Blood Fever Page 18

  What on earth was he doing here? He looked completely out of place.

  ‘Ita oli de mei?’ Mauro called out. What do you want?

  The rider said nothing. The mask showed nothing. It just watched him with its steady, unfeeling gaze.

  The rider now drew a sword and pointed it briefly skyward before levelling it at Mauro.

  Surely he was not going to charge him as if he were a silver star.

  It was unreal. This carnival figure here, in the woods, in the middle of nowhere.

  The rider spurred the horse and it jumped forward, galloping down the track towards Mauro, the thin blade of the sword unwavering.

  He was going to charge him.

  Mauro shouted, then turned and fled into the trees.

  But the rider had picked his spot well. There was space between the trees here for a horse to pass with ease and the ground was level and firm.

  Mauro dashed between the oaks, zigzagging wildly, but the horse was too fast for him. He could hear its hoof beats growing louder behind him.

  He cursed.

  This was crazy.

  He looked back briefly and saw that the rider was almost upon him. He threw himself to the ground and the blade scraped across his shoulder, tearing his shirt.

  He scrambled to his feet and bolted back the way he had come. He had to try and head towards the village. His only hope was that somebody nearby could help him.

  He called out for help. ‘Agiudai! Agiudaimi po presceri!’ but his voice was swallowed up by the trees.

  The rider had turned his horse and was now fast approaching again, the mask still showing the same placid expression.

  The path widened into a clearing and as Mauro emerged into the dazzling sunlight he disturbed a swarm of scarlet butterflies that flew up around him in a swirling mass.

  He swore. It was too open here. The horse would be able to gallop unimpeded. He looked quickly around: there was thick vegetation on one side, dense brambles laden with blackberries and a low holly tree. That would stop the horse.

  But could he get there before the horse?

  He had to try. He had no choice.

  He sped up, sprinting faster than he ever thought possible, the stony ground a blur beneath his feet.

  The brambles were getting nearer, nearer; he could see the blackberries glistening. He was going to make it, yes, just a few metres more…

  Anyone watching from the village would have seen a cloud of red butterflies spiralling upwards into the sky, and if they had been listening they might just have heard a faint cry.

  ‘Mamai –’

  It was eight o’clock at night and the festivities in Sant’ Ugo were still in full swing. James and Perry had become separated from the other boys and were watching a group of men who were singing on a small stage beneath the walls of the stadium.

  The afternoon had been crazy. There were fireworks in the streets. Music and noise everywhere. Some local men had even organized a horse race in the main square.

  Things had quietened down now and James was enjoying the lulling sound of the singers. He drifted in and out of sleep while the unaccompanied voices of the men haunted his dreams. There were four singers, all wearing the local black and white costume with stocking caps, and the music was unlike anything he had ever heard before. The sound was inhuman, like the drones of bagpipes. There was something ancient and primitive about it and James kept imagining that he was back in the tower at Sant’ Antine.

  England and its grey skies seemed a million miles away.

  The two boys were sitting at a table with a group of drunken shepherds, James slumped forward, his head resting on his forearms. The shepherds were passing a bottle of wine around, drinking straight from the neck and not bothering with glasses.

  As one of them plonked the bottle on to the table James woke and glanced at it. The wine was called Mithras and the label had a picture of the god killing the bull. He was just about to pick it up and have a closer look when somebody grabbed it.

  James sucked in his breath.

  The hand holding the bottle had a tattoo on the back of it.

  A tattoo of the letter M.

  He looked up.

  Standing by the table, draining the bottle, was the man with the scarred cheeks who James had seen talking to Cooper-ffrench in Eton.

  And those eyes.

  Were they the same eyes he had seen above the black mask in Victor’s kitchen last night?

  James turned away quickly, hoping that the man hadn’t seen him, and kept his face down.

  The man tossed the empty bottle to one side and it smashed against a wall. The shepherds cheered. The man laughed and walked on.

  ‘Wait here,’ said James, getting up from the table.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Perry.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ said James.

  Before Perry could ask any more questions, James hurried off after the rapidly disappearing figure of the scarred man. The presence of the crowds made it easier for James to follow him. If it had been just the two of them, alone on the night streets, the man would have instantly known that there was someone on his tail. As it was he had no idea. James kept back far enough so that if the man turned round unexpectedly he wouldn’t notice him.

  He felt groggy and worn out. It was an effort just to put one foot in front of the other. He was aware of every cut on his bruised and battered body, but the thrill of the chase was on him and he was rapidly coming alive.

  The man walked through the town until he arrived at the funicular railway. The bored and sleepy guard from the morning had been replaced by a group of distinctly more serious-looking men, who made it very clear that nobody was going up to the palazzo without their say-so.

  James hung back in a doorway and watched as the scarred man stopped to talk to the guards, who evidently knew him. One of them gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. As they were talking, two more men approached. They looked like they must be some of Ugo’s special guests from the stadium, wearing dark suits and acting tough. They showed invitations to the guards and wandered over towards the railway car.

  James had to find out who the scarred man was and what he was up to. He made a snap decision. Somehow he was going to follow him up to the palazzo.

