Yet when she spoke her voice betrayed no flicker of emotion. ‘My brother Lugh is missing.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ Church replied wearily. He jumped from the horse into a large puddle.
‘He has disappeared in your world. I can find no trace of him anywhere. That concerns me.’
‘Maybe he just wants to be alone.’
‘You will accompany me to the Fixed Lands and there we will search for my brother.’ She turned on her heel and marched back into the hall. Overhead the thunder boomed and the lightning crackled, and Church had the unmistakable impression of dark forces moving away in the distance.
Chapter Three
FRATRES DRACONUM
1
Eboracum, AD 306
Lamps guttered in windows across the city and water gushed from orange roof tiles into streets turned into a thick, brown swamp by the storm. The wind and rain drowned out all the sounds of the city, but the stink of human filth tossed out into the road could not be obscured even by the aromas of hundreds of evening meals.
Cursing the vile weather for June, Church kept close to the graffiti-scarred walls as he struggled to make his way in the gloom. The bathhouse, the forum and the basilica lay behind him. Now he was in the oppressive jumble of houses, inns and small shops that sprawled towards the fort where the Sixth Legion was billeted.
Eventually he located the tavern on one of the side streets and slipped into its cramped, musty interior. The beams were too low and it was filled with too many men crammed onto benches, talking animatedly about the day’s rumours. A few played dice, their eyes feverish, while others voraciously consumed plates of cheese and meat after the day’s hard labour.
Church loosened his dripping cloak and threw his hood from his head as he pushed his way to the bar. Nobody gave him a second glance. There at the fringes of the Empire they were used to strangers from far-flung parts.
‘New to Eboracum?’ the barman said gruffly.
‘I have travelled a long way. Wine.’
The barman poured a goblet of warmed red wine from a large jug. ‘This is the finest in the Empire,’ he said.
Church knew it would be a cheap stew from Crete, but it would take the edge off the night. He tossed a copper coin across the bar and felt a twinge of guilt that tomorrow the barman would find himself in possession of a shiny pebble once the glamour had worn off. ‘You have a room reserved for me,’ Church said. ‘A woman and her slave should be waiting.’
The barman nodded. ‘That slave scared my wife. What happened to him?’
‘He was badly burned in a fire at his mistress’s home.’ Church knew this would strike a chord: with torches, oil lamps and candles the only source of light, fire was a constant fear. ‘That is why he covers his face.’
And a good job, too. It is too monstrous for people to see.’ The barman led Church through a door and up a narrow, twisting stairway. The rooms were as cramped as the bar below and furnished sparsely with a bed, a chair and a table.
Church was ushered into one that reeked of the olive oil burning in the lamp on the window sill. Niamh waited there, wrapped in a voluminous cloak, the hood pulled low to obscure her identity. Jerzy sat on the floor in one corner. His head was swathed in cloth with two eye-holes cut out so that he resembled a latter-day Elephant Man.
‘Have you located him?’ Niamh asked once the barman had gone.
Church had seen cracks emerge in Niamh’s frosty demeanour since the night the Libertarian had penetrated what she’d believed to be unshakeable defences to give her a taste of a previously alien dish: mortality. The deaths of members of her guard had particularly affected her. Over the last few days, hitherto-unseen emotions had been emerging rapidly: unease, doubt, suspicion and perhaps the first nascent hints of fear.
‘I spoke to some of the hookers hanging around outside the curia. They hadn’t seen or heard anything, and in a place like this news travels as fast as syphilis.’ Church collapsed on the bed. He was wet, cold and exhausted, and surprised to find himself thinking warmly of the luxuries of the Court of the Soaring Spirit and the balmy climate of T’ir n’a n’Og.
‘That is not good enough,’ Niamh snapped. ‘You must search harder.’
‘Tomorrow.’
Jerzy flinched like a whipped dog. He looked fearfully at Niamh, expecting retaliation.
‘Now,’ Niamh said.
