Call of the Kings (21 page)

‘Noooo!’ she cried, running out the door after them. Grabbing at the coins as they floated just out of her reach, the old woman chased the pile of money across the village square and into the mighty Savernake Forest. Every time she stopped to draw breath, the coins also stopped. Eventually, exhausted and gasping for breath, the old woman staggered into a clearing and slumped to the floor. Jingling together the coins moved back toward her, stopped, jingled again, and then changed . . .

Into a huge black, fang-dripping dog with bright red devil eyes like coals in a fire.

Tara’s voice spoke again in her ear.

‘Say hello, old woman, to the Black Ghost Dog of Sherbourne Maisy. The very animal you invented, along with your murdering friend Magnus Groningen and his gang, to lure me to my death. Only this one is real.’

As the great black dog leapt for the wizened old lady’s throat, Tara moved on, her thoughts turning to the third-generation Viking and his men. Losing his manhood on their first encounter was nothing compared to the surprise she had in store for him this time around.

Tara and Virgile caught up with Groningen and his nineteen men out hunting. Cornering a wild boar they peppered it with arrows at short range, bringing it to its knees, before Groningen himself moved in for the kill with a long lance. Tara knew how the helpless boar felt. Later, having made camp, they skinned the boar and roasted it over an apple wood fire whilst downing copious amounts of mead. They then began to tear great chunks of bloodied meat from the undercooked carcass.

‘Despite three generations of living in civilized Wessex,’ murmured Tara, ‘they still think and act like Viking.’

‘Uncouth, rabid cannibals,’ replied Virgile as Groningen did a drunken dance around the fire with his drinking horn held high, toasting the death of Tara.

‘Then they shall die like cannibals,’ said Tara. ‘I’ve a mind to give the boars their revenge.’

‘Good idea.’ Her husband chuckled. ‘Let’s round a suitable number of them up and make sure they’re hungry, eh?’

The Wessex wild boar is always hungry and will eat anything. Although forced to live mainly on plants, it’s partial to a bit of meat if it can get it.

Tara and Virgile quickly herded together sixty boar from the surrounding area, many of them fully tusked males, and placed them in a secure stockade. Being trapped didn’t improve the boars’ famous bad humour much either, which took a suitable downturn as they tried first to butt their way out of the stockade and then each other. Placing themselves in the clouds over the Viking camp again, the behaviour of which had degenerated even further into drunken mock fights, Virgile issued an instruction. As if by invisible hands all the longbows around the camp - the very same weapons that had fired the poisoned arrows at Tara - suddenly lined up and loaded themselves with a shaft each. Taking the taut bowstrings back to maximum, the line of bows advanced slowly upon the drunken revellers. Just to get their attention, Tara released a small thunderbolt into the fire with the half-eaten boar carcass stretched across it. Stunned by the explosion, they all came to an abrupt, mouth-gaping halt.

It was then they saw the line of loaded longbows advancing toward them.

As the intent of the drawn bows slowly began to dawn on them, a large bearded one holding a partially gnawed boar bone was the first to react. Throwing away the bone he drew his broadsword and rushed at the bows. When he got within ten feet, twenty shafts zipped into his chest in a perfect circle. He was dead before he hit the ground. The others, casting around wildly for someone or thing to guide them, began to back away from the reloaded longbows. Clutching wildly at empty scabbards and knife belts only to discover that all their weapons had disappeared, the men looked to their leader in desperation. For his part, Groningen, gesticulating and pointing to the sky, began to scream abuse. He was beginning to realize who was behind this and that for the second time he was facing defeat at Tara’s hands. Another man suddenly charged for the woods in an attempt to get away and was immediately cut down by a hail of arrows thudding into his back in a perfect circle. Slowly, with their own loaded longbows pushing them forward, the by now thoroughly frightened and trapped men began to move toward the open fields and away from the Savernake at their backs.

Two more men tried to escape and received the same circle of arrows before the now sixteen men were finally herded across the open fields into the stockade. Closing the heavy gate, Virgile waved his hand and the gate disappeared. Magnus Groningen and his men were completely trapped; the sheer height of the vertical walls of the stockade, even if they were able, could not be climbed.

