‘So let me get this straight — you’ve gone over to the other side because of a grudge against me? The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons are supposed to be the champions of life. The spiders are opposed to us, so what does that make them? The end result is that you’re standing shoulder to shoulder with something that’s fighting against life itself.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m dead so it’s not such a big bleedin’ leap, is it? Wanker.’ Veitch stood up and kicked the stool across the hold. ‘Got my own Brothers and Sisters now. They aren’t too keen on life, or Existence. They aren’t going to stab me in the back, or cut me loose when I need them.’ The hurt in his voice was barely restrained.
‘So you’ve made your own Brothers and Sisters of … Spiders. And you’ve got me now. What’s the point of all this?’ Church rattled his chains.
Veitch opened his mouth to speak, then caught himself. He gave an enigmatic, humourless smile before walking off into the enveloping dark.
13
Veitch made his way across the creaking deck, cursing quietly every time he had to fight against the swell for his balance. The silver moon marked a path across the dark ocean. England’s dismal weather was falling behind; warm days beckoned.
Veitch had thought himself inured to the extremes of human emotion. For a long time he’d been a machine, focusing on the job at hand while keeping his feelings battened down. But seeing Church had brought everything back in one queasy surge, all the pain and the misery, the rage and the relentless urge to kill him. He hated Church even more for making him feel that way.
He made his way to the captain’s quarters, which were cramped and filled with the fruity aroma of the oil lamp sizzling on the side. The Libertarian sat with his boots on the table, pouring himself a goblet of red wine. His eyes took on an unnervingly bloody hue in the lamplight.
‘And how is our prisoner?’ he asked laconically.
Veitch hated his supercilious attitude and the way he often tried to pretend that Veitch was some menial. It wouldn’t take much to prompt Veitch to plunge his black blade into the Libertarian’s heart.
‘He wants to know what’s planned for him,’ Veitch replied sullenly.
‘But he’s not afraid, is he?’ A smile played on the edges of the Libertarian’s lips.
‘He will be.’ Veitch knew it was a lie the moment he uttered it. He’d never known Church to be scared of anything; that’s why Existence had made him the leader of the Five.
‘And how about you? Have you indulged yourself with him? A few taunts … a kick here and there to keep the bitterness at bay?’ The Libertarian laughed quietly, sipped his wine.
Veitch allowed his hand to slip to his sword; as always it whispered soothing words that calmed him. Not now, later. There was always time.
‘’Course,’ Veitch said, ‘things would be a lot simpler if you could just reach in and snap his neck, or whatever it is you do. Can’t, though, can you?’
A flicker of a shadow crossed the Libertarian’s face. ‘The years move fast, and soon I will be able to do what I want. I am a patient man. I can afford to bide my time.’
At the back of the cabin was an even smaller room. Veitch entered and closed the door behind him. Two benches faced each other, with a single chair beyond. A candle flickered greasily in one corner. On one bench sat Etain and Tannis, on the other Branwen and Owein. Their eyes snapped towards him as one with an eerie mechanical motion. Their faces were filled with pale horror.
Veitch sat in the chair and stretched, feeling the calm return. ‘All right, team. How we doin’?’ he said.
No one answered.
14
Church didn’t see Veitch again for the rest of the long journey. His silent jailer was the only person he encountered, and then at just one meal-time each day. There were times when he was sure the ship was sinking, so rough were the waves that almost turned the vessel on its end, flooding freezing sea water through the hold. At other times, a swell of nine feet or more left Church retching until his stomach was empty.
Eventually the ship reached calmer waters where the temperature grew balmy, and not long after Church heard the hungry cries of gulls. Finally the ship came to rest with a bump, followed by the thunderous grind of the anchor chain running over the deck into the water.
An hour later his jailer tied a stinking sack over Church’s head, unlocked his manacles, tied his hands behind his back and hauled him on deck. Church guessed the sack was more for humiliation than to hide his identity; he would be seen as a broken prisoner, not a champion of life.
He was led down a shaking gangplank onto solid ground. The June sun was hot on his shoulders, the atmosphere dry. All around he could hear the sounds of a busy port, the shouts of workmen, the snorts of beasts of burden, the creak of ropes and the crash of wooden crates on stone.
‘Where are we?’ he asked, not expecting an answer.
Someone leaned in close. ‘Ostia. Know where that is, smart boy?’ It was Veitch.
‘The port of Rome,’ he replied.
15
The journey from Ostia to the centre of Rome took what felt like hours to Church, as he was jolted black and blue in the back of a cart. As they neared, the noise grew louder until it became an unbearable hubbub that must have driven the residents mad. The Romans spent most of their lives on the street, trading, arguing, eating food cooked on portable stoves, and their activities created an atmosphere that was both exciting and oppressive.
Finally the cart came to a halt. ‘We walk from here,’ Veitch said. ‘No wagons in the city during the day.’
Church stumbled after a few steps, falling flat on a rutted street ankle-deep in rubbish and excrement. Veitch laughed hard, then dragged Church to his feet and ripped off the sack. ‘Don’t want you breaking your neck before we’re done with you,’ he said.
Despite his predicament, Church felt a rush of excitement at seeing history alive around him. Open-fronted shops lined the crowded street, with apartment blocks — insulae — rising up five or six storeys all around. Despite the gulf of centuries, it was not unlike modern cities — noisy, dirty, exciting, fast-living, cosmopolitan.
Veitch led him past dogs scavenging in the rubbish and children playing some kind of dice game with animal knucklebones. ‘So much for culture,’ he said. ‘This place stinks.’
Church nodded to a series of large vats simmering in the hot sun. ‘That would be the liquamen — fish sauce made from fermented fish guts. They boil it up everywhere. Or it’s those jars of piss.’ Nearby, an elderly man had pulled his toga aside to urinate in a pot. ‘They sell it to laundries and fullers for dissolving the animal fats and grease in fresh wool.’ Church watched Veitch’s expression grow thoughtful. ‘What’s on your mind?’ Church asked. ‘Thinking of the best place to murder me?’
‘I’m always thinking about that.’ He surveyed the street scene. ‘You used to tell me all that kind of bollocks when we were on the same side.’
‘Learn a lot?’
A pause. ‘Yeah, I did.’
A procession of actors passed by in gaudy costumes and masks. The most striking mask resembled a rising sun with rays spiking out a full foot around the actor’s head. Church knew they were preparing for one of the spectacles that marked the week-long Ludi Apollinares, the celebration of the god Apollo that would take place in a few short weeks, in July. A connection sparked in his mind: did the timing have something to do with the disappearance of Lugh, another sun god?
‘I don’t remember doing the things you claim,’ Church said.