Dark Wolves

by J A Deriu

  The Great Lecture Theater stood across from the student lawns where, on a normal day, with even a poke of sun, the young bodies would be lazing on the grass with a book open to no particular page and heads full of feathery thoughts. On this afternoon there were only the scattered remnants of fleeing people and the books left open with pages turning without care.

  On the other side of the lawn, the trouble could be seen. Dark-gray smoke hovered low near the heads of the security forces who formed a shadowy hedge with their riot shields. What faced them was a mass of fist-shaking men who had their own shields. The sides faced each other like a medieval pitched battle. Newton signaled for then to follow him into the hall. Dagni looked longingly at the battle scene. “This is where light meets darkness,” she said.

  “Which side are you on?” Ida asked, not moving either. Newton’s plan was not wise. There were many ways out of the university. The rioters could not have blocked them all. There were underground passageways and tiny side alleys. Newton stood at the top of the stairs, behaving like a colossus, which his size ridiculed. The hall with its carved Greek lettering was familiar to her. She had once delivered a lecture inside, which she thought had been an impossibility, only the will of Pierre making it a reality. It was also the place only months before that she had been publicly announced as a councillor.

  The distinct sounds of gunfire rung across the lawns. Newton looked assured. His face showed that he had assumed the City Legion had arrived. But it was not for long. A bullet landed somewhere nearby. Its sinister clang on the cobblestones could be heard. It was not a stray as another crashed the stained glass of the great hall, and another the foot of a statue of one of the university founders. Dagni and Ida held each other, not certain who had grabbed first. Newton cowered for a moment and then straightened his body. “This is treachery!” he shouted. “The state shall not be threatened.” He raised his short arm, pointing a fist to the sky. There was silence for a moment. He looked proud, as if he were in the Forum. He fell unnaturally backward. The sound of the shot was heard a second later along with the screams of those nearest him. He did not move, other than a leg falling from one step to the one below.

  “The clock tower. They have taken the clock tower,” one of the onlookers shouted and pointed. Shady figures could be seen moving along its open top with unmistakably rifles in their hands.

  “Inside, quick inside.” She felt the tug of Dagni pulling her. Together they hurried the steps to the shelter. Some of those around lowered themselves flat to the ground. They passed Newton. His arms were thrown out as if still delivering a speech. More gunfire could be heard.

  They entered the foyer. Dozens were inside, frantic, screaming, and exhausted. The university officers tried to calm people, but they were panic-stricken themselves. “Is this really happening?” Dagni said. “The councillor is dead.”

  Ida found that she was holding Dagni’s hand. “I am sorry. Bad day to invite you to a lunch.”

  “It won’t be forgotten.” Dagni half smiled.

  “Move inside,” one of the disheveled officers shouted, “out of the foyer.”

  Ida instinctively did not like the false bravado of the officers, but there was no other choice than to move with the frightened crowd.

  “The City Legion will come,” one of the politicians said. “They will clean this mess up quickly.”

  A thunderous noise was heard from outside. The eyes in the room jumped from face to face looking for an answer as to what could make such a crash. No one answered. Ida and Dagni settled themselves at the end of a row where they could overlook the theater. News of the fate of Newton spread across the room, and Ida read the bitter fear as not of what had happened to the veteran councillor but what was going to happen to those hiding.

  Ida realized that she herself had no fear. It would be different if this was a placid afternoon and her duty was to speak at the lectern. She would have had uncontrollable nerves, with her mind taxing itself seeking a means to escape. Dagni also showed no panic. She turned her head to Ida and spoke calmly. “The perpetrators of this are not who they will say they are. For the truth, think of who will benefit. The spies, the censors, the state.” The room shook with an explosion. Lights flickered and jangled.

  “That will be debated,” Ida answered. “For now, at this moment, I don’t like this situation.” There were dozens scattered around the hall, clustered into little groups of two or three. She recognized a few of them, perhaps some from the lunch, including some of the waiters who had fled with them. There was no one to show any control, as if what had happened to Newton was the deterrent to anyone standing tall. She guiltily thought that she was the most senior politician, and it fell to her. Yelling like curses came from outside and some of those wavering fled through the doors.

