“So,” said Galfrid, “how long do you propose we wade about in this garden of earthly delights?” Down here, it became hard to judge the passage of time. The moments seemed painfully long, and they had now been pacing these tunnels for at least an hour – picking their way slowly, carefully. In all that time they had found nothing of note beyond a few ancient bones – both human and animal – some broken barrels, a large quantity of rats – which, happily, dwindled in number as they proceeded – and, most bizarrely, a six-foot brass trumpet with a leather slipper stuffed in the end.
“We go where the trail leads,” said Gisburne, without looking back. “Until we find what we’re looking for.”
Gisburne was well aware that this was primarily his mission and not that of their master, Prince John. John had indulged him, nonetheless. In the months leading up to Christmas, there had been another, far more pressing problem, closer to home – a problem that had occupied Gisburne’s thoughts utterly. But always, at the back of his mind, he had this other, more personal duty waiting its turn. It was a duty not to a prince, but to a humble squire. To a friend. To Galfrid.
Then, on Christmas Eve, the great problem had been swept aside with startling finality. It had not been without cost. But it had at least left Gisburne free to pursue other aims – even with a void to fill – and he had turned back to this piece of unfinished business with renewed vigour. John, exhilarated by their recent victory, gave his full blessing to the enterprise, and put all available resources at Gisburne’s disposal.
It had taken them eight months of dogged investigation to get to this point. Eight months of false leads, blind alleys and disappeared informants. Their adversary was subtle, and at the start, their own methods had been crude. Time and again, as they drew close, their prey would go to ground – vanishing without trace, like a phantom. There were those who believed he was literally that – that he had perished that time in Boulogne, over a year before, and that what now walked the earth was some kind of vengeful spirit. Gisburne had never paid heed to ghost stories. In his experience, the dead stayed dead. But this one was fiendishly clever. And so they had learned, and adapted. With a restraint that had tested their resolve to the limit, they had finally succeeded in keeping themselves invisible to their adversary, resisting opportunities to strike where victory could not be assured, waiting instead for him to reveal his grand plan.
Such restraint did not come easily. Gisburne was a man more used to the battlefield than the chessboard – to attacking hard, or bypassing the fight altogether, when it was to no purpose. During these days, as so often, Gisburne had held fast to the words of his old mentor, Gilbert de Gaillon: “The object of a hunt is simple. Not to attack the beast, but to kill it. You must therefore ask yourself, will attacking now achieve this end – or push it further from your grasp?”
Now, they were tantalisingly close. To what, neither yet knew for sure, but both sensed that the day of discovery – a day they had worked towards with steady determination – was finally upon them. And both were now certain, beyond any doubt, that the one they sought was here, at the heart of this labyrinth. To finally ensnare him – to have him removed forever from the earth... Well, Gisburne knew that, for all his griping and complaining, Galfrid would walk slowly over hot coals in Hell rather than pass up that opportunity.
Gisburne paused and looked about him. “This tunnel joins a larger one up ahead. If I have it right, the Via Dolorosa is now somewhere above us.” He turned to Galfrid. “So, in a way, you are walking in the footsteps of Christ. Just... a couple of dozen yards lower.”
Galfrid gave a grunt of irritation and passed a hand across the stubble on his head. He had thought, before they ventured down here, that it would at least be cool in the tunnels. In fact, it was sweltering. His head throbbed, the stench seeming to lap against it on every side.
Gisburne moved off again – then stopped so suddenly that Galfrid went into the back of him. Just ahead, projecting a few inches above the surface of the effluent at a point in the tunnel wall where, it appeared, another tunnel entrance had been blocked up, was a rough, horizontal slab of stone. On the slab was the body of a man.
His throat was cut, the wide gash in the parted, grey flesh grinning open like a lipless mouth. But while the flesh about his neck remained otherwise intact, his face, left arm and left leg had been eaten to the bone. Whatever rats remained hereabouts had evidently made use of him. A sweet, sickly odour rose from what was left.
