The Sword of Damascus (21 page)

‘Dead?’ Joseph asked. ‘He’ll soon be dead?’

Jacob pointed at the mottling that had now come out all over the boy’s chest like barbarian tattoos.

‘Well, death in one so young is always to be regretted. The Empire makes no war on children.’ It was hard to judge the tone of his voice. But he took a step backwards.

‘Your father tells me that he has an immunity from the Prefect against entry and search,’ he said in a less ambiguous tone. ‘As you know, this means nothing where reason of state is concerned. However, I am satisfied that there is nothing in this house to take up more of my attention. I will only repeat that there is no safety within the Empire for the traitor we seek. Wherever he may fly, we will follow. Wherever he may hide, we will find him. For him, there will be no second trial – no appeal to the uncertain mercy of Caesar. His friends in the Capital are dead or scattered. His technical skills are no longer required. His sentence was pronounced on the first discovery of his treason. All that remains is for sentence to be executed.’ He turned and walked from the room. With a renewed clatter of boots on wood, the soldiers followed.

I continued in my place, hands upstretched to Heaven, listening to the increasingly faint tramp of boots and the shouting of orders. Only when the outer gate slammed shut, and the house fell into a deep silence, did I let myself drop forward to rest on the little cot. I felt Jacob’s hands close around my chest. He pulled me to my feet and guided me back to the chair. He refilled the cup and held it to my lips. Nothing in it now but wine, I drained the contents with a single, chattering gulp.

‘That was a close one,’ Jacob said with a ghastly smile. ‘Still, I think we managed to deceive a pretty senior Greek.’ He relaxed and sat heavily in his own chair.

I didn’t feel up to explaining what had happened. I didn’t
know
what had happened. My hands and wrists on full view – Wilfred stretched out before him – and Joseph had contented himself with an oddly helpful warning before going off again into the night. I’d need to think a good deal harder than I’d yet managed before I could tell even myself what was happening. If only I’d been able to tell myself this was another product of the opium. But it wasn’t. Joseph really had stood behind me.

‘Tell me, Jacob,’ I asked once my voice was reliably in order. ‘Tell me what was that Greek official wearing?’

Black with a hat that may have had a purple trimming, came the answer – the light made colours hard to tell. I nodded. I knew it was purple. I’d helped choose the design when, after the death of the tyrant Phocas, Heraclius had put me in charge of reordering the Intelligence Bureau. Over the three generations that followed, abuses had crept into my original scheme. One of the most annoying of these had been the custom for everyone to put on the uniform of the grade immediately above. But, even assuming he’d been dressed two or three grades above his own position, there was no doubting that Joseph was at least – to use the Latin title – a
Magister Scholarum
. He was, that is, one of the departmental heads of the External Ministry. No wonder he’d been close enough to see my every move on the walls of Constantinople as I’d unleashed that irresistible tide of destruction on the Saracen fleets. Not for him to risk it in the killing zones I’d created.

And he’d been sent all the way to Jarrow to watch me. Every day for months, he’d been my chosen companion. And I’d never once suspected he could be other than just another refugee from the world of civilisation. Perhaps age had caught up with me. Alaric in his prime would never have been taken in as old Brother Aelric had been.

‘Moses and all the prophets!’ Ezra cried as he bustled into the room. He looked at Wilfred and dropped his voice. ‘We certainly deceived the Empire then. The tax collectors were nothing compared with this!’ Beneath his tone of relieved cheerfulness, there was something more complex. I looked closely at him. He turned away.

‘Where is Edward?’ I asked to change the subject. If Joseph had, for his own reasons, overlooked me and Wilfred, his men would have spotted those northern looks in less than a single heartbeat. Even if, after a few centuries, the remaining Vandal blood in Africa hadn’t been darkened by local mixture, there would still have been the obvious question of what he was doing in a company of Jews. But he’d been spirited straight off, Ezra assured me, into the women’s quarters. He’d be safe enough there. I nodded, trying to ignore the obvious further question about his safety there. It was enough for the moment that the Empire, in a majesty that no one else had been able to notice, had come into the house, and had gone out again.

