Hellbound Hearts (20 page)

“Fear ye not!” piped the Clown. “Dead men don't bite. Especially those without a head.” He rapped the cadaver with his bladder-stick.

The moment he did so, the chest of the decapitated corpse heaved. It seemed as if it had returned to life, and was eager to draw air into its shattered torso.

“Witchcraft,” cried one of the ladies.

Even the Clown sheltered behind the dignified stature of the Emperor. Guards drew their swords, ready to battle the enchanted corpse. As horrified courtiers watched the writhing of the bloody husk, pellets of fur sped from its neck.

“Rats!” squealed the Clown. “The naughty, naughty Ottomans
have stitched rats inside the fellow. Then they . . .” He mimed carrying a body to the catapult, lying it in the scoop, kissing it fondly, then pulling a lever to fling it into the heart of the city.

The Slave knew that Ottoman forces, who now besieged Constantinople, intended the rats to spread disease through its population, so weakening their resolve to hold out. Those scurrying rats unmanned the monk. Screaming in terror, he fled toward the church.

Several courtiers followed in blind panic. That sacred colossus would, they prayed, offer divine protection.

“Ah ha!” The Clown applauded their flight. “They're eager to see the Demon.” Then he fixed the Slave with a cruel eye. “Or have they forgotten that he's in there? The diabolus. The evil one. The captive Satan.” He winked. “As you, too, had forgotten. Isn't that so, my little Greek goat?”

It wasn't the Slave's place to answer. Instead, he obediently followed the entourage that remained with His Imperial Majesty. The beautifully clad advisers, the secretaries, the bald eunuchs, and the bodyguard that bristled with weaponry.

“Here goes, little goat!” The Clown linked arms with the Slave. “Let us lead our Emperor, so he might gaze upon the Demon!” Then he called out to the entourage. “Follow me! Remember! Don't spit in church. No cursing. No nostril picking. And absolutely no farting!”

Silence. The cavernous interior of the church lay engulfed in quietude. With total silence came utter stillness. Even smoke from the incense burners appeared to hang motionless within the immense void of the dome: pale ghosts, neither rising nor falling. The myriad pillars that supported the structure were still as cedars in an enchanted forest.

The courtiers froze at first sight of the Demon. Every single man and woman locked their gaze on that figure. Nobody, it seemed, dare draw breath in its presence. The Slave's heart pounded. He strived to absorb every detail of the creature that sat on a wooden chest in the center of the floor.

A man strode from the gloom. His proud military bearing and the arrogant thrust of his jaw proclaimed his exalted rank.

In a deep voice he boomed, “Don't be afraid of the beast. He's uglier than sin itself. But I myself have bound him with straps made from elephant hide. Even Hercules couldn't break those. Besides, here in this fortress of God, he will be powerless.” He bowed smartly. “Emperor. I am your devoted servant, General Spirodon, commander of your eastern legions. It was I who captured the Demon. I humbly offer the creature to His Majesty.” There was nothing humble about this cocksure soldier. “May it bring you amusement.”

“The Emperor is most pleased.” The Chamberlain eyed the Demon with unease. “Perhaps you would describe its capture for the court's edification.”

“I would be delighted, sire.” The General clearly relished the art of self-glory. “I led my men to scout for Ottoman forces. Whereupon in Edessa, close to the source of the Euphrates, I encountered the town elders. They begged me to save them from a demon that had been discovered beneath a pagan shrine. My men were so frightened by the unnatural darkness within the tomb that I ordered them to stand back. Thereupon, I entered alone.”

Eyes shining, his voice growing louder, the General declaimed his heroic deeds. Meanwhile, priests lit oil lamps that encircled the
thing
sitting on the box. The lamps' glow clearly revealed the Demon in its most awful detail. The seated figure captured the young Slave's attention. Endlessly, his eyes roved over a body that mingled beauty with repellent monstrosity.

