The Four Horsemen Page 29

  “I ran to the temple and saw a man come out; there was still some light from the lantern they’d taken inside. He was holding an axe and I could see . . .” he faltered, “I could see it had blood on it. So I ran into these bushes. He must have seen me, but he didn’t follow. Then I heard him smashing the boat.”

  “Did he limp?” I asked.

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “He’s a hired killer,” I said. “A man from Naples.”

  “He was waiting for us,” said Komnenos. “He knew we were coming.”

  “Obviously,” I said.

  “There’s been treachery,” he said. His voice was quite level, without any audible rancour. But as we were all still whispering, it was not easy to judge.

  “So you were the Four Horsemen,” I said.

  “Yes.” And this time I detected a rather forlorn note of pride in his voice.

  Bepi spoke. “So what do we do now?”

  “There are three of us,” I said, “and one of him.”

  “He has an axe,” said Bepi.

  “Yes,” I said, “but he can’t attack us all together. He was only able to do it with those three because he had prepared a trap with a net.”

  “Is that what he did?” said Komnenos.

  “Yes,” I said. “This is a man who prepares things. But obviously he didn’t plan for you not accompanying your friends to the temple. Nor for our arrival.”

  “So what’s he doing now?” said Bepi.

  “Waiting,” I said. “And hoping that we get frightened and make some stupid mistake.”

  “Well, there’s no point pretending we’re not frightened,” said Bepi. “I know I am.” Probably for the first time ever I could hear fear in his voice, unless it was pain.

  “Yes,” I said. “Obviously we all are. But that’s not a reason to behave stupidly.”

  “He must be hiding in that ruined building,” said Komnenos. “I would have heard him if he were in the bushes here.”

  “I think he’s going to go on waiting,” I said. “He’s a professional killer. He’s used to this. He knows we’re not.”

  “Well, I’m not,” said Bepi.

  “Nor am I,” said Komnenos.

  “The Four Horsemen have never done anything violent?” I asked.

  “Not under my leadership,” he said.

  I returned to the subject of the killer. “So he’s sure that sooner or later one of us is going to panic, try to run to the boat or something, and that’ll be his chance.”

  “I’m not going to run anywhere,” said Bepi ruefully.

  “No, but he doesn’t know that.”

  “And how do you know what he’s thinking?” asked Komnenos.

  “Obviously I don’t know, but I’m trying to imagine. As I did with you. Which is how we come to be here now.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Bepi.

  Komnenos was quiet. I think he was realising he could not agree with Bepi’s adverb. But such a thought would take him down very difficult paths. Eventually he said, “So you imagined yourself as me.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And you had no help from our mutual friend.” His tone was recognisably bitter this time.

  “No,” I said. I was certainly not going to tell him that I had been hiding in a wardrobe while he spoke to her earlier this evening.

  “Did she hire this man?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I sincerely hope not.”

  “What are we going to do?” said Bepi, breaking into our dialogue to raise a more immediate problem.

  “Turn his tactics on himself,” I said.

  “Wait until he panics?” Bepi said, clearly sceptical.

  “Well, remember there are three of us and one of him, so the idea is not totally absurd.”

  “He’s still got the axe,” Bepi said.

  “Yes,” I said. “But it’s not a practical weapon for attacking three people who are prepared for you.”

  “It’s better than anything we’ve got.”

  “So far,” I said.

  “What else is there?” said Komnenos. “Shall we snap off a twig, or some brambles?”

  “As I said, we can use his tactics. There’s the net.”

  This was met with silence from both Bepi and Komnenos.

  “It’s our best chance,” I said after a long pause.

  “How are we going to get it?” said Bepi.

  “We’ll have to work that out,” I said. I was trying to sound much calmer than I felt. I knew that only by forcing myself to concentrate on the problem from a purely logical point of view could I avoid collapsing into a state of helpless, gibbering panic. It probably made me seem unnaturally phlegmatic, but that was the least of my worries.

  My tactic seemed to have a calming effect on the other two as well. Their breathing had become more measured, and their whispered words came out less jerkily. We actually had a two-minute conversation devoted to purely practical matters, and three minutes later I was sidling my way towards the temple, remaining as far as possible amid the bushes and trees.

  After another minute or so I was about twenty yards from the temple, gazing from the bushes at the rough path that led towards the steps that rose to its entrance. There was complete silence. I could feel sweat breaking out from my every pore, as if in soggy sympathy with the mist that swathed the whole island. I stared up at the dark gap of the doorway and wondered whether I was really going to be able to force myself through it to the horrors that lay beyond.

  I tried to encourage myself with the thought that also beyond that door lay a chest containing some of the finest works of religious devotion in the world: votive crowns with enamelled medallions of saints and martyrs, silver and sardonyx chalices that had belonged to emperors, alabaster patens with bejewelled handles, gold monstrances, the bejewelled panel with the enamelled bust of the Archangel Michael, the gem-studded silver reliquary of the True Cross . . . objects created by artisans and artists under divine inspiration, for the greater glory of God.

