Dominion of dust, p.27
Dominion of Dust, page 27
I relayed this to the others. Hereward nodded, but none of them truly relaxed. I did not blame them. I still felt the strange thrill of energy in the air and we were far underground. I imagined the incalculable weight of stone and earth above us and shuddered.
“Is it here?” Hereward asked. “I wish to be gone from this place. I feel as if we might be buried alive at any moment.” He looked about him and sucked his teeth. “We should have headed homeward when we had the chance.”
“I sense your impatience,” said Shomer, “and I understand it. I would be impatient too in your position, waiting for an old, dying man to tell you the location of the holiest relic in Christendom.”
Giso leaned forward. “You have it still?” he snapped.
“I did not say that,” said Shomer. “But all in good time. I will tell you what you wish to know.” He looked at Giso and smiled. “I see the fear in your eyes. You think I will die without giving up my secrets. Have faith, my friend. God may have allowed those who came here to murder my sons and me, for there can be no doubt the sword that pierced me will take my life. But I have enough time yet to tell you what you need. I have always heard that stomach wounds are painful and I can now attest to the truth of it.” He winced, his face beaded with sweat. “I have never felt such agony, but I accept this pain as penance for my sins. My wound is deadly, but I will linger yet a time in the land of the living. The Almighty has brought us together. He will let me live a while yet.”
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Giso sat beside Shomer and nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “Tell us your tale.”
Shomer gave a thin smile. “Have you some water?” he asked.
I called to Arcenbryht who carried a skin. He handed it to me and I unstoppered it. I held it to Shomer’s lips. He drank sparingly and sighed.
“You will think me foolish that I believed I could protect the Holy Blood with only my sons to help me,” he said. “It may seem unwise now, but a small number of guardians has served us well for generations.”
“How long has the relic resided here?” Giso asked.
“Centuries. The Blood was soaked in a cloth used to clean Christ’s body at the very moment of his Passion. It has been hidden away by my forebears ever since. They knew they could never let it fall into the hands of evil men, for this was the very bodily essence of the Son of God. And so it remained hidden by my family until one day, perhaps a century after Christ’s ascension, the then Guardian of the Blood discovered this place.”
I looked at the stone walls, the altar and the steps leading down to the pillared chamber.
“It was not built to house the relic?” I said.
“Nobody knows why it was built, but there were remnants of soldiers from Roma here when they found it, or so the tale passed down to us goes. But as soon as they set foot within these stone walls, the guardians knew this cavern had been ordained by God Himself that we might preserve His son’s blood. Perhaps the Almighty had commanded that others construct it, for to delve so deeply into the rock would surely be beyond my people’s ken. However it came to be here, since that day, the Blood of Christ has remained within these walls, far from the greed and evil of man. My great-grandfather brought me here to worship, and my grandfather after him. When my father passed into the realm of the Lord, it fell to me to continue as Guardian. I had two sons, but alas my wife gave me no more children before joining Our Father in heaven, and my sons’ wives are barren.”
Giso’s eyes shone in the lamplight as he listened to the old man. “If the line of guardians would have died with your sons,” he said, “what of the future?”
Shomer let out a long sigh. It rattled in his throat and he coughed. Reaching out I steadied him, clasping his hand as the coughs shook him. When the fit abated, he nodded his thanks. Leaning back, he groaned at the pain.
“I prayed for guidance,” he said, shaking his head at the memory. “I thought I had been cursed, but the Lord places these trials in our path to test our faith. Now I see I made a mistake. It was my actions that brought about our end. When that devil woman arrived, I knew my fears had come to pass. For the first time in seven centuries I had allowed one into this shrine who was not of my blood. We had managed to keep the Blood safe all this time with tales of jinn and curses. The shrine is far from any settlement, and if any traveller should stray into the cavern, we had ways of removing them, and making them so terrified they would never return. But I knew my sons alone would not be able to protect Christ’s Blood forever, and so, like a shepherd ushering a lion into his flock, I welcomed Oren into our fold.”
