Ricardo trailed off, slightly unsure of his orders. “Hell, he’s a right mess and at the very least he needs some shoes.”
The Widow looked Acquel up and down, shaking her head. Whether in disgust or wonderment Acquel was not quite sure. Looking at her he reckoned she was young—probably no more than a few years older than he. She was also comely, he thought, staring at her perfectly formed nose and full lips. She wore her dark red hair coiled up tight in a whirl of a plait, revealing a long neck. Still, a few ringlets had escaped to dangle about her cheeks. He had not been a monk for all that long. Her green eyes widened slightly as she spoke.
“Money?”
“Captain’s account, my lovely. Just get him road ready.”
A not so gentle shove from behind propelled Acquel even closer to the Widow, and Ricardo was gone to find supper and beer.
“A greyrobe? Our last monk died on the march six months ago.”
Acquel nodded, not really knowing what to say. “Yes, I was told that,” he ventured, voice croaking.
“Keeled over on the march. But… mind you, he was a fair bit older than you. How did you end up here, Brother…”
“Acquel.”
The girl nodded. “Acquel. Looks like you’ve had some rough treatment of late.”
“Truth is, I’m not quite sure what’s happened to me. I only know I can’t go back to the Temple Majoris in Livorna.”
She raised her chin, contemplating his mystery. “I’m the Widow Pandarus. My shit of a husband got himself killed in a knife fight with a customer in Maresto. But, at least I got the business out of it. Let’s see if we can find you some shoes.”
The sutler’s widow turned and made her way to the rear of the long wagon. It was tall, its peeling painted wooden panels topped with a grey canvas cover over stays to form a tilt to keep out the weather but still let in light. She motioned for Acquel to wait while she nimbly pulled herself up the steep stairs and into the dim, musty treasure trove of stores. She kept talking all the while she rummaged about and Acquel moved closer to the opening, the floor of which was level with his chest. He could see her clogs and ankles as she moved about the tightly packed wagon.
“If you stay, it will be a good thing. More of these soldiers have a religious itch that needs scratching than you’d guess.” The widow thrust her head out and looked down at Acquel. “Show us your feet, Brother Acquel!”
Acquel awkwardly raised up his tattered robes and extended his bare foot. She gave a quick nod and disappeared into the gloom again. “My old father took me to temple every new moon for high prayers. We had a good priest there in my village when I was little. Aha!” She stood again at the opening and leaned down towards him. “Try these,” she said, tossing down a pair of green leather flats. Acquel fumbled the catch and bent to retrieve the shoes. “Don’t know whose they were but they likely don’t need them now.”
Acquel sat in the grass and slipped on the well-worn shoes, fastening their single straps with horn buttons that thankfully still clung on to their sides. They actually fit him. He looked up at the woman and smiled. “My thanks.” He was now starting to realise just how hungry he was, not having eaten since early that morning. That meal, eaten in the early dawn light of the refectory, seemed like a week ago not a day.
The Widow leapt down in a single bound to land next to him, her purse and belt knife jangling. “So, what was it you did do to find yourself on the run? Surely that pair of shoes is worth the tale.”
Acquel stared down at his new shoes. God, how he ached to tell her—to tell anyone—the things he had witnessed that day. But who could he trust to tell the entire truth of what he had seen? For all he knew, this Captain Strykar might just as soon turn him over to the Temple guard in the morning. The widow was standing over him, a smile still on her lips, and waiting for his story. A loud grumble from his stomach made her laugh. “Come on, then! The sooner you confess the sooner I can get you fed.”
“You would not believe it all. But I can tell you I am a thief. I took something this morning from a great tomb in Livorna, something very old… a golden amulet of sorts. That is why I was pursued out here. If I hadn’t blundered into your company I’d probably be dead by now.”
“A thieving monk? Not especially rare I would think.”
“I was a thief before I was a monk. Come to think of it, I was probably a better thief.”
“Not that good if you got caught.”
Acquel chuckled, more at himself than at her remark. He rubbed the stubble of the hair on the back of his head. “Are you still as devout as you were when you were a little girl, mistress?”
The Widow Pandarus snorted. “Mistress? Just call me Timandra. And I do still wear my faith openly. I follow the seven holy laws. Or at least I keep trying to follow them. When we’re in billet I go to temple. Why? Do you want to pay for those shoes with some absolution?”
Acquel picked himself up and straightened his mud-stained robe. “No. It’s just that I would not want to rob you of your faith as I robbed myself today.”
Timandra Pandarus shook her head as she looked into Acquel’s face. “You are a curious man, whether thief or monk. Tell me your story later if you like. I’m not going anywhere and I doubt you’ll be straying far if Livorna and the guard are still looking for you. I’ll take you up to the cook wagon so you can fill that empty stomach.” She pulled up the little hinged gate at the back of her wagon and latched it. She turned back to Acquel with a grin. “So… you don’t have a coin to your name then? No other golden trinkets to pay your way?”