‘It would be for the best if we left this house as soon as possible,’ I said. As one, all three of us turned and looked at Wilfred. His lips had now drawn back in a snarl that it required no doctor to interpret. Sooner than I’d expected, the shock of the search was wearing away the delicious yet conscious oblivion of the opium, and I could feel the return of guilt. The more I speculated on the meaning of this approaching death, the more crushing the burden of guilt became.

‘We’re safe enough for the moment,’ Jacob assured me.

And, if what judgement I’d so far been able to make was correct, he was right to a degree he’d never understand. Yes, we were safe for the moment.

Jacob took up his half-empty measure. ‘No one will disturb us more this evening. And I do assure you, the boy will continue at least till morning. If there is any change, I will wake you. For now, I will, as your physician for the day, prescribe for a peaceful night.’

Chapter 25

Waking was like the beginning of consciousness in the very young. It was gradual, and was unmarked by any sense of its own arrival. Tucked in bed, I lay for an indefinite time without moving or opening my eyes. Two men beside me had been talking forever in Aramaic. I knew, in some instinctive way, that they were servants. I knew they were there to watch over me. What they were saying had, until just moments before, been unintelligible and without importance. Those five additional drops from Jacob into my wine cup had struck me like the blow to a slaughtered animal. Almost before I’d noticed how soft the pillows were, I was swallowed into a serene and infinite blackness. There had been no visits that night from the many dead I’d known, nor from the yet unborn; no visions of my own grave; no severed hands feeling their way over my face – the opium had brought me sleep and nothing more.

But now I was awake. And, if not willing to show that I was awake, I was fully aware of my surroundings.

‘I told you, Reuben – I told you many times – the Master’s going soft in the head,’ one of the servants was saying. The words aside, I had the impression this was more than his first repetition. ‘He turns up yesterday with three goys, all of them wanted by the Empire. He’s now got another one hidden away in his counting house, and we’re under orders to say bugger all about them. This here old bag of bones is the guest of honour. One of the boys is dying. The other one – well, you’ve heard it for yourself from Miriam. We’re two inches from all being dragged off to Carthage and pulled apart with hot pincers. If you ask me, the Master’s gone fucking mad.’

‘He was up till dawn with Doctor Jacob,’ I heard Reuben say defensively. ‘They was talking and talking. I didn’t hear much of what was said. But trust me – the Master ain’t no fool. He’s done right by the whole house. Just you keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. You’ll see a Passover yet without no bastard Greeks to tell us our ways.’

‘
Another one hidden away in his counting house
,’ I’d heard. It would have been worth hearing more on that. To hear more, I’d gladly have lain there, my face conveniently half buried under the coverings, till evening. But I heard the door open and a heavy tread on the boards. Both servants were on their feet.

‘Isn’t he awake yet?’ Jacob asked. There was a silence that I guessed was a reply of shaking heads. He clicked his tongue impatiently, then went into Greek. ‘Not another overdose!’ he said in the quiet tone of a man who knows he is speaking only to himself. ‘I really must cut down on things.’ I heard him approach the bed. I felt his hand brush lightly on the unshaven stubble above my ears. In a moment, he’d probably have one of my wrists out to see how close to death he’d really dosed me. Nothing else for it. I groaned and moved slightly. I felt him draw back and I went through the motions of opening my eyes and looking confused.

‘You’re among friends,’ Jacob said.

A priest – no, make that a toadying courtier, or, better still, some diplomat sent out to make trouble among the barbarians – would have had trouble matching the absolute conviction in his voice. Then again, he was a doctor and a Jew. One of the servants helped me as I struggled to sit up. I looked about the room. The bed set up for Edward was as neatly made as it had been the night before. I could tell nothing from that, mind you. Everyone else had been up and about for ages. There was no direct sunlight in this room. But the light that came in from the garden had an afternoon quality. I drank from a cup of honeyed wine diluted with fruit juice and asked about Wilfred. Jacob pulled a long face and took on a more openly professional appearance. He didn’t need to say much. It hadn’t been to get my lunch orders that he’d come to see if I was awake. On a chair by the window, there was a newish robe set out for me. Unlike the one I’d been given in Cartenna, it was neither faded tat nor too big. The colour was too light for what I had in mind. But it would do.