“Who is he?” said Galfrid in a whisper. “And what in God’s name brought him down here?”
“It was more likely in Allah’s name,” said Gisburne. He crouched over the grim corpse. Fine scale armour glinted upon his torso. From his belt hung an empty sword scabbard and a sheathed knife, both with fittings of gold. “Arab. Well dressed. Well armoured. One of Saladin’s. The elite. Whatever it was brought him down here, it certainly wasn’t need.” He had occasionally heard of beggars and lepers taking refuge with the dead in catacombs, but this man was clearly neither.
“The body hasn’t been plundered,” observed Galfrid. “Not by humans, at least.”
Gisburne glanced again at the exposed skull and suppressed a shudder. “So, whoever killed him...”
“...was not a thief. And also not in need.”
Gisburne stood. “I suspect his reasons for being down here may be the same as ours. And that he found what – or who – he was looking for. To his cost.”
“Poor bastard,” said Galfrid.
Gisburne stared off into the gloom ahead. For a moment, he thought he could detect a faint glow at the edge of his vision – but the effect disappeared as his eyes tried to focus on it.
“The body is only a few days old,” he said. “It means we’re close.”
They followed the flow towards the intersection with the wider tunnel – and within minutes Gisburne understood that his fleeting impression had been correct. Ahead, framed by the distant tunnel’s mouth, was the flickering orange light of another flame. It was stationary. As they neared, he could see the pool of light that spread about it, within which was a large, uneven dark shape. Objects of some kind, stacked in a pile. But there was no movement of any kind. No sign of life.
Gisburne drew his sword, and quickened his pace.
They stopped at the edge of the larger tunnel, its ceiling arcing above them, and stared across at the dark, shadowy heap.
“Barrels,” said Gisburne.
“Barrels,” repeated Galfrid with a nod. “And there was me thinking it was going to be about the trumpet. So, are we too early, or too late?”
The torch upon the opposite wall had been burning no longer than their own. Someone had been here, and could not be far. But which way? Gisburne turned his own torch first to the right, then to the left. “This flows south-east, ultimately to the Kidron Valley. The tunnel we have just travelled comes from the Christian quarter. Across there are tributaries from the Muslim sectors, with the Jewish area up that way.”
“Christian, Muslim, heathen or Jew,” said Galfrid, his nose wrinkling, “shit still smells like shit.”
“Except...” said Gisburne, a frown creasing his brow. “When it doesn’t.” He sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”
“Are you joking?” said Galfrid. But beneath the dank, hot reek of stale urine and fermenting excrement, another, sharper smell was rising. Something half familiar.
Galfrid sniffed tentatively. “Vinegar?” he said. At Gisburne’s suggestion they had doused their skin with the stuff before coming down here. By this method, Gisburne’s old comrade Will Pickle had fended off dysentery throughout William the Good’s entire battle campaign against the Byzantines, earning his nickname in the process. He had been convinced its strong, clean smell kept disease-laden odours at bay. Gisburne could think of no better occasion to put that to the test.
He stepped out into the tunnel and stopped, flame held at arm’s length, his narrowed eyes scanning the uneven stonework of the clammy ceiling, then
every crack and fissure in the crumbling walls. Nothing. Tentatively, he lowered his torch towards the black surface of the lapping effluvium.
Upon it, he now saw, was a curious, iridescent sheen.
Galfrid frowned and stooped to examine the fluid, moving his own flame closer as he did so. Gisburne grabbed the torch. “I suggest we keep our torches above waist height,” he said. “Petroleum. Everywhere about us. If that should ignite...”
Galfrid stared, wide-eyed. “...we’ll be roasted alive.” He raised his torch slowly above his head.
“No rats,” said Gisburne in sudden realisation. “That’s why there are no rats. But where’s it coming from? And why is it here?”
“The barrels?”
