Circle of Stones (10 page)

“Sulis is not my real name. I was born in Sheffield, and I lived there until I was seven with my mum . . . not Hannah, my real mum. We had a house on an estate, just outside the town. A bit small, a bit . . . scruffy. I didn't think so then, but I suppose I do now.”

She curled up on the bed, as if she were telling herself the story. And it was easy to tell, because she had rehearsed it over and over for this moment. The moment she would explain.

“It was just an ordinary life and I was just an ordinary kid. I didn't have a dad, but that's true for a lot of people. We didn't have any family, though. My mum never talked about them that I remember.

“I went to the local primary school and I must have been in the kindergarten class when I met Caitlin. I don't remember a time in school when she wasn't there. She sat by me a lot. There was a whole class of kids, but she was my friend. You know, the way little girls are. My special friend.”

He collapsed the toy again, and nodded. She sensed he didn't want to interrupt her.

“She was . . . funny. And chatty. A bit loud. She was always doing things and saying things . . . If there was something going on . . . I don't know, a fight or an argument, she was in it. She was always pulling me after her. I followed her. She was stronger than me. I sort of knew that.” She curled up, tighter. “Other people didn't like her. My mother started to say, ‘That Caitlin . . .' The teacher split us up but we always played together in the yard. She wasn't supposed to come to my house. So I only saw her then in school. We were ordinary little kids. We got into trouble, but only silly things. We would have grown up to be just ordinary teenage girls, I suppose. If that day hadn't happened.”

Josh was listening, his fingers on the toy. She said, “It was a cold morning. Sunny, but cold. It must have been autumn . . . Just after the schools go back, because we had a new teacher, and she didn't like Caitlin. There was some trouble, I forget what, an argument with some girl. Caitlin got the blame, and then she lost her temper, and punched the other kid. She'd had to go to the principal's office, and her mum was going to get a letter about it. She was really upset. We were in a corner of the playground that lunchtime and she was there with her back against the fence and her face all red from crying and her knees up and she was so wild.
I'm not staying here to get yelled at again,
she said.
I'm going. Are you coming?

“I don't think I wanted to. I wouldn't have done it on my own. But she was like that. You had to go along. She sort of pulled you after her. We crept past the lunch ladies and around by the staff parking lot. There was a wall, but it was easy to get over. I remember we were two streets away, running down an alley, when I heard the bell ring for the afternoon, and thinking that I'd miss PE and that I was quite pleased about that.”

She looked up. “Sorry. All this . . .”

“I'm interested. Go on.”

He had dumped the toy. Now he wasn't fiddling with anything, his eyes on her.

She looked away. “We'd never been out on our own before. At least I hadn't. We knew a few streets, but after that it was all new. Cars and a crosswalk and then a bus stop. A bus came and Caitlin said
Let's get on it,
so we did. We didn't have any money, but there was a crowd of women and we got on with them and sat together, all innocent, and I suppose everyone thought we were someone else's kids. The bus went through the countryside for miles—woods and fields and then into another town and we got off and ran. We didn't care. Not yet. We walked down streets and found this big park, so we played on the swings—and then we ran around a little lake that was there. It was fun at first. I don't know how long it took us to realize that we were lost, and it was cold, and we were hungry.” She looked up. “People tell kids not to talk to strangers, but everyone is a stranger, nearly, and all of a sudden we realized that. There were no friendly firemen or policemen or women in nurses' uniforms like in the pictures in kids' storybooks, no kind old ladies walking dogs. It was twilight and the tree branches were black against the sky, and the streetlamps were all orange. I remember that. It was getting dark. And I remember how the birds scared me—flocks of birds swooping into the trees, squawking.

“Then we saw him. He was sitting on a bench in the park. He looked all right. I think he was watching the birds or maybe I've imagined that. It's so hard to tell what you remember from what you imagine. Or what other people whisper around you. And I've read all the clippings now, of course, so there's all that newspaper stuff in my head too.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Caitlin did. She was always the bravest. I stayed back. I don't know what she said, but he stood up and walked over to us. He seemed really tall, but he sort of crouched down. And close up he was all dirty. I mean, stinking. And we saw that his clothes were old and he had some sort of disease . . . well, that's what I thought. It was probably just sores, but anyway we screamed, and ran.”

She was silent so long Josh heard the tourist bus go around again on its endless cycle. When she spoke next her voice was quieter. “He chased us. Over the grass, up some sort of slope. We were terrified. He shouted, but we didn't stop. Then there was a sort of building in front of us. A tall, round building. It had a door, and we opened it and fell inside and shoved the door shut and sat there in the dark, all huddled up together, panting and breathless and scared absolutely stiff. We thought he was coming after us. It took ages for us to stop sobbing and shaking and to think we were safe. Finally Caitlin whispered that we should go back outside. I didn't want to, but she made me. So we tried to open the door. But we couldn't.”

