The Sword of Damascus (5 page)

‘And don’t forget, dear boy – I did save your life.’

I shifted position to steady myself as the ship moved slightly. Overhead, the sailors were now padding about on the masts. Far below, there was a tightening of the drum beat to keep the slaves rowing in time. I heard the lash used a few times and a muffled scream. I stared down at the shivering wreck that Priscus had become the moment Alexandria dropped below the horizon.

‘My own recollection, dear friend, is that you got me out of one scrape that you wholly engineered, and chose not to murder me in Soteropolis when you’d decided I might be more useful alive than dead. Unless there are facts about our doings in the south that still haven’t come to my attention, saving my life is the last description I could make of your behaviour.’ I stared pitilessly down at Priscus.

Of course, none of this was relevant. We’d feed Heraclius a version of the truth so tarted up, it would amount in places to a pack of lies. But however incredible it might sound in places, none of it could be properly shaken so long as we both swore to its truth and didn’t try bitching behind each other’s back. Because he was the Emperor’s cousin, there was a limit to what we could say openly about him. But we’d left Nicetas behind in Alexandria. It therefore stood to reason that everything was his fault.
He
was the one who’d let the mob get out of hand.
He
was the one who’d ensured there had to be twenty thousand bodies rotting in mass graves outside Alexandria, and a heap of burned-out ruins in much of the centre.
He
was the one who’d abandoned Upper Egypt to the Brotherhood, and who’d failed to stop the Persians from coming close to stealing the whole country from us. Certainly, he was the one who’d blocked the land reform law all the time I’d been there to get it implemented; and it was he who’d cancelled the implementation warrants Priscus had sealed in his own moment of power. We’d get the man recalled in well-merited disgrace – though not before we’d done a thorough job of shuffling our own failures on to his shoulders.

I was searching for something friendly to say when Martin came on deck. Like Priscus, he wasn’t taking the voyage particularly well. He clutched at the doorway that led into the cavernous depths of the ship and, with a look up at what he plainly still thought the blistering sun, adjusted the two-foot brim of his hat.

‘The cook is asking if you’d like boiled chicken for lunch,’ he said. ‘Since we’ll be putting into Cyprus before long, he suggests we might as well finish the Alexandrian supplies.’

I nodded. Now the subject was mentioned, I was feeling rather peckish. Ducking and diving to avoid the motions of fifty heavy oars was all the exercise a man could need. And it had set me up nicely for lunch. Priscus forgotten, I looked round for the cup bearer. Priscus, though, wasn’t to be forgotten. He dragged himself upright and took a tight grip on the rail.

‘Ah, little Martin,’ he cried with an attempt at jollity, ‘I see the bandage is off.’

Martin put up a hand to where his left ear had been before it suited Priscus to have it sliced off. ‘I thank My Lord for his concern,’ he said stiffly. ‘And I am most grateful for the recommendation of the man in Constantinople who can fit a leather prosthesis.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ Priscus said, now almost cheerful. ‘Indeed, you could go for a ginger wig as well. That would hide the baldness as well as the retaining straps.’ He took a step forward. But there was another slight pitch as the wind shifted direction, and he was back with both hands clamped on the rail. ‘How did you manage the sea crossing from Ireland?’ he asked.

I looked at the sorry couple and sniffed at the smell that was drifting up from the kitchens. It was a question I’d thought of asking – but, in deference to Martin’s reluctance to talk about his past, hadn’t. There was a feeble mutter about how he’d been too young to be troubled by the mountainous waves of the ocean that swelled and raged at the ‘edges of the world’. But Priscus wasn’t listening.

‘Is it true,’ he asked, with a change of tone, ‘that the Irish are the Britons who could swim when young Alaric’s ancestors turned up to steal their country? If so, could we describe the remaining Britons as the Irish who
couldn’t
swim?’

Under the comical brim of his hat, I could see Martin’s face flush so that the freckles all but disappeared. I had the first few words out of a sneer at the modern Greeks, when there was a shout from overhead.

