One for Sorrow

Chapter Fifty-five

The dying sun cast a confusion of shadows through the discarded statues crowded in front of the abandoned imperial records office under whose eroded portico lay the entrance to the Cistern of Hermes.

Emperors, philosophers, and generals, the statues might have been a congregation of the dead waiting to pass through the portals of the underworld.

John, Anatolius, and Thomas stood amid the frozen figures, nearly indistinguishable from them in the gathering shadows, but alive for the moment.

Anatolius peered around anxiously. “Why didn’t you send for the excubitors, John? With just the three of us we might not be a match for whoever’s waiting in there. It’s not likely there’s only a single person holding two women hostage.”

“No doubt there’s a gang. The same gang that’s been trafficking in imperial goods, forged relics dug up in cemeteries, and probably any other crime you can think of. There are only the three of us here because as soon as the rogues spotted excubitors they’d murder the women and flee. They’ve probably had a ransom note delivered to my house by now, but their aim isn’t ransom, it’s to kill me. They must have realized I now know who murdered Leukos.”

“Then what are we waiting for, John?” Thomas demanded.

The sun was vanishing, leaving a glorious orange and gold streak low on the horizon. Raven-like black clouds scudded across the livid gash of the sunset. As the men reached the portico, sunlight flashed off what remained of the flaking gilt on the statue of Hermes set above its entrance.

“Mithra blesses our attempt,” John murmured.

The building’s atrium smelled of smoke, damp, and unwashed bodies. Voices echoed in its cavernous space, barely illuminated by small fires around which ill-clad beggars gathered for warmth.

John threw his cloak to the floor. His white tunic seemed to glow in the dimness. “A soldier fights unencumbered,” he told Anatolius. Thomas had discarded his travel-worn cloak. As soon as the men stepped away, shadowy figures fell on the abandoned clothing in the manner of rats swarming over a discarded bone.

Out of the darkness came a wheezing laugh. “Does our young hero seek to free more captives?”

John, aghast at their early discovery, turned quickly toward the source of the taunting question.

It was only an old woman huddled beside a pile of wicker cages.

“I purchased some birds from her not long ago.” Anatolius’ voice shook with relief.

The crone’s cackling accompanied them on their way.

Access to the cistern was through an opening little more than a rectangular gap in the wall. Beyond, worn stone steps disappeared downwards.

John’s stomach lurched as he led the way. He was not afraid of battle and bore the scars to prove it. But to descend into the depths of his private Hades, into that dark, water-filled space, was the stuff of his wildest nightmares. “Mithra help us,” he muttered.

As the three descended, the air grew colder. Light from the fires upstairs filtered through chinks in the floor and down the stairwell. As his eyes adjusted, John could see the interior of the cistern chamber. The water’s surface threw wavering reflections onto concrete walls and up the regular rows of pillars soaring up from its depths to vanish into deeper shadows beneath a vaulted brick ceiling.

He heard the magnified dripping of water and an almost imperceptible liquid murmur.

“Did you hear that?” Thomas whispered. “They are on the opposite side.”

Only a narrow ledge of stone skirted the cistern. John forced himself to move along it. Glancing down in the semi-darkness he saw the menacing glimmer of the water a few hands-breadths away. His boot slipped on moisture and he tottered, pressing himself back at the last instant against the rough wall behind him.

How deep was the water?

He continued to slide sideways, back pressed to the wall. The water was a monstrous entity waiting to pull him down and devour him.

He heard what sounded like a faint cry. Cornelia? He signaled to Thomas and Anatolius to stop. All three listened intently.

Again there came a whispering echo. Clearer this time, it was a woman’s sobbing. John tapped Thomas’ elbow lightly, attracting his attention. The knight touched his ear and nodded.

The wraith of sound sighed again across the water. John felt an exultant surge of joy. They were here and alive!

At this realization, the scorching heat of mingled exultation and rage welled up in his chest. In the semi-darkness of his watery Hades, John began to resemble a demon himself, his thin lips drawn back in a feral snarl. Abandoning his crab-like shuffle, he broke into a lope, one elbow scraping the wall as he maintained his balance.

At the cistern’s far end the ledge ended at a wide platform, its margins fading into shadow. John could distinguish two dark shapes huddled at the base of a pillar rising from the platform.

