Jack of Ravens

2

Church and Jerzy bought breakfast from the popinae that lined the main street where stall holders loudly proclaimed that they had the best food in the Empire, be it sausage or pease pudding. By 9 a.m. the noise was deafening as rival traders fought to be heard amongst the hubbub caused by jugglers, tumblers and other performers. The Romanised British upper class bought their food from the stalls and chatted about the day’s tasks, while the prostitutes hurried back and forth, the only business that never closed.

The rain had ended some time around dawn. With Jerzy at his side, Church had been the scouring the streets, talking to everyone he met. No one had heard any rumour suggesting that one of the gods had been seen in the city, though there were other incredible tales — of a man who became a wolf by night and stalked the mausoleums in the cemetery beyond the city walls, and a slave from one of the Iberian tribes who fell into a trance to make dire premonitions.

In his cloth mask, Jerzy attracted a few stares, but there were many other people with serious disabilities — missing limbs, burns, lost eyes and noses, the rigours of disease hacked into their skin. Church noted how the harshness of life in past centuries was often forgotten in his own time, lost behind illustrations of unblemished people in textbooks. Yet there was an energy to life that he had never witnessed on any twenty-first-century street.

‘The food is so plain,’ Jerzy said as he gnawed on a cheese cake.

‘That’s because you’re used to Otherworld meals. You know, you could have stayed there in the lap of luxury. Niamh wasn’t forcing you to come to my miserable, grey world.’

‘But you are my very good friend,’ the Mocker said, puzzled. ‘I could not abandon you to strife. We all need someone to watch for the knife in the back when we are concentrating on the smiling face.’

Church was touched by Jerzy’s loyalty. ‘You’re well versed in the ways of the Tuatha De Danann.’

‘We must look out for each other now, for we have no one else in all the lands. Your friends are adrift beyond the gulf of years. My family and friends … well, even if the queen allowed me to see them I would not inflict this freakish visage upon them. Better that time swells between us and they forget I ever existed.’ His eyes smiled through the holes in the mask. ‘And there: I have found the humour in this situation. A sour irony. I need time to bring me peace. You wish time to drain away for the same reason. Oh, what a pair we are!’

‘There’s a saying in my time. People ask how you get through a difficult situation. The trick is to keep breathing. That’s all. We keep hopeful, and we keep breathing.’

‘You are a strange visitor to the Far Lands, friend Church. We know little of hope there. Things are simply the way they are. Yet you believe it can all change.’

‘I do. And there’s another irony for you. In Otherworld, where everyone keeps telling me reality is fluid, nothing ever really changes. And here in the so-called Fixed Lands, we embrace change. We have to. There’s nothing else.’ Church finished his spicy sausage and finally quelled his hunger.

‘And you still have hope,’ Jerzy mused.

‘It would be easier to give up, I know that. But then what would be the point in living? Love, affection for our friends — that’s what drives us on. That’s our Blue Fire. I’ll do whatever I can to save the people I care for.’

‘Even give up your own life?’

Church considered the question, but he already knew the answer. ‘If I have to.’

This time it was impossible to read the emotion in Jerzy’s unwavering gaze. Uncomfortable with the attention, Church caught a passing slave going urgently about his master’s business. ‘Tell me,’ Church said, ‘who rules the Empire this day?’

The slave looked at Church as if he were mad. ‘Constantius is Emperor of the West. Any fool knows that. Though for how much longer is unknown. He lies sick now, on his bed, over yonder. And some say it is his death bed.’ He pointed to the grand buildings near the fort, before roughly pulling himself free and hurrying down the street.

‘Constantius … in Eboracum, on his death bed. That gives me a timeframe,’ Church said to Jerzy. ‘A few years back, Diocletian set up a system of four rulers to share the burden of government in the Empire. Constantius became Western Emperor last year, a year before he died of natural causes here in Eboracum.’ He gave a sardonic smile. ‘So only around one thousand seven hundred years to go.’

‘Good friend, you are broadening my abilities as an entertainer. I am learning a new form of humour. Fixed Lands humour!’

‘I wouldn’t go trying it out on an audience just yet.’

‘Will you teach me about your humour? It seems to me, in our conversations, that laughter has a value I do not understand.’

‘I’m not the best person to ask. I’m a surly, miserable git, to be honest.’

‘Please.’

Church sighed. ‘I’ll tell you about the different kinds of humour if you want, and I’ll throw in a few jokes that I remember. That’s about all I can promise. But let’s face it, there’s not a lot to laugh about-’

Jerzy raised a finger. ‘Ah! But there is, there always is. Perhaps I can teach you something in return?’