‘You can send me out there, but you can’t make me look.’ Jerzy had told Church how Niamh had once covered him in boils for an imagined slight, but Church had too much self-respect to fawn.
Niamh went to the window and looked out into the driving rain. In a few short centuries she would have a good view of York Minster, and a few centuries after that the Yorkshire countryside that was now shrouded in impenetrable gloom would be ablaze with electric lights, crushed beneath tarmac, industrial estates, shopping centres. But the heart of it would always be Eboracum.
Jerzy lifted his mask, his face glowing like a spectre in the corner of the room. ‘My Lady, a question?’ he ventured cautiously. ‘Why are you here alone? Surely for a matter of such gravity you should be accompanied by other Golden Ones?’
‘The Golden Ones are a proud race, used to being tied to the heart of Existence. We have no beginning, we have no ending. Thus we cannot ever be defeated, or harmed. We cannot be threatened. Nothing troubles us. Nothing demands our attention,’ Niamh replied, distracted.
‘How can you say that?’ Church said. ‘The Libertarian killed several of your people.’
After a moment of silence, Niamh replied, ‘That did not happen.’
‘Come on—’
Niamh spoke over him. ‘I discussed the matter with many of my kind and it was agreed that since such a thing could not happen, it did not happen.’
Church laughed in amazement. ‘Humanity’s been scared of you for thousands of years, but you’re just as pathetic as any group that won’t face up to reality.’
Niamh turned to Church, her eyes blazing. ‘And have you faced up to reality? You are my puppet until I decide it is time to cut your strings. You cannot view your distant love unless I say so. Brother of Dragons, indeed! Are you really the best that Existence can find to champion its cause? The ravens still follow you. You have already presided over the deaths of those you lured into helping you. Now your contemporaries are at risk, and still there is nothing you can do about it. That is pathetic.’
Church flinched. Niamh saw, and smiled.
‘Lesser beings should know their place.’ She returned her attention to the view out of the window. ‘To attempt to rise above your station will only result in misery.’
‘There’s nothing you can do to stop me helping my friends—’ Church began.
Jerzy jumped to his feet, urging Church to remain silent. ‘Mistress, my good friend meant no disrespect. We are, of course, as concerned for your brother’s safety as yourself, and we will do everything within our power to help.’
‘Then go out again,’ she said.
‘It’s pointless,’ Church snapped. ‘If a golden-skinned god proclaiming to be Lugh had appeared in Eboracum, the whole town would have been talking about it. I don’t even understand why you’re so sure he’s missing.’
‘There is a hierarchy amongst the Golden Ones. Those who come first are linked. We feel each other – and I can no longer feel my brother.’
‘So he could be dead?’
Niamh ignored the question. ‘My brother visited this place recently. It was the last time I was aware of his presence.’ Niamh bowed her head slightly so that the hood cast her face into shadow. ‘You can mingle amongst your own kind, hear their secret words in a way that I could not.’
‘So now you need me—’
‘My relationship with them is one of supplicant and god. I do not need to hear prayers. I want the words they would never dare speak to me.’
Church recognised an opportunity in her words. ‘I’ll do what I can to find your brother. And if I
do manage to bring him back here I want a reward. I want to be freed from your control. Agreed?’
Niamh thought for a moment and then said, ‘Agreed.’
And that was when Church realised how truly scared she was.
2
Church and Jerzy bought breakfast from the popinae that lined the main street where stall holders loudly proclaimed that they had the best food in the Empire, be it sausage or pease pudding. By 9 a.m. the noise was deafening as rival traders fought to be heard amongst the hubbub caused by jugglers, tumblers and other performers. The Romanised British upper class bought their food from the stalls and chatted about the day’s tasks, while the prostitutes hurried back and forth, the only business that never closed.
