The Rose Demon

The Emperor allowed himself another smile. He had chosen well: these men, sworn to celibacy and obedience, would carry out his commands.

    ‘Stand up!’ he ordered.

    The knights got to their feet.

    ‘Place your hands on the Sacrament!’

    The knights took off sweat-stained gauntlets. Each placed a hand gently over that of the old priest as he stood, face impassive, eyes closed, murmuring his prayers.

    ‘Swear!’ Constantine insisted. ‘Swear on the Sacrament that you will carry out my last order! Swear that you will do so, whatever the cost!’

    ‘We swear!’

    Constantine opened the purple filigree pouch on his war belt and took out a ring on which seven keys hung. The clasp on each was strangely carved and the handle of every key was shaped into a cross, in the centre of which was a small glass reliquary.

    ‘These are special keys,’ the Emperor explained. ‘Each holds the relic of a great saint.’ He handed them to Sir Raymond. ‘Follow Eutyches! He will take you, by secret passageways, down deep into the bowels of the palace. The way is already lighted.’ The Emperor paused, his head slightly sideways. ‘Listen!’ he whispered.

    The roar of battle was now not so faint.

    ‘I must hurry,’ the Emperor continued. ‘In the vault the five silver keys will open a chamber. The two golden ones will unlock whatever that chamber contains.’

    ‘What is it?’ Sir Otto asked hoarsely.

    ‘A casket,’ the Emperor replied. ‘You are to open it. Once you have done so, do whatever Eutyches tells you to. You have sworn an oath.’

    The Emperor got to his feet, his chain mail jingling as he walked across to a huge, golden rose painted on the blue marble wall. He pressed the centre and a door swung open. Otto flinched at the cold blast of air which swept into the chamber. Both knights, seasoned warriors, felt a deep sense of fear, blood chilling as if a dagger were being drawn along the napes of their necks. They looked at each other, then back at the Emperor.

    ‘You feel it as I do,’ Constantine declared.

    ‘Every man does.’ Eutyches opened his rheumy eyes. His voice was low, grating, and he talked the lingua franca, the language understood by everyone in Constantinople. ‘Your Excellency,’ Eutyches bowed, ‘we must go, time is short. You must die and, when I have done my task, I, too, must prepare for death.’

    Constantine came and knelt before the priest.

    ‘Then bless me, Father.’

    The priest raised the pyx before the Emperor in the sign of the cross. Constantine got to his feet. He kissed the priest on both cheeks and exchanged the kiss of peace with the two Hospitaller knights, then, without a backward glance, left the chamber, shouting for his guards to follow.

    The knights heard the door being closed and locked; the shouts of officers as furniture was piled against it.

    ‘If the Turks break in,’ Eutyches explained, ‘that will give us more time. Now, come.’ He walked towards the secret passageway, stopped and gestured for Otto to precede him. ‘Sir Raymond, you will follow behind. Close the door after us.’

    Sir Otto and the priest disappeared into the darkness. Raymond waited for a few moments then, drawing his sword, followed. He found himself at the top of steep steps which swept down into the darkness. On the walls above him, cresset torches fought hard to keep out the darkness. Raymond studied these curiously. He cursed his imagination. The fire itself seemed frightened. The flame was weak and the centre of each had turned a strange bluish tint.

    ‘Come!’ Eutyches ordered.

    Raymond fumbled in the darkness. He found a clasp and pushed the door over. It closed like the lid of a tomb. He followed the other two down the steps. The walls on either side were cold marble. Raymond had to fight against the shivers which racked his body.

    ‘Do not think!’ Eutyches’ voice sounded hollow. ‘Just pray! Make the sign of the cross to ward off any evil!’

    Raymond began praying. Peering through the gloom, he could see that his brother, just in front of the priest, was faltering now and again as if unsteady on his feet, and would only continue at Eutyches’ hushed entreaties.

    Following, Raymond felt so cold. Suddenly he started back, his sword coming up. He was sure an ice-cold hand had trailed its fingers across his throat, freezing the beads of sweat which laced his skin. He walked on, trying to ignore the sensation of hands clutching at his shoulder or