Excerpt: Judas' Tears

Chapter One
“He that endureth to the end shall be saved.” Matthew10:22

The spit turned over the fire, pig’s flesh scorching to crackling brown. Seven soldiers watched the progression of the cooking, with one eye on the hissing fat that dripped into flames and one eye on the gleaming swords sharpening in their hands. Dirt begrimed their worn faces and fatigue creased their weary smiles.

Adah avoided looking, sickened and weary, disgusted by the roasting carcass. She ran numb fingers through the straggled strands of her black hair and pulled her shawl close. No warm fire for her. At the end of the long day’s march, one of the men had hammered a peg into the ground and knotted to it the rope tethering her. The earth froze her legs and she shifted to keep circulation flowing. They had not given her food yet that day. Most of the food the soldiers seemed to eat was meat, and she would not touch that if they offered, but they had confiscated her scanty bundle of bread and cheese when they caught her, and she did not want to starve.

Stars winked above the thick forest canopy, and Adah could hear the gentle cawing of night robins. The familiar landscape provided little comfort.

On a log further back from the ring of soldiers sat their captain. The brass buttons of his plum waistcoat shone orange and the slick lacquer of his hair elongated the narrow, feminine frame of his jawbones. His eyes absorbed the darkness. Lord Aidan of Nineveh. Young and untested.

By his side, his wife preened herself with assurance, bedecked in practical yet splendid green riding skirts, more of a soldier than her toy boy partner. The arching brown curves of her eyebrows added to the sinister effect of her thin-lipped grin. A dagger thrust through her wide belt.

Praying did little to ease Adah’s state of mind. She could not believe that the Father could help her, faithful as she was. She could not imagine what she would do when unable to stall any longer, and forced to come to a brutal decision. She tried to clear away such thoughts.

The ghostly white form of an owl swooped overhead. Adah rolled onto her side and stared up at the whispering leaves.

Time passed. The pig was split, distributed evenly, and the soldiers left their captive alone. Gnawing hunger began to seize hold. The fighting men passed round some mugs of stinking ale, Lady Evelyn curled up under a heavy cloak to doze, and gradually the guards sank into blurred passivity and slurred conversations. But Adah judged their distraction not to be great enough for her to try sawing her ropes with a stone edge. The noose round her ankle itched. She could not risk it. She crawled under a sheltering bramble bush and adjusted her white robe round her hips.

When the snow-clad figure spirited into the camp at moon peak, the girl captive was the first to notice. She marked the sandaled feet, the static hair and the battered satchel. She studied the careful way of walking, silently enquiring. She observed through fluttering eyelids, and when the old man entered into the circle of the glowing embers, Adah pushed herself upright.