  “I am not for waiting for the City Legion,” Dagni said. “If their history is an indication, they will raze and ruin without regard.”

  “I agree. Let’s get out of here.” They stood, ready to move. One of the university staffers rushed to them.

  “What are you doing, Councillor?” he said. “You can’t leave.”

  “We don’t know what’s happening, and we are not going to sit here like marionettes.”“I have seen this situation unfold. It is dangerous.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have been here since morning,” the innocent-faced staffer said. “The Christian Unionists were here in numbers, blocking the streets, waving their flags. They have thrown their support to the Templars and against the Progressive establishment’s move to cripple the religious zealots. Wherever the Unionists are, the Red Dawn will come for a fight, and this was no different. But there were others, too, and the security could not keep them to the streets. They have taken control of much of the university. It is not safe out there. The unionists will jostle you and shout in your face, and the Red Dawn piss and spit at you, but whoever is out there will do a lot worse.”

  The heads in the room turned toward the door. A series of bangs could be heard. Ida pulled Dagni by the arm. She had decided to leave. Others in the room had made the same decision and raced for the doors. As they were reached, they were flung open, and they all stopped. The rebels, mutineers, terrorists, whoever they were, stood in the doorway. Their faces could mostly not be seen as they were covered by scarves pulled high, but enough could be seen of the unruly eyes and the gaunt cheekbones to know that they were killers. The eyes in the room quickly diverted to the weapons that they were holding. Rough pieces of wood with jagged nails sticking out, bats that had edges splintered, and fists wrapped in tattered rags. The boldest of them was a man with his bald, sweat-glistening head bared and holding a bat like a club. His eyes stopped at her as if he had seen something of value. Ida expected fear to grip her, but strangely it did not.

  There was a brief moment of silence as both sides considered one another. The staffer stepped forward with his hands held in front of him. “You are on private property. You need to leave,” he hesitantly said. The bald man thrashed his mace at him. The staffer was smacked to the ground. Blood could be seen. One of the other attackers kicked at the fallen body. Someone in the room screamed, and those left ran for the exits. The many intruders scattered and chased.

  Ida was holding Dagni’s hand. They hurdled over chairs and made it to an exit, crashing into other bodies on the way. The attackers were behind them. Something was thrown and crashed over their heads. She had been recognized. The attackers shouted excitedly to each other as if a prize had been won. Her dress caught at a corner, and it was ripped as she pulled away. The exit led to a long corridor. She slipped as she ran. She knew that the corridor led to an enclosed square, an old, picturesque part of the university that was known as a place of secluded thought. She was trapped, but there was nowhere else to run.

  They were the first to make it to the courtyard. Dagni looked around. She would shortly understand. None of the oth
er university or political people came. They had been caught by the rioters. Ida and Dagni could hear the blows, shouts, and crude curses from the hallway. The sky was covered by black smoke. The building was burning. Ida looked across the square for some hope. There was none. It was as she had remembered, shut off to the outside world. The corridor was blocked. The shadows stalking toward them would soon be the grotesque men who had chased them.

  “They will not take me,” Dagni said. “I will fight.”

  There was an old, gnarled tree in the center of the square. Dagni let go of Ida’s hand and tried to break off a branch. It would not easily break. The rioters stepped into the square and stood poised. The bald man, his skull covered in sweat, was at their front. They had let their scarves drop. There were four of them. The bald man held up his mace for them to stop. “Do you know who we are?” he said in a jarring voice.

  “You are nothing but scum,” Dagni answered. “You will not gain anything from violence.”