  The car was stopped inside a wooden shed, which was partially open along one side to let the passengers on and off. If he could get inside the shed he might be able to get on to the roof of the car without being seen.

  He spotted a concrete gulley coming out through an opening in the end of the shed and running off down a slope into a drain. He remembered from before how a water tank beneath the car was emptied when it stopped. The drain was only protected by a wire fence. It might be a way in.

  Moving in a low crouch, and keeping the shed between himself and the guards, James approached the fence. As soon as he was there, he dropped to the ground and was just thin enough to squeeze under it on his belly, then he crawled quickly along the ground and rolled into the gulley.

  He waited a moment to find out if he had been seen.

  Nothing.

  He wormed his way along the gulley towards the shed. In a moment he was through the opening in the bottom of the shed and inside.

  There was the railway car, with water dripping from underneath it. He wriggled forward a few more feet.

  Suddenly, he heard a metallic thunk and a rushing sound.

  The tank was being emptied.

  As a wall of water hit him and washed him back down the gulley he spotted an iron bar above his head and managed to grab on to it. He hung on for dear life as the swirling deluge of water buffeted him and pulled at him, trying to tear him loose.

  The water had woken him up, but he had to summon every reserve of strength and determination not to let go.

  As fast as it had come, the torrent stopped and he hauled himself out on to the floor of the shed, soaked and half-drowned.

  But he couldn’t rest.

  If the tank
had been emptied it meant that the car would soon be moving off.

  He stood up. All his pain forgotten. He could see the men in the car, chatting and smoking, but it was too dark for them to see him. Moving fast he climbed a pile of packing crates in the corner and managed to reach up to one of the cross beams that supported the roof. He pulled himself up and, using a second beam as a walkway, he scurried along it until he was directly over the car.

  There were shouts from below.

  ‘Come on, Smiler, hurry up.’

  ‘We’re leaving. Get on board!’

  James saw the scarred man approach the car and toss his cigarette to one side before getting on.

  Smiler. So that was his name. Well, it made sense.

  The car jolted forward and, as quickly and as delicately as possible, James dropped down on to its roof. He got on to his hands and knees, then lay flat, moments before the car cleared the low archway at the front of the shed.

  James held his breath. Praying that he would not be visible to the guards.

  Slowly, agonisingly slowly, they crept forward.

  There was no shout. No warning shot. No sudden braking.

  At last they began to pick up speed and were soon trundling briskly up the mountain through the darkness.

  James stayed where he was, dripping on to the painted wood of the carriage. Slowly he let his breath out.

  What the hell was he doing?

  He had a reckless side to his nature and one day it was going to get him into big trouble.

  After a while they passed the second car coming down, and then crossed the bridge into the tunnel. It was pitch dark in here and James was worried that a low outcrop of rock would smash into him. Thankfully he emerged from the tunnel unscathed and heard distant voices, the clink of glasses, music and laughter. He looked up. The white walls of the palazzo were glowing in the moonlight and here and there a light showed in one of the lower windows.

  They were nearing their destination.

  He’d got this far. Would his luck hold out any longer?

  He pressed himself as flat as he could as they slowed down and came to a halt at the brightly lit piazza. He waited for the passengers to get off and watched Smiler make his way across the square to an archway on one side. When James was sure it was safe, he slid down the outside of the car on to the tracks. He rubbed his hair with his fingers, drying it as best he could, and wrung out the front of his sodden shirt.

  There were two guards on duty, but, having checked the credentials of the men arriving on the railway, they had returned to their card game inside their sentry post.

  As soon as he dared, James darted out from behind the car and into the deserted piazza. He ran along the side, keeping close to the buildings, heading towards the archway.

  There was a short alleyway on the other side and some winding steps leading down to a lower level.

  The steps came out into a courtyard. It was lit by candles and blazing torches and there was an ornamental pond in the middle of it. There were tables set out with drinks and food and small groups of men in suits were drinking and chatting.

  There were two or three local girls with them, looking self-conscious in expensive dresses and wearing too much make-up. They were laughing too loudly and had a slightly nervous air about them.

  James spotted Smiler. He had stopped to talk to someone, but he was soon on the move again. The men finished their drinks and began following him in ones and twos. James realised that if he was going to keep up with Smiler he would have to show himself.

  He picked up a tray of empty glasses from one of the tables and walked briskly across the courtyard, hoping that if anyone spotted him they would mistake him for one of Ugo’s servants.

  He was just congratulating himself for getting away with it when a bull-necked man with a broken nose stopped him.

  ‘Je te connais,’ he said, and James shook his head.

  ‘Oui. Je te connais,’ the man repeated and he grabbed James by the shoulders and peered at him, breathing alcohol fumes into his face. Then he laughed. ‘Tu es le garçon du stade,’ he said and threw a mock punch at James. ‘Beau combat. Tu l’as massacré!’

  He laughed again and shook James’s hand.

  James mumbled something and shuffled off in the direction Smiler had taken.

  He thought he’d lost him, but down another alleyway and more steps and there he was, striding across a terrace towards what looked like a semicircular temple half-carved out of the rock.

