The Shadow of Ararat (28 page)

The blood, steaming and hot, settled in the inner cavity of the body, soaking into long-closed arteries and veins. A sucking sound filled the dank chamber and the corpse trembled, filling with the burning liquid.

"If these lips of mine that call you have been tainted enough with hideous crimes, if I have always eaten human flesh before chanting such spells, if I have cut open the breasts of new mothers and washed them out with warm brains, if any baby could have lived, once his head and organs were placed in your temple—grant me my desire!"

The corpse, its lips flushed a pale rose by the blood curdling within it, did not move.

"Tisiphone and Megara! Are you listening to me? Will you not use your savage whips, studded with hooks and teeth, to drive this ancient wretch from the wasteland of Erebus? Shall I conjure your true names to call you forth into dreadful light? Shall I follow you over graves and burial grounds, driving you away from every tomb and urn? You, Hecate, shall I drag you before the gods in heaven and show them your true aspect, pale and morbid, always hidden behind artifice? Shall I tell the gods, O Persephone, what kind of dear food it is that keeps you under the earth, what bond of love unites you with the gloomy king of night, what defilement you welcomed that makes your mother deny you?"

The stones of the tomb echoed with the violence in Maxian's shout. The air crawled with strange lights and shuddering darkness. Still, the body on the slab did not move, though now wisps of steam and smoke issued forth from its eyes and mouth.

"Upon you, you lowest rulers of the world, shall I focus the sun—breaking open your caves—and daylight shall strike you. Will you obey my will? Or must I call him who makes the earth tremble when his name is invoked, who can look upon the Gorgon unveiled, who lashes a frightened Fury with her own whip, who dwells in the depth of Tartarus that is hidden even from your view, for whom you are the 'gods above,' who commits perjury in the name of Styx?"

The clotted blood, thick and viscous in the open pounds of the body, suddenly boiled up again. The limbs of the corpse twitched as it circulated, reaching the extremities. Flooded with the black liquid, the tissues in the cold breast began to vibrate, new life stealing into organs long unaccustomed to it, struggling with death. Every limb began to shake, the sinews stretching, the tendons popping. Eyelids flickered open, revealing dead white orbs. Stiff lips twitched and the chest, its gaping wounds closed and puckered, heaved with breath.

Maxian was giddy with triumph, seeing life and vitality flow throughout his creation. His head began to spin and he clutched at the stone lip of the table. His ghostly fingers fell through the platform.

In the cavern, Abdmachus stared up at the ceiling with near terror. The whirlwind of bones was gone, all of the remains consumed by the young master. The roots that anchored the roof were gone as well, and a steady trickle of gravel and stones rained down onto the floor of the chamber. The tomb door was gone, dissolved into dust, and a strange wind now blew into the open tomb. For all his long years scrabbling in the earth of graveyards, ossuaries and among the remains of the dead, the Nabatean harbored a carefully concealed fear of close spaces. The earth groaned around him as abused stones shifted. He cowered over the body of the young man, his own talents extended to the utmost to hold up the pattern of protection that kept
him
from being consumed.

The body of the young Roman twitched in his hands, and suddenly a scraping sound came from the open door of the tomb. The Nabatean twitched around to face the opening, his mind gibbering to him of cold-eyed ghouls and the other denizens of the dead places. In the ruddy orange light of the remaining lantern, the hand that suddenly came out of the darkness and gripped the door frame was smeared with red blood. Abdmachus flinched back and scuttled away from the body of the Prince. Another hand joined the first, and then the naked body of an elderly man heaved itself out of the doorway. He was almost bald, with thinning gray hair and a strong, patrician nose. His body was well muscled yet showing age despite an active life. A welter of scars marked his chest and the side of his neck. The dead man sneered, seeing the little oriental cowering in the dirt before him.

"Get up," the man snarled in an archaic accent. "Bring me clothing."

Abdmachus crept across the floor to the bag of tools and began rummaging in it, one eye on the dead man. The corpse pushed away from the wall and shook its head like a dog shedding water. It raised its hands and turned them over, seeing their pale flesh. It felt its chest and traced the scars and old wounds. At last it looked down on the unconscious body of the Prince.

