Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

'Never mind, old friend’ said Michael Scot. 'Lead on now: we will not lose the night if we are quick.' And to my amazement I found myself walking between Walter, the lunatic Greek priest from Devon, and Michael Scotus, physician to the pope or perhaps imperial necromancer, and who could not possibly be here in Constantinople, down a steep, empty street towards the sea, which sparked and burned with reflected moonlight and with the lights of the fishing boats setting out for a night's work. We had almost reached what was left of the city wall when Walter made a sharp turn to his left, and we followed him, ducking under a low, tottering archway and through a passageway barely wider than myself, that was heavy with the soft, cloying smell of dead fig leaves, like sweetmeats left to moulder. At the end was blackness – or a door, for Walter had stopped and rapped upon it twice, then twice again, then once more. He stepped aside, and Michael nudged me on. There was a creak and a complaint of worm-eaten timber, and I went forward, for I had no choice. The darkness within was damp and silent. Then a tiny light flared very close to my face, and passed, like a firefly, across and around my head. 'Ela’ said an ancient voice. Come.

As Walter and Michael pressed in behind me, the flame moved away and, like the Easter miracle, touched into life first one candle, then another and another, until we were standing in a blaze of light. Stone walls rose around us to a great height, and far above a vault of stone curved over us like a cupped hand. We are inside the walls’ I thought, and then I saw the man who had let us in.

He was very old, and his body was twisted like a tree that has stood for many lifetimes in a merciless wind. He had a long beard of yellowish white, and he wore a black cowl. His eyes were sunk deep into his head, so deep that the sinews that held them in place showed through the withered flesh of his eyelids. He was watching me, his head cocked like a bird, and I realised that he could not straighten it. Nonetheless he smiled at me, and it was a warm and welcoming smile. He pointed at a chest that stood near the wall.

'Katsi,’ he said. Sit. And I did, for I was tired as a plough-horse, and the man’s smile had made me less afraid. Michael was busying himself over by the door, and Walter, after embracing the old man and shooting me a reproachful glance, slipped outside and shut the door behind him.

We will eat’ said Michael, in Greek. ‘Petroc, you speak the tongue of this city, do you not?' I nodded, thinking only of the food. The Scot carried a covered clay pot and a basket over to us, produced a rickety chair for the old man and a stool for himself, and sat down. The pot contained boiled beans and pig fat, tepid, bland and uncommonly good. There was bread in the basket, and some hard-boiled eggs, and an apple. We set to – or rather I set to, and my elders watched. When the beans were all but gone, and the eggs, and the bread as well, and I was taking the first sweet bite of the apple, Michael whispered something to the old Greek and nodded at me.

'Now I will talk, and you will listen. You are shocked to see me. I am not surprised. Why am I here in Constantinople? Simply told. I am on an embassy from the Emperor Frederick to John Vatatzes in Nicea. My route led me through this city. Or rather I planned it thus, for I wished to see you. Do not gawp, lad: we are not strangers, are we?'

I shook my head. Then I nodded it. 'I do not know you at all’ I told him. 'And… you are in the employ of the pope – of old Gregory. I mean… thank you for the food.' Somewhat unnerved by this unchecked flow of words, I plugged my mouth with the apple and regarded Michael. He did not seem to be planning to kill me, at least – and the old man: he seemed friendly enough.

'Oh! Did the pope send you?' I burst out again, struck by this thought. 'Or… or Baldwin?'

'No’ said Michael with a dry chuckle. 'No, and no. I am in no one's employ, as you put it: neither pope nor emperor – and I mean the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick, not that callow little kinglet, Baldwin. I am in the privileged and uncomfortable position of being a friend to both men, and I have acted on both their behalfs at times, as I am doing now for His Majesty Frederick. The good Captain does not know I am here either. It goes back to business’ he explained. 'I needed to gather some information about Genoese interests at the palace, for the Genoese are the emperor’s allies and hate Venice like the devil. It so happened that the pro-Genoese faction – for there are more factions in that place than there are rats in its walls – is made up of those men who hail from the Duchy of Athens, and chief among them was the duke's nephew, the unfortunate Rolant de la Rouche’

'So Rollo was killed on purpose? I thought it was I they intended.. ‘

'They wanted both of you dead’ said Michael, shaking his head. 'Or rather they required your death, and Rolant… perhaps it was planned, perhaps a lucky accident.' He made a revolted face. 'They are little more than children, these impecunious tyrants. Now then, when I found out about Rolant's demise I went looking for whoever else might proffer me assistance, and found Aimery de Lille Charpigny. From him I learned about your… your teetering position here, and indeed all about your impending arrest and execution.

'Aimery – he lives, do not fear, although he has a sore head – came to warn you of the Regent's intentions. He found Zoe cleaning your chambers.' 'Zoe? The chambermaid?'

'She is the daughter of a friend. You are reeling, my lad. Too much happenstance for you, I would guess. But rest assured: the only happenstance in the whole tale was that you rescued Zoe from a vile… a detestable fate. But even then, she was near your room because I had instructed her to keep an eye on you.' I blinked at him, struck utterly mute, so he went on: 'Now Zoe, who is as keen of wit as any man or woman I have ever met, could have forfeited her life when Aimery chanced upon her, for she had the temerity to question a strange Frank, in his own tongue, about the business he had with you. But it seems that your friend has goodness or sense, or perhaps both, for he told her what was to happen, and there and then they made their alliance – to save you, lad, for their different reasons’

Well then, Zoe…' I tugged at my hair in confusion. 'And Walter…'

'Ah, Walter. The poor man was a jolly crusader who came to sack this city thirty-and-more years ago. He has been trying to atone for what he saw and did ever since. Like a ghost, he has become invisible to his own people, but the Greeks have taken him in, and he is almost one of them now. Almost. He lives, sometimes, in Zoe's household, where I have taken my lodgings, by the way. But I have wandered from the answer to your first question. Yes, I came to find you. You see, I know why you are here, and I was wondering if… if you might do me a favour’

‘What kind of favour? I mean, yes, of course. Anything’ I babbled. The apple was gone, and I had nothing now to hide behind.

‘Would you break into the Pharos Chapel?' enquired Michael lightly, as if he were asking if I would like to go out to buy a few more eggs. 'Umm’ I began, and then my tongue ran out of words.

'Because you were planning to, were you not? Have I mistaken the situation? Querini the Venetian has taken the Crown of Thorns, and will doubtless take the rest…'

'Querini has killed Captain de Montalhac!' I burst out. 'I heard him say so! My master left on a Venetian galley the day before the hunt. The crew must have cut his throat the moment they were beyond the harbour!'

Michael Scot looked at me levelly. 'I know that also. De Montalhac dead? Very possibly. Probable, in fact – I am heartily sorry for it, and for you, my son. Now I am sorry to deny you your grief, but please pay attention’ It was what the Captain would have said, I realised, so I shut my mouth.