Terror of Constantinople by Richard Blake Page A

head the whole of the Creed, first in Latin then in Greek. Yes, it may be a mass of words made up to torment the devout. But it can also at times have a certain anaesthetic value.
        So, for what seemed an age, I sat huddled on the floor, every so often muttering like some novice monk, and willing my teeth not to chatter with fear and the sudden cold of that place.
        Then, at last, with a jingling of keys and the creak of unoiled hinges, the door swung open, and I saw Theophanes standing in a pool of light.
     
    ‘My dear young fellow, you cannot imagine how embarrassing this is to all of us.’ Speaking in Latin, Theophanes sat behind the desk of his office in the Ministry. He still wore his bedgown under his cloak. The single lamp his assistant had lit for us showed the lines on his unpainted face.
        ‘I came as soon as Alypius could inform me of the situation.’ He waved with a feeble effort of cheerfulness at his assistant. ‘Alypius’, I thought. I filed the name carefully into my memory.
        I took another mouthful of the wine Alypius had poured for me. I tried to think of something ornately suitable for the occasion, but I gave up on the effort, instead asking: ‘Where is Martin?’
        ‘I took the liberty’, Theophanes said, now in a more businesslike tone, ‘of having your secretary sent back directly to the Legation. Being a person of only middling status, he was given a roughness of treatment on his arrival that might not have been yours until morning.’
        He raised his arm to silence me, continuing rapidly: ‘Please be assured, he came to no harm. I was able to prevent that. But I found him somewhat overcome. I thought it best to have a sedative administered and to send him straight off to the Legation.
        ‘Now, Aelric,’ he continued – he used my proper name. Was it a slip? Was it an intended slip? In any case, how could he have known it? I wanted to break in and ask, but didn’t dare – ‘Now, Aelric, it would not be an act of friendship or convenient to any of us if I were compelled to vary the terms of your residency permit. But I must urge you never again to interfere in the work of the Black Agents. It is of the highest importance to the Empire, and they do not report to me. Do I have your assurance?’ he asked. ‘Next time, I may not be so easily found to help you.’
        For the first time since we’d met, he spoke naturally, a look of tired strain on his face. His lank, undressed hair fell around his eyes.
        ‘Have I your assurance?’
        ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Theophanes,’ I repeated, avoiding all the usual circumlocutory courtesy.
        He nodded.
     
    Back in the Legation, I went straight to Martin’s room. He was sleeping heavily. He looked unhurt. I asked to be called as soon as he woke. In the meantime, I fell into bed for some sleep of my own. I can’t say it contributed to settling my nerves.
        I dreamed of empty shops under empty colonnades and empty streets in the sunlight, and of a shadowy creature that flitted about me forever only in the corner of my eyes. Dressed in black, it smelt of death.
        My first sight on drifting back into wakefulness was of the wine cup placed on my bedside table. I drained it with a single gulp, and called loudly to Authari to bring me more as I reached for my clothes.
        Martin hadn’t been tortured, he told me from his bed. He’d been tied to the rack, but Theophanes had appeared before any of the gears could be set in motion. Of course, he’d gone hysterical. Sedation was probably the only answer.
        Now he was calm enough. The sun streamed into the room. Birds twittered on the balcony outside his room. Below in the courtyard garden, one of my slaves sang quietly to himself. This wasn’t Rome, but it was pretty close to safe normality.
        Once I’d sent the slave out of the room, Martin sat up in bed and clutched at my arm.
        ‘Aelric,’ he said firmly