  Ugo’s guests seemed to be congregating here. They were coming from all directions.

  James watched as a group of men went up the steps in front of the temple, between the pillars and into the brightly lit interior.

  His mind was alive with questions.

  What was Smiler doing here in Ugo’s palazzo? Was he the man in the mask who had led the attack on Victor’s house? And what was his connection to Cooper-ffrench? Then there was the painting of Saint Boniface. Had it really been stolen from Perry’s family? And the painting of Ugo, in the cellar at Eton. Why had it been there?

  There were too many coincidences for them to be just coincidences. There was a common thread in all this, something to tie it all together, but James couldn’t grasp it. It was too thin and wispy.

  There was only one way to find out.

  He had to see what was going on inside the temple.

  James studied the building. The walls were blank and windowless, but it had a domed roof supported by statues standing on a ledge. Light spilt out from behind the statues. Maybe there were windows there.

  The last of the stragglers had gone inside and there was nobody around.

  James crossed the terrace towards the temple.

  There was a big equestrian statue of Count Ugo standing in the corner and he used it like a ladder, quickly scaling the horse and rider. Finally, by standing on Ugo’s head he was just high enough to be able to jump across to the ledge.

  He landed well, startling some doves that flew off with a noisy clatter. He crept along the ledge until he found a gap where he could squeeze through between two statues of semi-naked women. There was a narrow space behind here, thick with birdlime and stinking of ammonia.

  He shuffled forward in a squatting position until he came to a small square opening covered by a metal grille that looked down on the interior of the temple.

  He could see a mosaic floor, covered in signs of the zodiac and a large circular marble table.

  About thirty men were sat round the table. James recognised the bull-necked Frenchman who had accosted him, the two men from the railway, and there was Zoltan, looking yellow and feverish, his tunic spotted with blood from his shoulder.

  Standing apart from them was Smiler. From a distance his scar looked even more like a painted-on smile, so that, with his red hair and pale skin, he looked like some horrible clown.

  Ugo was standing next to him, a goblet raised in his hand.

  ‘Salve, amice,’ he said solemnly. ‘Iterum tibi occurrere mihi placet.’

  ‘Spare us,’ said Zoltan. ‘You sound ridiculous, Ugo. You can play the Roman emperor all you like, but you cannot expect us to join in.’

  ‘I forgot,’ said Ugo patronisingly. ‘You cannot speak Latin. You always were the more stupid one, Zoltan.’

  ‘I can speak several languages, Ugo,’ said Zoltan. ‘Useful ones. Latin is a dead language for dead people. Your secret cult, your speaking in tongues, it is not serious. If you wish to have real power you must learn that it is about more than dressing some peasants in fancy uniforms and speaking Latin and pretending to be Julius Caesar.’

  ‘Real power, Zoltan?’ said Ugo. ‘What do you know of real power?’

  He went to a guard and took a gun from him. James recognised it. It was a Thompson sub-machine gun.

  ‘This is real power,’ said Ugo, fondling the weapon.

  ‘And you would not have it without me,’ said Zoltan. ‘Don’t forget that. You would have nothing without me.’


  ‘I will admit,’ said Ugo, returning the gun to his guard, ‘that you have been helpful to me over the years, Zoltan. But you are not the only one. All these men have been helpful to me. The Pasulo brothers from Sicily, Armando Lippe from Lisbon, Herr Gröman and Doctor Morell from Germany, Henri Boucher from France . . . I look around the table here and I see familiar faces from Spain, from Turkey, from Armenia, from Greece. What language should I speak, Zoltan?’

  ‘I know your dream,’ said Zoltan. ‘To have an international language of crime. But we do not understand Latin and we do not care to learn. What is wrong with English?’

  There was mumbled agreement from around the table.

  ‘Very well,’ said Ugo, though he didn’t sound too happy about it. ‘Now, before we start, we must a drink a toast.’

  Smiler went round the table filling up goblets with a thick red liquid. The men peered at it and sniffed suspiciously.

  Ugo raised his drink.

  ‘It is the blood of a bull,’ he said, and there were a few sounds of disgust from the men. ‘We will drink it and it will unite us, under the protection of Mithras. We will become a brotherhood so powerful that nobody will be able to stand against us.’

  ‘Is this black magic really necessary?’ said someone.

  ‘It shows that we are not ordinary men,’ said Ugo. ‘This blood represents the blood of the ordinary people. The people of Europe. We will grow strong on their blood. Now, show me that you are men and drink… to the Millenaria!’

  Ugo gulped down the contents of his goblet and then turned it upside down to show that it was empty. Reluctantly the other men copied him. There were groans, and one or two of them choked and spluttered.

  ‘The trick is to drink it quickly,’ lisped Ugo, with a wet smile. ‘Otherwise it congeals in your throat…’

  18

  A Face at the Window

  UCMM. The letters painted on the frame of the portrait of Ugo in Eton.

  Ugo Carnifex and the symbol for the Millenaria.

  It had been so obvious. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

  But what did it mean?

  What was Ugo up to?

  The men round the table put down their goblets and there was a low murmur of conversation. Ugo had to raise his voice to be heard above them.