The Sword of Damascus a-4

by Richard Blake

  ‘Christ is my Saviour!’ he cried, now exultant. ‘My Saviour is Christ!’ He stepped towards me across the office. In just that one step, he’d covered half the distance that separated us. He stopped and giggled, and spun round and round, his arms trailing outward beside him. ‘Christ is my Saviour! My Saviour is Christ! Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Christ is my Saviour! My Saviour is Christ!’

  His little sermon over, he took another step towards me. I tested the weight of my stick and held it up before me. I held it as if it had been half sword, half truncheon. It was neither, and neither would have been much good in these trembling hands. I told myself not to whimper, and stood up straight.

  As I looked, now steady, into his eyes, and thought I could see only death reflected back at me, the door of the office flew open. Standing in the doorway, stark naked, was Edward.

  Chapter 37

  Edward was silently taking in what he’d seen. His hair was untied, and it floated about him in the lamplight like a golden haze. The killer turned to face him. He laughed again and moved towards the door.

  ‘An old man,’ he grated, still in Syriac, ‘and a boy to guard him!’

  Edward’s response was a mouthful of obscenities in English, and then a lunge forward into the room. He set about the killer with the sort of cane you use for beating uppity slaves. Surprised, the man retreated at first, protecting his face with outstretched arms. He kicked another chair over, and it looked for a moment as if he might pull an entire book rack down on himself. But, if not very big, he was twice Edward’s size and weight. Surprise is everything when dealing with a superior opponent, and Edward had worn his out too fast to make it count.

  The killer reached out and snatched the cane. He took it clean out of Edward’s hands, almost as if he’d been taking a rattle from an annoying child. He held it in both hands and put his head back for a low, chilling laugh.

  ‘I am sent to kill an old man,’ he called, speaking a sort of Greek, ‘and now a boy as well!’ He laughed again, and went on the attack. He slashed out at Edward and caught him about the shoulders. He beat out again and again. It was a cruel and thoroughly experienced beating. I heard the continual hiss of thin wood and its impact on bare flesh. Edward dodged behind the fallen chair and tried to push it towards the killer. It was too heavy. He succeeded only in exposing himself to more of those terrible blows. Once more, the killer laughed. He looked at me. I was still propped, useless, against the desk. He shouted loud in a burst of wild, drug-inspired pleasure, and turned his full attention on the boy.

  Not once, under that beating, did Edward cry out. He held up his arms for protection. He did his best to shield his face. But, all the time, he lunged at the killer, trying to land a blow – hoping perhaps to regain possession of the cane. I watched until the killer turned and began driving Edward towards the office door. It was now that I went into action. I stepped forward and got him from behind with a blow of my own, much heavier stick. I missed his head, but got him a hard blow on the collarbone. There was a howl of pain, and he wheeled round to face me. I stabbed at his throat, and got him on the cheek. I raised the stick and swung hard. I felt the impact as I hit his left wrist. He howled again and made a grab for the stick.

  Edward was on his feet again. He jumped on to the man’s back and tried to pull him down to the floor. He was too light. But the man was clutching with his good hand at the hold on his neck. He pitched forward and back, and from side to side. I heard the thud of the boy’s thigh against one of the book racks. But there was no breaking his grip. Edward tried to get his fingers up the man’s nose and to pull. He scratched at the eyes. He ignored the still punishing backward slashes of the cane. I moved in closer with a hard jab into the genitals, and then another poke in the face. Using the stick in place of a stabbing sword, I went at every soft part of the body I could reach, concentrating on face and stomach. All the time, Edward stayed clamped on his back, pulling and shoving. I cursed my weakness and the hard thumping in my chest that almost seemed to knock me off what little balance I had. But I got the genitals again. This time, I must have got one of his balls. With a loud shriek of pain, he lunged backwards. Edward managed to swing himself sideways just in time to avoid being caught under the killer as he hit the floor. I took my stick in both hands and threw myself forward, landing with my stick across the lower part of his throat. I pushed hard.

