Andrew Offutt: The Tower of Death

Outside the chamber, Veremund said a few words to Irnic Break-ax, and shortly that Roman-cloaked warrior and mac Art were on their way to the harbour. Irnic made the great concession of walking on his own feet.

At old Brigantium harbour, once handsomer and more bustling than now, they two chose a boat for Cormac’s purpose. The scapha or coaster was a flat-bottomed skiff used for commerce, mainly in riverways and along coastal waters. Square and ugly was its stern and unusually large its sail.

“And the lighthouse?” Irnic asked, as he and the Gael paced the coaster they had chosen. Irnic had sent a rider for Wulfhere and Ordlaf.

“It’s unmanned we’ll be leaving that place,” Cormac said, “with its beacon unlit. We’ll want the tower close watched, though.”

“My part,” Irnic said and, when the Gael nodded, “I’ll see to that.”

“I’m wondering if there mayn’t be a dark sail available…”

Wulfhere and the steersman arrived, along with Jostein, and the five men conferred aboard the scapha. The reivers detailed how it must be equipped and Irnic called over the burly man who was overseer of stevedores. He gave listen to plans for the skiff’s modification, nor did he make mention that his men were hardly carpenters. Indeed he began issuing instructions for the work at once. He’d but few questions, and none regarding the purpose of Lord Irnic and the reivers from oversea. These harbour-men knew of the horror in the lighthouse, and its menace to them and their livelihood.

Still another good man , mac Art thought; this is my day for dealing with such . And he told Wulfhere a few little things, in private. Irnic was off to make a to-do of picking men for the lighthouse watch, and Ordlaf and Jostein would remain with the workers in their modification of the scapha.

Cormac asked his giant battle-brother if he’d been “having do with” Queen Venhilda.

“No!”

“Apology, Wulfhere. I assumed the answer, but needed to clear my mind of the matter.”

“What about yourself and that bottomy little princess?”

“Absolutely nothing, Wulf-it’s off princesses I am for life! Note how discreet I am-ye know naught of me and the bosomy Marcovanda, eh?”

“The little one with-”

“The same.”

Wulfhere chuckled. Abruptly he sobered, gave Cormac a keen look from eyes like nuggets of sky. “Ye asked because of Veremund, who’s having so much ‘to do’ with Clodia.”

“He says they talk a lot.”

Wulfhere snorted. “So do I, to my sword. Well, I can tell ye this, Wolf. My, ahh, night-friends and I have twice seen her leave the royal hall by night, and head into the city furtive as a thief with a chill.”

“Clodia?”

“No, dense son of a pig-farming Eirrisher! Ven-” Wulfhere lowered his voice-“hilda.”

“Uh!” Cormac frowned, sighed. “Bad business. She must have a lover. Now her royal husband has. Bad business. We’re after bringing him his consolation.”

Cormac was sure now that it was Queen Venhilda he’d seen ghosting from the hall so clandestinely, that first night here. Who out in Brigantium-town be admiring her leanness and that Starry Night of hers? For he’d learned the queen’s magnificent colour-splashed opal bore a name, as did some swords and other possessions. Starry Night, she called it.

That evening he was to see still another fascinating ring. Quite an interesting collection surrounded him; the Egyptian winged serpent he wore on its silver chain under his tunic and the winged sun-disk Zarabdas wore over his; Zarabdas’s golden ring of twining serpents; the queen’s Starry Night… and now the Antiochite’s Aquarius.

Cormac was not alone that evening when a sentry brought word that someone was without and would have word with him. He donned tunic and went down reluctantly, to find an oldish woman at the door, straggly of thin grey hair and wrapped in a cloak of plain dun hue, its scarlet bordering long since faded nigh to invisibility. Someone, she advised, would have converse with mac Art, elsewhere.

“Someone? Who?”

She would not say.

Cormac considered. “Do you wait then,” he said coldly, “whilst I arm and armour myself.” And he returned to his room without awaiting her reply.

“I will be back,” he told the tousled head and pair of bright-and disappointed-blue eyes peering at him from the bed, while he pulled on leggings. “If I am not, I’ll ha’ been slain. Sure and that’s not likely. Sleep, lass.” He shrugged into a padded jack.

“Cor-macc…”

He said nothing, performing the hardly simple task of getting forty pounds of linked mailcoat over his head. With a jingly little rustle of chain, the armour settled over him. He picked up the belt supporting his sword’s worn scabbard. He gave her a grin.

“I’ll wake ye, Kit-cat,” he said, and left his room.

In the corridor, the sentry stayed him long enough to mutter, “Would ye be followed, mac Art?”

“No, and no. Yon hag hardly carries my death-and if she has friends, I can handle myself.” He showed the man the steel under his cloak.

“Uh… pardon, mac Art, but… Marcovanda…” Cormac flashed him a warning smile. “See ye stay away from my chamber and Marcovanda Kit-cat, Hermodh, or I’ll be telling terrible things to your Berilda. Carrying a boy, I’d make wager.”

“One hopes,” Hermodh said. “It’s time. She’s borne two daughters, and she who lived is a joy. Still a man wants-”

“Aye,” Cormac said, and departed the hall.

Following the old woman in her much-worn cloak, the Gael soon departed the king’s grounds as well, and entered into dark Brigantium. Oil and waxen candles were dear, and he saw few lights. People who rose with the sun were wont to lie down with its daily dying, and so it was the world over. He noted how his guide clung to outer streets, skirting the city rather than actually entering it. Though Brigantium was Roman once, it was no longer; they were untroubled by footpads. Over past the city’s edge they came to a smallish, darkened old temple that was apparently no longer in use. Cormac saw a cracked column and strewn bits of stone from the interior of the portico’s roof. Just beyond that grove squatted a nice enough house, and it was to its door she led him. She knocked twice, paused, knocked thrice. And opened the door.

Inside was darkness deeper than that in which mac Art stood, and he ignored her gesture that bade him enter.

“Cormac mac Art,” a voice said from within, “come in.” Just that, and Cormac knew this man’s German was as accented as his.

“Who asks?”

“Lucanor Antiochos.”

“Ah. I enter then,” Cormac said, and did, but cleared his cloak of his right arm as he stepped into darkness. “D’ye have Latin, Lucanor Antiochus?” he asked, Latinizing the leech’s sobriquet.

“Aye. In here.” The leech who was formerly the royal leech lifted a hanging to reveal a yellow-lit room.

“After yourself, host,” Cormac said, and after a moment the other man entered. Cormac followed.

An oil-lamp burned on a table in that chamber, and Cormac saw that it was of Grecian design. The room was cozy, carpeted and wall-hung and furnished with two Roman chairs and a couch Cormac thought came from the north of Africa. The room bore the aroma of herbs; Lucanor’s stock-in-trade.

The Antiochite stood not tall. His crown rose little above Cormac’s shoulder. There was a bit of curl to his long hair and short, kempt beard, and both looked greasy whether they were or not. Black was the hair and dark was Lucanor of Antioch to the east, darker than his visitor. He had, as Cormac had noted earlier from a distance, the look of a man whose veins bore both Greek and Hyrcanian blood. His excellent robe of silky-looking green fitted him so that Cormac reaffirmed that the man was well fed. His forehead was very high; Lucanor’s hair, at about his age twoscore, was withdrawing as if in fright from eyes like two heated onyxes under thickets of brows just as black.