The Ghosts of Athens (33 page)

As the monks put on leather gloves that reached all the way up to their shoulders, I opened my perfume bottle. I shook it over a napkin and stood where I could take what advantage might come of the very gentle breeze. The Dispensator ignored my offer and looked down in quiet prayer. Martin was already on his knees and had his arms raised in a prayer of his own. I took my thoughts off Constantinople – they brought no profit – and wondered again what funeral rites Hierocles had been given. The Old Faith wouldn’t have been made illegal till about fifty years after his probable death. Enforcement in a place like Athens would have come perhaps a century after that. The absence of anything specifically religious probably meant, then, that he’d been a Christian. A Christian burial here – or one so prominent – would, until quite recently, have risked immediate violation. Even now, the rabble gave no appearance of more than formulaic devotion.

I looked up at the commotion from the monks.

‘My Lord,’ one of them cried, ‘the tomb is empty!’

‘It was surely wild animals,’ I said again. ‘Didn’t you hear the wolves last night? They came right up to the walls.’

Martin shut up and looked ready to start crying again. A disappointed look on his face, the Dispensator had taken off his hat and was fanning his face. Now they realised what we’d had in mind for them, the monks had cheered up mightily where they sat with their cheese and bread, pleased they’d got off so lightly. I looked away from the scrap of black cloth that hung on a strand of the flattened brambles. No body meant no excuse for an arrest – rather, it meant an excuse for no arrest. Sooner or later, justice would have to be done. The balance of convenience, though, had just swung decisively against any action. If Ludinus was even in part behind this council, it was plain that Simeon was right. I’d been set up to fail. My only salvation was in
not
failing. Arresting the Count of Athens, and getting everyone into a sweat about sorcery charges, had suddenly become a luxury I couldn’t possibly afford.

I stepped forward and planted a booted foot over the scrap of cloth. ‘Since it has been taken away,’ I said, trying not to sound as relieved as I felt, ‘we’ll have to reconsider our plan.’

‘My experience of wolves,’ the Dispensator said with a close look at the flattened brambles, ‘is that they devour their food where they find it. Also, they fight over it.’ He looked at the odd position of my right foot, and watched as I shuffled forward to stand more naturally. ‘I see no evidence here of wolves or any other wild animal. I am surprised, Alaric, that you – of all people – should come so quickly to your conclusion.’

I shrugged and ground my foot hard through the brambles to the stony soil beneath. I stepped forward again, and kicked gently at one of the bricks that had been pulled again from the hole in the back of the tomb. The body had been taken away by some person or persons unknown. That much was plain. Also plain was that it had been taken not long before – that strong a smell of corruption shouldn’t have lasted beyond the clearing of the morning mist. I looked about. Once off the road, and past the straggle of tombs and other monuments that lined both sides, it was an endless wilderness of green and of jagged white rocks that may have been put there for some human purpose, or that might just always have been there. So it was as far as the eye could see. Nicephorus had mentioned farmers who’d carried away all the stones of the Long Walls. There was no evidence of agriculture that I could see. There was, however, any number of places where a body might be hidden. The real question was who had taken it, and why? If I could fob the Dispensator off with talk of wild animals, I’d be back later for a proper look round.

I was drenched in the oil of roses Martin had jogged over me in his first shock. I raised a sleeve to my nose and breathed in slowly. I looked up at the sun and sneezed. ‘The body has gone,’ I said firmly. ‘This being so, I can only suggest that we return to Athens and consider our next move.’ If this meant having to dangle the Universal Bishop title much earlier than I’d intended, it might be worth the loss of pressure in the actual council. Then again—

My thoughts had been interrupted by a squeal from one of the monks.

‘O Jesus!’ Martin breathed with a tight clutch at my arm. ‘The barbarians.’

