‘A fitting end for the bastard,’ observed Bourdon. ‘Let’s drink to the eternal damnation of all rowing masters. When they arrive in Hell, may they be chained to red-hot oar handles, lashed with whips made from bulls’ pizzles pickled in brine, and suffer from swollen piles whenever they fall back on the rowing bench.’
Hector noticed that Karp had been listening, his eyes flicking from one speaker to the next. With Piecourt and the rowing master both dead, the Chevalier seemed to have got off lightly, and Hector recalled the Chabrillan’s sour remark that hanging would have been too gentle a death for the Bulgar. ‘Karp, there are some questions I have to ask the Chevalier,’ he said. ‘I’m going to try to get permission to visit him in his cell. Do you want to come along?’
Karp gave a gagging sound and shook his head vehemently. Hector thought it strange that he looked not angry, but ashamed.
CHEVALIER ADRIEN CHABRILLAN’S prison was close to the imperial menagerie. Hector could hear the coughing roars of the lions and a strange high-pitched whooping which he took to be the call of some exotic bird as he approached. The low featureless building looked from the outside like a servants’ dormitory, and the sprawling imperial compound was such a maze of pavilions, mosques, guardhouses, stores, walkways and courtyards that, without the help of a guide provided by Joseph Maimaran, Hector would never have arrived at the Chevalier’s cell on the ground floor. Only when he went inside and was brought to a heavy wooden door guarded by a suspicious goaler did Hector appreciate that Chevalier Chabrillan was, in effect, hidden away from the rest of the world.
The guard unlocked the door with a heavy iron key, and stood back to allow Hector to enter the cell alone. The room was simply furnished with a mattress on a low bed frame, a wooden table and two chairs, and a chamber pot. A blanket lay neatly folded on the mattress, and the only light entered through a small, barred window high up in the wall opposite the door. Hector noted that the wall itself was two feet thick. The room reminded him of a monk’s cell, an impression strengthened by the fact that its lone occupant was kneeling in prayer, facing a simple wooden cross nailed to the wall.
The turnkey closed the door behind Hector, but the kneeling figure did not stir. The man was dressed in a loose cotton gown, and once again Hector found himself staring in fascination at the cross-shaped scars on the soles of his naked feet. Finally, after several minutes, the prisoner rose and turned to face his visitor. For the first time Hector saw the Chevalier close up in daylight and he was taken aback by the contemptuous stare. ‘I gave orders that I would receive visitors only if they were here to discuss the conditions of my incarceration,’ said Chabrillan. ‘If I am not mistaken, you are an associate of that tongueless heretic. You will be disappointed if you came here to gloat. I have nothing to discuss with you.’
‘I want only a few moments of your time,’ said Hector civilly, marvelling at the unshakeable self-confidence of the Chevalier. He did not harbour any hatred for the man, now that he knew Chabrillan was very likely to be held prisoner for many years. ‘I did not come to take pleasure from seeing your captivity. I only hope to understand why this has come about.’
‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ Chabrillan snapped. ‘The schismatic wanted revenge. But it will make no difference in the eyes of God. I may remain here for many years, but he will spend all eternity in the fires of Hell.’
‘He seemed so harmless until—’ Hector began, but he was cut off in mid sentence by a snort of disdain.
‘Harmless! That viper! He is no more harmless than the Satan whose path he follows, and whose poison he was injecting into others until I had his tongue removed.’
‘But Karp could never have been a threat to someone as powerful and well connected as yourself.’
Chabrillan regarded Hector scornfully. ‘What do you know about these things?’ Belatedly Hector realised that he had come with the intention of questioning Chabrillan, but was already deferring to the aristocrat’s arrogance. He resolved to stand his ground.
‘Karp told me that you had his tongue torn out when you were both in Kandia.’
‘Told? How could he have told you anything? He lacks the means to do so.’ This time there was a note of cruelty in Chabrillan’s tone.
‘He did so by dumb show. He also drew a map and tried to make me understand that you have the sign of the cross marked on the soles of your feet. At the time it made no sense.’
‘And did he also tell you that he is a traitor to Christendom, a festering contagion eating away at the True Faith?’
Abruptly Chabrillan turned away. For several moments there was silence as if he was considering whether to put an end to the interview. Then he swung round to face his visitor, and in a flinty voice said, ‘Kandia was where we took our stand against the Turk. There were thousands of us who believed that it was our sacred duty to hold the bastion. The rest of the island had already fallen, but the city itself held out month after month, year after year. Venice sent us supplies and reinforcements, and her fleet kept the sea-lanes open. I and other knights came with our galleys to try to stiffen the resistance shortly before the end. Doubtless that was when Karp wormed his way in. He was among the volunteers who arrived from all over Europe to assist us.’
‘Karp is from the Bulgar lands ruled by the Turks. He would have risked his life to get to Kandia,’ agreed Hector. He had intended to encourage the flow of the Chevalier’s narrative but his remark only brought an angry retort.
‘And that should have made me beware! He is no more a Christian than that blackamoor who guards my cell door. His homeland is a wellspring of heresy. From there the pestilence oozes and threatens to infect all.’
‘I don’t follow your meaning,’ Hector muttered.
Chabrillan’s lip curled. ‘How would you understand? Am I right in guessing that you have taken the turban and your manhood has been trimmed?’
‘I did convert when I was in the bagnio of Algiers,’ Hector acknowledged, ‘but only in the hope that it would ease my captivity. My faith has lapsed since then, both in the teachings of Muhammad and in the religion I was taught as a child by monks. They were good men who knew their gospel.’
‘What would those monks say if they knew you had lifted a forefinger and pronounced that there is no God but Allah, and that Muhammad is his prophet,’ Chabrillan sneered. ‘In that benighted corner perhaps your monks have not yet heard the serpent’s hiss, those who preach that Satan is the creator and ruler of the visible world. They deny the Holy Cross and refuse to worship the Virgin Mary and the Saints. That is what Karp and his foul companions do. They claim that the Romish Church is not the Church of Jesus Christ but a Harlot, while only they themselves hold to the truth.’
‘But if men like Karp came to fight at Kandia alongside you, what mattered was their hatred of the Turk.’
‘Karp did not come to Kandia to fight. He came to convert. He persuaded others in our garrison that atonement and redemption were meaningless, that the sacrament of unction was to be spurned because it is reserved for the rich, that every good layman is himself a priest. His blasphemy was endless.’
Hector felt he was getting nowhere. The Chevalier was clearly a fanatic, but that did not seem sufficient reason for him to have mutilated Karp, a fellow Christian, in the midst of a gruelling and prolonged siege. ‘What reason did you give when you ordered Karp’s tongue to be removed?’ he asked.