A Place Called Armageddon (36 page)

They were learning to kill men.

The slingshot was the most ancient and the most simple of weapons, Gregoras knew. It needed little fashioning. A piece of rope, a patch of leather, a stone. It did not require the years of crafted strength required to pull back a bowstring. Even a boy with the littlest muscle in his arm and a lot of luck could kill a man with it … at, say, twenty paces. And since the city’s strength was so small, the Council had ordered that boys be armed and practise with this simple weapon. If the Turks ran through the streets, maybe one or two more could be killed.

Gregoras shook his head. Once for the sadness of boys forced to be warriors before their time. And once for their ineptitude. The weapon may have been simple, but there was still a trick to it, and the boys before him had little clue what that was. Turks and sparrows would remain safe from them.

Suddenly most of the boys seemed to agree with him, for all at once five of them ran off. The sixth yelled at them to return. When they did not, the boy stood alone in the middle of the waste ground and lowered his head.

‘Thakos,’ Gregoras called softly.

The head came up. Thakos looked. He had seen his uncle from the moment he arrived to lie in the sun. It had caused a certain amount of whispering, some curious glances. But he had not ventured near. Now, when Gregoras called a second time, he did, stopping at the base of the pillar, gazing unashamedly at the map of scars. ‘Uncle,’ he said.

Gregoras looked down. The boy’s light brown hair, his freckled face, it did not remind him of … either of Thakos’s parents, but of his own mother. The left eye was larger than the right by enough to make it noticeable, both wider now in their study. His mother had possessed a wonderful laugh, rough and coarse, that would echo round their house and of which his father would feign disapproval. He wondered if the boy had inherited that as well. He hadn’t noticed much childish laughter on the streets of a city at war. It was as if the big gun had blasted it away.

He slid down the pillar to stand beside the boy. They had not spoken, since the night they’d first met and Thakos had called him traitor. He would have been told of the change in Gregoras’s status – at least as far as his treason. All knew of the prodigal’s return, the news broadcast widely in the city, a little light in the darkness that had settled after the Turks appeared in the Horn. But he would know nothing more and it was not up to Gregoras to tell him.

They stood staring at each other, Gregoras as uneasy. When had he ever had time for dealings with boys? His own childhood had been dissolved by harsh experience. More, he had no idea how to be a father. Yet an uncle had to have some advantages. ‘May I see it?’ he said, pointing to the slingshot.

‘This?’ Thakos looked down as if surprised at what he held. ‘Of course.’

Gregoras took it, turned it into the light, turned it over and around, grunted. It was the simplest of weapons, but there were still rules to its construction. ‘The rope’s too long for you,’ he said. ‘It should be a little shorter than the length of your arm. It’s why you are having some troubles. And this …’ he pointed to one end of the rope, ‘should have a loop in it.’

‘Really,
kyr
? Why?’ Thakos peered at what Gregoras showed him. ‘Can it be fixed?’

‘Yes, it can. If you will let me?’ At the boy’s nod, he held the rope up to Thakos’s arm, took a measurement, then drew his dagger and cut a length from each end of the rope. He crouched, untwined one end into its four separate strands, twisted them apart two by two, held the tension while he formed a loop the length of three fingers, tied knots below and above it. The other end, he tied off with three tight knots to form one larger. He put his thumb in the leather cup, pulled the ropes together and tight with the other hand. ‘Better,’ he murmured, offering it.

The boy took it. ‘Shall I try it,
kyr
?’ he asked excitedly. He reached into a pouch at his side that clinked.

‘Wait.’ Gregoras rose and moved into the open ground before the tumbled walls. ‘Before we risk our lives with wayward stones, let us see how you use it without them.’

Thakos came forward. Gregoras stood beside him. ‘This loop is for your first two fingers, see? It is like … like the bow on my crossbow. It gives tension to the rope when you grip the other end, its knot so.’ He pulled the knotted end up to press it against the loop. ‘Now, push your thumb into the cup. Feel the pull? That’s what a rock will feel like. Now, keep the tension … and fling it round!’

The boy did … and Gregoras stepped back, too late. Thwack, the rope caught him on his bare back. ‘Ouch,’ he cried.

‘I am sorry, Uncle,’ Thakos said, concern on his face.

‘My fault,’ replied Gregoras, rubbing, adding ruefully as he indicated his scars, ‘You’d have thought I’d have learned to dodge flying rope by now!’

The boy burst out laughing and Gregoras joined him. Then, stepping away to a safe distance, he said, ‘Now try.’

