Smoke & Mirrors (A Short Story) by Harry Sidebottom

Author:Harry Sidebottom
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008248369
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2017-02-21T00:00:00+00:00

IV

The Town of Abonouteichus on the Black Sea

The Ides of May AD236

Dead of night. The breeze from the mountains soughing through the branches. The near-full moon casting deep shadows. Censorinus sat in the grove looking at the sanctuary. Somewhere down in the town a dog barked. No other sound, except for the wind in the trees.

Everyone was asleep. It was time. Censorinus got to his feet. Face blackened with burnt cork, he glided between the trees. A final check. Still no sound or light from beyond the walls. He stepped out from cover. It was very bright in the open, the light a cold blue from the moon.

The bag slung on his back, he reached up for the top of the outer wall. He hauled himself up, and lay full length on top, studying the gardens. Satisfied, he dropped to the ground inside, and made his way into the shade of a stand of fruit trees. Shrugging off the pack, and drawing the long knife, he settled to wait.

Small nocturnal animals scuttled through the undergrowth. Far away, the dog was still yapping. Others answered. The chorus must have drowned the noise of the approaching watchman. Without warning, he was there, holding a half-shuttered lantern, walking along by the wall. Censorinus’ heart was beating fast. Every instinct urged him to get this over. He fought down the impulse. Precipitous actions belonged to cowards, could ruin everything. He let the watchman approach his hiding place, nearer and nearer.

Once the man had passed, Censorinus rose, the glitter of the knife held behind his back. Watching where he placed his feet, not looking at the glow of the lantern, he followed. Stealthily, but swiftly, he closed the gap. Suddenly the watchman stopped. He hefted the lantern, started to turn.

Three strides, and Censorinus was upon him. Left hand clamped over the man’s mouth, he dragged the blade across his throat. The iron smell of blood, its hot wetness on his forearm. The man struggled, fingers clawing at the hand smothering him, clutching at the hilt of the knife. Censorinus stabbed again, gouging and sawing into the soft flesh. Locked together, they staggered, boots stamping. Somehow the watchman broke free. He tottered a few steps, both hands pressed to the wound. His mouth opened to shout. Instead he collapsed. A final few twitches, and his spirit left his body.

Censorinus stood, panting. He took a deep breath, held it, listening. The dogs were quiet. The wind moved through the shrubbery. No other sound disturbed the night.

Automatically Censorinus crouched down by the dead man. He cleaned the blade on the man’s cloak, then wiped what he could of the blood off his hands and arms. He was disappointed. It had not been a clean kill. Often he did better. He stood, and walked back to where he had left the pack. Pulling the straps over his shoulders, he looked back at the corpse. Life must be difficult for the Christians with their god’s inexplicable commandment, Thou shalt not kill.

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