Acquel tilted his head and reached into his pocket in order to pull it inside out to show her the depth of his poverty. But his hand touched metal and a fine chain instead. His mouth fell open as he pulled forth Elded’s amulet from his robes. Timandra’s eyes suddenly grew large but as for Acquel, he felt his balls shrink into his belly as naked fear gripped his heart.
Four
MAGISTER LUCIUS KODORIS placed both hands on the stone window ledge and looked out over the courtyard and beyond to the red terracotta roofs of the palace. Below him the open space blazed with colour in the heat of the summer day: the bold lush green of the palms, orange and yellow flowers bursting proud on the spreading branches of the nutaris trees brought from lands to the east. From a perch tucked up in the highest palm, he could hear the voice of a jubal bird, harsh and insistent. It left its place and flew to one of the roofs, settling upon the pediment of a milky marble column. Kodoris eyed it absently as its long iridescent purple-blue tail twitched in agitation.
He drank in the scent of the garden but his thoughts were far away and deeper than the High Priest’s palace where he now stood, high upon the Ara. He had relived the moments of yesterday once again: the discovery in the tomb of the prophet, his shock, and then the overwhelming fear. Fear for the Faith, the faithful, and everything he had ever believed in. Once again, the screams of the brethren filled his head and he turned to face the interior of the high-ceilinged room, brushing away the sweat on his upper lip. Two attendants, no more than boys, watched him, expressionless, from near the double doors. Dressed in black pinch-waist doublets and red hose they, like him, awaited the arrival of the High Priest, Brachus. Their pudding-bowl haircuts reminded him of his youth—and lost innocence. Without those double doors stood four soldiers of the Temple guard, his guard. Kodoris walked to where two chairs and a table were placed, his steps echoing across the high-ceilinged reception chamber. Despite the heat of the day, it was cold in the room, the red marble walls and floor practically oozing a chill one could see.
On the far wall, over the hulking yet delicately carved blackwood fireplace, hung a tapestry depicting a scene from the life of the great prophet—Elded giving a sermon to the children of Livorna, one arm raised to heaven, the other resting paternally upon the shoulder of a boy. He had to avert his gaze. It would be hard to look upon any image of the prophet from now on.
At the opposite end of the chamber an even larger tapestry hung, and this one—another devotional scene depicted many times by countless Valdurian artists—elicited particular heartache in the Magister in light of what he had discovered. It was old and dark with caked dust. Where bright reds and blues had once stood proud, it was all browns and greys. Yet still, the depiction was clear. Again, Saint Elded was the focal point. He stood near the centre, surrounded by his disciples, their voluminous robes sweeping to the ground. Next to Elded was a man attired in beautiful garb, the real gold thread worked into the weave brighter than the rest of the tapestry. His tunic was more ornate than Elded’s or any of the others and his pose, hand on hip, marked him as well-born and proud. But the drama of the story was something more. Elded held in his hand the mask of a beautiful young man, fair and graceful; the mask he had just torn from the face of his elegant companion. And what he had exposed was the face of a beast: darkly jagged with wild eyes, goat ears, and small horns protruding from the forehead. Saint Elded had revealed the Great Deceiver. The Trickster. Berithas. But who was the deceiver now?
The loud clank of a door handle brought him back to attention. To the left of the hearth, the wall swung inwards as the concealed door opened. The High Priest of Valdur shuffled into the receiving room, his bright purple robes trailing behind him. Upon his chest he wore a great gold medallion, a sun in splendour with seven long rays emanating; a symbol of the seven commandments of the Lawgiver Elded. Befo
re Kodoris could move, the attendants were with Brachus, each taking an arm and gently, wordlessly, guiding him into the chamber. Kodoris approached, knelt on one knee and reached to kiss the right hand of the old man.
“Ah, Magister Kodoris!” Brachus’s reedy voice trembled slightly. “It gives me pleasure to see you again.” As he bent forward to offer his hand, his flat-topped gold and satin embroidered mitre toppled to the side, saved only by the quick reflex of one of the boys.
Kodoris stood and bowed his head. “Your Holiness, I am grateful for the granting of this audience.”
Brachus nodded, his mitre wobbling precariously. “Yes, yes, Kodoris. It is the report of the quarterly tithes, no doubt. I knew it must be about time.”
Kodoris looked into the watery eyes of the old man and winced internally. “No… Your Holiness. It is the matter of the tomb… The prophet’s tomb.” Kodoris could almost see the ancient clockwork struggling to turn inside the High Priest’s head.
“Yes, I knew that, Magister. Don’t confuse me with talk of the tithe collections!” The little party continued to shuffle to the chairs and table.
Kodoris gathered up the skirt of his burgundy robe as he walked at the side of Brachus. “With respect, Holiness, would it not be better if we continued our discussion in camera—in your private chamber?”
The Guns of Ivrea Page 4