Thakos lifted the slingshot, swung it round. After a few swings the whirr came. ‘Wait!’ Gregoras called and, as the rope dropped, stepped in. ‘Wider here,’ he said, moving Thakos’s legs until they were shoulder-width apart, squaring off his shoulders. ‘He’s your target,’ he said, standing behind him, pointing at a piece of crumbling wall about twenty paces away, the faded shadow of a figure frescoed onto it. ‘Swirl till you hear the hum. Two more, and fling the knot at it.’

‘The knot?’

‘If the loop is the bow, the knot is the trigger – and the sight – of my crossbow.’ He stepped behind Thakos, placed his hands over the boy’s, the slingshot still stretched between them. Moving it slowly around the boy’s head, he continued, ‘When you are sighted, you throw the knot at what you want to hit.’

He stepped swiftly back. The boy swung, flung. The knotted end jerked straight out, then dropped. ‘Good,’ said Gregoras. ‘Now with a stone.’

Excitedly, Thakos dug into his pouch and drew out a jagged lump of masonry. ‘Wait!’ Gregoras commanded again, stepping close. He took the rock, threw it away, began to search the ground. ‘What you throw is near as important as how you throw it … Ah!’ He stooped, picked up a stone, showed it. ‘See. Smooth-sided, close to round, not too large. Like a dove’s egg.’ He tossed it hand to hand. ‘It should fly true.’

‘As true as your arrows?’ Thakos’s eyes were bright. ‘My mother tells me that you are a champion among archers.’

Does she? Gregoras thought, but said, ‘Perhaps.’ He threw the stone over and the boy caught it. ‘Let us see.’

Thakos pressed the stone into the leather cup, held the rope out to full length, swung. Gregoras winced – stones had been known to fly out at strange, wounding angles. But this held, Thakos flung the knot … and the stone hit the wall if not the faded figure upon it.

‘Not bad,’ Gregoras grunted. ‘The Turk would have killed you, though.’

Thakos held the weapon out. ‘Can you do better?’

The challenge was clear in the mismatched eyes. Gregoras smiled. ‘I can try,’ he said, reaching.

He found a stone that would do, fitted it, took his stance, swung, flung …

‘Missed!’ Thakos yelled in delight at the puff of mortar. ‘That Turk would have killed you too, Uncle!’

Gregoras handed the weapon back. ‘Then we had better kill him first. And see who does, eh?’

Thakos bent, scooped, loaded, shot. ‘A hit,’ he cried, delightedly. ‘I win!’

Gregoras snatched back the slingshot. ‘Didn’t I say first to three?’

He smiled, then bent to the ground, seeking. Thakos bent too, a new game started, and both of them swept around trying to find suitable ammunition, bumping into each other, laughing. Through his own laughter he heard the boy’s and thought, he does have my mother’s tone! Then he pounced on a stone, a moment before Thakos, was up, swinging, flinging …

‘A hit! A Turk apiece and the game’s afoot.’

Thakos seized the weapon, didn’t plant himself, missed. Gregoras, steadier, swung and hit. The boy breathed deep, took his time, waited till the air hummed with spinning rope, shot. ‘There,’ he cried, ‘took his nose off …’ He broke off on the realisation of what he’d said, mouth opening wide. ‘I … I am sorry. I …’ He swallowed, staring. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Well …’ Gregoras stepped close, his face a dark cloud. Then, laughing, he tapped the ivory on his face with one hand and grabbed the slingshot with the other. ‘Not as much as the Turk’s is going to – if only I can find the right stone to finish him.’ He pointed near the boy’s feet. ‘There!’

Thakos dived, Gregoras shot a hand down, they both grabbed the smooth rock. It slipped between them. Laughing harder now, they stooped again, Thakos kicking it beyond reach towards what had once been the mansion’s doorway – from which a voice came now. ‘What are you chasing, Taki? Is it a mouse?’

They ceased their chase, looked up. Under the ruined arch stood Sofia, with her daughter held before her.

Boy and man stood slowly. ‘Mama,’ Thakos cried, ‘my uncle has made my slingshot better, see?’ He pointed, and Gregoras held it up. ‘And now I am beating him with it.’

‘Are you?’

Gregoras could see that Sofia’s face was caught between a smile and a frown. ‘Your son has a keen eye for a target,’ he said, reaching out to tug at the boy’s thick hair. Thakos gave a yelp of pain, snatched the slingshot, moved out of range, delighted.

‘Has he?’ Sofia said. ‘Well, he also has a keen eye for his studies. Which he is late for. Again.’