And this time, he was right. It was indeed barbarians. How none of us had seen them did little credit to our watchfulness. But we had been focused on the tomb and its expected contents, and then on its lack of contents. And this was anything but the unstoppable flood of humanity everyone was shitting himself over. These were three children. The eldest was a boy of perhaps fourteen. With the shambling movements you read about in the reanimated dead, he and his sisters were picking their way through the brambles on the other side of the road.

‘Eat! Eat!’ the boy was croaking in Slavic as he stepped forward and almost fell on to the road. I looked over the expanse of stones from where they’d come. They were alone. I put my sword back into its scabbard and stepped towards the boy. He fell on his knees and raised outstretched arms. The girls had flopped down on the paving stones of the road and were beginning to cry weakly. If they’d eaten in days, it would have surprised me.

‘Where are the others?’ I asked in the Slavic dialect I thought the boy had used. I looked about again. But for the chirping of cicadas and Martin’s renewed urgency of praying, we were gathered in silence. Unless there was an army of dwarves hidden out there behind the stones, they really were alone. I wondered how they’d got here.

‘In the name of Christ, we starve,’ was the only reply I got from the boy. ‘Food, I beg – food, if only for the girls.’ He spread himself on the paving stones in a kind of prostration.

Priscus was right about my knowledge of the military arts. One thing I did know, however, was that you don’t feed your enemy. I gave a ferocious look at no one in particular and stood back. ‘These unfortunates,’ I’d once said of the poor in Constantinople, ‘are numbered among those for whom no place has been set at the feast of Nature’s plenty.’ That had got me a murmur of applause in the Imperial Council when I nagged Heraclius to cut the bread distribution. But I caught the look on the Dispensator’s face. ‘These savages have no proper business on Imperial soil,’ I answered him. ‘Their wasting is to our benefit. Give food to any of them, and you feed the enemies who would kill us in our beds.’

‘Even if they beg in the name of Christ?’ the Dispensator now said. ‘These are children. They can do no harm at all.’ He leaned on his walking staff and frowned at me. ‘Does your concern about the young extend only to the dead?’ he asked with a slight look round at the empty tomb.

I was thinking of a suitably firm negative. The Dispensator might have some religious duty to feed the starving. I had an empire to think about. But I looked again at the barbarians. The boy hadn’t moved. I looked over at his sisters. I found myself staring into a pair of very big and pleading eyes. Ten? Twelve? You really couldn’t tell – certainly not with that degree of emaciation. I told myself to ignore her. It doesn’t matter how few of them there are, or how weak they look:
you don’t feed barbarians
. Give food even to that girl, and her first thought would be to ask how and when to get a knife into my back.

I drew a deep breath. ‘Be off with you!’ I was intending to shout. I found myself looking again into those eyes. I looked away. I gritted my teeth. I turned to face Martin. ‘Put what’s left down there,’ I muttered. ‘I’ve no doubt there is plenty left over.’

I avoided looking at anyone as Martin dropped a still bulging satchel on the ground and danced back. The boy ripped it open and pulled at its contents. He paused in the act of shoving half a loaf into his mouth and called the girls forward. The Dispensator now had another of the satchels open and was distributing cheese. He’d come out to pray over the dead. Now, he was feeding the starving. That, plus comforting the bereaved, and someone at least was having a good day.

I watched them gorge themselves. There is something unpleasant about watching the hungry eat. It may be in itself the rapid, suspicious movement of food to the mouth. It may simply be the pity of it all. I was getting ready to question the boy properly, when I heard a scrape of stones behind me.

I looked round just in time to get out of the way. Dressed in black, the small, darting figure missed me and stabbed viciously into thin air. He landed noiselessly and wheeled about to face me. I had my sword back out and went into a fighting pose. From the far left, I saw another dark blur. I lunged forward and then round in a wide, cutting move. Even in broad daylight, you don’t stop and count your attackers. But I was aware of five of those dark, rapid creatures. I stepped back against the tomb and raised my sword again. Almost too late, I heard the scrape of clothing on weathered stone, as someone jumped on to the roof of the tomb and tried to get me from behind. I leapt forward at the nearest of the attackers before me. I felt the point of my sword make contact with something solid, and heard a high squeal of pain. But there was no kill – not even some disabling injury.