Then Tara froze every one of them to the spot and let the sixty boars free . . . but just so they could see themselves being eaten she allowed them sight. Then she removed all their clothes. The neutered Groningen was immediately conspicuous by a lack of appendages in his groin, the outcome of his first encounter with Tara and subject of this attempt to kill her. Copying the death rite used by Twilight, she spoke quietly to the doomed Groningen’s mind before she left with Virgile.

I’ll come back in a few days to release the satiated boar. When we meet again it will be in the Equinoctial Mists at Stonehenge on All Hallows Day. Good-bye.

She would not be caught out like that again. Twenty years of Twilight’s teaching of the enchantments had to be strictly observed. Here was another one. Kill off evil as soon as possible before its many headed Hydra struck again.

Mercy was a weakness that a venefica would regret; it had a nasty habit of rebounding upon the innocent.

Chapter 15

‘Now, sir, do you mind telling me who you are and what your business is here?’

Unaware of the drama that was being played out back in Wessex, Twilight arrived in Baghdad as dawn broke over the desert. Climbing out of the vast expanse of sand and rock, the city sat like a brown monster octopus, its domed head rising out of the middle with tentacles stretching out around it in every direction until they gradually disappeared into the shimmering desert landscape. Although early in the day, the dusty tracks leading to and from the city bustled with activity. A long, single file camel train wended its regal but gradual way out of one of the great gates, its cargo of spices packed securely on the gently swaying backs of the strange beasts that could endure long journeys across the sweltering desert without water. Mules, the other favoured beast of burden hereabouts, moved everywhere around the perimeter of the city, top heavy with people, the spindly legs seeming too fragile to carry the human loads, the obstinate horse and donkey crossbreed only occasionally obeying the twitching stick waved by its driver as it meandered, stopped, looked, and then proceeded at its own pace in the general direction required. Two beautiful white Arab horses galloped across the packed sand toward the city, their riders dressed in flowing robes with curved scimitars thrust through their waistbands, large linen bags flopping around their shoulders, and topped by brightly coloured turbans.

Founded on the banks of the Tigris River, Baghdad was the seat of the current caliph of the eastern Muslims, al-Musta’sim, who belonged to the ruling family of the Abbasids. Invaded and run by Seljuk Turks styling themselves as ‘sultans’ - a Muslim title considered to be beneath that of caliph - Baghdad was allowed by the Turks to continue under the existing caliphate so long as they behaved themselves.

As he had done in Constantinople, Twilight remained invisible for the first day or so in order to get to know the place and its people. If the slightly subdued people and shabby buildings of the Byzantine Empire had come as a surprise to him, it was nothing compared to the richness and vibrant variety of the Baghdad streets. Everywhere there was colour, movement, and music. The temples were filled to overflowing; the bazaars a swirl of noise, aromas, and laughter, the government buildings and libraries bustled with movement, and the surrounding streets flowed with the natural grace of proud people in beautiful but cool cotton robes, especially the women whose dark, beguiling eyes flashed in dark joy above their veils as they glided about the teeming streets in pairs. Pots balanced precariously on turbaned heads, camels sat and grumbled, mules refused to move out of the shade of stumpy palms, and everywhere the comingled robes of star-bright oranges, slashing reds, verdant greens, sea-sparkling blues, and pristine whites refreshed and invigorated the eye.

As the late afternoon sun began to dip below the horizon of the Western Desert, Twilight watched a group of young children skipping to a long spliced rope swung by two older boys. Their high-pitched voices shrieked as the rope caught their legs, the flashing darkness of their carefree eyes sparkling in merriment. An orderly pot-carrying queue formed at a public well as families collected water for their evening meal, each drawing the precious water up carefully by using the winding handle. The brim-full bucket that surfaced on the end of a long chain was emptied into their pots with all the care and reverence its precious and rare qualities demanded.

As darkness fell and the house candles and street flares were lit, a fight broke out between two young men over the insult and dishonour one of them had apparently brought on the other’s sister. They circled each other warily until one of them leapt forward, his hands reaching for his opponent’s throat. A blade flashed in the tangle of robes, and one of them fell to the ground clutching his abdomen, crimson blood streaming through his fingers, spoiling the perfect whiteness of his robe. As the other sped away down alleyways, a cry went up from those bent over the injured young man.

