Richard Blake - The Curse of Babylon

‘My Lord is right in the essentials,’ one of the old men allowed, still in his own language. ‘But you must understand the danger in which you have placed yourself. The Emperor provided us with a box to shield him from the power of the Horn when it was given to him. You have touched the Horn with your bare hands. This is not safe for anyone who lacks the necessary training. None shall know happiness, though he get his heart’s desire. .’

‘Oh, shut up and be seated!’ I snapped. ‘I’ll have no more of this nonsense. The stars tell us nothing. The Horn of Babylon is a piece of silver looted from a tomb. You’ve already admitted you can’t understand whatever’s written on it.’ I looked from one shaking face to another. ‘If your methods gave true knowledge about the world, I think we’d have seen better results after so many thousands of years.’ There I stopped. I hadn’t time or patience for lectures on the nature of true science. I’d softened them for questioning and I’d now have some answers. ‘The Horn of Babylon,’ I said, ‘is wanted by a man called Simon. I want to know what connection he has with the Emperor’s cousin. I also want to know to what extent both these men are connected with the Persians, and why.’

I could say what I wanted. Fat chance I had of getting it. There was a loud cry of warning that came through the window. It rose to a shrill scream before suddenly ending. It was followed by a wild scraping of boots and a shouting of orders and by a firm banging of sword pommels on wood.

I turned and pulled the curtain down. In the light from the candles, I could see that the door’s one bolt wouldn’t stand a hard shove from the other side. I looked about for something to wedge against it. Even before I could give up on that idea, someone banged loudly.

‘Alaric,’ Simon shouted, ‘I know you’re in there. I’ve given orders that you aren’t to be harmed. Put your sword down and stand away from the door.’

‘O Reverend Masters,’ the compounder begged, ‘let me stand within your pentagram of safety.’ Not speaking, the old men moved to its centre and clutched at each other.

I didn’t ask for permission. I stepped over the chalked line and kicked one of the candles over. ‘You can have this back in a moment,’ I said, picking up its iron holder. I carried it over to the window. I heard a scrape of many feet outside the door. ‘I’ve got my sword ready, Simon,’ I shouted. ‘Whoever comes in first gets it in his guts.’ That would buy me a little time. I swung the candleholder against the shutter. The whole rickety thing fell outwards and I blinked in the sudden brightness. It was a small window. I’d have to go out diagonally. Men were banging on the door and shouting. The men in the room were deep in argument over who had a right to be within the chalked line on the floor. I put my hands on the frame and heaved myself through into the daylight.

The bottom of the window was level with the ground and I came out on my hands and knees. ‘There he is!’ someone shouted from my left. I jumped up and went for my sword. Picking their way forward over the broken ground and forming a loose crescent as they came, there were a dozen men who hadn’t gone with Simon inside the building. He may have been telling the truth. Perhaps I wasn’t to be killed this time. If so, I could make a dash forward and cut my way to freedom. But these were big men and they were armed. Mad as it seemed, the only escape was back inside the building.

‘Don’t read the inscription, Alaric!’ I heard one of the old men shout feebly from the room. The next sound had to be the compounder’s dying scream. For another few moments it would be chaos in there and more men would be hurrying down to join it. I waved my sword at the nearest armed man and stumbled back inside the building.

I nearly bumped into someone at the top of the first flight of stairs. He had time to fall back and pull out his knife. Before he could shout for help though, I’d got the point of my sword under his chin. I pushed until it hit the back of his head. I pulled it free and stepped over his twitching body. From the far end of the corridor came a noise of approaching boots. ‘Remember, I want him alive!’ Simon shouted. ‘I don’t care if he’s wounded. But I want him alive.’ It was worth hearing that. But there were men behind me now and I’d soon be caught from both sides. I tried to keep my feet from making any noise and darted up the next flight of stairs.

Most buildings in the poor districts are designed for rapid escape — that, or the inhabitants prefer to avoid stepping into those stinking puddles when calling on their more distant neighbours. On first entering, I’d instinctively looked for and seen the slender walkway of planks held together with rope that connected this building to another across the yard. That’s what I was now looking for. At the top of every flight, I expected to see a hole knocked into the wall and my means of escape. Below me, I could hear a sound of smashed wood and of screams mingled with loud shouting. Simon was dividing his forces with a search of the whole building. No one yet behind me, I raced higher and higher upward in the stone tower. I found nothing until the topmost flight of stairs. This ended in a wooden door. I sheathed my sword and hurried towards it.

Just in time, I realised I’d overshot the walkway. I’d almost overshot the roof. I threw myself back from the dazzling sunshine and a wild fluttering of birds. It was only because the door was unlocked that I hadn’t smashed through it and plunged sixty feet to my death. I gripped the doorframe and looked down into the yard.

‘He’s up there!’ Simon shouted. He’d left the building and, shading his eyes, was looking up at me from the courtyard. ‘Look — he’s on the roof!’ He laughed happily and, making quickly for the entrance to the building, rapped out a stream of orders that I couldn’t hear. Behind me, there was already a clatter of boots on the stairs. The walkway was ten feet below me and another eight to my right. I hadn’t seen it on my way up because it led from one of the lodging rooms. I ran fingers though my hair and tried to think. Trying to jump from here was a desperate last resort. I was some way from that. I looked at the crumbling roof tiles I’d have to crawl across to be able to jump down to the walkway. Keeping hold of the doorframe, I leaned forward into nothingness and twisted round to see how easily I could heave myself on to the roof.

A few yards behind me, someone shouted a warning. I turned and drew my sword again. He dodged my main blow but I managed a slicing cut to the side of his neck. With a scream of horror, he fell back, clutching at himself, blood spraying from where I’d got him. He was a big man and his body blocked the way for the other two men who’d come up with him — not that either who stood back from the twitching, blood-soaked thing I’d thrown at them seemed inclined to try his luck. Keeping my sword ready, I pulled off the cloak the compounder had given me and threw it at the men. I thought longer than I should about my outer tunic. It was of cotton, brought all the way as a made-up garment from India, and dyed a lovely blue. Its price would have paid any rent in this district for a hundred years. But I took it off and threw this down as well. I sheathed my sword and blew a kiss at the two men. Before either could make a dash to stop me, I’d sprung with a force and agility that would have made even Glaucus cheer and was spreadeagled, face down, on the roof.

Or would Glaucus have cheered? I had intended one roll to the left, followed by an easy jump down to the walkway. When you’re still feeling the rush of a quick kill, everything looks possible. I’d made my calculations and I had no reason to doubt them. But I’ve never been one for heights and, for one sickening instant, I felt myself gather speed as I slid down the roof. With a ripping of silk on wooden holding pegs, I stabilised. But this only gave me the time to go into a full panic. My stomach had turned to ice and my limbs felt as if they’d turned to stone.