The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus

by Michael Panush

  They hurried around the corner. A small stone staircase lay in front of them, leading off the canal and into another area. A metal door stood at the end of the stairwell, but Clay wrenched it open. He shoved his way through and his friends scrambled after him. Clay slammed the door and spun around, surveying the hidden room.

  It had apparently been some sort of maintenance area, where sewer workers could stash needed tools during repairs—but the Dagger Men had taken it over. A few bookshelves, assembled from abandoned furniture, rested against the walls. Symbols from the Kabala had been etched on those walls in pale chalk, showing the multi-branching Sephirot of divine emanations. A mattress appeared to be the only furniture. Clay turned back to the door. There would probably be a mezuzah. The whole room spread under out a stone ridge, which ran the length of the chamber. Ladders led down to the floor, which had been covered in pages filled with Hebrew scrawl. Rabbi Geist had kept busy.

  “Where’s Geist?” Clay asked.

  “Looks like he skedaddled.” Zipporah slid her scimitars back into their scabbards. “Left us his room.”

  They moved through the room, searching for any clue to the missing artifacts. “Rabbi Geist was just living here?” Harvey picked up a ragged newspaper and examined it. “Just waiting for Mr. Sapphire’s shipments? What kind of man would do something like that?”

  Zipporah reached the mattress. “A fanatic. I know the type.” She moved to a strangely neat pile of papers next to the mattress—bedroom reading for Rabbi Geist, perhaps?—and started leafing through it. “When I served with T.E. Lawrence, some of the Arabs had similar ideas. They were convinced that they were on a holy war, a Jihad, and that God himself was backing our cause. Made them fight like demons in battle, and never dream of giving up. They would even work with infidels like me and T.E., for a chance at victory.”

  “Anything for their faith,” Clay added.

  “And I guess the Dagger Men must be the same way.” Harvey glanced at the bookshelves, his eyes drifting over the spines of the dusty volumes. “Cripes—these are some very rare and impressive mystical texts. I think he’s got an original Zohar over here. That’s like the main book of Kabala.” He walked over to Zipporah and peered at the collection of papers. “What’s that one?”

  “Doesn’t look like Kabala.” Zipporah produced a gilded, square piece of paper.” She handed it to Harvey. “What do you make of that, child?”

  Harvey looked it over. “It’s a ticket—for the Sickle City Museum of Venerable Antiquities.”

  “Do you know it?” Clay asked. Though he had been in the city for a year or so, he didn’t mark himself as an expert.

  “Yes, sir,” Harvey agreed. “Papa—my father’s taken me there a few times. It’s an amazing place.” Pure enthusiasm filled his voice as he talked. “They’ve got sections on most of the ancient civilizations, with a place for Greek statues and urns, some Egyptian artifacts and mummies—including an entire chunk of a temple, taken from Egypt itself—and Aztec stuff from Mexico as well. It’s quite an impressive collection.” He stared at the ticket. “They have a bunch of objects from the Middle East as well, and several artifacts from Palestine.”

  “So these Dagger Men steal some of Sapphire’s artifacts?” Clay said. “And now they want what’s in the museum?”

  “I suppose so.” Harvey's smile faded. “Maybe they’re gonna rob it?”

  “But why?” Zipporah asked. “Something tells me that all these ancient gewgaws ain’t gonna be gathering dust on their mantelpiece.”

  Footsteps clicked on the stone ledge above the maintenance chamber. Clay glanced up—and his stone body creaked in panic. Rabbi Geist stood there, his hands folded over his thick fur coat. His eyes smoldered in the midst of his beard. Behind Rabbi Geist, a quartet of Roman legionaries wielded more of those long, heavy spears. They didn’t come alone. Appar-ently, the Dagger Men had access to a whole armory of Roman weapons.

  Two more skeletal legionaries manned something like an Ancient Roman artillery piece. The wooden device moved about on a pair of wheels, and looked like a giant crossbow. The legionaries had loaded up an oversized bolt, as long as Clay’s forearm, and pulled back the great string that would send it flying. Their skeletal hands perched over the controls, ready to fire. Clay doubted that even he could survive having his body struck with that weapon.

