with Orestes and Chanat beside him, stroking his grey moustaches thoughtfully. Standing before them was a captive bound in thick ropes, his hands just free enough to hold a testament.
Attila grinned. ‘Read to me,’ he said, ‘out of that fine old book of the Christians. The words of the prophet Nahum.’
He surveyed the devastated city as a different man might view some lovely fresco of Venus, or Atalanta in Corydon, while his trembling captive read.
Woe to the bloody city! The horseman lifteth up the bright sword and the glittering spear: and there is a multitude of the slain, and they stumble upon the corpses. Behold, I am against thee, saith the Lord of Hosts: the gates of thy land shall be set wide open unto thine enemies: the fire shall devour thee. Thy shepherds shall slumber, and thy nobles dwell in the dust; thy people is scattered among the mountains, and no man gathereth thee. Thy wound is grievous, and all who hear of it shall clap their hands: for upon whom hath not thy wickedness been visited continually?
Attila nodded and smiled. ‘Even the God of the Christians has spoken.’
He retrieved the precious testament from the captive and handed it to Orestes. Then he sliced his sword across the captive’s neck and the three rode on down the mound for the city. His men were already having victory horse-races in the half-ruined hippodrome. They were dressing horses in the robes of butchered priests, and carrying the crucifix itself about the circuit, Christ himself topped with a kalpak, a pointed Scythian cap. Later they would set the crucifix in the sand and make it their own totem, hanging from it severed heads, the skin peeled off and stuffed with straw. There would be feasting on slain livestock by firelight, and toasts in looted silver chalices decorated with Christian symbols, or Silenus chasing his nymphs.
In the gloom of the single sputtering clay lamp, the two soldiers discerned another iron-bound door.
‘No way out there,’ said Knuckles. ‘The execution dungeon. And I don’t think we’re ever going to find the key now, do you?’
Arapovian stepped between the women and children and knocked on the door, absurdly polite. A moment later there came an answering knock.
‘Eh, well,’ said Knuckles. ‘He was going to get chopped anyhow. This way, he’ll just starve to death instead. Comes to the same end, like all of us.’
Arapovian stood before the iron door and rattled his stiletto dagger in the big lock-hole for a moment. Then he drew his brooch-pin from his cloak and knelt down and probed. Moments later, something clicked. He dragged at the doorhandle and it grated slowly open.
Knuckles looked faintly disgusted at this showmanship. Blew a soft raspberry.
A figure slowly emerged, blinking in the lamplight, shackled hand and foot. But for the heavy black beard, he might have been Knuckles’ younger brother.
‘Water,’ he rasped.
‘You’ll get some,’ said Arapovian. ‘You are?’
‘Barabbas,’ said the prisoner in a voice suggesting he hadn’t drunk water for a week. Arapovian stood back. The man’s breath was foul.
Knuckles stepped up. ‘Don’t take the piss.’
‘S’true,’ said the prisoner.
‘So what are you, the original Wandering Jew or something? ’
The prisoner shrugged. ‘My father’s son.’
‘What you in for?’
‘Theft from the granary.’
‘Tut tut. You haven’t got a clue what’s been going on, have you?’
The prisoner shook his shaggy head miserably. ‘I thought I could smell smoke. Fire?’
‘Some.’ Knuckles turned to Arapovian. ‘You got to laugh. Everyone else gets the chop. The one prisoner due for the chop walks out just fine.’
‘As wiser men than we have previously observed,’ said Arapovian, ‘the humour of Heaven is more often ironical than benevolent.’
‘You took the words right out me gob.’
Arapovian rested the tip of his dagger against the prisoner’s neck. ‘I do not understand why, but it seems that, like your gospel namesake, you are destined live in others’ stead. You go with us. But one moment of foolishness and I will kill you. You think you are hard, but I am harder.’
‘He is, too,’ confirmed Knuckles, jerking his head. ‘He looks like some Persian Royal who’s spent his life in baths of asses’ milk. But he’s not.’
‘Armenian,’ said Arapovian.
‘Whatever,’ said Knuckles. ‘East is east.’
Something thumped onto the trapdoor above their heads. A burning beam.
‘Shit,’ said Knuckles.
‘You have more oil?’ asked Arapovian.
A woman shook her head.
‘Then snuff the lamp for now. We must wait a long time.’
The people tried to sleep. Arapovian recited softly to himself the litanies of his religion in the ancient tongue. Knuckles snored, clutching his beloved club to his chest like a child clutching its doll. The fire roared dimly above them.
After what he thought must be many hours, Arapovian crawled through the darkness and up the narrow steps to the trapdoor. There was a pause and then he gasped.
Knuckles was awake and heard him. ‘Don’t tell me. It’s hot.’
Arapovian returned.
‘Never touch an iron-bound trapdoor that’s been in the floor of a blazing building all day,’ Knuckles said helpfully, ‘even if you are Parsee fire-worshipper. You’ll give yourself a nasty burn. Even my granny could have told you that, bless her whorish old heart.’
‘Hold your tongue, you ape,’ hissed Arapovian.
‘Don’t call me an ape.’
‘Don’t call me a Parsee and I’ll think about it.’
Knuckles sighed.
Arapovian squatted, nursing his burned fingertips, feeling like a fool. An unaccustomed feeling for him, and one he did not appreciate. He looked upwards in the pitch blackness. If those bands got any hotter they’d start to glow in the dark. The wood on the upside must surely be charring down. Then the door would fall in, and they’d be done for.
The terrified families stared around sightlessly in the darkness. The old man said, ‘Have the invaders gone?’
‘No,’ said Arapovian. ‘The legion has gone. We are all that is left.’
Shock, then slow sobs as the terrible news sank in. The cell was full of widows and orphans.
The old man reached out in the dark and clutched the Armenian’s arm. ‘Will we live? Our children?’
Arapovian gently loosed his grip. There was a long silence. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘If the trapdoor holds, then… maybe.’
The fire roared louder.
Soon, in the gloom there was a dull red glow. The iron bands of the trapdoor were growing red hot. Oozing through the gaps round the edge of the trapdoor, sizzling, came runnels of melted fat. The odour of roast pork. Arapovian hoped the women and the children would not understand what it was.
‘Pray,’ he said. ‘All of you.’
12