  There was a time when I’d have crushed his windpipe as if it were a foot of leather hose, and got up to watch him choke. But I’d lost both weight and strength over the years, and I might as well have been pressing against solid bone. The man was dazed from the fall backwards, and I was on top of him. But the killing blow I’d had in mind was out of the question. So I raised the stick again. Still gripping it in both hands, I turned it vertical and brought it down hard. I missed his right eye, and carved a gash two inches long under his hairline. He squealed, and I felt his arms come up from behind to flutter about my throat. I held the stick aloft once more and struck with more precision. This time, its half inch went straight in. It grated against the socket, and there was a momentary pressure on the softness of the eye. Then, it crunched into the bone at the base of the socket.

  The screams were deafening. As if I’d thrown him on to those burning coals beside Saint Flatularis, the killer went into a frenzy. He curled into a ball. He clutched at his eyes, trying to pull the stick out of his ruined socket. The merest touch increased the agony, and he stretched out on his belly – as if trying to find some resting position in which the pain might at least stabilise. There was none. Sounding barely human, he howled. He beat frantically on the tiled floor. Again and again, he smashed both knuckles down until the bones must have broken. But there was nothing to relieve that all-devouring pain. And, surely beside the physical pain, must have been the horrified realisation of what I’d done to him. He curled into a ball again. He straightened out and arched his back, and screamed till his breath failed him. He clutched at his beard with both hands and pulled. He threw his arms wide and let out another long, bubbling scream.

  But, still, he wasn’t finished. With an angry roar that seemed to fill the room, he heaved himself to a sitting position and was reaching about for me. With a scream that was even louder, he tugged the stick from his eye and threw it aside. I grabbed at the fallen stick and, with all my remaining force, got myself to my feet. I swung another blow at him, and knocked him to the floor. I could have stood there, panting and clutching at my chest, to watch the man writhe in the only hell he’d ever know. But he was high on hashish and high on God. Astonishingly, he was scrabbling with his arms to roll over and get up again. I knocked at his other eye, and missed. I caught him a blow on the forehead with the handle of the stick, and knocked him flat again.

  ‘Take hold of his shoulders,’ I gasped at Edward. ‘Put all your weight on his chest. Try to keep him on his back.’ I stood at right angles to the killer, his head at my feet. I watched a moment, trying to predict his convulsive, still shrieking movements. Then I lifted the stick again. As if spearing a fish in the sea, I rammed it with all my aged force into his open mouth. I felt his front teeth shave the polished wood, and the softness of his palate. I felt the momentary resistance of his tongue, as, rammed like wadding into a blocked latrine pipe, it went downwards into his throat. I felt the grating resistance of bones beyond the back of his throat. Edward still gripping like mad on to the shoulders, I stepped back for a better position. Using it as a lever, I pulled the stick towards me. The man’s upper body arched. His arms went up in a last, despairing flail. Then his screams turned suddenly to a dull, frothing choke. If there was the click of snapping bones in his neck, I didn’t hear. But the good eye opened wide and the whole body went limp.

  I flopped down on the dead man’s chest and clutched at myself. My heart was going like the drum at the end of an erotic dance, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I shut my eyes and tried to ignore the renewed white flashes. I let myself go loose and r
olled off the man on the hard floor. I could feel a burning pressure in my nose and a spurting wetness all over my upper lip. Given a little more time to think, I might have reflected on an end that my barbarian ancestors would have thoroughly approved. But this wasn’t the end – not yet. I did catch my breath, and, slowly, my heart returned to a bearable, if uncertain pounding.

  I grabbed at the dead man’s clothing and pulled myself into a sitting position. I shook my head and opened my eyes and looked round. At first, I thought Edward had been badly injured. Gasping and shaking, he was on all fours, his head pressed against the cold tiles. He looked to be in a spasm of unbearable agony. I raised a hand uselessly towards him, and tried to cry his name. But it was only an orgasm. The hard flogging, and then the thrill of violent death had been too much for the boy. He sobbed uncontrollably as he reached the point of total crisis, and bit hard on his forearm until blood mingled with saliva. By the time he was done, and he lay quivering, face down on the floor, I was well out of danger. I still was in no condition to try standing. But I reached forward, and let a hand fall on his chilly, sweating back. He lifted his head on to his forearm and looked back at me with a dreamy smile.