‘Quick, get him to Ramzi before it’s too late. Quickly now . . .’

Willing hands lifted the young man, who was groaning in agony, and with his life-blood running freely down over their arms and shoulders, they bore him aloft down the centre of the street, shouting at people to get out of their way. One of them ran ahead to alert the one called ‘Ramzi’ as to what to expect. Twilight, sitting invisibly above the hubbub below, made a note of the escaped youth’s destination and followed the crowd.

Ramzi turned out to be an old, bald man with a small white goatee beard and dark olive skin. He lived in a large billowing tent on a patch of packed sandy earth by the side of the Tigris River. Alerted by the runner he stood by the entrance to his tent. Stoop-shouldered and small with dark, intelligent eyes, he held a flickering lantern over the groaning, blood-spattered young man as they carried him into the tent. Barking instructions to place him carefully onto a solid-looking table in the centre of the one-roomed tent, he then shooed them all away, hung the lantern on a hook over the table, and began to examine the by now unconscious young man.

With the invisible Twilight watching from a corner, Ramzi began to carefully remove the young man’s clothing, then clean the congealing wound with a strong-smelling liquid. This brought the young man back to consciousness, and he started to moan again in agony. Speaking soft words of encouragement, Ramzi began to probe gently around the clean incision.

‘You are a lucky young man,’ he said eventually. ‘As far as I can tell the blade missed all your vital gut organs. It will be painful for a while but you’ll live. I’m going to give you some liquid opium to drink to help you sleep and take away the pain, and spread an opium paste on the outside of the wound to kill infection and help it heal quickly. You will have to stay here for a few days so I can keep my eye on the wound to ensure gangrene doesn’t take hold. If anything kills you it will be that contagious rot.’

The young man raised a weak hand at Ramzi.

‘Thank you, great physician Ramzi. I am eternally in your debt.’

Gulping down the liquid Ramzi held to his lips, the young man soon began to doze. When he’d finished spreading the paste around the wound, Ramzi washed his hands in an earthenware bowl, dried them on a linen cloth, then looked around the tent.

‘I know someone is there,’ he said quietly in Arabic to the empty air. ‘But I can’t see you. Reveal yourself or go away.’

Twilight chuckled. The moment he saw the stooped little physician he’d spotted the aura. Faint, although stronger than the one carried by Odo in Rome, it was, nonetheless, a genuine and real signature. If nothing else it was proof that the venefical aura, with varying degrees of strength, was universal.

‘I will reveal myself now,’ said Twilight, standing alongside Ramzi and speaking flawless Arabic. ‘I come in peace and mean you no harm.’

Stepping back, the fearless little stooped physician took in the figure that appeared smiling in goodwill alongside him.

Twilight gestured to the myriad pots and glass jars filled with potions and liquids that lined the tent.

‘You have a veritable treasure trove of elixirs and potions here,’ he said quietly by way of an introduction. ‘Are they all of your own making?’

‘I have spent my whole life tending to the sick and needy,’ replied Ramzi warily. ‘Many of these remedies have been adapted by me from old Hellenic, Persian, and Roman recipes, not to mention our own Arabic medica. Now, sir, do you mind telling me who you are and what your business is here?’

Twilight introduced himself, then explained his calling and mission, finishing with those he’d befriended.

‘I have been fortunate in my travels. I met an old Italian hermit called Odo in Rome and a Jew in Constantinople called Silas. Both of them were very helpful to me in explaining the complex backgrounds, faiths, and current situations of their respected cities. I am hoping to find such a person here in Baghdad before my final destination, which is Jerusalem.’

The little physician smiled for the first time and rubbed his hands in anticipation.

‘Then, sir, you have come to the right place. I am your man. But, in exchange, I want to know all about your abilities with magic of which you seem to be extraordinarily gifted.’ He gestured to the sleeping youth. ‘He’ll be fine for a while. Let’s sit outside by the eternal river and talk.’

Checking back on his patient from time to time, pausing to administer further ointment and dressings to the knife wound, Ramzi and Twilight talked until the orange fingers of the desert dawn crept over the horizon. They parted as a line of patients with all manner of ailments queued up outside Ramzi’s tent.

‘Another busy one,’ sighed the little physician. ‘At my age it gets harder and harder to tend the ever-lengthening queues of the sick that grace my tent every day.