‘Ship on the starboard bow!’

By the time we’d worked out which way to look, it was above our own horizon.

‘A trading ship,’ I ventured.

‘Too small,’ said Priscus. ‘Pirates more likely.’ He took both hands off the rail for a moment and looked almost cheerful.

Martin sat heavily on the vacated coil of ropes and looked set to cry. But the Captain was now at hand.

‘I think My Lords will find that it is an Imperial dispatch vessel,’ he said.

I squinted and looked hard across the bright waters. How anyone could tell what it was at this distance defeated me. But I was willing to take the Captain’s word.

‘It’s coming our way,’ he added.

Priscus looked again at the seal on the letter – as if the thing weren’t unquestionably genuine.

‘What I’d like to know,’ I said, replying to his own question, ‘is how Heraclius could have known we were travelling together by sea. We must surely have outrun the fastest messenger from Alexandria. And then there’s the matter of getting an intercept from Constantinople to Cyprus.’

Priscus scowled. ‘That’s the fucking least of it,’ he said bitterly. ‘You really should know by now never to ask how an emperor gets his information.’ He dropped his voice and led me away from the stiff Syrian who’d presented the document written all over in purple and gold. It may be one of those irrelevant details that stick in the memory, but I’d noticed how well it went with my official robes. ‘What I can’t handle is the substance of the orders. Where civilians like you get sent is of no importance. No – the further you are from Constantinople, the less alarming are the “reform” laws Heraclius publishes. But I do have a war to fight. I’ve business in Constantinople that can’t wait. It may please you to be sent there – though I do assure you, it’s a shitty little town far below its reputation. But I’ve better uses of my time than inspecting the defences of Ath . . .’

Chapter 6

Jarrow, Friday, 10th January 688

Well, my dear Reader, where do I start again? It’s over a year since I last handled the thin pile of manuscript on which I must now again set to work. My writing table has an unfamiliar feel about it. The chair seems to be at the wrong height. The candle smells fatty. Do I overlook all that has happened this year, and go back to the comfortable, if not always creditable, certainties of my youth? Or do I set out on what may be the still open issues of the present?

But come now – put in these terms, what choice is there? Interesting as it is, the story of heresy and perhaps ghostly blood-drinking in the Athens of my youth can wait. In its place, let us have the reasons why what, last year, were my most familiar things have become strangers to me. And so, let me close my eyes and wait for the quarter opium pill I’ve taken to have its effect. When I open them again, let me guide my pen over the wondrously smooth papyrus, boxes of which fill this room; and let me put aside the little matter of the oath of silence that all concerned have been required to swear on the Gospels.

I begin around noon on the day that follows my last entry. My first recollection is of lying slumped over my writing table. My pen, still clamped between chilled fingers, had poked a hole in the papyrus.

‘Brother Aelric!’ came the soft yet urgent voice in my bad ear. ‘Brother Aelric, please wake up.’

It was Benedict. I tried to look up at him with bleary eyes, but I was too stiff with the cold to move. One of the novices with him gently pulled me into a seated position. Another set a cup of warmed barley wine to my lips. As I drank in its welcome goodness, I stared in Benedict’s direction and waited for my eyes to focus.

‘Have I missed prayers again?’ I asked. I glanced at the chink of bright sunshine coming through the shutters.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said flatly.

Now I could focus, I looked at the pale, sweaty face. I felt the faint stirrings of alarm.

‘Are you able to stand up and come with me?’ he asked.

Good question. I’d answer it when I felt ready. I took up the cup the novice had set down on the table and finished its contents. I kicked at the floor to push my chair back and was helped to my feet.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked. Monasteries hardly ever bustle with activity. Everything but our own voices, though, was unnaturally silent. I looked again at the hard, cold sunlight that was making a pattern of colours on the contents of my inkpot and waited as my shawl was tied about me. Benedict’s mouth twitched as if he were about to speak. But his jaw set again, and he said nothing.