  “A ballista,” Harvey explained quietly. “It’s a Roman siege weapon. They might’ve used it at Masada.”

  Rabbi Geist raised his voice. “Perhaps they did!” he called. “And what did it matter, for all the arms of the Romans are nothing compared to the will of God. So it was with Joshua, when he destroyed the Canaanites. The shofar horns were blown, and then Israel became the land of the Jews.”

  “The Romans won, buddy!” Zipporah called. “In case you forgot.”

  “Rest assured, harpy—I did not. The Dagger Men never forget.” He leaned closer, peering down from the ledge. “But that was merely the first battle. Sickle City shall be the sight of another—and the beginning of a final victory for the Dagger Men.”

  “You picked the wrong town to conquer,” Zipporah replied. “Come on down from that ledge and I’ll prove it to you.”

  “I have a better idea.” Rabbi Geist nodded to the Roman Legionaries. “Wipe them out.”

  The ballista twanged—its string making a loud, rumbling twang. It echoed through the chamber and the large arrow shot down like a comet. Zipporah grabbed Harvey’s hand and tugged him out of the way as Clay darted to the side. The ballista’s bolt still hummed across his arm, its point digging out a trench in his earthen skin. He winced and stumbled as the arrow flew on. It slammed into the bookshelf, smashing through the worn wood and damaging several books. Pages of ancient paper came from the tattered books, floating down slowly and showing Hebrew script and rich illustrations of Stars of David, griffons, and crowns in bright primary colors. Rabbi Geist stared in horror at the destruction of his books. Clay got the idea that the Dagger Man rarely considered the consequences of his actions.

  He pointed at them with a shaking finger. “Bring me their heads!”

  The legionaries leapt down, a phalanx of the Roman skeletons leaping from the ridge to attack. They raised their shields, forming a neat wall, and jabbed out with their swords. Zipporah pulled her blades, and Clay readied his fists. Still, they couldn’t last long against this many skeletons. They needed to flee—even it meant going back into the sewers.

  Zipporah nodded to the door at the far end of the room. “Get moving. Watch their swords.”

  “I think the Roman sword is called a gladius, Miss Sarfati.” Harvey adjusted his spectacles. “I, ah, read a lot about Ancient Civilizations. My father buys me a lot of books on that subject.”

  “Just make sure you don’t get stuck with one.” Clay patted his shoulder. “Stay close.”

  They ran for the door, just as the legionaries charged. Clay barreled ahead and rammed his shoulder into the door to force it open. He hurried up the steps, followed by Harvey, and then Zipporah. The Romans charged at the same moment, their bones rustling as they pursued.

  The stairwell led back into the sewer tunnel, but Rabbi Geist’s spell had faded. The ice had melted, and the sewer canals returned to flowing, filthy water running between two rectangular cement banks. Clay overstepped the bank, momentum carrying him along. He pulled back his boot, before it could fall in the sewer water, and steadied himself on the cement ridge. The legionaries emerged from the stairwell behind them. Clay chose a direction—the one that led further into the sewers—and hurried down the tunnel, still holding Harvey’s hand.

  Pila whistled through the air, hurled by skeletal hands. Zipporah increased her speed and ran next to Clay and Harvey. The spears crashed down, their stone heads bouncing off the concrete. The legionaries still followed them, their shields groaning against the stone wa
ll as they raised their short swords. The clicks of their boots filled the tunnel. Clay focused on running. The tunnel twisted up ahead, and they ran along the curve.

  “Zipporah.” Clay couldn’t get tired—but his friends didn’t have that advantage. Harvey stumbled, breathing heavily, and Zipporah did her best to help him along. She hadn’t gotten winded yet—she was used to crossing the desert under Turkish fire, after all—but she couldn’t run forever. “You wouldn’t happen to have brought another Mills Bomb, would you?”

  “Afraid not, Clay.” Zipporah grinned weakly. “One’s usually enough to do the job.”

  “So what do we do?” Harvey asked.

