Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

When I awoke it was still nothing but heavy, silky darkness all about me, so I lay there, fretting and giving thanks by turns – for I did not feel so badly hurt and the rib was not, I thought, broken after all, only cracked – until, indeed, a faint outline showed, like four long golden hairs suspended in the blackness. It was the trap-door, and it was unlocked, and in a few moments I stood in the crypt that Zoe had described. Daylight does not belong in a crypt, but half of the roof had fallen in upon the grave-slabs and the stacks of rotted wooden chairs. I climbed cautiously into the chapel above: it was deserted and cold, and smelled of piss. The rood-screen had been desecrated, and yet someone had recently been here, for fresh candle-stubs stood in a little bowl of clean sand that had been placed before a mosaic of some armoured saint-warrior. I opened the door and peeped out into clear, early sunshine.

The chapel was halfway along a street of shuttered houses. There was a walled garden to the right, fig trees and un-pruned vines spilling over the stones. At the end of the street to my left I saw the sea, blue and serene. So I was facing west. I had done some thinking down there in the sewer. Go to Hagia Sophia, the girl had said. Someone will come for you. But who? It had slowly come to me that my best hope would be to reach a Pisan or Genoese ska’a and try to talk my way on to a ship bound for Italy, or indeed anywhere. They might even remember me at the place the Captain and I had spent our first night. They would feed me. And perhaps there would be news of the French envoys: surely they could not be far off now, and they would vouch for me, for I would tell them of the captain, and of the pope… It was an excellent plan, made all the more tempting by the mild, hopeful air of morning. But no, Querini would be looking to meet the envoys at sea, and turn them back to Venice. Ach, I would promise them money from the Cormaran’s funds, and I could work my passage. What else could I do? There was no point leaving my bones in this sewer for want of strong nerves. So I set out towards the Golden Horn.

At the end of the street I turned a corner and found myself up against the outer wall of the Bucoleon Palace. Of course: I had not crawled very far, although it had seemed like a league or more in the dark. I backtracked, and found a street that seemed to be going in the direction of Hagia Sophia, and sure enough the great dome soon showed where a line of buildings had collapsed. There were few people about, just Greeks heading towards the palace and a few children up early to plan their mischief. I kept to the shadow-side of the streets, but had started to feel almost confident when a rattle of hooves sounded from behind. I had time to vault into a garden, from where I watched a Catalan mounted on a pony crash past, scattering the cats and calling down curses from the few tenanted windows. It was the sort of bullying nonsense that the occupiers did to pass the time, and so I started on my way again. But I had only gone a few more yards when another pony dashed across the way ahead of me. Soon I heard hooves everywhere. I edged along, looking around each corner. One alley led to the square before Hagia Sophia, and even from where I stood I could see that there were armed men milling about. I pressed on, but then a group of frightened people appeared, herded by two mounted Catalans. They protested, and one of the soldiers leaned down and whipped a woman across the face with his crop. Then they rode off, leaving the Greeks waving their arms in consternation. I turned aside and started down another street, towards the sea this time, thinking to work my way back to the chapel and hide there until nightfall, for clearly something was amiss in the city.

I heard a shout behind me. I turned around to find a Catalan standing at the top of the street. He beckoned to me. I turned and ran, only to run full tilt into the flank of a pony which was walking out from a side street. The beast flinched and I looked up into the bearded face of a soldier, a swarthy mercenary from the north or east. He leered and before I could move, grabbed a fistful of my hair. In a frenzy I seized his boot and pulled with my full weight. For a horrible moment I hung suspended by the hair, but I had put the man off balance and with a shout of anger he crashed down on top of me. I was up first, and kicked him in the face, but missed my aim and caught him on the ear. The pony was whinnying and so I got hold of the reins and tried to get my foot into a stirrup. The beast was frightened, though, and kept dancing, sending the mercenary scrabbling away from its hooves. At the last second I saw that I was about to be crushed between pony and wall and dropped to the ground, squirmed beneath the shaggy belly and took to my heels up the empty alleyway. Behind me I heard a bellowed curse and then the winding of a hunting-horn. Immediately the sound was taken up from somewhere all too near at hand, then another horn rang, then another. Booted feet pounded on cobblestones. I looked behind me one last time, to see a company of men-at-arms spilling out into the street. They had seen me. I tripped, got my balance and saw a narrow stepped way to one side, leading uphill.

I ran up the shallow steps, feet falling uncertainly upon crumbling plaster and slimy moss. A dying cat watched me through incurious, crusting eyes. Reaching the top I burst into open space and blazing sun: a little open square, ancient, sunken church at one end, windowless houses all around. A contorted olive tree wrestled in the strangling grasp of ivy as it guarded a broken marble well. And in front of the well, a naked man sprawled, headless. His skin was the creamy hue of a plucked chicken, made more yellow by the scarlet insult of the severed neck. I stopped in my tracks. A pair of women were making their way, crab-like, from the direction of the church, edging sideways, their heads twitching with apprehension. They wrung their hands and tore at their clothing in a way that seemed strangely inhuman, as if the conflict of grief and fear had reduced them to marionettes. I stepped back into the shade and squinted at the body. He had been tall and black-haired, and whoever had chopped off his head had subjected him to a long torment, judging by the bruises and slashes that were scattered over his chest and legs. This was the stock-in-trade of those men who were at this moment hunting me, and that thought sent me sprinting out from the shadows and across the square. The two women shrieked again when they saw me. I glanced at the corpse as I dashed past, and wished I had not done so, for I would not then have seen the pulpy void where the genitals should have been. Bile spiking the back of my throat I looked for the way out, saw an opening behind the church and bolted past the women, who fled away from me. Then I was back in the cat-scented shade again, and running down a level street. A wider thoroughfare crossed in front of me, and as I came out into the brightness again I heard the clicking of hooves. A company of soldiers were marching towards me, flanked by three men on horseback. In the moment it took me to take this in I saw that one of the horsemen wore palace livery and another was a beaky man who had often been in the Regent's company. I recognised him as he recognised me, and as the shadows swallowed me again the sudden tumult of spurred horses and shouted commands echoed from the walls.

Everything was ruined here. The great fires of thirty years ago had gutted every house and left the windows and doors blank. Soot stains ran down the walls like black tears, and weed trees were bursting from the ruins. The street ran straight, and I cursed the ancients, who had planned their city so well. My feet were crashing on the flagstones.

'There! There!' Excited voices behind me. I put my chin to my chest and hurtled on. The buildings on either side seemed to taper off into infinity before me like the landscape of a nightmare. I ran and ran, my breath growing shorter and tasting of blood. Oh Christ, where did this street lead? – to the Golden Horn, I prayed, but perhaps it just went on and on, to Novgorod or the barbarous wastes of the Tartars. I tripped and flailed, then recovered. The charred air was sour and damp. I gulped desperately. Then, like a blink of an eye, sunlight flashed to my right. I tried to stop, but tripped again and slapped into the wall, barking my hands, which came away sooty and grazed. But there was a tiny opening between two buildings, an alleyway. I fell into it.