He fell silent, lost in memories. Pressing his left hand over his belly, he moaned in the back of his throat.
“Water,” he croaked. “I will finish my tale quickly now. The Lord grows weary of the sound of my voice, I fear. He will call me to His side soon.”
Giso flashed me a look that said he too was tired of listening to the old man. I was as anxious as he to learn the whereabouts of the Blood of Christ, but I was enraptured by the story; the picture that Shomer drew for us with his words was vivid and captivating.
I held the waterskin for the old man again and he took a mouthful, before sinking back against the altar. His eyes closed and for a moment I thought perhaps he had drifted to sleep, or even death.
Giso shook his shoulder gently. “Who was this Oren?” he prompted.
Shomer’s eyes fluttered open. “A thief and a liar,” he said. “I should have slain him, but I could not bring myself to. He had been a friend for a long while, or so I thought. Then one day I found him taking the Blood of Christ. He was going to steal it. To sell it to the highest bidder.” He closed his eyes again, looking back into his memories, and sighed. His eyes flicked open and he stared at me. There was a hardness there now that I had not seen before. “He left without the relic. And without his right hand. I took it so that all would know the manner of man he was. I told him if I ever saw him again, I would take his life.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“I did not know until yesterday. Until these murderers came here and snatched the cloth from the altar. Oren vanished from my life more than five years ago. I thought I would never see or hear from him again. But he must have somehow reached Attalea, for it was there that the woman, Theokleia, said he had been imprisoned. He had been arrested for stealing, so she said. I suppose he thought he might sell the information he had, or perhaps there was a promise to free him if he gave up the hiding place of the relic. I know not, but I bemoan the day I met him and hope his soul burns for all eternity for what he has done.”
I recalled Giso’s tale of how he had come to hear of the Blood of Christ.
“Oren was no doubt an evil man, but for this crime at least perhaps he is innocent.”
“Never has a man been more guilty,” said Shomer. “Oren is venal and measures everything in terms of the profit he can make.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but he is avaricious no longer.”
“I cannot believe he has changed.”
“He is dead,” I replied. “And he did not sell the location of the Blood of Christ.”
“Then how did that demon Theokleia know him by name?”
“Oren was indeed imprisoned, but he was dying in captivity. He spoke of this place, and the Blood of Christ in his final confession. At the end he sought absolution for his sins. It was his gaoler who saw profit in the knowledge he overheard.”
Shomer sighed. “Absolution,” he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “Ours is a merciful God. And just. And yet I cannot imagine meeting Oren in heaven. I am merely a poor sinner and I cannot find it within my heart to forgive him for what he did. My sons…” He squeezed his eyes shut and tears rolled down his dust-streaked cheeks.
I grasped his hand. His fingers dug into my flesh like talons, like a drowning man clutching to the last splintered spar of a wrecked ship.
“I am sorry we did not reach you sooner,” I said.
“So am I,” he said, and a glimmer of sour humour touched his eyes. “I much prefer conversing with you than with those women from Byzantion and their Godless hounds. Judging from your companions, you would have given them a good account of yourselves.”
“We would not have allowed this to happen to you,” said Giso fervently. “Or your sons. But as you said, the Lord puts obstacles in our paths for reasons only He can comprehend. We will find the Blood of Christ, and we will make Theokleia and her servants pay for what they have done to you and your kin. If anyone can make this right, it is us. I give you my word that we will avenge you and reclaim what you have lost.”
“I do not seek revenge,” Shomer croaked.
Giso appeared not to have heard him for he continued without pause.
“We serve the king of the Franks. He is a pious man. One day, with God’s blessing, he will be the Holy Emperor of Roma. Carolus will see that the Blood will be guarded for as long as the sun shall shine.” He reached out and took Shomer’s other hand in his. “Your time is growing short. Let us pray with you before the end, that you might feel peace and not the anguish that engulfs your soul. You and your sons have been God’s best, most faithful of servants. The Almighty knows this well and will welcome you into His host to sit at His right hand. He knows you did your best to protect the blood of His son.”