"This is the one who has given me life again?" the dead man rasped.

Abdmachus looked up from the tunic, boots, undershirt, and cowled robe that he had removed from the tool bag. "Yes," he said, "he is your master now."

The dead man snorted and dust puffed from his nose. Puzzled, he dug a bony finger into each nostril and dragged out dirt and the desiccated remains of worms.

"Pfaugh!" The dead man cursed and tried to spit. A fine cloud of white powder drifted out of his open mouth. "Have you any wine?" it asked in a querulous voice.

"No," answered Abdmachus, handing the corpse the undershirt. "Put this on."

The corpse dragged the cotton shirt over his head and patted it down. It looked down at the Prince lying at its feet. "I could break his neck right now, while he sleeps. Then I would be my own master."

Abdmachus shook his head slowly, saying "If he dies, you go back to the worms. While he lives, and wills it, you live."

The corpse accepted the tunic with a wry smile. Its dead eyes turned to Abdmachus.

"Then he should live a long time, shouldn't he... Persian?"

The slow gurgle of water slid past under the bow of the long boat. Thyatis crouched in darkness, her head just above the lip of the hull. She could barely hear the soft sounds of men breathing at her side or the faint swish of oars in water. Like Nikos and the two Turks that were rowing, she was clad in loose-fitting black robes with soot blackening her face and hair. The darkness around them was only fitfully broken by the light of a shuttered lantern that danced over the water ahead of them.

Thyatis squinted, trying to make out the features of the men they were following. It was too dark and the light of the lantern too intermittent. She bit at her lip nervously. The chase was long and slow, wearing on her nerves. At first it had seemed it would be an easy operation—follow two of the Eastern lords who had slipped out of the Great Palace to their presumed meeting with Persian spies, then swoop down and bag the whole lot. She had not expected the quarry to descend into the depths of the half-abandoned cistern system that burrowed under the hill holding the palaces.

The sound of the oars of the other boat echoed off the high ceiling. Intermittently, the murmur of a man speaking carried to Thyatis, but she could not make out the words. Behind her own craft, two more shallow-drafted boats carried the rest of her men.

Around them, great pillars rose out of the cold waters, passing overhead like the branches of great stone trees. The air was chill, for the waters were fresh from springs in the hills beyond the city. Despite the Avar "siege" of the city, the aqueducts that fed the great public cisterns remained open and full. Nikos gently touched Thyatis' elbow. The boat ahead had pulled up to a jetty of stone jutting from one wall of the vast chamber. The distant lantern brightened as the man carrying it slid the hood aside and a set of steps were revealed, leading up into darkness. The thump of the boat coming to the jetty slithered across the water.

Thyatis held up her hand and the two Turks gently backed their oars. The other two boats glided silently to a stop in the partial cover of one of the towering pillars. The Roman girl watched and waited as two men got out of the boat at the jetty and climbed up the stairs, leaving one man in the boat with a second lantern. After a few minutes there was a distant
clang
of metal and the last traces of the lantern the two men were carrying disappeared from the steps. Thyatis turned and her hand flickered in quiet-talk to Nikos.
Go,
she signed,
quietly and take the boat.

Nikos nodded and shed his cloak and shirt. Barefoot, he eased over the side of the boat. Thyatis and the two Turks subtly adjusted their seating so that the boat did not rock and make a noise as the Illyrian slipped into the dark water. Taking a long breath, he submerged and the water closed over him with barely a ripple.

For a time, the men and woman in the three boats waited. Thyatis sat, still and quiet, watching, feeling the air around her and the breathing of her men. At last she felt the soft breath of Jochi as he breathed in and pushed his bow away from him, bringing the string taut. Ahead, in the pale light of the lantern on the jetty, she saw the dark waters part near the end of the boat and a lithe, stocky figure emerge. Nikos' hand blurred and the boatman's throat was suddenly crushed by iron fingers. The knife in the other hand slid through cloth and flesh with a whisper, and the body of the boatman jerked. There was no sound, but the boatman crumpled into the bottom of the boat. Nikos crouched over him, staring up the stairs.