  ‘My dear boy,’ I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could, ‘you really need to control these urges. One day, I promise, they’ll put you at a serious disadvantage.’

  Not moving his head, he raised his free hand and brushed a lock of damp hair from his eyes. ‘We killed the fucker,’ he said in English. ‘We did it together.’ He squeezed his eyes shut and repeated himself, now exultant: ‘We did it together.’

  ‘We did indeed,’ I said. ‘And you fought like a lion.’ I paused and chose my words. ‘I’m proud of you,’ I ended simply. I thought of reaching for that fallen chair and using it to pull myself to my feet. But that effort could wait until I was in better breath. ‘Now, be a good lad,’ I went on in a more businesslike tone. ‘Go and pull on that cord over there. The sooner we get help from downstairs, the better. We don’t know if this man was the only one sent.’

  Edward smiled again and sat up. ‘There’s a dead slave outside the door,’ he said. ‘Other than that, we’re alone.’

  I was no judge of that. It seemed still and silent all around. But, with my hearing, there might have been a riot in progress a few doors round that inner corridor.

  ‘And your own night company?’ I asked with unusual delicacy.

  He smiled brightly and pointed at the now abandoned cane. ‘I beat her unconscious,’ he said. ‘She didn’t even wake up when the noise started.’ He jumped up, whole patches of his body marked and bloody in the lamplight.

  ‘You’d better get some clothes on,’ I said flatly. ‘I suppose we might also wait for your – your signs of excitement to pass off.’ He looked down and laughed. He moved his feet apart and stretched his arms. He stamped on the floor and laughed again.

  ‘Oh, that won’t go down in a hurry,’ he cried, again exultant. ‘After this, I don’t think it will ever go down.’ He put his head back and laughed louder, and arched his entire body. Then, silent, he looked down at me, his face now taking on a strange, doubtful expression. He came and sat between me and the twisted body of the man we’d just killed. He swallowed and leaned forward. He put a hand on my shoulder. I took his hand and slapped it softly. I laughed weakly until I thought I’d have my first coughing fit in ages. I took the hem of my robe and wiped away some of the blood from around my nose.

  ‘My dear young man,’ I said. ‘All else aside, this is hardly the time or place for such things. Our wisest course of action, I do suggest…’ I trailed off. The boy wasn’t listening. And when did I ever behave wisely? If I’d behaved with an ounce of wisdom, Edward would by now be spending some of Ezra’s money in Spain, and I’d be hidden away in some desert monastery, waiting for death. Instead, we were sitting in the heart of the Caliph’s empire as his guests, with the body of some drugged-out religious assassin freshly dead beside us.

  And, now the killing was over, it really was very still and quiet.

  Chapter 38

  ‘But I’d never have thought it possible!’ Karim shouted, all trace of the cautious diplomat erased from his voice. ‘I cannot express how proud…’ He paused and remembered his calling. He turned back for another look at the twisted, now stiff corpse at his feet. ‘Dog of an unbeliever!’ he snarled. He kicked hard at the body, then bent down for another inspection of the congealed blackness of the right eye and the congealed brown mass within the open, sagging mouth. I had another rueful look at my walking stick. Covered in muck, its bottom length ruined, someone had pulled this out, and it lay unregarded beside the body. He stood up and grinned at me. ‘Nice work, My Lord. I can tell you that few survive an encounter with the Angels of the Lord. Yes – very nice work!’