The Demon appeared to have the dimensions of a mortal man. He sat on the chest of reddish wood as a mortal rests upon a bench. His eyes were closed. He did not move. Yet how could he move? Surely he must be dead. Such a ruinous body could not possibly be alive. In the lamplight, the Slave feasted on the minutiae of its blasphemous anatomy. Perhaps three-quarters of the Demon's body consisted of dried flesh that adhered like dry mud to a stick. Part of the rib cage lay exposed. Beneath it could be glimpsed a fist-sized brown lump that was the heart. Along one forearm, which rested on
its lap, the bone had been entirely denuded of muscle. Yet that limb terminated in a perfectly formed hand. Fingers curled in slightly. Nails, a healthy pink. Short yellow hair framed a blighted face. That countenance resembled those found on the ancient mummies of Egypt. Fissures ran down its cheek. One shoulder was white bone, the other was clad in the firm flesh of an athlete. Likewise, the legs were mainly decaying sticks of shin and thigh. Yet the right leg beneath the knee was clothed in flesh. The foot appeared entirely mortal.

What struck the Slave most forcefully were the curious additions to the body. Those elephant hide restraints around the wrists were readily explicable. It was the more esoteric accessories that made the Slave tremble. For, running from the heart, which showed behind the ribs, flowed a slender chain. An extraordinary chain, no thicker than a rat's tail. Its delicate links were of a bloodred metal; they shimmered with an inner radiance. The chain connected the heart to an iron loop in the timber chest. A tether of sorts? Even more striking, the sight of what had been embedded in its flesh—the good flesh, that is.

There, in the lamplight, gleamed dozens of metal disks. The Slave recognized them as coins. Gold, silver, bronze. Some perfect disks, some misshapen in the manner of archaic currency. Many bore the heads of known kings; others, from distant outlands, had been impressed with mysterious hieroglyphs. By what process he didn't know but the coins had been neatly embedded. And in rows, so that one slightly overlapped the other until it appeared the metal disks resembled the scales of a fish.

The General rested his foot on the box as he grandly pointed out features of the Demon. “Behold armor fashioned from coins. See the chain embedded in the heart?”

Emboldened, the Clown approached. “General, who captured the Demon—yet who missed seeing the Ottoman army march over our borders? Sir, don't your guts go all watery in the Demon's presence? Has fear purged your colon? Brave, noble, sir. Aren't you bedeviled by nightmares?”

The General had no intention of answering, but the Emperor nodded. “Tell him.”

“As you desire, Your Highness.” The General had no idea that the Emperor doted on the Clown. “As you might have noticed, the Demon's eyes are closed. It is quite blind. Nor since its capture has the creature moved even a finger. The Demon is intimidated by my presence.” He pointed at its mouth. “It dare not even speak.”

“Until now . . .”
The Demon's head darted. Jaws snapped.
“There was nobody worth talking to.”

It spat an object at the Emperor's feet. The Slave saw it was a bloody finger. The General stumbled backward, blood pumping out over his fist.

The Demon's eyelids slid back to reveal plump, white eyeballs. In each, the iris was formed from a gold coin. When he rose from the box, the elephant hide restraints around his wrists pulled tight, but they didn't trouble him. He merely looked Emperor Manuel in the eye. “You are the ruler of this empire?”

Unflinching, the Emperor met the Demon's gaze. “I am. What's more, I have no terror of you.”

“I'm delighted to hear it.” The grotesque face tightened in a smile. “Seeing as your grunt did such a poor job of introducing me . . . I am the Lord of Quarters.” The smile became pure menace. “It is time we opened negotiations.”

“Why should I negotiate with you? I have everything. You have nothing.”

“You tell him!” The Clown brandished his jester's stick. The keys jingled loudly, until their echoes in the dome above became a peal of bells. “Ha! The Lord of Quarters? He's nothing more than a pigeon carcass. All bone and bad pennies.”

“Shush, little fool.” The Demon bared his teeth—coins set edgewise into crimson gums. “Or I'll tell the Emperor what secret doors those keys on your rod open.”

This statement worried the Clown. Mouth clamped shut, he sheltered behind his master's purple robes.

Still mantled in quiet dignity, the Emperor spoke. “I have seen
many a novelty brought to the city. A twin-headed lion, a counting ape, a Persian girl who could float in the air. Nothing interested me. So what do you bring that will?”

“What you
need
, of course. What you
wish
for with all your heart.”

“I am Emperor. I have
everything
.”