  The tunnel made another turn. They ran with it, racing past the curved stone tunnel. It straightened out—revealing the end of the river of sewage. Steel grates covered the sewer, providing a long bridge between the two banks. A large cement wall covered most of the entrance, with only a small gap—covered by steel—for the water to flow. Clay stopped as well. They had reached a dead end. Shadows filled the room, but Clay couldn’t see an exit. A ladder led up to the ceiling, and perhaps a manhole cover, but Clay didn’t think they would reach it in time. Roman legionaries followed them and spread out, forming another phalanx and readying their swords.

  Gunfire blasted through the shadows. A rifle roared, and the lead Roman dropped, his skull shattered by an accurate bullet. A woman stepped out of the shadow, carefully working the bolt on her rifle. She wore a leather jacket, a set of bandoliers crossed over her chest, and carried a machete on her belt. Gunfire cast shadows over her weathered, brown face and sleek, dark hair. Clay recognized her as Carmen Cohen—Rabbi Holtz’s top enforcer. She had come to help them, just as Rabbi Holtz had promised. She had arrived just in time.

  Monk Moss joined her, armed with his trench gun. “Clay! Get Zipporah and the kid out of the way. Leave these skeleton fellows to me and Cohen.”

  Clay took Harvey’s hand and they hastened out of the firing line. Monk fired his trench gun, then racked the pump and fired again. Cohen kept her rifle cracking away. She had ridden with Pancho Villa as a soldadera, and married a Jewish mercenary who served her warlord master. Cohen believed that her family had once been Marranos, and practiced Jewish ritual while pretending to be good Catholics. Now, she had embraced her religion—but hadn’t given up her violent ways. She went to work with the rifle while Monk’s shotgun roared.

  Their bullets cut into the legionaries and destroyed them. Lead ripped through Roman shields and broke bones. The skeletons collapsed, their bones rattling against the metal grate as the weapons did their work. The gunshots echoed through the sewer, and Harvey covered his ears.

  Despite the barrage, the legionaries advanced. They charged straight into gunfire, stepping over the bodies of the fallen as they approached. Some legionaries made it through, and closed in on Monk and Cohen. Luckily, Rabbi Holtz’s two most trusted torpedoes were ready. Monk swung the butt of his trench gun around, ramming it into the skull of the attacking legionary. Cohen went for her machete. She hacked into the helmet of an attacking legionary, the blade smashing bone and cutting the skull in half.

  Cohen returned the machete to her scabbard as the legionary collapsed. “Cabrone!” She pointed back down the tunnel. “More of them, charging in. We’d better get out of here, Monk. I don’t think they’ll follow us into the street.”

  “Sounds like a fine proposition.” Monk nodded to Clay. “Get to the ladder. Up we go.”

  Clay hurried to the ladder. He scrambled up first, followed by Harvey. His hands gripped the rungs, and the ladder squealed slightly in protest. It held his weight, and he reached the top. A punch knocked the manhole cover out of its mooring. It fell aside, revealing a circle of night sky. Clay grabbed the edges and hauled himself up into a vacant street. He offered his hand to Harvey, and pulled the boy out. More gunfire echoed below them. Zipporah came up next, and then Monk. Cohen hurried up next, firing her rifle as she went. They helped her out of the ladder and slammed the manhole cover. No skeletons followed.

  “Dios...” Cohen wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “You seem to have a habit of fighting the dead, Clay.”

  “And we always win,” Zipporah said.

  “So far.” Cohen turned to Harvey. “We’ve got the Cunningham Touring Car around the block. Let’s get you home.”

  “Okay,” Harvey agreed.

