Jack of Ravens (23 page)

The scale of the newly built complex took Church’s breath away; it covered thirty-two acres and could accommodate up to 3,000 bathers. They passed the crowds swarming at the entrance and went through an open-roofed lounge where men and women sunbathed or took part in traditional Roman pastimes: gossiping, playing board games, wrestling naked, their skin oiled and glistening, or playing the catch game trigon with sand-filled balls.

Several long corridors eventually led them to a private changing room where a man was undressing with the help of two slaves. He had curly black hair, a beard and moustache and skin darker than the average Roman’s. There was a subtle air of desperation about him.

He remained aloof, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of fear when he saw Veitch. ‘Is this the one?’

‘Jack Churchill, Brother of Dragons. The first and last.’

The man nodded thoughtfully as the slaves removed his toga. A black metallic spider gleamed on his left breast.

‘My name is Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maxentius,’ he said to Church without looking at him. ‘This city is mine. Soon this Empire will be mine. And you are mine now, as all things shall fall to me.’

‘Don’t bother talking down to him,’ Veitch said dispassionately. ‘He’s a smartarse. He probably knows more about you than you know about yourself.’

Church did know Maxentius. Despite the bravado the Roman exhibited,
he was a man defined by failure. He was the son of the emperor Maximian, but had suffered the indignity of being passed over for high office when both Maximian and Diocletian had resigned the previous year.

His future held even worse. In a few weeks, after the death of Constantius in Eboracum, his son Constantine would gain the rank of Caesar, leaving Maxentius out in the cold once again. It would drive Maxentius to months of political intrigue to gain the title of Augustus he so desperately wanted, only to lose it, and his life, in a war with Constantine six years hence.

Church recalled all the textbooks he had read about that turning point in world history. When Constantine’s army met Maxentius’s forces on the Plain of Mihian outside the gates of Rome, Constantine was said to have sought the aid of the gods and was rewarded by the appearance of a flaming cross in the sky.

The next day, Constantine’s men bore crosses on their shields and carried a Christian standard. Maxentius and his men were driven back to a pontoon bridge over the Tiber, which collapsed under their weight. Thousands were drowned, including Maxentius. Constantine went on to become Rome’s first Christian emperor and his support led to Christianity becoming the dominant religion of Western Europe. Was this crucial moment in history the reason behind the Army of the Ten Billion Spider’s interest?

Maxentius snorted, but Church could see that Veitch’s comment troubled him. The Roman walked into the
tepidarium
, beckoning for Veitch to follow.

‘The spider is controlling him,’ Church said, ‘but he’s got more free will than the others I’ve seen under their influence.’

‘That’s how they need him. Now get your arse in there.’ Veitch shoved Church roughly.

In the cool air of the large vaulted hall, Maxentius flexed his muscles to acclimatise himself. He gave Church a cursory glance. ‘He does not look like a fearsome enemy.’

‘He’s the one. Now, you better keep close tabs on him because he’s a tricky bastard and if he gets to his sword your guts will be experiencing life on the outside.’

‘It is one of the three great swords?’ Maxentius said hungrily.

‘One of them, but not the greatest. Not Caledfwlch. This stupid bastard has hidden that one so he can find it again in the future to defend the land. Before he even knows what it is.’

‘But it has the power?’ Maxentius urged.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll wring it out like a sponge. You’ll get everything you want. Things are going to turn out in a whole new way.’

There it was: the confirmation Church needed.

‘I’ve had the sword sent to the temple,’ Veitch continued. ‘I’ve got other
business here. Can I count on you to get him to the temple without any screw-ups?’

‘Of course.’ Maxentius clapped his hands and several guards emerged from an annexe.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Veitch said to Church superciliously, ‘but as my old nan used to say, your goose is cooked.’

16

The guards propelled Church to the Forum Romanum, which swarmed with life, though only a few paid any attention to his passing. Church bided his time in the hope that an opportunity for escape would present itself.

After a few minutes he was herded down the Argileto, the ancient road between the Basilica Aemilla and the Curia Julia where the senate had met for more than 250 years. There, in a walled compound, stood a temple built of wood, which signified its great age even in a city as ancient as Rome. Two gates at the entrance to the compound stood open, and between them was a bust with four heads.

‘Kneel before the god of gods!’ One of the guards roughly shoved Church to his knees before the bust.

‘The gates are open,’ another said in a tone reminiscent of a ritualistic chant. ‘War has been loosed across the land.’

Church was hauled to his feet and thrust through one of the gates. The guards waited uneasily at the threshold. ‘Into the temple!’ one of them barked.

Church surveyed the small wooden building. It was almost insignificant against the grander stone constructions all around. Church hesitated, but he had no other place to go. The cracked, age-old door swung open with a juddering creak and Church stepped inside.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He was in a chamber with a floor of beaten clay, large and airy with several doors on each wall. A spot in the centre of the floor was illuminated by a thin beam of light from a small window in the roof. It was only then that Church realised that the inner dimensions of the room did not fit the building outside which he had stood. The chamber was much larger than it should have been and the doors suggested a complex that would have dwarfed the tiny wooden temple. Behind him, the entrance door was now shut, though he had not heard it close.

An oppressive atmosphere filled the gloomy space. Church sensed some sort of presence close at hand yet always out of view. The tension mounted as though a generator was being cranked, filling the chamber with a sense of impending arrival. A distant scratching rose up behind one of the doors,
drawing closer, and behind another, and another, until it sounded as if a multitude was approaching every door.