The women had been bound to the pillar. As John stepped forward, intent on cutting their bonds, Europa’s head jerked upwards. He had only an instant to register the startled expression on her pale face as she gazed past him, then a low voice-Thomas’ voice-growled, “Stay where you are!”

John turned. Seeing the knight’s raised sword, he had a sensation of falling, though he could feel his feet still firmly planted on the concrete. Had he miscalculated the man so badly?

“I thought I saw movement in the shadows,” Thomas said, lowering his weapon. “I think it is safe for now.”

John cut the women loose. Cornelia was unconscious, her face bruised. As he lowered her into a reclining position she felt as heavy as the dead, as heavy as old sorrows.

“Cowards!” cursed Anatolius. “They’ll pay for this, Europa, I promise you!”

John shook his head. “We must get the women to safety.”

“The stairway they brought us down is over there.” Before John could protest, Europa ran in the direction she had indicated. She was brought up short by a booming voice.

“Lord Chamberlain! You of all men should know it is impolite to enter without being announced. However, since you are here, you are welcome to our hospitality!”

Two men emerged from the darkness in front of the girl. One was a tall, muscular man whom John did not recognize. The other, as John expected, was the innkeeper, Master Kaloethes.

“We have them outnumbered,” growled Thomas.

Even as he spoke Anatolius bellowed. “Europa, watch out!” He charged toward the men, swinging his sword clumsily, unbalancing himself. The innkeeper grabbed him by the shoulders as he stumbled and threw him against the wall. He fell to the floor and lay motionless.

Two more men appeared out of the shadows, cutting Europa off from her would-be rescuers. One of the new arrivals stepped toward the girl.

The innkeeper chuckled. “It appears we have recaptured at least one hostage. I expect when it comes to such goods, the price for one differs little from the price for the pair. You know what the price is, Lord Chamberlain. Please drop your sword and walk forward slowly.”

For an instant John and Thomas stood still. It was Europa who suddenly moved. She took a single step forward. Then she had catapulted herself into the air. The innkeeper’s accomplice stabbed upwards, too late. The girl’s hands barely touched his shoulder as she vaulted over his blade, just as she had vaulted over the equally deadly horns of so many bulls. She sprawled safely at Thomas’ feet.

Thomas bounded over her. It was a less graceful leap than Europa’s, but one which brought him face to face with one of the newcomers, who drew a single gasping breath before the knight’s blade pierced his throat. Shoving his corpse aside, Thomas engaged the second man. The swordplay was brief.

“Now,” remarked Thomas with a grin, “now, my friends, we are even.”

John and Thomas instinctively became a fighting unit, moving forward in concert. John’s lips curled back in a wolfish grin. Rage iced his veins. The siren song of combat, so long absent from his ears, sang in his blood. He was prepared to kill and to enjoy the killing.

The innkeeper, displaying unexpected skill, brandished his sword as he moved slightly to the right. At the same time, the man at his side stepped left, drawing Thomas away from John’s side.

An unholy shriek rebounded around the subterranean chamber. Before its rolling echoes had died John, from whose throat the animal sound had burst, was upon the innkeeper, slapping the weapon out of his hand with the flat of his own sword. Kaloethes grabbed for the thin-bladed knife at his waist.

John had dropped his sword and was ready, dagger drawn. A sword, he well knew, was too clumsy for hand to hand fighting. The men moved toward each other, jabbing and slashing. Then the innkeeper backed up as John pressed his attack.

In his rage, John became careless. Kaloethes slashed John across his cheek, opening a welling furrow from eye to mouth. But it brought him too close to John, who seized the opportunity to get under the other’s guard, his blade biting into a meaty shoulder.

The innkeeper shrieked with surprise and pain. John yanked out the blade. The quick movement threw him off-balance, and the innkeeper, automatically using a maneuver that had won him victory in more than one street brawl, brought his knee up into John’s groin.

The maneuver did not have its usual devastating effect.

John merely grunted with pain and staggered backwards, then leapt forward, to drive his dagger deep into the innkeeper’s neck. Kaloethes sank screaming to his knees, but, keeping his wits about him, jabbed upwards toward John’s stomach.