  I got to my feet and winced at the pain that flooded in from every joint. I leaned on the broom handle one of the slaves had given me as an improvised new stick, and pointed at the body.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of telling you your business, Karim,’ I said. ‘However, before you dictate the arrest order for all my workmen, I would ask you to look at these stains on the dead man’s clothing.’ I poked my stick between the parted legs. ‘I suggest that, rather than having come in with the others yesterday, and then hiding somewhere, it seems more likely that he climbed up the outside water screw. The window beside it was left open to bring in fresh air, and Edward found it pushed wide open. I have no doubt an investigation from the outside will confirm my belief. I do beg you not to put some very competent workmen on the rack, but instead to have bars fitted on all windows that can be reached from the outside. You might also make some enquiries within the palace to find out how the man got past the outer security, and how it was he knew where I was and how to get at me. You will agree that trousers are not commonly worn in Syria, and that those leather patches on the knees seem to make light work of climbing high metal pipes.’

  Karim’s face tightened for a moment. Then again, I was turning his easy case into a long and possibly embarrassing enquiry. But he smiled and nodded back obediently. It would all be as I asked, he assured me with florid courtesy. I took the cup of something dull that a slave was pressing on me, and wondered if my workmen were getting over the shock of hearing Karim scream threats at them. He got up, his smile now broader.

  ‘My Lord will forgive me if I take my leave of this company,’ he said gravely. ‘I have my report to complete for His Highness the Governor of Syria. I will assure you of the great interest he takes in your comfort and security. I am sure that, in view of last night’s most regrettable incident, he will wish to receive you even in advance of this evening’s banquet.’ He looked again at the corpse and frowned.

  ‘Something I shall need to cover in my report,’ he went on, ‘is the apparent delay between the time you sent this piece of meat to Hell and your call for help. Everything points to a death no later than the midnight hour. Your call was just before dawn.’

  I pulled a face. ‘I’m an old man,’ I said. ‘It took me time to recover from the ordeal. The boy and I then sat awhile looking at the smoke from the fires that were breaking out all across the city. They reminded me of riots in Constantinople.’

  Karim scowled and muttered something about Christian ingratitude for all the benefits of the Caliph’s rule.

  ‘But you really must pardon me, Karim,’ I broke in, ‘for not at first recognising you. When you told me you were the son of Malik, I thought you were related to His Present Majestic Holiness. Am I right, however, in believing that you are in fact the son of Malik al-Ashtar, companion of the Caliph Ali and his Governor of Egypt?’

  He nodded and sat down again. This time, he sat on the little sofa where – unable to follow a word of the conversation – Edward had been sitting very still.

  ‘You are indeed a master of all wisdom,’ he said. ‘Know then that my father may have died in the civil war that the Empire did so much to foment. Know also that Muawiya delighted in the r
emoval of his rival’s main support. I am, even so, a loyal servant of the Caliph. Abd al-Malik is eager to move on from those regrettable disputes over policy. My main family in Medina has long since accepted the hand of friendship, and I rejoice in the Caliph’s fullest trust.’

  ‘I’d never have thought otherwise,’ I said with an easy wave. ‘But I did once meet your father. It was after your people had taken Syria from us. We were both part of the negotiation after the main battle for the exchange of prisoners. I found him a most brave and generous opponent. I was sorry to hear about his death.’

  Karim nodded again. He got up and crossed over to the door. As he bowed, I caught the unguarded look on his face. ‘Loyal servant of the Caliph’, my foot. The unifying bond of the Desert Faith was one matter. The bond of blood was something else. I kept a bleary, tired look on my face until the door was shut and we were alone. I reached behind one of the heavier bound volumes that was propped against the wall, and pulled out the wine jug.

  ‘That was a good meeting,’ I said, now in English.

  Edward looked up and made an effort to focus on me. He’d started to hurt rather badly once his bruises came out. In retrospect, the two drops of Jacob’s opium juice might have been more than strictly needed. He opened his mouth to speak. He shut his eyes and squeezed his fingernails hard into his palms.

  ‘Why is everyone trying to kill you?’ he asked with an effort. His face broke into a sweat and he leaned back into the soft cushions of the sofa.

  ‘I have already explained, my dear boy,’ I said patiently, ‘that these are not things for you to worry about. Besides, not everyone is trying to kill me.’ Drugged as he was, I could see the beginnings of a dark look. There was a knock on the door. I put the two brimming cups on my desk and stood in front of them. Three slaves entered with a large cloth sack. Another couple followed behind with mops and buckets of water.