Gisburne turned his torch flame upon them. A few had been unstoppered or broken open, but they appeared mostly intact. “There must be more,” he said. “Many more. It’s covering the whole surface.” He looked away to their right, into the deep dark of the arched stone passage. “And it’s flowing from... that direction.”
He started off into the gloom, but no sooner had they passed the heap of barrels than Gisburne felt Galfrid grip his arm. He turned and immediately saw what had caught the squire’s attention. By the left wall, almost obscured by shadow in the cleft between the barrel heap and the stonework and partially submerged, was another body. This time it was clearly fresh, and no Arab.
Gisburne waded over towards it, and was just crouching over the dead man when he became aware of a movement in the deep shadows barely a yard from him. Too late.
The man was on him in an instant. In desperation, Gisburne brought his weapon up. He was aware of a flash of steel – the glint of scale armour, golden in the torchlight. The other’s dark face loomed as the attacker swung his sword high – and stopped dead.
For a moment, both stood, transfixed. “Gisburne?” The voice was deep, seeming to echo the length of the tunnel.
Gisburne stared, eyes widening. “Asif?”
Asif – almost a head taller than Gisburne, who was tall himself – threw his big arms around his friend and clapped him on the back heartily, his deep laugh reverberating through Gisburne’s chest. Gisburne, stunned, fought to maintain his grip on his torch.
“You two know each other?” said Galfrid, incredulous. He looked around, as if reminding himself of their circumstances. “Well what are the odds? Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any stranger...”
Asif released Gisburne from his grip and stood back, his hands still on his friend’s shoulders.
Gisburne allowed himself a laugh, though the blood was still pumping hard in his veins. “Asif helped keep the peace when I was here... What? Five years ago?”
“Six!” laughed Asif.
“He was also a fabulous archer and a terrible backgammon player. Taught me everything I know.”
Asif sighed. “That was before Hattin. Before the crusade.”
“Before everything,” added Gisburne.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” said Asif. And another big laugh welled up in him.
“Looks like you’re still in much the same game,” said Gisburne. “But in the pay of the Sultan himself, this time, unless I’m mistaken.”
Asif cocked his head. “I couldn’t possibly say.” He looked Gisburne up and down, a bemused frown pressing deep creases into his brow. “But what of you? Are you some kind of... musician now?”
If pressed, Gisburne could play two tunes on the hurdy gurdy – one of them badly. “I couldn’t possibly say,” he said with a smile.
Asif held his gaze in silence for a moment, then smiled. “Well, I think we understand each other.”
Galfrid cleared his throat, pointedly.
“Oh – this is Galfrid,” said Gisburne.
“Sir Galfrid,” said Asif, with a bow of his head.
“My squire,” added Gisburne.
“But you may call me Sir Galfrid if you wish,” said Galfrid with a broad grin. “It has a certain ring to it.”
Gisburne turned and nodded towards the body of the dead knight. “Your work?”
Asif looked irritated. “I meant only to stun him. To find out from him what all this is about. But these Europeans from their wet countries – they die too easily.” He seemed to remember who he was talking to. “No offence.”
“None taken,” said Gisburne. He crouched over the body and began to pull back the surcoat, mail and gambeson to reveal part of the man’s neck and shoulder. There, over his collar bone, was a tattoo of a skull.
“The Knights of the Apocalypse,” said Galfrid, his voice a flat monotone. “We were right...”
This was the final confirmation – the culmination of their months of toil. It would end tonight, here, within this grim labyrinth.
“I have never heard of this order,” said Asif.
“They are a recent phenomenon,” said Gisburne. “Their ethos insane, their leader a madman. Up above they went dressed as simple pilgrims. Down here, we see them for what they really are – crusaders. Though even that term dignifies their aims. Since King Richard and Saladin reached an accord, there has been peace. But the actions of these men could spark another war – a war that neither side wants.”
“Is this what they seek?” asked Asif. “An end to the truce?”
“An end to everything,” said Gisburne. “And they must be stopped. At any cost.”
