Constantine opened the purple filigree pouch on his war belt and took out a ring on which seven keys hung. The clasp on each was strangely carved and the handle of every key was shaped into a cross, in the centre of which was a small glass reliquary.
‘These are special keys,’ the Emperor explained. ‘Each holds the relic of a great saint.’ He handed them to Sir Raymond. ‘Follow Eutyches! He will take you, by secret passageways, down deep into the bowels of the palace. The way is already lighted.’ The Emperor paused, his head slightly sideways. ‘Listen!’ he whispered.
The roar of battle was now not so faint.
‘I must hurry,’ the Emperor continued. ‘In the vault the five silver keys will open a chamber. The two golden ones will unlock whatever that chamber contains.’
‘What is it?’ Sir Otto asked hoarsely.
‘A casket,’ the Emperor replied. ‘You are to open it. Once you have done so, do whatever Eutyches tells you to. You have sworn an oath.’
The Emperor got to his feet, his chain mail jingling as he walked across to a huge, golden rose painted on the blue marble wall. He pressed the centre and a door swung open. Otto flinched at the cold blast of air which swept into the chamber. Both knights, seasoned warriors, felt a deep sense of fear, blood chilling as if a dagger were being drawn along the napes of their necks. They looked at each other, then back at the Emperor.
‘You feel it as I do,’ Constantine declared.
‘Every man does.’ Eutyches opened his rheumy eyes. His voice was low, grating, and he talked the lingua franca, the language understood by everyone in Constantinople. ‘Your Excellency,’ Eutyches bowed, ‘we must go, time is short. You must die and, when I have done my task, I, too, must prepare for death.’
Constantine came and knelt before the priest.
‘Then bless me, Father.’
The priest raised the pyx before the Emperor in the sign of the cross. Constantine got to his feet. He kissed the priest on both cheeks and exchanged the kiss of peace with the two Hospitaller knights, then, without a backward glance, left the chamber, shouting for his guards to follow.
The knights heard the door being closed and locked; the shouts of officers as furniture was piled against it.
‘If the Turks break in,’ Eutyches explained, ‘that will give us more time. Now, come.’ He walked towards the secret passageway, stopped and gestured for Otto to precede him. ‘Sir Raymond, you will follow behind. Close the door after us.’
Sir Otto and the priest disappeared into the darkness. Raymond waited for a few moments then, drawing his sword, followed. He found himself at the top of steep steps which swept down into the darkness. On the walls above him, cresset torches fought hard to keep out the darkness. Raymond studied these curiously. He cursed his imagination. The fire itself seemed frightened. The flame was weak and the centre of each had turned a strange bluish tint.
‘Come!’ Eutyches ordered.
Raymond fumbled in the darkness. He found a clasp and pushed the door over. It closed like the lid of a tomb. He followed the other two down the steps. The walls on either side were cold marble. Raymond had to fight against the shivers which racked his body.
‘Do not think!’ Eutyches’ voice sounded hollow. ‘Just pray! Make the sign of the cross to ward off any evil!’
Raymond began praying. Peering through the gloom, he could see that his brother, just in front of the priest, was faltering now and again as if unsteady on his feet, and would only continue at Eutyches’ hushed entreaties.
Following, Raymond felt so cold. Suddenly he started back, his sword coming up. He was sure an ice-cold hand had trailed its fingers across his throat, freezing the beads of sweat which laced his skin. He walked on, trying to ignore the sensation of hands clutching at his shoulder or his arm. On one occasion he dropped his sword. It fell with a clash and he scrabbled in the darkness to pick it up. Suddenly a face, grey like a puff of smoke, with grinning gargoyle mouth from which bare fangs protruded, came up before him. Sir Raymond wiped his face on the sleeve of his jerkin. Eutyches was now praying aloud, his words booming like the knell of a bell, urging them both to continue, to ignore what was happening.
At last they reached the bottom of the steps. In the torchlight the old priest looked more ancient and wizened: he, too, was soaked in sweat whilst Otto stood as if he had been running for his life, chest heaving, mouth open gasping for air, sweat dripping down his unshaven cheeks as if he had doused his head in water.
‘How much further?’ Sir Raymond asked.
The priest pointed along the passageway, which seemed to stretch into eternity.
‘Continue!’ he urged. ‘Whatever happens, don’t stop!’
This time both knights followed him. They were too frightened to speak. Now and again they clasped hands, fighting the urge to leave this venerable priest and flee for their lives.
‘When your task is done-’ Eutyches spoke up, ‘and it will be done quickly — leave the chamber. Don’t come back this way but flee further along the gallery. It will bring you out beyond the city walls.’
‘We thought to die at Constantinople,’ Otto replied.
‘Why are the young so interested in dying?’ the priest said wryly. ‘In the end, die you will and die you must!’
His grim jest seemed to lighten the tension. Just as the shadowy fears were closing in again, they reached a bend in the passageway where it turned abruptly to the left. Eutyches, however, ignored the gloomy, dark-filled gallery. He stood before a doorway, one of the most extraordinary the brothers had ever seen — not made of wood or steel but of sheer marble with a mother-of-pearl cross in the centre.
‘Unlock the door!’ Eutyches called.
For a while Raymond fumbled with the keys. There were five locks along the side of the door. It took some time to find the key for each lock but, as he turned them, Sir Raymond could hear some intricate mechanism click. At last he finished and pushed the door hard. It swung open smoothly and both brothers gasped: if the door was a work of wonder, the octagonal chamber it guarded was even more so. It was lighted by shafts which came down from the roof and filled the chamber with sharp rays of sunlight. The walls were covered in gold-fringed, velvet drapes, the marble ceiling was concave, whilst each slab of the marble floor had a small glass case embedded in the middle.
‘Reliquaries,’ the priest explained.
‘Why?’ Otto whispered.
Eutyches pointed to the centre of the chamber which, because of the angle of the light, was shrouded in a veil of darkness.
Raymond narrowed his eyes. He could see the casket about a yard high and three yards long. He lifted his head and sniffed the air.
‘Roses!’ he whispered. ‘I can smell roses!’
The air was growing sweeter by the second; a subtle fragrance, which provoked bittersweet memories of luxuriant gardens at the height of summer around the Priory of St John of Jerusalem in London.
‘Where are the roses?’ Otto asked. ‘Why does the chamber smell so fragrantly?’
‘Ignore it,’ Eutyches almost snarled. ‘We have a task to do!’
They followed Eutyches across to the sarcophagus. Made out of costly wood, the casket was sealed with two locks, one at either end. Again, at Eutyches’ urgings, Raymond opened each lock and lifted back the lid. The smell of roses grew even richer, more cloying. He and Otto stared down in amazement. Beneath the gauze cloths lay the body of a beautiful young woman.
‘Do not tarry!’ Eutyches urged. ‘Lift the cloths!’
They did so. Both men stared open-mouthed, the woman was so extraordinarily beautiful. Her dark hair was framed by a cloth-of-gold veil; her body hidden beneath the silver damask dress of a Byzantine princess; her velvet-gloved hands lay by her side. Raymond felt her cheek, soft as down-feather, slightly warm.
‘She’s sleeping!’ he exclaimed.
‘You are to open her mouth,’ the priest ordered. ‘I will press in the host, then you must seal the casket.’ Eutyches pointed across to where huge earthenware jars stood. ‘They are filled with oil. Once the casket is resealed, you are to tip them over. Take a torch from the wall outside and let the room burn!’