John kicked the weapon out of his opponent’s hand. The unarmed innkeeper tried to crawl away. John was only dimly aware of Thomas trading sword thrusts with the remaining kidnapper. Now nothing could distract John from indulging his lust to inflict as much pain as possible on the man groveling at his feet-until he slipped in the growing pool of the innkeeper’s blood.

John went down on one knee at the edge of the cistern, catching a nightmare glimpse of his reflection springing up at him. For an instant, all he could think about was avoiding the horror of that waiting water.

It was enough. With a shout of rage, Kaloethes leapt up and forward, closing his huge hands around John’s throat, thumbs sinking into the flesh. John tore at the innkeeper’s death-grip as the pressure was steadily increased. A reddish tint was creeping into what little vision he had. He began to feel faint, gasping for air. His lungs were bursting, the pain shooting hot rivulets of fire across his laboring chest. Blood from his face flowed like scalding tears.

The fog shrouding John’s mind suddenly cleared. He realized he was going to die in this echoing underground chamber. At least it would be an honorable death. And yet what would become of Cornelia and Europa? He knew they could expect no mercy. He began to lose consciousness, his fading thoughts of Cornelia and their daughter, the daughter he had cherished so briefly.

A bellow cut through the roaring red darkness engulfing him.

The grip on his throat loosened.

Above him, swimming into his blurred sight, was the face of Felix. Felix grinning broadly, both hands fastened on Kaloethes’ throat.

The innkeeper’s head snapped back and his hands clawed at the stranglehold Felix had on him.

“Kaloethes,” Felix addressed him, his voice eerily calm. “I’ve just come from the inn. Your widow said I would find you here. She thought I’d come to assist you as in the old days when you paid me well not to notice things I should have reported. ‘Hurry up, they’re at the Cistern of Hermes’, she told me. Oh, she was beside herself. It had all gone wrong. You’d been found out, she said. It was all your fault. And you never got the object you were seeking either, despite desecrating that little whore’s grave.”

Felix paused. A frown passed across his face, and then he continued, speaking louder to drown the noises the innkeeper was making. “She was angry at Berta, you see, because she wouldn’t give the accursed pendant to you. So you killed my beautiful Berta, didn’t you, you murdering bastard?”

The innkeeper pawed ineffectually at the iron grasp on his throat. John, on his hands and knees, gagged, as the world darkened again.

He heard another voice, more shouting, and peered into the gloom. Thomas’ sword had gone. Surely it was not possible that such a man had been vanquished by a mere criminal? John knew he must stand and go to the aid of his comrade in arms but his legs refused to cooperate.

Now Thomas’ assailant was grinning, raising his sword to dispatch him.

As if he had simply decided against killing the knight, he paused. A strange expression crossed his face. Then he pitched forward, pulling with him Anatolius, still gripping the sword he had thrust into the man’s back.

And now there was only one man left, and he was coming to his end. John, Anatolius, and Thomas looked around at Felix. He was straddling the innkeeper’s back, pinning down his flailing arms with his knees, and began to sing loudly as he held Kaloethes’ head under the water.

John gagged again.

Felix, still singing merrily, pulled the innkeeper’s dripping head out of the water. Kaloethes gasped for air, begging for his life. Felix spat in his face, screamed, “Did Berta beg?” and pushed the innkeeper’s head underwater again.

John recognized what Felix was singing. It was an obscene marching song.

Thomas staggered over to John and helped him to his feet. “It isn’t a soldierly way to take a life,” he muttered. “And yet who can blame him?”

Felix’s singing reverberated louder in the vaulting overhead. There was a frenzied thrashing in the churning water. Reflections leapt madly against walls and pillars.

Anatolius was on his feet, trembling. Thomas clasped his shoulders briefly. “Thank you, my friend. You saved my life.”

Anatolius began to sob. “I stabbed him in the back! All I did was creep up behind him and stab him in the back!”

“And he is dead and we are not,” Thomas said gently. “That is the difference between life and poetry. But now you are a true Soldier of Mithra.”

Cornelia had revived and John helped her to her feet, glad she had not witnessed his madness.

They thankfully left the hellish place. As they climbed back toward the cool night air, they were accompanied by echoes from the semi-darkness below.

The echoes of the exultant singing of a man slaking his blood-lust, slowly drowning the man who had murdered his beloved Berta.