Shomer began to shake and I thought his end had come. Then I realised these were not the throes of death. He was chuckling, the sound of his laughter crackling in his dry throat. His mirth dissipated quickly, as he was gripped by a sudden bout of coughing. He pulled his hand free of Giso’s grip and wiped his mouth. With a groan of pain, he let his hand fall to his lap. There was fresh, dark blood on his bony fingers.
“You think I failed to protect the Blood,” he said at last. “You did not let me finish my tale.”
“You said Theokleia took the cloth from the altar.” Giso’s confused tone matched my thoughts.
“And so she did,” Shomer said, a sly glint in his eye. “Upon the altar there was a gilded casket, fronted with fine crystal, which allows the viewer to see the bloodstained cloth within. It is this reliquary that the she-devil took.”
“The cloth within does not hold the Blood of Jesus Christ,” I said, seeing the simple truth.
“It was my grandfather’s idea. If ever someone should try to take the relic by force, they would see the gold and the crystal and decide that the cloth within must be holy. But it was the blood of a goat Theokleia took. Not the Lamb of God. You know, I still recall the taste of that animal. It must be sixty years since we ate its flesh. Strange how some things remain in your memory while others drift away.”
Giso grinned. “Your grandfather was cunning.”
“And he was right,” Shomer replied. “Theokleia came with evil in her heart, only thinking of the value of what she stole.” He shook his head, smiling sadly. “Just as my grandfather had said would happen with an unholy pilgrim. She chose poorly.”
“If it was not the relic that she took,” said Giso, his voice sharp and urgent now, “where is the true Blood of Christ?”
Shomer scrunched his eyes shut, tensing as pain rippled through him. “Yes,” he said, breathless. “I should tell you that before the Lord welcomes me to his side.” He gripped my hand with a savage, desperate strength. “Do you swear that this Carolus that you serve is a God-fearing king? That he will protect the sacred blood from evil?”
“He is the scourge of God’s enemies,” I said. “He has defeated the pagans in the north, burning their sacred trees and their devilish idols. In the south, he has fought against the Al-Muslimun of al-Andalus.”
Giso leaned forward, his eyes piercing and bright in the shadowed chamber. “King Carolus is blessed by the very Pontifex Maximus himself. We are his trusted servants and seek the Blood of Christ. With it Carolus will prevail against the idolatry and false prophets that threaten to snuff out the light of Christ in this dark age.”
Shomer held Giso’s gaze.
“If I would not give it to you, did you mean to steal it, just as Theokleia did?”
“Never,” said Giso, his tone smooth as melted butter. “We planned to beseech you in the name of all that is holy.”
“And if I refused to give it up?”
“We brought silver and gold too.”
Shomer shook his head. “Treasure cannot buy the favour of the Almighty.” He sighed. He was visibly weaker than just moments before. His skin was as pale as his beard and hair, his lips blue-tinged. “There are none left to watch over the blood of our Lord now. God has brought you here and you have prayed with me. I am not sure I trust you fully, but I trust in the Almighty. Open your eyes. The Blood of Christ is there for the faithful to see.”
A shudder ran through him and he closed his eyes against the pain that racked his body. Releasing his hand, I pushed myself to my feet and scanned the chamber once more. The single lamp flickered on the altar, but there was nothing else there. Could the relic be hidden behind one of the wall hangings? Had Theokleia been so sure she had found the object of her quest in the gilded reliquary that she had not searched beyond the obvious? I moved towards the nearest curtain, reaching out my hand to pull it back.
“There is nothing there,” Hereward said. “We have searched the place while you talked to the old man. None of the tapestries hide anything. No doors, or passageways. Nothing.”
I hesitated, thinking of the implication of what Hereward said and repeating Shomer’s words in my mind. The truth of it hit me abruptly like a physical blow. I stepped back involuntarily.