  “Ha,” the man laughed. “Two councillors. This will be a truly profitable day.” Dagni rushed at him with a broken branch. Ida clutched at nothing and was too late to stop her. He stepped back and avoided the swish of the branch. She lost her balance, and he swung his mace with little effort to clobber her on the head. Her body thudded against the ground. He laughed at the pathetically sprawled body. Dagni’s hair fanned on the cobblestones. “It is worse for you.” He looked at Ida. “You will be the same as Newton.” He moved his head to command the others. They spread so that she had no way to pass. The bald man swung his mace as if practicing. The others held out their weapons. One of them held a bloody ax. “The revolution has begun, bitch. There will be no mercy.” He slashed the mace. She fell away from it. The vicious swing grazed her forehead. She was on the ground. On her backside. Her hands were against the cobblestones holding the rest of herself up. The ugly mace was poised above her. Smoke filled the square and blurred the picture.

  She saw movement behind them. A man was standing in the archway. He said nothing, but the rioters all turned to face him. He was not one of them, and he stepped purposefully so that he could see Ida. He wore the white of a waiter. His hair was beautifully groomed. His age was hard to determine. She could not see more because of the smoke. The rioters lifted their weapons at him. There was no preamble. He moved with swift elegance. His arms and legs were perfectly coordinated. Two of the attackers were disarmed and on the ground before the other two had moved. The bald man swung his mace, but his wild strike was ducked by the waiter, and it struck one of the other rioters, sending blood splashing at Ida. A rioter had his arm twisted. The waiter was behind him, and the crack of bones could be heard as the rioter screamed. The body dropped to the ground. Another was stamped down as he tried to stand, the body left lifeless. Only the bald man of the attackers was standing. He had his mace and swung it again. The waiter easily avoided the blow with a smile on his face. He moved one way and then another. The bald man lost his balance. The waiter grabbed his arm, turned him, and hooked his own arm under the thick neck of the bald man. A sharp crack was heard. The mace fell. He let go of the body, and it clunked to the stones. The waiter moved toward Ida. He wiped his hands on his shirt and held out a hand for Ida to get up. “It is all over. You should go,” he said, his voice cultivated. His eyes gleamed.

  She took his firm hand. “You.”

  “I would not leave you, my darling. This could have been ugly.”

  She stood and saw the ruined bodies through the moving smoke. “Who are they?”

  “These are fools. Their masters think this is a revolution. Well, it is, but not the one they think. Now go. Your friend needs care.” She looked at Dagni. He carefully turned her. Her eyes were glassy. A crimson drip came from a crack on her forehead. Her breathing was stiff. “You will have to carry her,” he said and pulled Dagni up by putting his hands under her armpits.

  “I can’t. She is too heavy.”

  “You will be able to. I have to go,” he said. “But go now. There is fire.”

  He passed her the weight. She held where she could and pulled at Dagni’s clothes. Ida squeezed her teeth. He stepped back. A waft of smoke covered most of him. “We must finish that game of backgammon soon.”

  She struggled with the weight. Dagni was conscious and looked up at her, dazed. Ida dragged her through the corridor and the lecture theater. Smoke was on all sides and the mess left by the rioters, including the crumpled bodies. She pulled her down the steps. There were bloodstains where Newton had been. A gun was pointed at her and then quickly withdrawn. The uniforms around her were the dark blue of the City Legion. They stood proudly over the bodies of the rioters, which had been dragged to make a heap. The flash of photographic cameras was in front of her, and she heard her name being shouted. Dagni was taken from her by someone. Her face was looking at Ida as she was taken away. She did not show any pain and had the semblance of a smile on her lips.

  The familiar faces of Molly and Krass came to her from out of the crowd. Molly embraced her. “You are all right. I was scared.” Ida held the embrace until her breathing had steadied.

  Krass looked dumbstruck. “What can I say, lady?” he said. “You’ve knocked it. That was amazing. Like a heroine you came out of there.”

  Molly brushed the ash and sweat from Ida’s face.

  “Glad to see you are in one piece,” Krass continued. His face showed that his devious mind was working. “I’m going to run. I have an urgent newspaper to write.”