‘Come back this evening,’ said Ramzi as they parted. ‘We have much more to discuss. In the meantime I suggest you visit the House of Wisdom in the Central Square. It’s one of our greatest libraries and will reveal much about the great advancements of the Muslim civilization.’

Twilight took his advice and visited the great library. There he found Arabic translations of all of the great works of the Greeks - Aristotle, Ptolemy, Pythagoras, Socrates, Plato, Euclid, and Homer - together with great tracts of new writings from the mystical east, Pharaoh histories in untranslatable hieroglyphics, and Hebrew parchments. Donated and supported by the ruling Abbasid caliphate, the great library was a treasure trove of knowledge and discovery. The breadth of Islamic erudition stretched into all corners of learning and advancement: astronomy, cartography, logic, alchemy, poetry, a system for mathematical calculation that was far in advance of anything to be found in the Western world, the sciences, arts, philosophies, medicine and pharmacology, some of it, particularly relating to the use of Opiates in healing - published by none other than Ramzi himself - and, possibly the greatest achievement of all, a credo led by the mighty Holy Qur’an of a harmonious universe ruled by the reality of a hands-off god who let worshipers follow a path of natural enlightenment.

‘Being a Muslim,’ said Ramzi later that evening, ‘is a personal experience between us and our god, Muhammad. We Muslims also have a great tolerance of other religions regardless of whether they’re pagan, Christian, Jewish, or any other incarnation. What we find hard to tolerate is the ambition and tyranny of decadence. Now, I say that as a poor physician eking out an existence tending the sick, whilst in the great palace of our caliph further down the banks of the Tigris, our bountiful ruler lives in absolute splendour with more wives than there are days in your western calendar year. If our great caliph walks anywhere, which is doubtful as he would be carried, but if he so deigned to walk, there would be a little man following him around whose sole purpose in life is to kneel down in front of him in order to act as a footstool when he sits. The opulence of our rulers notwithstanding, ordinary Muslims understand that the western downfall will be brought about by their refusal to give up the lifestyle of ever-mounting pleasures. We are happy to engage in hardship in order to maintain our way of life, and the belief is that’s where the future battles will be won; the victories will be forged on the cusp of hardship and suffering, not the attainment of riches and sloth.’

Twilight nodded. ‘Yet,’ he said softly, ‘you and I both know that each religion will claim an ancient monopoly on the truth. Nothing in this complex world we inhabit is wholly partial for long, and that includes the great faiths. I have spent enough time with kings, warlords, and religious leaders of all persuasions to learn that alliances are made to be broken, even those forged on the back of endeavour and hardship, and are constantly reformed only to be broken again, usually on the back of favour, patronage, self-interest, and power. All faiths have flaws; some are just better at hiding them than others and therefore better for their followers.’

Ramzi laughed and went inside the tent to check on his patient, who had stirred. He was still chuckling when he returned.

‘Spoken like a man of magic,’ he said, sitting down on the packed sand and crossing his legs. ‘What do you believe in?’

‘Magic,’ replied Twilight. ‘When you have the full enchantments at your command you realize that it surpasses everything else we have. When I attend to my duties at the Festival of the Cowering Dead at Stonehenge back in Wessex, I see and hear the real hell of millions of misspent lives. That’s the annual reality of what I believe in.’

‘It’s easy for you to say that because you experience that event and have command of the enchantments,’ said Ramzi. ‘And although I have a little ability and can sense if certain bodily functions are playing up or not working in my patients and, as when you arrived, the spectral presence of others, I can’t change phenomena, make myself invisible, or transform myself instantly to any part of the world. That’s the omnipotent power of the enchantments. The rest of us have to make do with whatever faith we are born into. In my case that’s Islam.’

‘And a very good faith it is,’ said the old astounder. ‘Now, let’s get away from that for a while and visit a subject that I have been meaning to ask you about ever since I arrived here. I am most interested in leech-craft, the husbandry of plants and herbs for healing, poisoning, and, although it’s of no consequence to me because I don’t eat, cooking. In particular I would like to know about this wonderful drug you use, and write about, called opium. I read a little about it from your papers in the House of Wisdom. It’s a new one on me and, as far as I know, is not cultivated in Britain.’