Lord of Slaughter c-3

by M. D. Lachlan

  27

  Hidden by Darkness

  Loys walked over to the Numera. It was dusk, or the time that should have been dusk, but the sky was black, and the only light was from the lamp carried by the two guards who accompanied him and from those of the citizens who moved around the streets.

  The fog was almost choking and he could see very little. The prison was invisible from the palace, not eighty paces away. Loys followed the palace wall and then took off at the diagonal across the square. A few steps into the filthy air and the prison loomed like a menacing rock seen from a ship.

  As he walked, he kept one hand on the short knife stuffed into his belt. Loys came to the gate of the prison. A group of four women strained at the bars of the gate, shoving through loaves and wine, money and even clothing to the guards. The only way of surviving the Numera was to have friends or relatives on the outside working for you, agitating for your release, bringing in supplies and offering bribes to the guards to take them in. Loys wondered how much of what was intended for the prisoners ever made its way to them.

  The gate guarded the front of a small compound leading to the entrance to the prison itself, a black doorway no wider than two men. He went to the gate and leaned through the bars. A guard was relaying news of prisoners to those outside He caught the man’s attention with a quick ‘Hey,’ and he came strolling over.

  ‘Meletios,’ said Loys, ‘get him here now.’

  ‘Your manners aren’t up to much, are they?’

  Loys withdrew his cloak to expose the blue silk beneath. The man gave a little whistle of surprise and went back into the prison. Loys stood tapping at the gate with his shoe. Then the fat form of Meletios came out of the dark doorway with two guards, their swords drawn.

  Meletios gestured to the gate with his eyes and one of the guards unlocked it.

  ‘Quick!’ said Meletios as the gate opened.

  His own guards went to come through, along with an old woman who tried to shove in front of them. One of the guards brought her a smart whack with the flat of his sword and she stepped back for a second, allowing him to close the gate.

  ‘We need to come with the quaestor,’ said one of Loys’ guards.

  ‘No one but Numeri in here, chief, you know the rules,’ said Meletios.

  Loys’ guards protested uselessly. Already Meletios was guiding Loys towards the entrance of the prison. Loys smiled to himself. He’d anticipated having to jolly his guards along in the Numera. Now he wouldn’t face that problem.

  ‘If we left that open we’d be overrun,’ said Meletios.

  ‘Don’t people normally try to get out of prison?’ said Loys.

  ‘Plebian idiots,’ said Meletios. ‘They think they can just walk in here and take their friends out with them. I don’t know what they think we’re running here.’

  ‘What are you running here? Looks more like an extortion operation than a prison to me,’ said Loys.

  Meletios bowed his head. ‘I have everything ready for you to descend,’ he said. ‘Mark that I have exerted myself for you.’

  Loys swallowed down a ‘thank you’. The chamberlain’s men expected such indulgences as a right.

  He followed Meletios to the dark doorway. Heat and a terrible stench breathed from it. Loys was reminded of a rotten mouth in an ugly face.

  They entered through a short corridor. Ahead of him Loys heard music, a high nasal pipe and a drum. Meletios opened an inner door.

  It opened into a large vaulted room lit by reed torches, ropes of incense smoke curling in the stale air. A band of musicians played in one corner and a girl danced across the floor. She was very beautiful, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and she wore long scarves of bright silks tied about her body. A man lay in chains on a rich couch of green velvet watching her. She bent backwards and writhed in front of him, casting herself to the floor, rising again and discarding a scarf.

  ‘Can you believe this?’ said Meletios. ‘Even in here some people need to demonstrate their wealth. This is supposed to be some sort of ceremony.’

  ‘It’s the dance of the seven veils, or a version of it,’ said Loys.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A pagan myth. The goddess Ishtar goes to the underworld to seek wisdom. As she passes through each of the seven gates that lead there she is forced by the gatekeeper to discard an item of clothing until she is naked. She bargains to escape the underworld, taking up her clothes as she goes. When she emerges she is free but must find someone to replace her. She chooses her brother, who has been drunk since she has been gone.’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t be emerging from here if it wasn’t for those two,’ said Meletios. He nodded to two men who sat in the corner. Loys recognised them as Normans. Her guards, doubtless. He didn’t know them, so chances were they wouldn’t recognise him.

  ‘You allow prisoners to have private armed guards in here?’

  Meletios shrugged. ‘We allow anything for the right price.’

  ‘Even to walk free?’

  ‘Depending on the quality of your enemies,’ said Meletios.

  ‘So this merchant must have high-quality enemies indeed.’

  ‘Very high.’

  Four men came to join them — prison guards.

  ‘Do we need so many?’ said Loys.

  ‘Word gets around,’ said Meletios, ‘I don’t like it any more than you do but they were sent over from the palace under imperial seal. Someone doesn’t want anything unpleasant happening to you.’

  Loys had felt clever losing his guards. He felt less clever now he realised that whoever was watching him was one step ahead.

  ‘Who sent them?’

  ‘Don’t know, emperor’s seal. Could have been anyone.’

  Loys appraised the men. No uniform to speak of.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Army chief of staff, sir,’ said a man at the front, ‘we’re here for your protection.’