“You preside over an empire in decay. It is a withered, little thing in comparison with the Byzantium of two centuries ago. The city is crumbling. Its palaces are propped up with timbers to stop them toppling into the gutter. Sir,
this
is what you need.” The Lord of Quarters ran his fingers over bright, gleaming coins that sheaved his flesh. “Money. And money is power. I speak the truth, don't I?” He flashed the gold coins in his eyes. “The treasury is empty. Your knights ride warhorses that are so old they're not fit to pull garbage carts. Army wages go unpaid. Meager platoons fight with broken swords. Your warriors don't even have the thread to darn their socks. Am I not right?”

Instead of replying, the Emperor turned his head slightly as the thud of a rock from an Ottoman catapult echoed inside the church.

The Lord of Quarters took pleasure in that symphony of destruction. “Constantinople is under siege. Its city walls are rotten. Children could kick holes in its gates. They won't keep out the invader for long.”

“I am promised money.”

“But when will it arrive? Those foreign kings, who once offered you finance, keep it locked away. Instead, they'll make deals with the Sultan when he is ruler of this noble slum.” The Lord of Quarters's softly spoken words painted images inside the minds of everyone present. He described the imperial treasury. That apart from dust, ankle-deep in every vault, all that it contained were empty boxes. He restated the Emperor's poverty. That he lacked the money even to police a fish market, never mind vanquish the Sultan's army. Or confound the enemy ships that blockaded the port. Soon Byzantium—poor, impoverished, ill-nourished Byzantium—would
die. Constantinople, its capital, would be overrun. The once revered imperial dynasty would end.

Then the Demon spoke of riches that lie in the treasure houses of neighboring realms. How vaults overflowed with coins. Foreign kings complained that the coins cluttering up their palaces were a nuisance. Accountants overseas were at their wits' end to find storage for their mountain of cash. Blast those infernal coins! Fling them into the river. Use them to repairs holes in the roads. Coins, coins, coins! Bury them. Shovel them into wells. Anything to be rid of them. The whole world outside Constantinople was awash with money. In this city, however, it would be easier for the Emperor to pull stars out of the sky than gather even a handful of change.

With his picture of the Emperor's destitution so adroitly accomplished, the Lord of Quarters hissed. “Listen. I can invest in your empire. Albeit in a way that will escape your comprehension for now. However, once your borders are secure, trade will be restored, tax revenues will flow once more. That means you will have enough good, hard cash to restore this decaying city to the glorious capital it once was. You will recapture past splendor. After all, the real power in your world is not an army; it is not a crowned regal head; it is not your God—it is money. The bulging purse is the supreme ruler of all.” The crunch of another catapult missile echoed through the building.

The Emperor's shoulders sagged. He knew all would be lost if he didn't act on the Demon's offer. “If I agree, what do you require in return?”

“I am the Lord of Quarters.” Gloating oozed through the voice. “Therefore: I want a quarter of everything.” He licked those cracked lips. “A quarter of your empire. A quarter of your people. The appetites of my Cenobite masters are insatiable.” Dreamily, he added the following, luxuriating in the reward he, himself, would earn. “The Cenobites will be grateful for these gifts I will offer them. They will elevate me to their exalted status. And I will be free to roam the centuries again.”

“What will happen to that quarter of the population you demand?”

“Ah, a detail that shouldn't concern you. Your empire will be restored to the glittering jewel it once was. For you, that's the matter of supreme importance.”

“Will the Cenobites harm my people?”

“You, sir, are hardly the one to be squeamish. Your life is a litany of execution; mass blinding of prisoners. You've even castrated your own nephew.”

“Where is the money?”

“Lift the lid.” The Lord of Quarters stood aside from the wooden chest as far as the leather restraints would allow. The coins in his flesh chinked as he did so. As did the bloodred chain that trickled delicate links from his heart.

The Emperor raised the lid. Hanging on to the hem of his cloak, the Clown.

“Old chicken carcass is tricking you,” sang the Clown. “There's no gold, only paper to wipe your arse!”

The Demon shot the Clown a fierce glare. “That is my contract.”

“The print is awful small.” The Clown pantomimed reading the indenture's rash of minuscule lettering. “Clause, subclause, penalty clause, warranties, codicils, exclusion notices, terms of payment, terms of forfeit. A contract is a riddle dressed as a puzzle . . .” Crossing his eyes, he scratched his head. “Or is it a puzzle clad as a riddle?”