tower today.’
Hero splinted Vallon’s broken wrist and strapped his ankle. Wayland made a pair of crutches. The best part of the morning was over by the time he’d finished. ‘It’s a full day’s ride to the tower,’ Hero said. ‘Night will fall long before we reach it. Stay here tonight and rest. We’ll leave before dawn to make the journey as easy as possible.’
Vallon looked around. The last tent had been struck and the plateau lay empty on all sides. A cohort of mounted Seljuks ringed a group of women. Drogo’s body still lay where he had fallen, curled up like a sleeping child, a burgundy stain on the bare ground around his head. ‘There’s nowhere to stay. We have enough time to reach the caravanserai before dark.’
Hero and Wayland assisted him to his feet. Boke led a replacement mount up and Hero and Wayland lifted him into the saddle.
Caitlin clung to his leg. ‘Take me with you.’
‘I told you, if I find what I’m looking for I’ll return.’
‘What is it that’s more important than me?’
‘Did you find the silver?’
‘The final insult. The price of a night with a harlot.’
‘I left it so that if you choose to travel to Constantinople on your own, you would have the means. Suleyman won’t stop you.’
Caitlin stepped back and passed a hand over her eyes. ‘Why are you treating me like baggage? Didn’t last night mean anything?’
‘It meant everything.’
Boke had witnessed enough. An attempted homicide on a man he’d been charged to protect. Now this unseemly argument with a half-dressed woman stained with blood. He shouted an order and his men hazed the foreigners’ horses away.
Vallon looked back over his shoulder at Wayland and Syth. ‘Take care of each other,’ he called. ‘Remember us in your prayers and don’t grow too proud.’
Caitlin ran after him. ‘Don’t leave me!’ She stooped and threw a slipper. ‘Come back, you bastard!’
LIII
Vallon’s injuries forced him to ride no faster than a plodding walk and it was well after dark when they reached the caravanserai. A pain-racked night and they were on their way again before dawn. They reached Salt Lake as the sun rose like a blood-filled blister on the far shore and jogged north. Vallon rode one-handed, his left foot stirrupless, unable to find any position that didn’t cause spasms of pain. The Seljuks marked time, disgusted at being put in charge of such troublesome passengers. Vallon told Boke that they could find their own way, but the man had his orders and wasn’t going to break them.
The journey along the lake was far longer than they remembered and the light was already leaching from the sky when the bastillion came in sight. Boke detoured past it. Hero caught up and told him that Vallon couldn’t travel any further. They had to make camp now. With ill grace, the Seljuks agreed to call a halt, pointing out a stream half a mile beyond the tower.
‘We’ll stop here,’ Hero called. Boke said they could camp with the devil for all he cared, and led his men away.
‘They probably think the tower’s haunted,’ said Hero.
‘It probably is.’
They studied the bastillion. A round tower about sixty feet high, tapering to its crenellated turret, surrounded by the crumbling walls of a derelict barracks.
‘What was it for?’ Hero asked.
Vallon looked both ways along the lonely road. ‘It must have been a relay station and signal tower.’
‘The light’s going. We don’t have much time.’
The Seljuks had hobbled their horses and were beginning to pitch a tent. ‘They’ll be suspicious if we go into the tower before making camp,’ Vallon said. ‘Collect the makings of a fire.’
He remained mounted while Hero foraged for wood. The sun was touching the horizon when Hero returned and led him to the tower. Hero helped him out of the saddle and he flopped to the ground, his face hollow with pain. Hero felt his forehead and reached to take his pulse. ‘I knew the exertion would be too much for you.’
‘Never mind me. Get the gospel.’
Hero peered in through the arched doorway. Pigeons flapped through the broken roof on clapping wings. The atmosphere was musty with their droppings. Something scurried away over the heaps of masonry covering the floor. Much of the debris had fallen from the staircase spiralling up the ancient walls.
Vallon dragged himself in, holding on to the wall with his right hand. His gaze probed up through the gloom. ‘It’s too dim to see properly. Wait until morning.’
…
‘This is our only opportunity,’ Hero said. ‘The Seljuks will leave before dawn.’
He lit an oil lamp and picked his way over the spoil towards the staircase.
‘I can’t help you,’ said Vallon. ‘Are you sure you can manage?’
Hero turned a wan smile. ‘Stay here and warn me if the Seljuks come.’
Vallon glanced at the campfire burning in the gathering dusk. ‘They think it’s a tomb. Wild horses couldn’t drag them in here.’
Hero raised the lamp and followed its shadow up the stairway, stepping with many mutters and hesitations across the gaps. Some of the paving rocked under his weight and he dropped to a crawl. He came to a section where a dozen treads had collapsed, leaving a steep glacis of rubble. He took a shuddering breath and stepped onto the lip of the slope with his back to the drop. He shuffled up it, sliding his hands along the wall. He’d almost reached the next step when the surface rolled under his feet. He threw himself at the step and clung on. Stones cascaded onto the floor. His lamp had gone out.
‘Are you all right? Where are you?’
Hero pulled himself to safety. ‘I’m about halfway up. Part of the stairs gave way.’
‘If you break your neck, I’ll never forgive you.’
Hero laughed. ‘Wait until I light my lamp.’ He struck another flame and saw that he’d spilled most of the oil. He peered up. ‘That was the worst bit. The stairs above don’t look too bad.’
Clammy with fear, he made his way upwards. A flicker of movement made him flinch. Only a bat cutting erratic paths through his light. He reached the top of the staircase and found himself on the remains of a gallery. The first bright stars of evening winked through the holes overhead. He shuffled around the gallery, moving his lamp up and down the wall. A stone carved with a lion, Drogo had said. The flame was too puny to illuminate any detail beyond a radius of two feet. He came to a gap in the gallery and held out the lamp as far as he dared. A stone bounded away into the dark.
‘Hero?’
‘I can’t see it. The light’s terrible.’
‘In the morning I’ll tell Boke I’m too sick to travel. That will give you enough time to search by daylight.’
‘I’m not sure I can summon the courage to make another attempt.’
Hero worked his way back to the head of the stairway without finding the carving. He sat on the topmost step, placed the lamp beside him and hissed through his teeth. The gospel must be here, probably within touching distance. Walter had been in no state to invent the details about the bastillion and the carved stone.
The lamp spluttered and the flame dwindled. Hero watched it, darkness closing in. Very carefully he tilted the lamp, holding his breath until the flame waxed bright again. He looked up with a sigh of relief and in the same moment some belated impression registered. Frowning, he slid down to the next step and ran his hand over a stone inset into the wall at knee level. He angled the lamp to pick out the chiselled relief of a lion-headed figure standing