‘I think we’ll have to skip the confession,’ I said in Aramaic. Jacob nodded. I wondered if he hadn’t been a little enthusiastic with the belladonna. But Wilfred, I’d been told, had woken in considerable pain while I slept, and a doctor’s recognised duty is to his patient’s body. Now, he lay before me, semi-conscious but rigid from the administration of this and the other drugs.

‘Confirm to me, if you can,’ I said loudly, now in Latin, ‘that you have received all other rites of the Faith. These include baptism and communion.’ Just in case, I repeated myself in English. It was a redundant question, but had to be asked if the last rite was to be correctly administered. The pale eyes blinked slightly. ‘You know, then,’ I continued, ‘that I am qualified by virtue of my priestly office to administer these rites.’ No doubt, my qualifications were decidedly iffy. But, since no one in England had seen fit to question them on my arrival there, now wasn’t the time to disabuse poor Wilfred of their validity. All told, I’d sooner have had a real priest brought in. I hadn’t bothered raising this with Jacob. He could certainly have got me one – just as he’d managed to gather the necessary props. But now wasn’t the time for introducing more Christians into the house. And all that really mattered was that Wilfred believed me. If death really was other than an infinite sleep still deeper than the one from which I was lately recovered, it would be a most perverse God who took against him on my account.

With dramatic emphases and pauses that any real priest would have envied rotten, I went through the prayers as I’d heard them said by others any number of times. The gaunt fingers fluttered ever so little on the wooden crucifix, and a thin trickle of the olive oil I’d just blessed ran down from his forehead on to the bed clothes. At last, I produced a fragment of the Host. I broke it in two and placed the smaller part between the dry lips. As I did so, they trembled and a faint effort was made to move them.

And it was now done. All that remained was the final prayer. I opened my mouth again and, Edward joining in, launched into the ancient words:

‘O Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons: We humbly commend the soul of this thy servant, our dear brother, into thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Saviour; most humbly beseeching thee, that it may be precious in thy sight. Wash it, we pray thee, in the blood of that immaculate Lamb, that was slain to take away the sins of the world . . .’

The lips moved again. This time, Wilfred was able to speak.

‘Brother Aelric,’ he whispered. ‘Brother Aelric.’

I moved closer to the dying boy’s mouth. ‘Be at peace, my child,’ I said in my reassuring voice. ‘There is nothing now to fear, in this world or the next. Of all you might have confessed I have now absolved you.’ That should have sorted things. But, no – the lips moved again.

‘I have sinned, Brother Aelric,’ he gasped with urgent though failing energy. ‘Such sins have I committed and never confessed to you. It was my plan – but God has called me so soon . . .’

He trailed off, and I thought this would be it. Jacob moved forward with a beaker of something aromatic to put under his nose. But the boy struggled with the feeble ghost of one of his coughing fits. I waved Jacob back.

Then, with an immense effort, Wilfred continued in a desperate croak: ‘You must know that Brother Cuthbert – yes, Brother Cuthbert . . . He commanded, and I obeyed. He told me – he said . . . I discovered . . .’

He trailed off once more, and now closed his eyes. Jacob moved forward again, beaker still in hand. There was no point letting him try anything more. I’ve seen the shadow of death pass over any number of faces. It’s not so much a darkening of colour as a loss of something. I’ve also held the hands of the dying so often. With its usual rapidity, I could now feel the mysterious transformation of living flesh and bone into the sort of meat you buy in a butcher’s market. I didn’t need to see the eyes turn up, or the mouth open wide for that last, rattling sigh, to know it was all up with the boy. He was as near gone as mattered. Even if some spark of life continued deep within, there was no point in supposing he was aware of anything outside himself. Still, I continued with the prayer to the end. Deathbeds are as much for the living as the dead. Besides, if what Edward believed was his own affair, there was a Jew present, and a certain appearance had to be kept up. I finished the prayer, then waited. As the lips sagged fully, and all tension went out of the body, I stood back and allowed Jacob to press his mirror to the boy’s face. He drew it back and held it up for me, still unmisted. It really was over.