  Chapter Eleven

  His arms ached. “This will build muscles,” Gaspar had told him. And only because of this did Jack convince himself that he was supposed to enjoy the carting of bricks. Jack had puny muscles. Landy would have those of a fighter. The old building had collapsed, leaving thousands and thousands of bricks in unnatural piles. The Templars had found the work of wayfarers. Pick the bricks, clean, sort, and cart them to the Sicilian bricklayers who were rebuilding in the ruins of the old. Jack carried three bricks at a time from the wheelbarrow and stacked them in a neat pile within arm’s reach for the bricklayers. He paused for a moment to dust his hands, wipe the sweat from his brow, and smell the salty air. Across the murky waters of the harbor, he could see New Kons as a distant haze. Gaspar passed him a bottle of water. “Let’s have a break.” The bricklayers were at the other end of the stack of bricks and starting a new line with enough bricks within reaching distance so that they had no need to cry out.

  “I will give you a date, and you tell me the significance. I want to see if my lessons are working,” Gaspar said, and Jack waited. “January fourteen, year of the Lord, eleven hundred and twenty-eight.”

  “Yes, I remember that one. The date of the Order’s official recognition from Rome.”

  “Thirteen October, year, thirteen and seven.”

  “Ah, not that date. The date when King Philip de Bel ordered the arrests of the Templars, which lead to the first dissolution of the order.”

  “Yes, an ugly date, but it must be remembered and seared into the mind of every Templar. It is why we must never trust government, the papacy, or anyone known for their handsome looks.” He smirked. “You are doing well. Look at those loafers there.” He nodded at Hoston and Odo who had also stopped, and he called out for them to keep going. They shrugged. He shrugged back and picked up a trio of bricks. “I want an early finish today. We have business to attend to.”

  After the promise of action, the rest of the working day sped. They washed the dirt from their hands and faces and hurried through the streets to their one-room apartment. “There is nothing more liberating than a hard day’s work,” Gaspar said as they jogged, “for both the mind and the body, but sometimes more the body, like today.”

  Amblard had been in the apartment all day, studying some books, maps, and papers at a desk that was shoved against the open window. Not one of the Templars begrudged him this, as if his task were less favorable
than carting bricks since the early morning. The cat was at the silent Templar’s feet. It lifted its head when they entered, brushed its whiskers, and closed its eyes to return to sleep. Odo hurried to his stove to cook. His pots were ready. He lit the fire and began crushing herbs into one of the pots. Hoston picked up his sword and practiced his swordplay dance.

  “Clean yourself up,” Gaspar said to Jack and sent him to the bathroom down the hallway. Jack wondered for what type of business he needed to be tidy for. He washed and brushed his hair in the cracked mirror of the communal bathroom.

  The Templars had changed into clean clothes of white shirts and black pants held up by over-the-shoulder braces. Only Amblard had not changed. He remained at the desk eating from his bowl of stew with one spoonful for him and then one for the cat and another for the dog. “There are clean clothes for you,” Gaspar said and nodded to folded pants and a shirt sitting on a chair.

  Amblard remained in the room with the cat and dog. The rest of them strode through the streets of the town. The streets were wide and wet from a rain shower. On either side was apartment blocks, which were gray in the dusk. Jack wondered if he should ask where they were going.

  The Templars were cheerful. Hoston had tidied his hair, and Odo whistled. Ahead was a lit-up building with many people going inside. It was a wooden building at the center of the town. Laughter and music could be heard coming from inside. “The girls of this town are going to be falling in love like crazy tonight,” Hoston said and brushed a hand over his head to straighten his golden hair.

  “What is this place?” Jack asked Gaspar.

  “It’s a dance hall, Landry. I told you that we have business tonight.”

  Wooden chandeliers weighed with candles hung from rafters brightly illuminating the hall. The floor was thick with people who were all finely dressed like the Templars. The men were in clean shirts buttoned to their necks and the women in long dresses that draped to the ground. Where there were no people, there were tables filled with plates of food and open bottles. At the front of the hall on a stage, a band played. The players jigged as they played, one with an accordion, another a harmonica, and others with banjos and drums. The music was feverish and loud. In front of the band bodies gyrated wildly, men and women together, twirling and embracing. Older people sat at tables on the edges watching the younger with hawkish eyes.