“It was locked?”

“Jammed, I suppose. It was a big old wooden door. We could barely reach the handle, let alone turn it. We banged and yelled and screamed. We forgot the man could still be out there. We didn't care—all I wanted was my mum, and to be safe and home and warm. But no one came.”

Josh shook his head. “It must have been bad.”

“We were seven years old. We thought we'd die in there. I was sure I'd never see my house or my toys or my school again. And in a sense I was right, because nothing was ever the same after.” She rolled over and sat up, pushing her hair back. “Anyway, after a while Caitlin had an idea.
Let's go up the steps,
she said.
There might be a window
.
So we climbed up. The steps were wet and slippery, and they curved around. Like steps in a castle—one of my foster parents took me to a castle once and I nearly fainted. I couldn't go up there. The dark, the damp smell, the slime on the walls—it was just the same.

“Our breath sounded really loud, and it was dark and there were cobwebs and horrible spiders. But no windows. We climbed up and up until our legs hurt, and there was another door and it was stiff, but we managed to push that one open, and there was a room. Empty, except for some old sacks and rubbish in one corner. In the wall was a tiny gate, of iron, sort of like a portcullis, and there was a wind coming through it, so we ran over and pulled and tugged at it. It was all white with bird mess. But we opened it, and the wind whipped in.

“Outside was the roof. A little flat square of roof, with a broken parapet. In the newspapers after they called it a folly. A folly.” She smiled, shaking her head. “What a joke.”

Josh was very still. “Sulis. You don't have to . . .”

“I want to tell you. I've gotten this far, and I don't want you to read it in some trashy book. I want you to know what really happened.” She had to keep talking. If she stopped, she might never come this far again, and she had to know, she herself had to know what had happened.

Because this was a story she never let herself remember to its end, except where she had no control over it, in dreams, where it swelled into grotesque faces and garbled words. She spoke quickly now, in a rapid monotone.

“We didn't know what to do. We were so high up, and down below was the park, and the lake, and it was all so dark and quiet. The trees and bushes were black; they were like some forest in a fairy tale, a place where witches are. There was no one to hear us even if we'd shouted. And then it started to rain, an icy sleet, and we were sobbing so hard.” She shook her head again and cleared her throat.

“People must have missed you.”

“Oh, they had. When neither of us came home from school, there was a while when each of our mothers was just annoyed, and then they panicked. By about five the police were called, and they started to search. But it was a freezing night, and what no one realized was just how far we'd come. It was that bus ride. It turned out that we were about ten miles from home. So everyone was looking in the wrong place.”

“What did you do?”

“We just stood there.”

“And then?”

She was silent a moment. Then she said, “He came. The tramp. We heard him behind us. He'd come up the stairs, I suppose. He ducked under the metal grille. He said,
There's no way down from here, little girls. Unless you can fly.
”

Zac

A
lleyn's rail wagons are a wonder. The stone is brought down from the quarries in them, on a steep wooden track right down to the river, powered by nothing but gravity. The shouts of men & haulers can be heard across the city. At the quay the rough blocks are manhandled into a line of wagons that rumbles constantly through the streets & up here to the site. I have never seen such industry. It astonishes & rather shames me.

The laborers are low creatures from the nearby farms & villages, but they work harder than beasts. It is as if the work is the deepest thing in them, this hauling of stones, heaving of stones, shaping & chiseling & cutting of stones. Perhaps they are the descendents of the ancient fellows who built Stonehenge. Forrest would say so, I'm sure.

It is a pity their industry will be subverted by me.

I have a small shelter here on site in which to work. Of course, we are not builders. We are architects & gentlemen, we. The building contractors are men as rough as their workers, each responsible for a number of houses. They fit out the insides as their buyers wish, those that are sold. What we oversee is more important. The facade. The very shape of the Circus.

I have a bench & stool & a small fire in a brazier to keep my feet warm, though the weather is still mild. I have a flask of wine in the drawer. Sipping it, I watched the laborers & thought of Sylvia. Yesterday, she told me her story.

She told it falteringly in broken sentences. I said little, because I would not have her stop. And yet there were many things she did not say. I knew her name was false, & she admitted that, but never once did she say what her real name was. And this village in the north may not even exist. But her running away with a friend, & their adventuring here to Aquae Sulis, & her fall into the vices & gamblings of Gilbert's, why, this is an old tale. She lost all her money & had to work for her keep, & until Forrest rescued her she was lower than the sweepings of the street.

She denies passionately that she works for Compton now. She loathes him, & rarely goes out in case she meets with him, or any of the wastrels of the city. And certainly my lord is a liar. But I wonder if she, like me, is his instrument to destroy the success of the Circus, even if she does not know it? Her very presence in the house damages Forrest.

