I looked up into the monstrous face. Whereas before, the visage had been stern, now it seemed absolutely malevolent. It radiated hatred. The black pupils of the gigantic eyes were pits, opening on to some illimitable void.
The quibbling of theologians notwithstanding, it was clear Christ had walked the earth in recognizably human form, but the painted Christ before me was not human. Why hadn’t I noticed? The eyes weren’t human. They were out of proportion. All the features were the wrong size. The shape of the skull was unnatural. There was something very wrong with the mouth.
This was not Christ but something else.
Of course. It was the devil who had presided over the city for so many years. Was that surprising when you considered what went on in the alleyways and the mansions? The horror and depravity? Why would anyone think otherwise?
And wasn’t the distorted visage similar to those I painted? Did any of those supposed holy men look human? It had been Satan directing my hand, using it to fill the city with painted demons.
Demons who were human beings were already there — and I among them.
The darkness in the eyes stirred in the trembling lamplight. I thought I could see lights in the depths. The faint glow of an unimaginably distant conflagration.
There came into my head a soft sound like that made by a flame leaping from a bonfire.
The sound resolved into words. Why do you think of Satan or Christ? As if there is any difference. There is no good or evil. There is simply what is. Do you truly want to share your reward with the servant girl? Is she to be trusted any more than Philokalas?
Then I felt my hand close around a jagged chunk of brick, felt myself draw the deadly weapon into my robes.
“No,” I whispered. “I won’t. I can’t.”
But you can, the icon told me. Have courage.
I fell back and lay there, arguing in my mind with the icon, with myself, and after an eternity dropped into blessed unconsciousness.
Voices woke me.
I scrambled stiffly to my feet. I was aware of the weight of the brick I had concealed inside my tunic.
Was it already morning?
The voices came nearer.
“Here we are.” It was Arabia.
She appeared in the irregular entrance to our lair, smiling. Her impossibly brilliant eyes widened a little as if to tell me, “See, just as I promised, we’ve done it. It’s all right now.”
She carried a bulky leather satchel. Florentius was right behind her and I backed up to make room.
Florentius gasped and his florid face grew redder. He stared at the huge image. “Oh, magnificent! To be so close! Oh, wonder of wonders! The poor maimed thing. Ah, the pain he suffers! How can I ever reward you, my dear girl?”
“You already have.” Arabia hefted the satchel and shook it until the coins it contained jingled. “Should I have asked for more? I didn’t want to be greedy!”
“Do you want more? You shall have it!”
I was standing with my shoulder-blades almost pressed to the icon, but as far as Florentius was concerned I might as well not have been there.
“My men will haul this treasure up the stairs and out to the hand-cart,” he told Arabia.
Just then three big men squeezed into the already crowded space. I thought Florentius must be very cautious to arm his servants with swords. Also, it violated our understanding.
One of the newcomers glanced at me, then at Florentius. “You two heretical traitors are under arrest by order of the Patriarch.”
Florentius looked around in confusion as if he’d suddenly awakened in some strange place. “What? What is this?”
I probably looked as dazed as he did. “Arabia!” I cried. “Run!”
She didn’t move. She appeared inexplicably serene.
Florentius gaped at her. “Arabia? Is that what you call yourself when you’re not in my bed? Where did you get a name like that?”
Arabia laughed at him.
I hadn’t realized she could make such an ugly sound. It made me sick to hear it.
“You, marry a servant?” she sneered. “Do you think I’m a fool? And by the way, that lazy clod of a workman, Philokalas, who never finished patching your basement wall, the one who previously worked for the Patriarch? He won’t be coming back.”
She directed her horrible gaze at me. “You thought I didn’t find his body? Philokalas and I took turns coming down here to make certain the icon was safe, but I always used the door you were so proud of finding. He was careless. I warned him about going in under the hound, but he took no notice.”
Florentius’s face contorted with agony. “And to think you used to work at the Patriarch’s residence! He gave you his recommendation! What kinds of servants does he employ?”
I stood there unable to speak. I couldn’t believe … didn’t want to believe. I could have reached into my tunic, pulled out the brick, and killed her on the spot. But I didn’t.
The guard apparently in charge of the other two said, “Young woman, the Patriarch wishes to express his gratitude for helping to apprehend this godless pair. He hopes the small financial arrangement he has made for your earthly needs is suitable, and will be happy to continue to offer you spiritual guidance at the usual times.”
The woman I had known as Arabia departed without another glance in my direction. I expected a final word, but the performance had obviously ended.
Florentius babbled about the emperor and the Patriarch. I paid no attention. Neither did the armed men.
“This opening needs to be widened,” said the commander. “We don’t dare damage the icon. Make sure you keep clear of the broken bricks. We don’t want any scratches.”
“Ah,” Florentius sighed. “Will those monsters consign the Lord to the flames again? Let poor Florentius burn with him!”
“Out of the way,” grumbled one of the men. “We’ve got work to do.” He pushed Florentius, who stumbled towards the hole.
“He’s trying to escape,” the commander casually remarked, and ran Florentius through with his sword. “Make sure the other doesn’t get away.” He nodded in my direction.
A guard raised his blade and stepped towards me.
I threw myself to one side and yanked with all my strength at the edge of the heavy wooden panel. It toppled forward and crashed down on everyone else in the chamber. I scrambled up and across the back of the icon and was out of it before anyone could react.
Then I ran.
So you, big painted demon, you saved me in the end, I thought. For a while at least.
I didn’t have time to be angry at Arabia. Not then. Later there would be more than enough time.
As I burst out from beneath the iron hound, shouts echoed from underground.
I started across the deserted square. Even in my panic, I realized something was different.
What?
I looked up at the stylite’s pillar.
The stylite was gone.
But the rope dangling the basket used to send up food hung between the pillar’s railing and the ground.
The shouts behind me sounded louder.
I took hold of the rope and pulled myself up, hand over hand. Normally it would have been an impossible feat but my life was at stake.
By the time my pursuers clambered out into the square I was a distant figure in dishevelled clothes, head bent, half leaning against the railing.
The men rushed straight past the pillar.
Nobody notices stylites.