  Or, to put it in another way, loot from the heinous sack of the Holy City of Constantinople. It was not the first time, I thought ruefully, that these shiny objects had lain alongside hacked and bloody corpses. Perhaps I should not place too much confidence in divine protection for what I was about to do.

  It struck me, rather irreverently, that if I was going to pray maybe I would get better odds from Venus, who, in The Iliad, showed great skill at concealing her often undeserving favourites in convenient clouds at moments of great peril.

  Of course, all these abstruse thoughts were just a know-it-all cicerone’s way of fending off fear as I waited for the signal.

  At last it came. To my right there broke out a sudden sound of thrashing and scuffling amid the bushes and some deliberately cryptic cries as Bepi and Komnenos set up the necessary distraction. They were hurling a small pile of stones that we had gathered for this very purpose into the undergrowth some thirty or so feet from where they lay in hunched concealment; and they were making odd whooping noises, at irregular intervals, with the sole aim of unsettling the killer.

  I jerked forward and ran as noiselessly and as unobtrusively as possible (I was running with my body bent almost double in a painful crouch) along the path towards the temple. The noises continued behind me as I reached the dark doorway, my heart pounding.

  I had thought that the lack of light would be a relief but of course it was not. I could still dimly perceive the lumpish shapes and the glistening sheen – and, to my horror, I could smell the blood. I did my best to shut my mind off from what my senses were telling it and bent down to get a grip on the portion of netting closest to me. Fortunately the piece I gripped was dry to the touch. I jerked it hard – and it resisted my tug. I had the horrific notion that the corpses were pulling against me, and I think I even let out a pathetic whimper. I gave another jerk, and there was a tumbling, thumping sound that I did my best not to interpret, and the net shifted a few inches in
my direction. I squatted lower in order to pull it horizontally and braced myself for my next tug, listening to the noises outside. The thrashing in the undergrowth continued, as did the staccato whoops and yells. I could hear no other sound.

  I gave a brisk vigorous jerk and the net came suddenly free, so that I staggered back, almost falling. I managed to straighten myself and pulled the freed strands of net towards me; parts of it were viscously sticky under my scrabbling fingers and I found myself whimpering again. Once I had recovered from my revulsion I realised that all I held was a scrappy torn-off corner section of the net, hardly enough to cover a person’s head.

  And then I heard the footsteps. They were coming at a swift, if irregular, pace in my direction. I moved to the doorway, and saw a thickset dark figure walking jerkily along the path to the temple. He had an axe held firmly in both hands. This was a professional who knew a distraction when he heard it.

  30

  My instinct was to retreat into the dark recesses of the temple, despite the horrors it held. I told myself that when he climbed the steps would be the best moment to rush out and attack him, but then I fell back on instinct; even standing above him I would still be at a disadvantage with nothing more than a sticky scrap of net to wave against his axe. I should place more faith in instinct; it had worked for me in the past.

  As long as it was instinct and not just panic . . .

  I tossed the scrap of net aside and worked my way round to the right of the pile of cadavers, staying close to the wall. My mind was working feverishly to wrest some kind of advantage from the situation.

  Well, there was the fact that the man was lame and I was not. It suddenly struck me that I was going to have to do the unthinkable: use the corpses as a battleground. On that uneven heap I would have the advantage of two steady limbs to support myself against his unbalanced ones.

  I saw the dark outline of his body appear at the entrance, both hands still gripping the axe, which was raised in a threatening way. He stood still for a moment, his head turning slowly as he sought me out.

  I remained equally still, my arms lifted at a tense angle from my body. My right hand flexed itself in preparation for whatever was going to happen next – and my fingers touched something wooden.

  I instantly realised it must be the chest containing the treasures. I went with my instinct again and bent down to fumble at the wood. I found it had a single leather-covered handle on the top and I was able to lift the whole thing up with one arm. It was not quite as heavy as I had expected and it did not rattle as I had thought it might; presumably the items had all been carefully wrapped before they were loaded.

  He saw me immediately and charged forward, swinging the axe above his head. There was nothing for it but to match charge with charge. I held the chest out to my right as I moved. We instantly found ourselves trampling over the mound of broken bodies, the net tangling with our feet. Instead of continuing my rush forward I halted as soon as I found a secure perch, my left foot planted on what I guessed was someone’s stomach and my right on a tangled knot of netting, and braced myself. I saw him make a sudden sweep towards me with his axe, but it was clear that he was by no means as secure in his position as I was; I was able to rear back, clear of the slicing blade (though I felt the rush of displaced air against my face), and yet remain steady, while he tottered forward. Before he had time to straighten up I smashed the chest on to his outstretched arm and then instantly jerked it upwards towards his face. There was no impact, but he fell backwards as he swayed to avoid the blow, and released the axe.

  I dropped down, letting go of the chest and groping for the handle of the axe. My hand clutched instead at the hair of someone’s head, which moved sickeningly under my fingers. Instead of dropping it with revulsion I snatched it up – it must have been the head of Father Giorgos and was much heavier than I expected – and hurled it in the direction of the killer’s own head. I heard a satisfying thump followed by a grunt of pain. I scrabbled around on the floor again and this time found the axe and scrambled to my feet, doing my best to get a firm grip on it.