“Then we have the same goal,” said Asif. “But what are those actions?” He looked at the barrel heap. “What is it they are doing down here? It makes no sense.”
Gisburne stared back into the gloom of the tunnel. “This will take us to the answer,” he said.
III
THEY MOVED ON together, following the course of the large, central drain – which, Asif informed them, ran the full length of the city, passing directly under its heart. As they advanced, the smell of petroleum grew ever stronger, patches of the stuff on the surface of the city’s waste making it ever more slick and viscous. In two side tunnels they had been able to discern the now familiar dark shapes of further piles of barrels. It seemed prudent to assume there were other heaps hidden in these depths, all placed according to some dark strategy. But even they could not be the primary source of the outflow.
Just past the second such tunnel, Asif suddenly raised his hand. All stopped, and stood motionless. It took a moment for the sound to reach Gisburne’s ears – distant, echoing, steady and rhythmic. It was half-familiar, but he could not place it, blurred by the distance and the weird qualities of the honeycomb of passages. He could not even be certain from which direction it came. He glanced at the others, then moved off again.
The sound grew in volume as they advanced, its steady rhythm pounding in their ears, beating against Gisburne’s nerves. He knew now what it reminded him of, though it made no sense, not in these depths. It was the sound of a tree being felled. And beneath it, now, another sound. A meandering drone that rose and fell. Wordless sounds – but clearly a voice.
Up ahead, to one side of the main drain, they saw dimly flickering light – an entrance to another tunnel, from whose mouth the sounds echoed. But this was no mere tributary. As they neared, they saw it was another large drain at an angle to the first – not constructed in stone or brick, but hewn through the rock. “This could not be of later date than the time of King David,” whispered Asif, “and was perhaps much older even than that.” A little way along its course, it connected with what appeared to be a natural cave, on the left side of which ran an uneven ledge, almost wide enough, in parts, for two men to walk abreast. They climbed onto it, relieved to be relinquishing contact with the city’s stinking discharge.
The curving, rocky passage extended a short distance to another opening, where it appeared to broaden out into an even bigger space – the source of the light, and also of the sounds.
No longer speaking, they exchanged looks, smothered their torches and were plunged into gloom.
They listened to the steady, rhythmic sound in
the dark as their eyes adjusted. The glow returned. Faces again became visible. The path once more revealed itself. Then, slowly, they crept forward towards the light.
When finally they peered beyond the mouth of the passage, their jaws dropped at what they saw.
A huge chamber opened up before them – part Roman vault, part cave, walls and ledges of ageless rock merging with soaring, interweaving arches of brick and stone, like the great crypt of some profane cathedral. All around the margins of the chamber, torches were fixed, their flickering yellow flames reflecting weirdly on the vast lake of effluent that the walls encircled. Its undulating surface – slick with an oily sheen – seemed to give back every colour but those which could be deemed natural, the sick stink of it now so heavy with petroleum as to be almost overwhelming.
And there, at the centre of it all, the all-dominating feature that elevated the scene to the status of a nightmare. From the hellish, rainbow-hued sea of ordure, reaching almost to the chamber’s roof: a ragged, teetering pyramid of barrels. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them – Gisburne could not even begin to reckon their number. And within this, a single point of movement – a speck of dogged human purpose. Half way up, perched like an insect on a mound, a knight was breaking open a glugging barrel whilst singing a crusader hymn, each stroke of his axe in time with the music.
Huddled in shadow at the edge of this outlandish scene, the three companions gazed upon the man-made mountain with speechless incredulity. Gisburne had been trained to divine his enemies’ motives and capabilities – had thought he alone grasped the extremes to which this one was prepared to go. But nothing had prepared him for this. The mere scale of it baffled comprehension. The effort must have taken months. Simply for the transport of the barrels to have been kept secret, they must have come from dozens of locations. To have been hidden, smuggled, disguised – their contents obscured and mislabelled at every step. It seemed the work of madmen. But its execution was not mad. It was steady. Calculated. Purposeful.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 42