Doors
. Church recalled what the guard had said about kneeling before the
god’s god
and he knew where he was: in the Temple of Janus, the dual-faced god of doors and new beginnings. The cult of Janus pre-dated all others in Rome, and in the Empire’s list of gods he always came first and carried the surname
Divom Deus
, the god’s god. Church had always found it strange that Janus was unique: no god like him appeared in any other mythology.

The scratching had become the pounding of tiny feet rushing towards the doors. Church’s breath caught in his throat. One other thought came to him: Janus was also the god of departures, and all that entailed.

One by one the doors began to open. Church fumbled for a handle on the door behind him, but there was none.

The doors swung open with a single, echoing crash. From every opening flooded tiny creatures the size and shape of monkeys but with shiny skin as black as oil and eyes that glowed with a fierce green light. Tumbling and leaping, they swarmed around Church, tearing at his clothes and skin. The sheer weight of their numbers pulled him from his feet and carried him through one of the doors into an even larger hall made of stone.

Tossed and turned on tiny hands, Church occasionally caught sight of a sapphire light and realised it was his sword, hanging in the air, blade down, with no visible means of support. The monkey-creatures dragged him before it and held him tight.

There was movement in the gloom at the back of the chamber, which appeared to stretch on for ever. The apprehension that had been building since he entered the chamber now felt like a rock on his chest.

He’s coming
, he thought.

Clouds appeared in the air, folding in on themselves before billowing out as though they were being pumped by an invisible machine. They were backlit by an emerald glow, and as they rushed towards him, Church made out a figure in their midst, either taking shape or moving through them.

The turbulent clouds came to a halt nine feet from Church. The emerging figure was dressed in long, flowing robes of what appeared to be black satin, shimmering as if a thousand stars were sewn into the fabric. One thin, long-fingered hand clutched an oversized gold key with a large loop for a handle, and in the other hand was an ironwood stick: one to open the doors and the other to drive away those who had no right to cross the threshold.

At first Church couldn’t make out the god’s features – they swam like oil and water as his brain sought to perceive something that was beyond perception. His grasping mind superimposed several images: a politician whose name he couldn’t recall; someone who resembled Aleister Crowley; Alexander the Great. Finally one set of features coalesced into relief: bone-white skin framed by lank, black hair, gaunt cheeks with an aquiline nose,
slanted piercing eyes. The face remained that way for a moment before shifting to a negative image – sable skin, white hair – and then back again. It continued to shift disconcertingly.

‘I am the opener and closer of ways,’ he said in a voice like a knife on glass. ‘I oversee all beginnings. I am the daybreak and the twilight. I am the chaos that was prevalent when you all began, and the chaos when it all falls to nothing.’

Church felt sickened by the waves of power coming off the figure. It was not like the faint electricity he felt near Niamh, but something altogether darker and more terrible.

Janus fixed his dual gaze on Church, who felt it pass through his skull and into his brain. ‘You are the Brother of Dragons, the first and the last. The Daughters of the Night told me of your existence. Once I had chosen the path upon which I now walk, it was inevitable that you would arrive at my temple.’ He gave a satisfied smile. ‘So powerful for a Fragile Creature, yet here, in my temple. If proof were needed that the path of Existence is wrong, it is here.’

Church read the meaning in Janus’s words. ‘You’re on the spiders’ side.’

‘And here you are, caught in the web.’

17

Church felt the pain that swathed him as much on a spiritual and psychological level as he did the wracking agony that filled his limbs. He hung in the air in a dark chamber identical to a hundred other dark chambers through which he had been brought. The walls and ceilings were lost to the gloom; all sense of time had disappeared along with his sense of space.

He recalled Janus dragging those long, thin fingers across his forehead, and then a period of fragmentary unconsciousness when he had been carried by the monkey-creatures to wherever he was now suspended by invisible strings. The sword hung nearby, its faint blue light a comfort. But that light was fading, like Church’s own light.

Black bands like the strands of a giant web crisscrossed the chamber. They wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and they were attached to Church’s fingers and arms, feet, groin, torso and head, where it felt as if they passed through his skin and bone and into the very depths of his consciousness.

The strands were linked to what looked like a hunk of black meat, sweaty and glistening, high above his head. Every now and then it pulsed, and he felt a corresponding pain deep within him, as though his insides were being sucked out through the strands. He knew what it meant: the Pendragon
Spirit was being leached out of him, and from Llyrwyn. Soon he would be a Fragile Creature in every sense, and then the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders could do whatever it wanted to him.

If he strained his head back he could see one strand, thicker than the others, running from the black meat to something that had at first made his head swim in the same way that Janus’s features had. Eventually it had come to resemble an Arabian lamp. The genie was being put back in the bottle.

Though he was weakening by the hour, Church still strained to break free, but every time he moved a coil of the black meat cinched a notch tighter around his neck. If he put enough pressure on one of the meaty strands, he hoped he would be able to break it; and if one went, then the others would follow. Gritting his teeth, he tried again. The strand around his throat jerked tighter. His vision swam and he could barely get any air into his lungs.

Rationally, he knew it was hopeless, but he was determined not to give in; too much was relying on him. Making his neck muscles rigid to hold off the ligature, he tried again. The strand stretched but did not break and agony flooded his system. He tried one more time and his air supply was cut off completely. He thrashed impotently for a moment as he choked dryly, and then he blacked out again.

When he came round the ligature had loosened a little.

‘I know what you’re thinking, mate.’

Church jumped at Veitch’s voice, coming from somewhere in the shadows.

‘ “Boohoo, why is this happening to me? All I wanted to do was help people.”
It’s a bastard, isn’t it? No good deed shall go unpunished.’