“Good evening, brother,” she said. “May the Father bless you.”
“And you, sister.” A soldier groaned, and another rubbed his eyes. “Whose company is travelling in the forest this far west?”
Peach lips pursed an answer, but before Adah could voice her explanation, a cold challenge joined the frost of the night air.
“Lady Evelyn of Nineveh, player, and I’ll charge you to show the proper respect.”
The woman held a piercing glare that showed no sign of weariness, and the crumpled elder bowed formally.
“Apologies, my lady. I am only a simple man, Ishmael by name, and I meant no offence by my ill-judged words. I seek only shelter from the cruel night.”
An emerald diadem studded the noble brow and it concentrated the hostility in her scowl, which turned now towards Adah. A warning glance. She would not allow the girl to speak alone with the newcomer.
“We already have a player accompanying us, Master Ishmael, but I see no reason why you cannot entertain us for one evening. Variety is always welcome.”
One of the men, beer soaked and thumping his dented breastplate, roared in approval. The red fringes of his uniform caught on thorns as he stumbled to rouse his colleagues. A ripping sound made Evelyn’s forehead contract.
“Palen, wake the men in the other camps and tell them there’s a player in our midst. Would you like a meal while you wait, master?”
Ishmael. Adah rubbed the goose bumps from her forearms with apprehension. This was Ishmael, the fabled Wanderer. Evelyn had diverted his attention for now, but she had to tell him. Warn him. He would know what to do. Ishmael! She wrapped her arms round her legs and held the white fabric of her robes close. The bruised apple in the old man’s hands stirred her stomach to rumble. The polished skin taunted as it trembled in his wizened talons. She knew that when he produced the instruments of their trade from his bag, the trembling would cease.
Interest grew in her as she prepared to watch an old expert at work.
The entirety of Evelyn’s marching company consisted of around two hundred drunkards and fools, who could barely drive the pack mules. The interval required for their assembly stretched like hell pains. Murmured moans, crashes and cursing echoed from the surrounding small clearings and the force drew together. Evelyn tapped her foot impatiently, causing her husband to edge to the other side of the fire, ashen-faced and sweating. Sloshed rogues staggered to empty patches of ground, brawling for the best vantage point, packing close around Adah with overpowering wafts of man sweat. The prickling discomfort, however- even the humiliation and indignity of the binding- were no longer noticed. Adah watched Brother Ishmael produced a set of seven coloured balls with avid fascination. They resembled every other set of juggling balls she had ever seen to exact details, but she devoured every hint of red and yellow with hunger. The Wanderer had not performed before another of the Community in thirty years, she knew. She prepared to be astounded.
A crackling dry cough and another sweeping bow. A villain squashed to Adah’s right belched and the stench of alcohol made her gag. She dug a sharp elbow into his roles of fat.
“I am a merry wanderer of night
I roam the world and see it’s sights
I do good and hear its tales
Hear the joy, despair and laughter
Forty years long the road is my home
And still I deem it fit to roam.
Tonight I wish to tell you a story from the exotic roots of the Sarcom mountains, where wolves prowl as big as dragons. It begins with a young, hardy page named Esquire….”
As the teller switched from verse to prose, from jest to seriousness, from sweetness to sadness, the balls he spun between his hands formed elaborate circles. Quavering lines and sudden backspins illuminated the spirit of his words. But it was nothing special. With a pang of disappointment, Adah realised she could do just as well. But Lady Evelyn did not know this- she had not yet requested a performance.
Ishmael wove his magic well. When Esquire lost his love tears squeezed from the eyes of several listeners and when the young boy set off to gain a miraculous cure for death from the jaws of the Chief of the Mountain Wolves, eager silence settled over the bleary-eyed gathering.
Adah memorised the words with each turn of phrase. She had never heard the epic before, but by the time Ishmael swooped his balls high in the air for one last time, the complete tale had imprinted in her brain. It was a good story, she had to admit, and her chest felt flustered in sympathy for the final, poor bereaved Esquire who crawled back to his lord’s castle, but to tell the right stories you only needed to hear them once and remember. Every member of the Community possessed the same skill.
“Very good,” Evelyn drawled, after the last applause had died away. Ishmael slid his coloured balls out of sight and cleared his throat. A close cropped white beard covered his chin, and he rubbed it absentmindedly.
“Thank you, my lady.”
Fat jewels glistened as Evelyn waved her hand. Dismissive.
“Tell me, player. What brings you to these empty woods at the eve of winter. Would not you be more advantaged in seeking audiences in the city, and sleeping in shelter from the snows?”
“I am well used to the elements, my lady, and I know how to survive in the wilderness. Besides, I find the solitude pleasing at times.”
The crisp sound of silks rustling, and the personal advisor of the Emperor of Nineveh drew herself up to full height, head held high.
“Very odd. You see, I find it strange that in a forest spanning the entire northern reaches of the Empire, I have happened to meet two of your kind in one day. Particularly as these woods are desolate. Rather a coincidence isn’t it?”
Adah did not miss the tightening of the Wanderer’s shoulders, nor did she like where this line of questioning was leading. Most of the soldiers seemed to have drifted back into stupor, and those few wakeful began calling for a repeat performance.
“I cannot account for it, my lady. It is passing strange. If you will please grant me leave to retire? It has been a very long day.”
As he turned to melt between the grey tree trunks, silent despite the litter of violent orange leaves, Ishmael caught Adah’s eye.
“Goodnight, daughter of Sarah. May the Father protect you and shelter your dreams.”
“May he protect you from the darkness, brother,” Adah said. Blood flushed to her cheeks. The Wanderer, and she was trussed up like a goose. Perhaps he hadn’t seen. But it would be better if he had noticed that something was wrong. Anyway, he would know that from the fact that she shared a camp with Ninevehans.
How had he known her mother’s name? She had not introduced herself, and Ishmael had not returned to the forest in forty years. Why had he returned now?