Forrest was out on site, his plans spread on a table in the windy air. I watched him pointing & gesturing & giving careful orders.

He cannot be in love with her, can he? He is old enough to be her father.

Can it just be kindness?

Such a simple thing?

George Fisher came in, a carpenter. “The mazter wants ee.” They do not even call me “Zirr” these days. I got up, dusted my clothes, & went.

The site was a maelstrom of noise. Chipping, hammering, the teeth-gritting scrape of metal on stone. Dust blew in my face & nostrils, despite my handkerchief. Forrest turned as I came.

“Zac. Morris reports more despoliation overnight. Tools taken, a wooden cradle burnt.”

I looked suitably dismayed. But I thought,
This is why Compton needs me, to create his chaos
.

“What about the night watchmen?”

“They saw nothing. Between you & me, I fear they are paid to see nothing.” He clouted the table with his fist & I saw the anger in him. “Why do they do this to me? Don't they see the wonder of this place? The beauty of the shape?”

“Perhaps they hear rumors of games & gladiators.” I felt guilty. Perhaps that was why my voice came out silky & needle-sharp.

He glared.

“All that is forgotten & you know it. I have had enough of mockery from Lord Compton without you repeating it. And I cannot afford this, Zac. I am mortally short of money.”

He looks tired. There are dark smudges under his eyes. For two nights he has worked, & yet late last night, deep in the dark hours, he left the house with two strangers & did not come home before dawn. More of the Oroboros mystery.

I said, “We could economize.”

“I will not. This structure will stand long after both of us are dead, & I will not be thought a scrapeshift.”

I shrugged. “The stone columns must be kept, yes, but there are aspects of the design that you could omit without spoiling it. The stone acorns, for example. They have no purpose. I am not sure if they won't even mar the purity of the thing. And then there are these metopes  .  .  .”

He gave a great swearing oath & stormed up and down, ignoring the workmen's stares.

“The metopes are part of the whole! The acorns matter! I will not compromise, sir, even if I have to sell everything I own.”

These metopes are strange things, mere emblems & pictures in stone. He has selected some from foreign books & others he has drawn himself. They are alchemical signs, secret devices. A Janus face—both male & female. An oak tree. Beehives. Two hands breaking a ring. The frieze of them will carry right around the circle, but what will the buyers of the houses want with such images on their property?
And acorns?

I stepped back from his wrath & said icily, “Well, sir, perhaps you could ask help from your secret friends.”

He stopped. Sometimes he is like a puppet glove on my hand. I know exactly what he will say. “What secret friends?”

“The Oroboros Society. Or whatever they call themselves.”

Or do I know him? He stared at me so long I was almost afraid, & then he smiled. In all the clamor of stonecutting & rattle of wagons there was silence between us.

“Well, Zac. You watch carefully.”

I felt awkward. “I saw them at Stanton Drew, as you know. I know there are many such secret orders. Masons, druidical societies, clubs of learned men.”

His dark eyes still held me. “Then you will know their members cannot discuss their secrets.”

“Well indeed, sir, but I am sure if a member is in need of help—of any sort—his co-druids, or whatever they are, would assist him.” It struck me then that the emblems on the frieze were symbols of this group, so I kept silent. When he spoke again he amaz'd me.

He said, “You are good to think of my welfare, Zac. I appreciate it.”

“I! But I  .  .  .”

“Oh, you may keep up your haughty ways, but I see the real you. You hurt me to the quick by suggesting I cut the acorns from my plan & now you seek to offer comfort.” He came up to me & put both his hands on my shoulders. “You are loyal, Zac, & despite your roistering I know you dream of the Circus as I do. We'll get through this trouble. The Circus will be your memorial as well as mine.”

One of the men called him then & he went. I stared at his back. He had not been sarcastic. He did not know the meaning of the word! For a while I stood there in the clamor & then I turned & walked furiously off the site. Why did he have to say that?
Loyalty?
What did he know of my loyalty? I was loyal to no man but myself.

I walked down to the town & shame & anger fueled me. The debt to Compton felt like a load on my back. A hundred guineas! In truth it might as well have been a thousand—I was ruined & I knew it.

But as I strode through the filth of the narrow alleys, it was Forrest I was angry with. He might be a genius, but surely no man could be so simple. So stupid! And after all, I owed him nothing. Sylvia's scornful words were a girl's folly. Anyone would have taken me on as apprentice, fee or not! I was educated, the son of a gentleman. Architects everywhere would have jumped at the chance.

I would not care about Forrest. He was kind only when it suited him & star-blind with his own obsessions. His druidical nonsense was making fools of us all.

I came out into the abbey churchyard. To my right the great Gothic building rose, its blackened facade showing the double ladders of stone that led up to heaven, angels climbing them. To catch my breath I stopped & stared up at it.