The rain had ended some time around dawn. With Jerzy at his side, Church had been the scouring the streets, talking to everyone he met. No one had heard any rumour suggesting that one of the gods had been seen in the city, though there were other incredible tales – of a man who became a wolf by night and stalked the mausoleums in the cemetery beyond the city walls, and a slave from one of the Iberian tribes who fell into a trance to make dire premonitions.
In his cloth mask, Jerzy attracted a few stares, but there were many other people with serious disabilities – missing limbs, burns, lost eyes and noses, the rigours of disease hacked into their skin. Church noted how the harshness of life in past centuries was often forgotten in his own time, lost behind illustrations of unblemished people in textbooks. Yet there was an energy to life that he had never witnessed on any twenty-first-century street.
‘The food is so plain,’ Jerzy said as he gnawed on a cheese cake.
‘That’s because you’re used to Otherworld meals. You know, you could have stayed there in the lap of luxury. Niamh wasn’t forcing you to come to my miserable, grey world.’
‘But you are my very good friend,’ the Mocker said, puzzled. ‘I could not abandon you to strife. We all need someone to watch for the knife in the back when we are concentrating on the smiling face.’
Church was touched by Jerzy’s loyalty. ‘You’re well versed in the ways of the Tuatha Dé Danann.’
‘We must look out for each other now, for we have no one else in all the lands. Your friends are adrift beyond the gulf of years. My family and friends … well, even if the queen allowed me to see them I would not inflict this freakish visage upon them. Better that time swells between us and they forget I ever existed.’ His eyes smiled through the holes in the mask. ‘And there: I have found the humour in this situation. A sour irony. I need time to bring me peace. You wish time to drain away for the same reason. Oh, what a pair we are!’
‘There’s a saying in my time. People ask how you get through a difficult situation. The trick is to keep breathing. That’s all. We keep hopeful, and we keep breathing.’
‘You are a strange visitor to the Far Lands, friend Church. We know little of hope there. Things are simply the way they are. Yet you believe it can all change.’
‘I do. And there’s another irony for you. In Otherworld, where everyone keeps telling me reality is fluid, nothing ever really changes. And here in the so-called Fixed Lands, we embrace change. We have to. There’s nothing else.’ Church finished his spicy sausage and finally quelled his hunger.
‘And you still have hope,’ Jerzy mused.
‘It would be easier to give up, I know that. But then what would be the point in living? Love, affection for our friends – that’s what drives us on. That’s our Blue Fire. I’ll do whatever I can to save the people I care for.’
‘Even give up your own life?’
Church considered the question, but he already knew the answer. ‘If I have to.’
This time it was impossible to read the emotion in Jerzy’s unwavering gaze. Uncomfortable with the attention, Church caught a passing slave going urgently about his master’s business. ‘Tell me,’ Church said, ‘who rules the Empire this day?’
The slave looked at Church as if he were mad. ‘Constantius is Emperor of the West. Any fool knows that. Though for how much longer is unknown. He lies sick now, on his bed, over yonder. And some say it is his death bed.’ He pointed to the grand buildings near the fort, before roughly pulling himself free and hurrying down the street.
‘Constantius … in Eboracum, on his death bed. That gives me a timeframe,’ Church said to Jerzy. ‘A few years back, Diocletian set up a system of four rulers to share the burden of government in the Empire. Constantius became Western Emperor last year, a year before he died of natural causes here in Eboracum.’ He gave a sardonic smile. ‘So only around one thousand seven hundred years to go.’
‘Good friend, you are broadening my abilities as an entertainer. I am learning a new form of humour. Fixed Lands humour!’
‘I wouldn’t go trying it out on an audience just yet.’
‘Will you teach me about your humour? It seems to me, in our conversations, that laughter has a value I do not understand.’
‘I’m not the best person to ask. I’m a surly, miserable git, to be honest.’
‘Please.’
Church sighed. ‘I’ll tell you about the different kinds of humour if you want, and I’ll throw in a few jokes that I remember. That’s about all I can promise. But let’s face it, there’s not a lot to laugh about—’
Jerzy raised a finger. ‘Ah! But there is, there always is. Perhaps I can teach you something in return?’
