Sanctus. Simon Toyne
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17
The Abbot stood in the centre of the Capelli Deus Specialis – the Chapel of God’s Holy Secret – high in the mountain. It was a small, low-ceilinged space, like a crypt, though it was so dark it was hard to make out how big it was. It had been cut by hand out of solid rock by the founders of the Citadel and remained unchanged ever since, the walls still bearing the crude marks of their primitive tools. The Abbot could smell the metallic tang of blood hanging in the air from the previous night’s ceremony, rising from grooves cut in the floor that shone wetly in the weak candlelight. He traced the channels towards the altar where the outline of the Sacrament could just be seen rising out of the darkness.
At the foot of the altar he noticed a twist of new growth curling from the rock floor, the thin tendril of a blood vine, the strange red plant that grew around the Sacrament, springing up faster than it could be rooted out. There was something about the sheer fecundity of the plant that disgusted him. He was about to move towards it when he heard the deep rumble of the huge stone door rolling open behind him. The thick air inside the chapel stirred as two people entered. The candles shuddered in their molten pools of tallow and light danced across the sharp instruments that lined the walls. The door rumbled back into place and the candle flames settled, hissing softly as tallow bubbled against hot wicks.
Both men wore the long beards and green cassocks of the Sacramental order, but there was a subtle difference in their bearing. The shorter of the two stood slightly back, his eyes fixed on the other, his hand resting on the T-shaped Crux tucked into his rope belt; the second stood with his head slightly down, eyes lowered, shoulders stooping as if the weight of the cassock itself was still too much to bear.
‘Well, Brothers?’
‘The body landed beyond the boundaries of our jurisdiction,’ the shorter monk said. ‘There was no way we could secure it.’
The Abbot closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. He had hoped the news would lift his mood, not worsen it. He opened his eyes again and regarded the Sanctus who had not yet spoken. ‘So,’ he said, in a voice that was soft yet full of threat, ‘where is he now?’
‘The city morgue.’ The monk’s eyes did not rise above the Abbot’s chest. ‘We think they are performing a post-mortem.’
‘You think they are performing a post-mortem,’ the Abbot spat. ‘Don’t think they are doing anything; know it, or say nothing. Do not come into this room and bring me your thoughts. When you come in here, you bring only the truth.’
The monk fell to his knees.
‘Forgive me, Father Abbot,’ he pleaded. ‘I have failed you.’
The Abbot looked down at him in disgust. Brother Gruber was the man who had thrown Brother Samuel into the cell from which he had subsequently escaped. It was Gruber’s fault the Sacrament had been compromised.
‘You have failed us all,’ the Abbot said.
He turned and gazed once more upon the secret of their order. He could almost feel the eyes of the world turning towards the Citadel, burning through the rock like X-rays in an unquenchable search for what lay within. He was tired from the long night’s wait, and irritable with it, and the cuts ached beneath his cassock. He’d begun to notice that, even though his ceremonial wounds healed as quickly as they always had, they pained him for longer and longer each time. Age was creeping up on him – slowly maybe, but gaining ground.
He didn’t want to be angry with the cowering monk. He just wanted this situation to pass and the fickle gaze of the world to move on to something else. The Citadel had to weather the siege, as it always had.
‘Stand up,’ he said gently.
Gruber obeyed, his eyes still lowered so he didn’t see the Abbot nod to the monk standing behind him, or the man remove his Crux and pull the top away to reveal the bright blade of the ceremonial dagger sheathed within.
‘Look at me,’ the Abbot said.
As Gruber raised his head to meet the Abbot’s gaze the monk slashed quickly across his exposed neck.
‘Knowledge is everything,’ the Abbot said, stepping back to avoid the fountain of arterial blood pumping from Gruber’s neck.
He watched the look of surprise on Gruber’s face turn to confusion as his hand fluttered up to the neat line across his throat. Saw him sink back to his knees as the life flooded out of him and into the channels in the floor.
‘Find out exactly what has happened to the body,’ the Abbot said. ‘Contact someone in the city council, or the police division, someone who has access to the information we require and is prepared to share it with us. We need to know what conclusions are being drawn about Brother Samuel’s death. We need to know where the events of this morning may be leading. And above all we need to get Brother Samuel’s body back.’
The monk stared down at Gruber, twitching feebly on the floor of the chapel, the rhythmic spurts from his neck weakening with every beat of his dying heart.
‘Of course, Brother Abbot,’ the short monk said. ‘Athanasius has already begun to deal with press enquiries through his outside intermediary. And I believe – I mean, I know there has been some contact from the police.’
The Abbot felt the muscles tighten in his jaw as he sensed the eyes of the world upon him once again.
‘Keep me informed,’ he said. ‘And send Athanasius to me.’
The monk nodded. ‘Of course, Brother Abbot,’ he said. ‘I will pass word that you wish to see him in your chambers.’
‘No.’ The Abbot stepped over to the altar and wrenched the blood vine out at the root. ‘Not there.’
He glanced up at the Sacrament. His chamberlain was not a Sanctus so did not know its identity, but if he was going to be effective in containing the current situation he needed to be more aware of what they were dealing with.
‘Get him to meet me in the great library.’ He moved towards the exit, dropping the vine on Brother Gruber’s corpse as he stepped over it. ‘He will find me in the forbidden vault.’
He grabbed a wooden stake set into the door and heaved against it. The rumble of stone over stone echoed through the chapel as the cool sweet air of the antechamber spilled through the opening. The Abbot looked back to where Gruber lay, his face pallid against a pool of blood in which the reflected candles danced.
‘And get rid of that,’ he said.
Then he turned and walked away.
18
The city coroner’s office was housed in the cellars of a stone building which had, at various periods in its history, been a gunpowder store, an ice house, a fish locker, a meat store and briefly, for a short time in the sixteenth century, a prison. Its robust security and subterranean coolness were perfect for the new department of pathology the city council decided to create at the tail end of the 1950s. Here in these retro-fitted, vaulted cellars, on the middle of three old-style ceramic post-mortem tables, the broken body of Brother Samuel now lay, starkly illuminated and under the scrutiny of two men.
The first was Dr Bartholomew Reis, the attendant pathologist, the white lab coat of his profession worn loose over the black clothes of his social tribe. He had arrived from England four years previously on an international police exchange programme, his Turkish father and dual nationality easing the paperwork. He was supposed to stay for six months, but had never quite managed to leave. His long hair was also black, thanks more to chemistry than nature, and hung on either side of his thin, pale face like a pair of partly opened curtains. Despite his sombre appearance, however, Reis was renowned throughout every division of the Ruin police force as being the most cheerful pathologist anyone had ever met. As he often said, he was thirty-two, earning good money, and while most Goths only dreamed of making