All the wall hangings were old; smoke-stained and worn by time. Most of them bore embroidered designs, images that I assumed were of Christ and his apostles. One was covered in visual depictions of Jesus’ miracles. Another had Christ crucified, golden thread symbolising rays of power emanating from His head. Yet another told the tale of Jesus’ birth and the slaughter of the innocents. Only one of the cloths hanging from the walls had no such decorations. Like the others, it was dusty and old, but apart from the large, brown stains upon it, the cloth was plain. It was no tapestry sewn with gold. It might once have been used to dry hands or feet.
Or to wipe blood from a wound.
I pointed at the cloth, not daring to touch it.
“This is the Blood of Jesus Christ?” I said, my voice trembling.
Shomer opened his eyes and smiled. “Mopped from his wounds on Calvary,” he said. “My family has guarded it for centuries, but it seems its time here is over. Take it to your King Carolus and see that it is kept safe from the likes of those devils who killed my sons.” He winced. “And me.”
Giso sprang up and pushed me aside. He appeared to harbour none of the qualms I felt about touching the holy artefact, for he reached for the old cloth and took it down from where it had been hung from two hooks. He held it close to the light of the lamp, though careful not to get it near enough to burn.
“Can it be true?” he whispered. “The blood of the Son of God.”
“It is true,” croaked Shomer. “Can you not feel its power?”
Giso’s eyes were wide. The light from the lamp made them glow. “I can feel it,” he said.
The thrumming energy in the air was more noticeable than ever. I longed to reach out and touch the cloth, but I was scared at what I might feel.
After their initial search of the chamber, the men and Revna had lounged on the steps, sipping from waterskins and whispering to one another as Giso and I conversed with Shomer. Now, Pendrad, who must have wandered down the steps into the larger, pillared hall below came running up towards us, the flame from the lamp he held flickering as he ran.
“Someone is coming,” he hissed.
Thirty-Seven
“Could it be your father and grandfather?” I asked Jamal.
“They believe the place to be cursed,” he said, shaking his head. “Perhaps if the storm is bad enough…”
Pendrad might not have understood my words in Al-Arabiyyah, but he guessed my meaning.
“It’s not them,” he said. “There are many more than two.”
“How many?” snapped Hereward.
Pendrad bit his lip. “A score?” he ventured, lifting his shoulders. “More?”
Gwawrddur cursed. “Whoever they are,” he said, “I doubt they are friendly.”
The small chamber was suddenly filled with movement as the warriors stood, drawing their blades once more, ready to face this new threat. Hereward turned to me. His face was grim, but there was no sign of fear there.
“Ask the old man if there are any other ways out of this place.”
I dropped to my haunches beside Shomer, taking his hand in mine once more. Gone was the furious strength in that grip. His hand was limp. He was utterly still, sitting with his back against the altar, his head slumped forward. I touched his throat but knew the truth before my fingers confirmed there was no pulse.
“He’s gone,” I said, placing his hand gently in his lap and making the sign of the cross over him.
Behind Shomer, indifferent to his death, Giso was quickly folding the cloth on the altar. When it was small enough, he stuffed it inside his leather bag.
From the shadowed opening beyond the steps the sound of many men was clear now. Perhaps they had meant to move stealthily, but judging from the echoed noise their boots made on the stone floor, the creak of leather, the clank of armour and the rasp of whispered commands, there were too many of them to sneak anywhere.
Runolf spat and lifted his axe. “Can your god’s blood get us out of this, Hunlaf? If not, I am willing to spill some blood for Óðinn.”
He moved towards the steps, Drosten and Gwawrddur by his side. Hereward called them back.
“Hold,” he said. “We know not who awaits us.”
“Whoever is down there,” snarled Runolf, “the less time they have to ready themselves, the better.”
“Perhaps,” conceded Hereward. “But listen to the din they make. There must be many more of them than us. Attack is not always the best option, my friend.”