Whoever had designed this had also been a man of genius, but who remembered him now? Ladies & gentlemen strolled beneath the fan vaulting & great windows & marveled at the stonework. They never once thought of the builders. Stones remain, men die. This is how things are. This is what the circle means.

“Good day, Master Stoke.”

I turned, quickly.

Two men & a lady stood there. She wore a red silk dress that must have cost the earth. One of the men was Ralph Alleyn.

“Master Alleyn,” I said.

“Allow me to introduce Sir John Douglas. Lady Douglas. This is my friend Forrest's assistant, Master Zachariah Stoke.”

We all bowed elegantly.
Forrest's assistant,
I thought. No more than this.

“You must be busy at the site.” Alleyn came & took my arm & we all walked toward the baths.

“Since the ground was leveled, things have moved quickly. The first third of the facade is begun.”

“John will build in sections?”

“That's the idea.”

He nodded & stood elegantly posed in the sunlight. I heard the swish of his brocade coat, & I thought,
He is rich. Try him
.

I said, “Things are not right, sir. There have been thefts, deliberate destructions. Small, but troublesome.”

He frowned, waving his friends on. I saw them sweep into the abbey.

“So I've heard. But it will be nothing, Zac. There are always thefts from sites. John knows that.” He shook his head so that the fine silvery wig shed a little powder. “I'll call on him. There are no problems with the stone, I trust?”

“The stone is perfect.” I took a breath. “Master Alleyn, if I may . . . it's just . . . on my own account I have . . . a little difficulty.”

I did not like the look he gave me. It was direct & his eyes were hard. “Difficulty?”

I laughed, a feeble attempt. “Money, sir. You know how a gentlemen has . . . obligations. I wonder if I might possibly impose  .  .  .”

He caught my sleeve & hauled me into the shelter of the bathhouse. From over the wall the splashes of the hot water & howls of the afflicted rose like catcalls. He said, “Don't speak to me as if we were in some book of etiquette, sir. Do you mean to tell me that you have been gambling & are in debt?”

I pulled away. I had never heard him so sharp. I raised my chin. “Once. Just once. Unfortunately I  .  .  .”

“How much?”

“Sir?”

“Don't pretend to be stupid, boy. How much do you owe?”

I opened my mouth, but the words came out in a sullen mutter. “A hundred. Guineas.”

I had thought him such a soft man. Now I saw I was wrong. He fixed me with a look that could shatter stone.

“I warned John not to take you on, did you know that? But he laughed & said, ‘Oh come, let's give the boy a chance, Ralph.' And this is how you repay him! I tell you, sir, you fill me with disgust. He works himself to the bone & his genius is scorned by fools & even his own apprentice is a scoundrel. If I hear money is missing from his house, I shall—”

I jerked back. “I would never do that! Never!”

“I think you might do much.”

We glared at each other. Passersby turned their heads, curious. Alleyn said, “Whom do you owe?”

“I can't tell you that.” I wouldn't. I was hot with fury. “Forget I asked you. I'll find the money myself.”

“Does John know?”

“No. You will not tell him, sir.”

“I will not tell him
yet
. And I will give you this.” He scribbled something on a card & held it out to me. “The address of a reputable man of business. No villain. He will lend you the money for a reasonable amount of interest on my backing.” He pushed it into my hand. “But I swear, Zac, I will never do this again. And I don't do it for you, but for my good friend, who has the misfortune to be kind to ungrateful strays.”

He did not bow.

He just turned & walked away.

I stood grasping my sword-stick in the middle of the square, the paper crushed in my glove. My face burned. I was sure everyone was staring at me, but I couldn't move.

Sheer raw fury made my hands tremble.

After a moment I raised my head & walked with exaggerated poise to the wall & gazed over at the bathers. I barely saw them. The steam of the hot springs rose into the autumn air, & I stared at the fat women & the gouty men as if I would kill them all. What sort of a world was this? And there in the open bath, beggars & low women & poxed fools all squatting together in who knows what filth, hoping for a cure for diseases they had brought down upon themselves, & richly deserved. I hated all of them.

I hated the whole world.

How could I ever pay interest! Couldn't he see I was desperate? I narrowed my eyes & swore softly & in that instant I knew what I would do. I glanced at the name on the paper, crushed it & flung it into the hot bath. Let Sulis have it, as an offering. I turned. Walking quickly, I slipped into the alleys. And then I ran.

Up the slope of the town. Past leaning houses & building sites for new smart terraces. Past shops & gaming halls & assembly rooms & market stalls. Through the tumbledown tangle of the old & the graceful streets of the new, past sedan chairs and phaetons, through black iron railings, by maids scrubbing the steps, & spilled beer from a dray & two cockerels fighting in the road.