  ‘With four of you we should be all right if I’m attacked by a small nation in here. Let’s get it over with, shall we?’

  They passed through two more sets of doors, down another tight corridor and out into a wider, darker, danker area, where the roof was supported by tall pillars. Here there was no dancing, just songs from the men who sat chained, calls to Christ and for loved ones.

  Someone sang a kontakion in a high, clear voice: ‘Though thou didst descend into the grave, O immortal one, yet didst thou destroy the power of Hades, and didst arise as victory.’

  ‘The wolfman’s hiding in here?’ Loys spoke quietly to Meletios.

  ‘No, in the tunnels below.’

  Loys swallowed. This was clearly not the worst horror the prison had to offer. Another door, steps and a smell like a fist in the face.

  Melietos took a torch off the wall, seemingly unbothered by the fetid air.

  ‘Down.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Still further.’

  They descended the steps to a vision from a doom painting — the mouth of hell made real on earth — men lying wasting and dying in irons, too weak to call out, stewing in their own filth.

  He was powerless to help these people and that made him angry. He could use his authority to get one released, maybe two, but he couldn’t order them all freed. Besides, they were there for a reason. The state would collapse if crimes went unpunished.

  ‘The tunnels are beyond, sir,’ said Meletios.

  Every sinew in Loys’ body seemed to strain to return to the surface. A deep animal repugnance was in him, an instinctive need to withdraw from filth and disease. He steeled himself and followed Meletios over the bodies of the sick and the dead.

  The room, an adapted natural cavern, was huge and it led away into denser darkness at its far end. As Meletios’s torch revealed more, Loys saw the roof dropped quite quickly. Only a narrow crack in the wall by the floor gave any indication it continued. The crack was nowhere near tall enough to walk through or even crawl. Anyone wanting to go within would have to writhe on t
heir belly and trust they would not get stuck, or that the floor didn’t fall away into nothing beyond the limit of the torchlight. Loys picked his way among the bodies to examine it closer.

  ‘That’s the way down,’ said Meletios, ‘that’s where the sorcerer went.’

  ‘Why has this never been sealed?’ said Loys. ‘Can’t the prisoners escape this way?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To something other than this.’

  ‘They are chained,’ said Meletios, ‘as you can see. Even if they weren’t, that way offers only death. You can get lost, you can fall, or the ghosts of the passages can take you.’

  ‘All the more reason to seal it,’ said Loys.

  ‘It was sealed,’ said Meletios, ‘but God was angry and shook the earth to unblock it. It’s said it’s a path to hell and I have no wish to explore it.’

  Loys had imagined the caves as tall and broad affairs, not like this. Was he going to pursue the wolfman into there?

  Meletios saw his hesitation. ‘Would you like to go in, sir?’

  ‘Pass me your lamp.’

  ‘Or perhaps you’d like to interview the prisoners.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They were here; they may have seen something.’

  Be careful. Beatrice’s words came back to him.

  Meletios watched Loys with mocking eyes. He reckoned he didn’t have the stomach for it.

  ‘I will look within. You know the way — lead.’

  ‘I don’t know the way,’ said Meletios. ‘I don’t know the way at all. I’ve never been down there.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have. You’ve left a dangerous wolfman roaming in there.’

  ‘He’s no danger. We have two sets of strong doors between us and him.’

  ‘Go within.’

  ‘Six men died.’

  ‘So now you know they died. You said they might be lost.’

  ‘Lost, dead, it’s the same thing here. Will you not speak to the prisoners? One has seen him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The scholar, the monk. Let me find him.’

  Meletios raised his torch and peered around.

  ‘He was here, he was. Wait!’ Panic was in his voice.

  He galumphed to the stairs, jumping over the bodies that obstructed his way, and went up. Very quickly he was back with a guard.

  ‘Where is he?’ Meletios was almost hysterical, shouting and gesturing as he pulled the man down the steps.

  ‘We have a number of monks in here.’

  ‘The special prisoner. The lady’s prisoner.’

  ‘The Norman Azemar?’ said the guard.

  Loys felt all the breath leave him.

  ‘Yes, him.’

  ‘He should be here.’

  The two men searched through the prisoners, turning them over where they lay, staring into wasted and pale faces.

  ‘What was that name?’ said Loys.

  Meletios came to him and bent his knee.

  ‘On my life, sir, I speak honestly now and hope you will deal with me kindly. I understand there is a prisoner who you know here. I had hoped for you to discover him so I might win favour with you for bringing you to him and arranging his release. He has gone. That places me in grave danger.’

  ‘Who is this prisoner?’

  ‘Azemar, a Norman. He begged us to contact you when I admitted him. He says he is here to warn you. I-’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ A cold fury rose up inside him. Azemar? His friend.

  ‘I was forbidden from doing so. An express order on high imperial authority.’

  ‘What was he doing here? Who…’ Loys was so shocked Azemar was in that awful place his thoughts failed him.

  ‘I am a servant and a jailer; I know nothing of these things.’

  ‘Are you a jailer? You seem scarcely capable of doing anything other than taking bribes. Why didn’t you come to me with this information?’