Church laughed. ‘Knock yourself out.’

The sun emerged from behind the clouds and illuminated the bustling life of the forum: men and women in togas, traders in rougher clothes, the kilts and leggings of those who had stayed true to their Celtic roots, and the poor bare-chested despite the weather as they struggled to eke out a living.

A rush of power made Church’s hands and legs tingle — a message from his unconscious. He scanned the faces of those nearby until he saw a man hurrying through the crowd. His features suggested he came from foreign parts, and he had the tanned, muscular body of a fighter who spent his time in the open air. Church knew instantly that the fellow was the cause of his instinctive response.

He tugged at Jerzy’s arm surreptitiously, and then set off in pursuit. Like all Roman towns, Eboracum was built on a grid system so it was easy to follow from a distance. Their target strode purposefully out of the forum along a broad thoroughfare that cut through the two- and three-storey whitewashed buildings. At the temple he took a turn along the side of a row of imposing arches that formed the boundary of the religious compound and made his way towards the theatre. It was one of the grandest buildings in town, with a long, three-storey frontage covered with ornate carvings and an enormous doorway the height of three men leading into the dark interior.

The man ducked inside despite it being early in the day when there were no performances taking place. Church and Jerzy followed, though Jerzy was baffled and Church had no real idea what it was about the man that had alerted him. Inside it was cool and dark and smelled of oil lamps and candle wax. A maze of corridors and stairs ran past rooms like huge burrows where theatre staff went about their business, oblivious.

Church lost sight of the man in the warren. After a while they emerged into bright sunlight and ahead of them was the expansive semicircle of the open-air theatre with mountainous tiers of seats reaching up to the summit of grand arches. It was completely deserted, but had the echoing charm of a pre-match football stadium.

‘He must still be inside-’ Jerzy began before he was cut short by rough hands clamping across his mouth. Church was assaulted from behind just as quickly, and the two of them were subdued by several arms and fists before a sharp blow to the back of the head plunged Church into unconsciousness.

He came round in a small room crowded with several figures. The windows were shuttered and thick, acrid candle smoke filled the air. The large-boned stranger they had been pursuing sat in one corner, gnawing on the remnants of a hambone. His cold gaze never left Church’s face.

Church’s sword lay on a table, its faint blue glow illuminating the face of a serious young man who was examining it. Nervously, he kept pushing back the black hair that fell in ringlets around his face.

Church quickly sized up the situation. There were four others: a woman with blonde hair pulled severely back into a clasp, her expression frosty; a second woman with olive skin and a mass of curly black hair, beautiful, with a hint of aristocracy, and wearing a toga of the upper classes; a pensive North African man in long, black robes; and a centurion standing near the door. His presence was charismatic, but his expression appeared permanently troubled.

‘The sword is filled with the Blue Fire,’ said the young man. ‘See the way the light plays along the edge of the blade? It is an object of power.’

‘Then why does this scrawny one carry it?’ the one with the hambone said gruffly. ‘His arms are barely strong enough to lift it.’

‘Try me,’ Church said. ‘You’ll see.’

The man threw the hambone to one side and wiped the grease from his mouth. I never thought I would see the day when I heard an insect speak.’

‘Why were you following Decebalus?’ the centurion asked. He had the authority of a leader and the others all looked to him as they awaited an answer.

When Church didn’t respond, Decebalus leaned forward and snatched away Jerzy’s mask. Everyone recoiled from the grinning, white visage. The one leaning over the sword crossed himself and mouthed, ‘Jesu!’

‘Please do not hurt me!’ Jerzy shrieked. ‘I am only a simple entertainer.’

‘He’s no threat to you,’ Church stressed. He saw hands go for daggers and swords, the steel in eyes used to searching for threats in every corner. Only the dark-haired woman remained calm.

‘What is he?’ the blonde said with disgust.

‘He comes from the Otherworld.’ The dark-haired woman leaned forward to examine Jerzy carefully. ‘Do you not?’

‘Yes …’ Jerzy said hesitantly.

‘And you?’ Decebalus said harshly to Church. ‘Are you one of the beasts who have tormented us since the dark days when the world was formed?’

‘I’m a man, like you.’ Church moderated his tone to try to calm the situation.

‘What kind of man wields an object of such power?’ the North African asked.

The young man looked from the sword to Church and said uncertainly, ‘A Brother of Dragons.’

‘Five is the number,’ the centurion said, ‘and there are five of us already.’

‘You’re Brothers of Dragons?’ It was Church’s turn to be shocked.

‘And sisters,’ the blonde woman said icily.