Church laughed. ‘Knock yourself out.’
The sun emerged from behind the clouds and illuminated the bustling life of the forum: men and women in togas, traders in rougher clothes, the kilts and leggings of those who had stayed true to their Celtic roots, and the poor bare-chested despite the weather as they struggled to eke out a living.
A rush of power made Church’s hands and legs tingle – a message from his unconscious. He scanned the faces of those nearby until he saw a man hurrying through the crowd. His features suggested he came from foreign parts, and he had the tanned, muscular body of a fighter who spent his time in the open air. Church knew instantly that the fellow was the cause of his instinctive response.
He tugged at Jerzy’s arm surreptitiously, and then set off in pursuit. Like all Roman towns, Eboracum was built on a grid system so it was easy to follow from a distance. Their target strode purposefully out of the forum along a broad thoroughfare that cut through the two- and three-storey whitewashed buildings. At the temple he took a turn along the side of a row of imposing arches that formed the boundary of the religious compound and made his way towards the theatre. It was one of the grandest buildings in town, with a long, three-storey frontage covered with ornate carvings and an enormous doorway the height of three men leading into the dark interior.
The man ducked inside despite it being early in the day when there were no performances taking place. Church and Jerzy followed, though Jerzy was baffled and Church had no real idea what it was about the man that had alerted him. Inside it was cool and dark and smelled of oil lamps and candle wax. A maze of corridors and stairs ran past rooms like huge burrows where theatre staff went about their business, oblivious.
Church lost sight of the man in the warren. After a while they emerged into bright sunlight and ahead of them was the expansive semicircle of the open-air theatre with mountainous tiers of seats reaching up to the summit of grand arches. It was completely deserted, but had the echoing charm of a pre-match football stadium.
‘He must still be inside—’ Jerzy began before he was cut short by rough hands clamping across his mouth. Church was assaulted from behind just as quickly, and the two of them were subdued by several arms and fists before a sharp blow to the back of the head plunged Church into unconsciousness.
He came round in a small room crowded with several figures. The windows were shuttered and thick, acrid candle smoke filled the air. The large-boned stranger they had been pursuing sat in one corner, gnawing on the remnants of a hambone. His cold gaze never left Church’s face.
C
hurch’s sword lay on a table, its faint blue glow illuminating the face of a serious young man who was examining it. Nervously, he kept pushing back the black hair that fell in ringlets around his face.
Church quickly sized up the situation. There were four others: a woman with blonde hair pulled severely back into a clasp, her expression frosty; a second woman with olive skin and a mass of curly black hair, beautiful, with a hint of aristocracy, and wearing a toga of the upper classes; a pensive North African man in long, black robes; and a centurion standing near the door. His presence was charismatic, but his expression appeared permanently troubled.
‘The sword is filled with the Blue Fire,’ said the young man. ‘See the way the light plays along the edge of the blade? It is an object of power.’
‘Then why does this scrawny one carry it?’ the one with the hambone said gruffly. ‘His arms are barely strong enough to lift it.’
‘Try me,’ Church said. ‘You’ll see.’
The man threw the hambone to one side and wiped the grease from his mouth. I never thought I would see the day when I heard an insect speak.’
‘Why were you following Decebalus?’ the centurion asked. He had the authority of a leader and the others all looked to him as they awaited an answer.
When Church didn’t respond, Decebalus leaned forward and snatched away Jerzy’s mask. Everyone recoiled from the grinning, white visage. The one leaning over the sword crossed himself and mouthed, ‘Jesu!’
‘Please do not hurt me!’ Jerzy shrieked. ‘I am only a simple entertainer.’
‘He’s no threat to you,’ Church stressed. He saw hands go for daggers and swords, the steel in eyes used to searching for threats in every corner. Only the dark-haired woman remained calm.
Jack of Ravens Page 12