  ‘He remains here by the authority of the chamberlain. His sister put him here and she derives her right from him. I would be as good as dead if I told you about him. If you discovered him, however…’

  Loys was convinced he had been played for a fool by someone. Why was Azemar in this prison? Unless he really had come to warn him about something and had been prevented from doing so. By whose hand? Was Beatrice in danger? No, Loys, think clearly. Whoever his enemies were they hadn’t struck at him yet. An assassination or an abduction in the emperor’s house would cause more trouble than it was worth.

  He had to help his friend.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Meletios was actually on his knees.

  ‘So where do you think he has gone?’

  ‘There can be only one place, sir,’ said Meletios. ‘Down there, in the caves. He’s somehow slipped his bonds and tried to escape that way.’

  Loys pushed Meletios in the chest and stared into his face.

  ‘That man was my mentor and my friend,’ he said, ‘and we are going to find him.’ He turned to the guards. ‘You lot,’ he said, ‘can at least make yourselves useful.’

  28

  The Wolf Free

  The dark did not frighten Azemar as he crawled through the tunnels because it was not a true darkness.

  The touch of the rocks, the far-off sound of water and above all the smell, the smell of the wolfman, brought pictures to his mind, showing him the way forward. This did not strike him as strange, or rather he thought it only slightly odd he had never noticed these senses before.

  As he went on it seemed to him he wandered in other caverns, the caverns of the mind. He was there for a purpose, he recalled. In fact he was there for several purposes. He tried to order them. He was in Constantinople. Why? To find lodgings. No. That was his purpose but it was not his main purpose. Why else? To kill someone. No. To save someone. To save someone and to kill someone. The same person. The thought almost struck him as funny. He was in the caves. Why? Because someone had put him there. No. He had gone there himself. Someone else wanted him to leave. Who wanted him to leave? A wolf. A wolf who was not a wolf.

  He remembered his youth, running on the riverbank with other boys on a deep green day in summer. He had run that way before, years before, in lives gone by — now he could sense it.

  Memories tumbled through his mind, no more intelligible when he tried to understand them than the blot of an ink cup spilled across a page. He remembered a cornfield, the sun on the unripe stems, the sparkle of the river waters and beside him the woman in her black robe with her hair a burning gold. ‘Do not seek me,’ she had said. Yet he had sought her — he thought he had known her a long time.

  In recent years, sleep sent him to strange places. He found himself by a low peasant house, its turf roof no more than waist-high, watching the woman with the golden hair putting herbs out to dry on the thatch. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her he loved her. But she ran from him — always she ran and he followed, begging her to stop.

  All his life he had been happy in the monastery. The food was plentiful, the company good, and he was a natural scholar. His order required obedience, stability and conversion to its way of life. He had no need to convert. He had lived under the rule of the monks since his earliest years.

  One day he had been working the fields. The lord rode by and behind him his children. He’d seen her in the distance across the river, the duke’s daughter on her grey horse, flanked by warriors. For a moment he glimpsed another life, imagined he was one of those men, destined to marry, to have children and to fight in wars. Then he had gone back to his toil.

  His friend Loys had gone, if not to fight then to love, and Azemar had been left with his books, observing the hours of devotion, making the food, cleaning and cooking.

  He crawled forward on his belly.

  ‘What have I been? What have I been?’

  He sensed water.

  Lights flared behind him, lights and voices. He stood, his shadow long on the walls. From somewhere in the tunnels another voice called. A woman. A girl?


  There was water in front of him. The water connected him to her. He put his mouth to it and drank.

  ‘This is the stream…’

  He said the words himself and edged forward into the water. A song came to his lips.

  ‘The water weft that knots in the world well.

  Where the dead god took his lore.’

  A current tugged him forward. Was the current of this world or of the dream world?

  A scream.

  ‘What are you doing? It’s him you want!’

  ‘You’ve made enough mistakes, Meletios!’

  ‘In the name of the chamberlain, I tell you to stop!’

  He recognised one of the voices behind him. It seemed to recall something of his old self, before the Numera, before he had eaten of bloody fruits, sucked knowledge from the marrow of men’s bones, seen the world as it is, in its stains and its sweats, its smears and its stinks, not as men imagine it to be.

  There was another scream and a crash.

  ‘He’s got a knife! The bastard has a knife!’

  ‘Where’s he gone? Get that torch lit again. You idiot, get a light!’

  Frantic voices jabbered down from the upper tunnels, floating on a hot wave of panic, delicious to Azemar as the smell of a cooking pot.

  You are near her. Bring her. I will be your salvation. It was a girl’s voice, sounding in his mind as clearly as if she’d been standing next to him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  One who sits and waits. She who gave the most for lore.

  ‘You are a demon.’

  No.

  ‘You are a thing of darkness.’

  You are of the dark, of all fears and fancies made.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Bring her to me.

  ‘Who?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Get a light! A light!’ The voices again.

  A cry, a shout of pain brought him jolting back to himself.

  He remembered Loys. His friend was just a child when he’d met him, too scared to sleep in the big dormitory, crying in anguish and loneliness. Azemar had told him he’d felt like that too on his first night. Loys was among friends, kind and gentle people who would help him.