‘This is too much of a coincidence-’

‘There are no coincidences,’ the young man said fiercely. ‘That is the first rule we are taught. Existence moves us like pieces on a board to where we should be at the right time.’ His eyes blazed with a fierce intelligence. He motioned to Church’s arm. ‘You have a scar?’

Not understanding how the young man could know, Church cautiously revealed the scar where the spider had been in his arm.

The young man blanched. ‘Jack, Giantkiller,’ he said with awe.

‘What are you saying, you little runt?’ Decebalus demanded.

‘Long, long ago, when the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons first emerged from the Blue Fire, my ancestor met the great hero to whom we all owe allegiance: Jack the Giantkiller.’

Church looked into the young man’s face and saw something he recognised in the line of his jaw or the shape of his eyes. ‘Conoran,’ he said. ‘He was your ancestor.’

‘The King of the Land,’ the young man continued, ‘who disappeared across the water to the Isle of Apples, accompanied by the Golden Lady, to return when we needed him most.’

‘And this is he?’ The North African stared at Church in awe before bowing his head.

‘You are Jack, Giantkiller?’ the centurion asked.

‘He is!’ Jerzy chimed in with a note of hysterical relief. ‘A great hero!’

‘I prefer to be called Church.’

Dazed, the young man ran his hands through his ringlets. ‘This is … beyond belief! I never thought I would see the day!’

‘Your ancestor was a good man,’ Church said. ‘He saved my life.’

The young man smiled shyly. ‘My name is Joseph. I am a shepherd in the Church of Christ, and a Watchman. Legends say our society was established by my ancestor before its knowledge spread into all religions.’

‘It was.’ Church recalled his final conversation with Conoran, which was only a few months ago by his reckoning. ‘You have all the secret knowledge of the Culture?’

Joseph nodded. ‘Knowledge of the stars and the animals and all growing things. Knowledge of the Blue Fire that is in everything. Knowledge of all the lands, both here and beyond the veil, and of the beings who reside there, and the threats that humanity faces in coming times. I am here to ensure we are always prepared.’

The centurion shook Church’s hand. ‘I have heard many tales of the Great King Beyond the Water. I am proud to serve you. My name is Marcus Aelius Aquila of the Sixth Legion, stationed here in Eboracum.’

Church was stunned that events he had set in motion had taken on a life of their own, rolling out across the centuries right up to his own time. The others introduced themselves with varying degrees of openness. Decebalus had once been one of Rome’s enemies in Dacia, the region that would become Romania. The Dacians were renowned as fierce, brutal warriors and Decebalus was clearly of that tradition. Even after the introduction, he continued to regard Church with suspicion.

The dark-haired woman was Lucia Aeternia Constans, originally from Rome. Her husband had died in undisclosed circumstances. Decebalus called her strega, which Church knew meant witch’ though he couldn’t tell if it was a description or an insult. She had a seductive though kindly nature and reminded Church a little of Ruth.

The North African was Secullian, another Christian with an introspective nature and a wry sense of humour. He spoke repeatedly of prophecy and magics and how information came to him in what he called ‘day-sleeps’. And finally the blonde-haired woman who was the most closed-off of all of them: her name was Aula Fabricia Candida, born in Britain and married to a scholar now travelling across the Empire. Church couldn’t define her role within the group, but she regularly touched an unusual brooch that featured a circle of interlocking leaves.

‘You have come because of the dreams?’ Marcus asked. ‘Are these the End-Times of which Joseph speaks?’

‘I’m searching for a missing … god.’ Church was unsure how much he should tell them. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

Lucia leaned in. She smelled of exotic perfume. ‘There is talk of gods all over the Empire. They come and go, tormenting people as they always have, making their secret plans over our lives. But not here! Not in Eboracum. And this is a land of many gods, for it is a land of travellers who have stayed awhile and brought their gods with them.’

‘We were all afflicted by terrible dreams in our own mundane worlds,’ Secullian said, ‘dreams that brought us here, where we learned of our destiny as Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, Champions of the Blue Fire, of Existence itself.’

‘What kind of dreams?’

The North African winced. ‘Dreams of spiders.’

‘Swarms of them, streaming out from behind the world around us as if it were a theatre set.’ Decebalus put on a show of bravado, but Church could see the unease behind it.

‘Black spiders,’ Church said. Unconsciously he fingered his scar, recalling what he had confronted in the fogou at Carn Euny, and the thing that had controlled the Redcaps.

Aula touched her brooch again for comfort. ‘The spiders are eating their way through the world,’ she said. ‘Soon there will be nothing left.’

There was a long moment of uneasy silence until Joseph said, ‘We gather here to understand what these portents mean. Will you aid us?’