No sound came, no shouts of alarm. Nikos climbed out of the water onto the jetty. Moving quickly, he picked up the lantern and moved it to the bottom of the steps, pointing upward. On the lead boat, Thyatis motioned her men forward. Jochi reslung his bow and took up his oar. The three boats slid forward over the dark water to the dock.

Dwyrin was curled into as small a space as he could manage, well back in the little recess on the side of the chamber of candles. He practiced being invisible, his breathing faint, his thoughts concentrated on stone, rock, and tile. In the chamber, the dead man Khiron was sitting quietly, staring at the little table and the items upon it. From time to time he would reach out a gray hand and shuffle the items about, making little tinkling sounds. So he had been since Dwyrin had awoken. The air in the chamber seemed close and heavy. The dead man had not taunted the boy, or brought him any food or water. The ache in Dwyrin's stomach was growing, but there was nothing to be done about it. Dwyrin watched the dead man out of the corner of his eye.

Suddenly Khiron stood, brushing his long cloak back from the little chair. He strode to the heavy doorway that led outside, to the long corridor, and paused as if listening. When he turned back, his face was drawn and grim. Then suddenly it stretched into the rictus of a smile.

"An arrangement has been made for you, boy," he said, his voice gravelly.

A tremor of fear rippled through Dwyrin and his eyes began to smart with tears. He scrunched himself smaller and pressed against the rough stone at the back of the recess. Khiron ignored this and unlocked the grate, reaching in and dragging the boy out with a long arm. He stood the Hibernian up and dusted him off.

"I will miss you, little mouse," the dead man said, his voice light, like flayed skin flapping in the wind.

"Come, it is time to meet your new master."

At the top of the long flight of stairs from the cistern, Nikos and Thyatis stood on opposite sides of the iron-bound door that closed off the top of the steps. One of the men, Ulfgar, stood before the door, carefully attired in the garb of the dead boatman. Anagathios had finished daubing color on his face and carefully smearing it to make an even surface. Done, the Syrian packed his small wooden case with precise, unhurried motions and then slipped back down the stairs. Thyatis nodded at Ulfgar and then quietly unshipped her shortsword from the sheath slung over her back. With the blade free in her left hand, she drew the fine-meshed silk veil of her hood over her face with her right. On the other side of the door, Nikos shook out a length of wire that had been threaded through a medium-length copper tube with knurled ends. His head, too, was shrouded in a hood of fine black silk.

Ulfgar swallowed and then rapped sharply on the door. There was no answer. He rapped again, louder. A few grains passed and then there was a metallic scraping sound beyond the door and a small window swung open. A smoky yellow light shone through and Ulfgar raised his own lantern, illuminating his face.

"What is it?" a heavy voice snarled in Walach. Through the edge of the small window, Thyatis could see part of a small room, lit by more than one lantern. A murmur of voices echoed off the walls—two, perhaps three more men.

"Let me in," Ulfgar said, his voice sounding tired and worn. "I'm tired of sitting in this cold pit."

The man in the window sneered and rubbed the top of his bald head, saying: "Too bad for you. You're supposed to stay with the boat."

Ulfgar scratched the side of his eye with a finger of the hand holding the lantern and raised an amphora of wine with the other.

"I'd rather not drink this alone," he said, mouth twisted to the side in a half grin. The eyebrows of the guard inside raised. Some kind of thought pattered through his head and he came to a decision.

"Pass that through and we'll take care of it," he said, smiling.

Ulfgar snorted and tucked the amphora under his arm. "Alone and cold I may be, but I'm not stupid." He turned and began making his way down the steps. The guard in the window looked after him and sighed.

"All right!" he called, laughing after the retreating back of the Saxon. "You and your wine are welcome!" There was a sliding sound of metal on metal, then the door opened a crack and the guard inside stepped partway out into the little landing at the top of the stairs.

Nikos was quick, like a snake, and the wire loop was over the guard's head, around his throat, and being dragged savagely tight before the Walach could as much as take a breath. Nikos held the copper tube in one hand and had yanked the end of the wire, which was wrapped around a short crosspiece of old oak, with the other. Thyatis blurred past the choking guard with the crushed trachea and the blood bubbling out of his nose and was into the guardroom before the three men seated around the stone table could more than look up in mild amusement at the antics of their friend.