‘I am sorry, Mother, but I …’ Thakos looked up at Gregoras, ‘I am studying fighting.’

‘Yes,’ Sofia replied, ‘and now you are going to study geometry.’ Thakos groaned but took a step towards her. ‘Wait! Show Minerva over your battlefield. I have to talk with your … uncle.’

Was there a slight pause between the last words, or did Gregoras only imagine it? Anyway, he watched as sister ran to chase her brother among the fallen stones. ‘It is true, what I said,’ he murmured, watching them run, ‘he does have an eye for a target.’

‘It is also true that he has a mind for studies. He is already gifted in rhetoric, in Latin …’

‘Like his father, then,’ Gregoras said, in a whisper.

Thakos was loading his slingshot, talking fast to a transfixed Minerva. Then he raised the cup, flung the rope round, shot. Mortar and dried fresco erupted from the figure’s chest. ‘Like both his fathers,’ Sofia said softly. Gregoras turned to look at her as she stepped down beside him, continued, her eyes on her children, ‘You have not visited us.’

‘No.’

‘And yet …’ she gestured to her son, ‘and yet you found him.’

‘It was not hard.’

‘But you have not told him,’ she swallowed, ‘what I told you?’

Gregoras shook his head. ‘He has a father. The only one he’s ever known. And I will not win him that way.’

She glanced at him. ‘Do you mean to win him?’

‘Perhaps. I do not know.’ He stared at her. ‘Perhaps I mean to win back more than him.’

She looked away then, from his hawk gaze, took a step further into the ruin. ‘You have won your name back. I am happy for you. For your family.’

‘And for yourself?’

She turned to him fully then, looked at him properly for the first time. ‘Your name was never in doubt for me.’

It was his turn to be disconcerted by her stare. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, reaching up to the ivory tied upon his face, ‘there are some things I can never get back.’

‘Oh well,’ she said, almost carelessly, ‘would you truly want your nose back?
That
nose?’

‘Why is it,’ he burst out, ‘that everyone keeps slandering the nose I have lost? My old tutor Theodore was doing it only last week. Was it so very unshapely then?’

‘No. It was merely very … huge. Certainly not your best feature.’

‘Oh really?’ He laughed. ‘Then tell me what is?’

Her eyes narrowed, her gaze flitting briefly over his bare chest before returning to meet his. ‘I am a married woman, sir,’ she said, her voice deepening a shade. ‘How could I possibly say?’

She was there, finally there, back in the light in her eye, in the curve of her lips, the Sofia he remembered and hadn’t seen in seven years. Teasing. Provocative. Alluring. Before he could summon words, she spoke again, in the same tone, with the same smile, ‘You know I do not mean …’

‘No. No, of course not.’ Gregoras smiled. ‘A woman who prays as much as you …’

‘The mistake you make, sir, that most men make,’ she said, as softly, ‘is to think that just because a woman seeks the Holy Spirit, she must deny herself the human flesh.’

It was as if he was seeing her again, as she was that day upon the rock, before he went away to war and never returned. ‘Sofia,’ he said, stepping closer.

A shriek turned her away. ‘Mama!’ her daughter cried. ‘Look! Look at me!’

They both looked. Minerva had the slingshot now, was whirling it above her head. Thakos was dodging in fear, but the girl let fly and her stone struck the wall.

‘She’s good,’ Gregoras murmured.

‘Minerva?’ Sofia laughed. ‘If my son is mainly mind, my daughter is all flesh and spirit. At five years old, you could set her down on the streets of a strange city and within the night she would have food, shelter and protection.’ She raised her voice. ‘Come, children. We must leave.’ She turned back to him. Their previous conversation was only in the colour on her cheeks, not in her words. ‘Do you go to fight the walls?’

‘Not tonight. Tonight they have me in mind for something else.’

‘Something more dangerous?’

Gregoras shrugged. Too many people knew of the midnight mission, and Sofia had enough cares already.

She stared at him. ‘Be careful then. And visit us when you are done. Thakos would like it.’

The children were getting close. ‘And you? Would you like it?’

The heat came to her cheeks again. ‘I would,’ she replied, then reached out and touched his arm. ‘Walk with God,’ she said, turning, moving through the doorway.

Thakos waved the slingshot as he went, and Gregoras lifted a hand. When they disappeared round a corner, and she had not looked back, he went and fetched his shirt, pulled it on, strapped on his falchion. ‘Walk with God,’ he murmured in echo of her, as he ducked beneath the ruined arch, ‘but dance with the devil.’