  That seemed fine with everybody. They hurried down the street, leaving the ancient skeletal legionaries under the street.

  ~~~

  Later that night, they met in Rabbi Holtz’s study and listened to Harvey tell the story of the Dagger Men. The boy seemed quite fatigued as he stood before Clay, his Buster Browns planted on the earth-colored carpet. “Okay,” he said. “The Dagger Men—the Latin term for them is Sicarii—were part of the Zealots, who were the most intense of all Jewish rebels. They got their name because they’d carry these special daggers under their coats, close on some Roman, or someone they thought was a Roman sympathizer, and then pull their blades out and, ah, assassinate them.”

  Rabbi Holtz frowned. “So we’re dealing an order of ancient hitmen?”

  “Something like that,” Harvey said. “They were the most extreme of all the Jewish rebels—even the other Zealots didn’t like them. They killed Jews as well as Romans. Anyone they thought was betraying the Torah. I thought most of them died at Masada, but I guess some survived...”

  “And now they’re here.” Clay folded his hands. “You remember the ticket to the Sickle City Museum of Venerable Antiquities?”

  “Yeah?” Zipporah asked.

  “That’s where they’re going next,” Clay said. “And we’ll be there to meet them.”

  “Dagger Men.” Rabbi Holtz shook his head. “Mr. Sapphire’s not going to like this. And neither do I.”

  Clay nodded grimly. He felt the same way.

  Chapter Three

  GIANTS

  The Sickle City Museum of Venerable Antiquities, like so much in Sickle City, attempted to ape the glory and refinement of Ancient Greece—and only partly succeeded. It occupied an entire block in Damocles Street, just across from Arcadia Park, and featured an arched roof supported by a row of towering, marble pillars and a large stairwell bordered with Classical statues. A polished golden dome topped the entire monstrosity, resembling a small bowler hat on the head of a fat man. Clay parked his Studebaker across the street from the Museum of Venerable Antiquities, and led Zipporah and Harvey up the steps. They paid their admission and headed inside. They had arrived in the midmorning, a quiet and peaceful time even for Sickle City, and sunlight filtering down through numerous windows illuminated the vast lobby and the various exhibits.

  After buying their tickets, Clay and his friends approached a large map indicating the exhibitions and their place inside the museum. It looked like a list of every ancient civilization in the world, set in neat squares between twisting hallways on the three floors of the structure. The Aztecs and Mayans, along with other Indian tribes, occupied the first floor. The second belonged to Asia, with a large section for China and Japan. The third—the place of honor—went to the ancients regarded as the forerunners of Western Civilization. Egypt, Greece, Rome, and more had their place here, each in its own chamber.

  Harvey’s eyes widened as he looked over the various civilizations. “This is swell,” he mused. “Papa—I mean, my father has brought me here many times, and so has Uncle Herbert. I always enjoy it. They’ve got artifacts from everywhere!”

  “You like all this ancient civilization business, don’t you, child?” Zipporah asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s just something incredible about all these foreign lands, with all that sort of history.” Harvey pointed to a chamber on the third floor. “And look—we Jews have a place amongst them, right between Greece and Rome. I think we can get to the Judean a
rtifacts by going through the Egyptian room, and then we’ll be in the exhibition. It says they’ve got some new artifacts as well, recently uncovered in British Palestine.”

  Clay followed the boy’s finger. “Could be what Rabbi Geist and the Dagger Men are after. We should head there now, and give it a look.”

  “You don’t want to see the stuff on the first floor? They’ve got Aztec sacrificial knives, and Mayan glyphs, and—” Harvey started.

  “Maybe when we’re finished with Ancient Judea,” Clay said. “Come on.”

  They headed to the elevator, which whisked them up to the third floor. With its cream-colored walls and golden control panel and brass rails, the elevator resembled a gilded pearl—which matched the rest of the museum. The doors clicked open on the third floor and Clay and his friends wandered out into Ancient Egypt. It looked like someone had picked up Egypt, given it a good shake, collected all the detritus which fell out, and stuffed them in glass display cases or on brass pedestals. Everything seemed quiet and hushed in the expansive chamber; as if a single sound would disturb the artifacts.

  Harvey darted to the first display case, where an Egyptian chariot of carved gold stood before statues of animal-headed gods. “They must’ve found this in a tomb in the Valley of Kings,” Harvey explained. He pointed to the gods. “There’s Anubis, the falcon-headed god of Judgment. Next to him is Osiris. He’s the god of the dead.” He moved to the next display, which showed a stretch of hieroglyphics taken from a tomb. “Here’s Horus—he’s Osiris’s son, with the bird head. There’s a bunch more gods over there. Oh, and I think there’s some mummies.” He scrambled to a large glass case in the center of the room, where mummies rested on stiff frames so that their spindly arms formed strange gestures. Harvey moved close to the glass, staring at the mummies in amazement.