I turned again and lunged with another cutting movement at the man still on the tomb. This one I did get. I took him by surprise, and felt the reassuring crunch of expensive steel on the flesh and bone of the man’s neck. He went backwards off the tomb with a bubbling scream. I turned and stared at the four who were left. Now together, they hung back. I could see they were dressed wholly in black, even down to the masks on their faces. Each had a short sword in one hand and a knife in the other. In a moment, they’d fan out again and close in like flies round a drop of spilled honey.

‘Run for it!’ I shouted in Latin. I had a momentary glimpse of Martin, who’d pulled out a length of dead bramble and was trying for a weak flourish. ‘Martin, fuck off!’ I shouted again. ‘Run and get help.’ This was no place for him. I slashed at someone who jumped at me from the left, and then at someone who tried getting at me from the right.

‘Look out – behind you!’ I heard the Dispensator cry.

I looked round in time to see him hurry forward, his walking staff raised as a weapon. One of the attackers had climbed on to the bloody roof of the tomb. The other three were closing in. I heard the whizz of the Dispensator’s staff as he knocked the man from the tomb. With a rapid lunge, I struck out at the attacker who was trying to get him from the side. I missed, but he and the others fell back again. I felt the Dispensator’s back press into mine, and we moved into the middle of the road. So long as no one managed a lucky slice against that walking staff, we now had some advantage. The attackers shouted rapidly at each other. One of them made a dash at me, sword arm fully extended. Stupid move! I stood head and shoulders and part of my chest above any of them. I had another six inches at the least in my own sword arm. I had him skewered far short of where he could have done me any harm. As the dying man fell to his knees, I kicked him back into the path of one of the two survivors.

Behind me, I felt the Dispensator press into me as he swung his staff. Leaving me for the moment, the attack was now focused on him. I jumped forward to avoid being caught by the staff and picked up one of the fallen swords. I threw it at Martin, who was waving his piece of bramble and screaming like a terrified woman. The Dispensator’s staff was now cut off just a few inches from where he’d been holding it. As he stepped back, I went past him and, holding it in both hands, swung hard with my sword. I missed where I’d been aiming, but still managed to take a sword arm off at the elbow. I had a brief glimpse of the arm, still clutching its sword, bounce on the paving stones.

The attackers were now down to one. As he stepped cautiously back from me, Martin rushed him from behind. Still screaming, eyes shut, he slashed feebly and at random. It was a marvel he didn’t crash straight into me. But the attacker looked round for a moment. I took my sword again in both hands and went at him. I took the top of his head off as if it had been a breakfast egg. He fell to his knees, his sword clattering on to the road. I didn’t bother to watch him drop forward, but turned to finish off the man whose right arm I’d taken. But he was now running for it. Screaming with fear and pain, staggering from loss of blood, he was already off the road. I could have followed him on to the stones. But, injured as he was, he darted away with more speed than I thought I’d manage.

Keeping my sword up, I looked round. Within a ten-foot radius, all the paving stones were red and slippery. The monks had bolted. Far along the road, I could see their dark blur as they made for the safety of Athens. Towards us, coming from both directions, I saw the approach of other travellers, the sun glinting on their drawn swords. There was a distant sound of shouting. Close by was the sound of the Dispensator’s loud breathing and Martin’s return to frantic prayer. No birds sang. In place of the merry chirping of insects was the buzzing of flies as they gathered to feast on the blood that I’d shed. Probably cowering behind some of the larger stones, the children had vanished.

I forced myself into a calm I didn’t feel. ‘You are hurt, My Lord?’ I asked.

The Dispensator shook his head. One of his sleeves had been ripped all the way down, but the sword hadn’t touched his arm. He bent and picked up the remaining length of his walking staff and tested it.