  And now what? Was I going to split him in two? I suspected I wouldn’t be able to do it – but I certainly didn’t want him to know that. I stepped cautiously backwards, towards the free area of floor, still gripping the axe firmly. He was slowly heaving himself up; I could make out his dark shape, becoming vertical and massive before me, even though not tall. Then he spoke.

  “You know you can’t do it.” It was a surprisingly sharp, shrill voice, with a thick Neapolitan accent.

  “What makes you think that?” I said, keeping my voice as flat and steady as I could.

  “You’re not the rough kind,” he said. He was trying to sound reasonable, as if all we needed to do to sort out our differences was have a chat.

  “You’d like to think that,” I said, “wouldn’t you?”

  “I can tell,” he said. “I can always tell.” He was now lurching his way forward, slowly and deliberately trampling over all obstacles. The creaking and crunching noises under his feet were perfectly horrible.

  “I’m a confidential agent for the Missier Grande,” I said, “and have killed twelve enemies of the Republic to date.” I guessed that a precise figure would sound more convincing. Then I added, “Thirteen, if we include an accidental victim when I burned the French ambassador alive in his apartment. I’ll be happy to make you my fourteenth. I’ll even claim fifteen, if I split you in two.”

  “You think you’re funny,” he said. Clearly he intended to sound contemptuous, but I could tell that my banter had unsettled him. It was vital that he should not discover that it was the only weapon I knew how to use.

  “I just tell things as they are,” I said. “Come any closer and I will hack off any part of you I please.”

  He paused, still undecided whether to risk a sudden charge.

  I gave the axe a few gentle waggles. I didn’t know whether he could see the movement or not, but at least it gave me the illusion of being ready to hack him to pieces.

  Then he charged. It happened so suddenly that I was taken completely by surprise and found myself instinctively falling backwards. This time, of course, the instinct was wrong. I knew it at once, as I found myself unable to swing the axe forward in a counterbalancing move; I couldn’t tell whether the inability was due to weakness of character or just the physical laws of gravity. In any case, it was sadly clear that I was not the rough kind.

  I found myself lying helplessly on my back, and seconds later he was scrabbling for the dropped axe beside me. This was clearly the end.

  And then there came a strange thumping noise, and he jerked forward and collapsed in a sprawling heap beside me.

  I twisted my head to the door, and saw a man who was bent forward in the attitude of one who has just hurled something. Next to me the Neapolitan was making a sputtering noise and his fingers were scrabbling at the floor. I could now make out the distinct shape of a knife buried deep in his back.

  The figure at the doorway said a few words in Greek.

  “Thank you,” I managed to say, although my voice was hoarse. I pulled myself away from the Neapolitan, who continued to twitch and sputter.

  “It was my pleasure,” Komnenos said. “And I mean that literally.” There was a kind of bitter joy in his voice.

  “You didn’t tell me you had a knife,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “I don’t always say everything,” he said. “I think you should have learned that by now.”

  “I suppose I should have,” I said.

  “But don’t you remember: ‘Keep your knife sharp . . .’?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I remember.” I realised now that the Greek words he had uttered earlier had been the refrain from the kleftic ballad he had recited at the salotto.

  Komnenos had now made his way round the edge of the temple to where the Neapolitan was lying. He bent over and pulled the knife from the man’s back, and then in one sudden decisive action h
e pressed one knee to the man’s back, wrenched his head up and placed the knife at his throat.

  I made a gasping sound of protest. Komnenos paid no attention. With a sudden savage jerk he slit the throat and jumped back as the blood spurted.

  “My God,” I said. “My God . . .”

  “‘So that it may be ready to cut the tyrant’s throat,’” said Komnenos, throwing the knife down beside the still quivering body. He sounded quite calm.

  I forced myself to my feet, if only to avoid the spreading pool of blood. My legs were shaky but still able to support me.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said. Then I remembered what still lay among the mangled bodies. “The treasure . . .”

  Komnenos leaned forward and grasped a corner of the chest. He gave it a jerk and got hold of the handle.

  “You take it,” he said. “I have no further use for this.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. I took it from his hands.

  “Too much blood,” he said simply.

  We made our way out of the temple. When we reached the open air I saw Bepi painfully limping his way towards us. Even in the dark I could see the sudden brightness of his smile as he recognised me.

  “Alvise,” he said simply. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”

  “Komnenos saved me,” I said.

  “Sorry I wasn’t there.”

  “Well, you are now. And I’ve got the treasure here.” I put the chest down on the ground.

  “Well, that’s useful,” he said, and promptly sat down on it with a relieved sigh. Then he asked, “So what happened to – to him?”

  “I killed him,” Komnenos said.

  “Oh, ah, right,” said Bepi, a little disconcerted.

  “And now I’m going to leave you,” Komnenos said.

  “Leave us?” I said. “How?”

  “That man came here in a boat. I imagine it’s over there.” He gestured in the direction of the tumbledown building. “It’s the only place to conceal a vessel.”

  “And where are you going?” I said.

  “That need not concern you,” he said. “I gather you are an agent of the Missier Grande.”