Going into the great hall, I was at first blinded by the mass of sunlight that poured in through the now open gate. A couple of big men stood just outside. But all else about them other than their size was lost in the blaze. Looking back into the unwindowed dimness of the hall, I could see virtually nothing. One thing I did see, though, was the body. It lay face up, about six feet inside the gate. I let go of Benedict’s arm and moved towards it.

‘He had his reward for opening the gate,’ Benedict said as he moved beside me.

I looked steadily down at the calmest expression I’d ever seen on Cuthbert’s face. The absence of malevolence, or of any other passion, had made me wonder for a moment who it might be. But it was Cuthbert. For all death might have purged it of unpleasantness, that body had once, beyond any doubt, contained Cuthbert. He’d had his throat cut, and had landed on his back before dying. Blood had sprayed everywhere as if from a fountain. Those white flagstones Benedict always fussed over would need a day of scraping to get the stains out.

‘You’re telling me he opened the gate and was killed as the northerners rushed in?’ I asked.

Benedict nodded, but looked inclined to move to other business. Plainly, the monastery had fallen. But since the northerners hadn’t so far run wild, whatever business needed to be discussed could wait a while longer. Now my eyes had adjusted, I could see everything else in the hall. The villagers were nowhere to be seen. But the entire company of monks was sitting silent and terrified around the table. Sprawled on the ground or leaning against walls or on convenient furniture, the northerners had surely increased in number. There were more here than I’d ever counted from the tower. And there were still some outside. I looked at the weapons they had on show. As it had been outside, they mostly had small battle-axes. Otherwise, there were a few clubs and some largish knives. I saw nothing that might have been useful for cutting a throat as neatly and quickly as Cuthbert’s had been.

I looked again at the flagstones. They were blotched or spotted with blood right up to the stone threshold. Though light and shining in the sun, this was unstained. It was the same with the darker stones of the porch. The gate wasn’t pushed entirely back against the wall, but had a clearance of about three feet. I walked over and looked at the inner side of the gate. It was bad light again, but I could feel the congealed mess on one of the drawn crossbars.

‘Since poor dear Cuthbert didn’t open the gate,’ I said, turning back to face the monks, ‘is anyone able to tell me who did?’ I turned again to Benedict, who was looking confused now as well as worried. ‘But do pardon me – old habits of enquiry die hard.’ And I had to admit that I’d not been dragged out of my slumber to explain the death of the worst logic teacher England might ever have produced or might ever produce. I nodded at one of the northerners who’d come over to get a closer look at the body. He stood beside me, his face like leather where the beard didn’t cover, his hair rancid with butter.

‘A more relevant question might be why everyone else is still alive?’ I looked round yet again. This time, I noticed Joseph. As before in Benedict’s chair, he was now bound and gagged. His kitchen knife lay perhaps a yard from his feet. I could see where blood had dripped from it on to the floor. Rather big for cutting a throat, I imagined it was bloody from some attempted resistance. He looked back at me, rage and bafflement streaming from his face. Yet, if his clothes were torn, and if a bruise seemed to cover his entire forehead, even he was still alive. ‘What is going on?’ I asked Benedict.

I felt someone tugging at my sleeve, and I was helped on to a little stool that had been brought forward. I carefully stretched my legs and waited for the blood to rearrange itself. I twisted round and saw a jug of something on the table. I pointed at it and waited for the cup to be brought over. Bad luck – it was only water. I rubbed my head and tried to think. But Benedict was now staring down at me.

‘Brother Aelric,’ he said, then looked suddenly away. ‘Brother Aelric, how the gate was opened is a matter I am not able to explain. But these men tell me that their natural inclination is to strip the monastery of anything valuable and then to burn it with all of us still inside it. However, they have said that they will leave us in peace if we give up what they have come to take.’ He paused and swallowed. He began and his voice failed him. He began again: ‘Brother Aelric, I am told that they want you to go with them.’