The only manifestation of wisdom that is worthy of the wise is compassion.
Compassion for the worthless and the forsaken.
Compassion for the victims of the strong.
All other paths, no matter how glorious, lead only to emptiness and folly.
He could have taken a dozen militiamen at least; given their quality, probably all thirty, though by ten or so even these donkeys might have the sense to run for their lives. Without looking, he positioned Garnier in his mind, for the captain would have to go first. And if they did not run, if they stayed to fight, then so much the better, for what more apt ground than here on the Parvis to admit his failure in the art of life, in the custodianship of his soul, thence to stake his claim on everlasting fire?
He thought: I am going mad. And I love it.
The clatter of massive hooves declared Clementine’s arrival.
Tannhauser turned again. He saw Grégoire take in the bloodbath, in which Tannhauser stood ankle-deep, with gore running down the spear shaft and the dead heaped around him like the proof of unspeakable crimes. He saw Grégoire grin, his exposed gums shiny and snotty with the mucus from his nostril. Grégoire grinned because he was glad to see him and for no other reason at all. He did not care what Tannhauser had done. He loved Tannhauser. The grin restored Tannhauser’s sanity.
He tossed the ox-tongue spear to its owner. The owner ducked and shielded himself with his arms and the spear clattered to the ground. Grégoire shoved the big mare into the perfect position for Tannhauser to step into the stirrup and mount. Tannhauser did so and looked down at Juste. Juste was pale. Tannhauser wondered how much more he could take. With a gesture he ordered him to hold on and Juste grabbed the stirrup.
Tannhauser looked at Captain Garnier, who had witnessed it all. The speed and precision of the kills; the berserk frenzy. Garnier blinked. Tannhauser ran a slow glance across the other spectators. If any of them recognised Tybaut, and it was at least as likely as not that they did, no one spoke up for him.
‘Won’t you stay to see off more heretics, chevalier?’ asked Garnier.
Tannhauser didn’t answer. He looked at the huddled doomed. He felt nothing for them. But he had heard the Green Lion roar. He turned back to Bernard Garnier.
‘This ground was consecrate to God before men discovered fire. These stones are the sacred centre of Paris, of France, some say of the world. By the law of divine symmetry, and in the opinions of diverse philosophers, it is probable that beneath our feet is the vertex of the cone of Hell itself.’
This was rewarded with a general gust of dismay.
‘The burning lake below is far from full. On this weird locus, we all should beware what sacrifice in blood we offer to gods unknown, for one thing is certain: if this sacrifice is meant for Christ, it will curdle His bowels.’
Many in the crowd retreated from the Parvis, step by step, as if from some poisonous swamp. Garnier groomed his beard with bloody fingers.
‘As for these Huguenot women and children, I speak for His Majesty in person when I urge you to take them to the priests in the cathedral. Give them the chance to consider a Catholic baptism and if not, to claim sanctuary. If you deny them that small mercy, what mercy will you deserve come the Last Judgement? When we rise from our tombs and Michael takes a reckoning of our souls, and our eternal destiny is weighed on the balance of the love we showed, not only to God, but to all His Creation.’
He pointed out the apocalypse carved above the cathedral’s central portal.
‘Is it coincidence that Judgement Day is here writ above our heads?’
A Huguenot cried out: ‘We would rather die than submit to popery.’
Tannhauser did not know which Huguenot had spoken, yet he answered him.
‘Do you, too, crave more blood?’
‘The good chevalier is right,’ declared Captain Garnier, whose cravings were not in question. ‘Let this windbag, whoever he is, demonstrate his piety by taking his right place at the front of the line.’
No one moved.
Perhaps, in fairness, the anonymous theologian was about to do so, but at that moment the scorched dog bolted forward and rolled in the blood in an ecstasy of abandon. His eyes bulged, his tongue lolled, he growled with satisfaction, the sound deep and sinister for an animal so small. It seemed to Tannhauser an excellent way to salve his blisters and burns, but the dog’s exploit provoked more gasps and whimpers, from either side of the religious schism, than had the murders. The crowd retreated further.
‘Lucifer, come here,’ shouted Grégoire.
In case Grégoire’s pronunciation had been lost on the dog, Juste added ‘Lucifer!’
‘The beast is possessed.’
‘Satan speaks through him.’
‘We’ll fall down the cone of Hell.’
Tannhauser kicked Clementine into motion. Grégoire and Juste, more concerned with the cur than with the mob, almost let go of their stirrups.
‘He’ll follow his pack,’ said Tannhauser.
So he did. Mantled and gleaming from ears to tail in the bright, comingled gore of lawyers and pimp, Lucifer righted himself in the wallow and scampered in pursuit, splattering those in range with globs of blood. The boys lavished him with praise. As the dog took his place between Clementine’s hooves, Tannhauser reached the cross street beyond the Hôtel-Dieu. He paused to take his bearings.
Ahead, towards the spire of Sainte-Chapelle, members of Garnier’s militia ransacked houses and conferred in urgent knots over the bodies heaped in the gutters.
The street to his right ran back over the Pont Notre-Dame, where more dead lay in reeking piles. Men were pillaging various of the fine shops on the bridge, carrying trunks and furniture from doorways, and pitching goods down from upper-floor windows. At the far end, where the chain blocked the thoroughfare, a confrontation brewed; between whom he could not say.
To his left, a shorter bridge spanned the narrow branch of the Seine. It was jammed by a similar uproar, most intense around the gaping arch of the squat stone fortress on the far bank.
‘The Petit Châtelet,’ said Grégoire. ‘For the sergents. And a prison.’
Tannhauser continued west, past a row of public latrines and a narrow wharf of crude pilings that fell steeply to the Seine. Two boys, no older than eight, struggled to lug the corpse of a woman to the edge of the wharf, prodded to the task by the swords of two militiamen. The boys swung the woman into the river but their effort was ill coordinated and her head bashed the timbers as she fell. The boys turned around, blinking at the world in which they were stranded, and the militiamen stabbed them and shoved them off the wharf to join the woman in the turbid water. The men exchanged nods, as if to affirm a job well done.
Tannhauser pressed on.
The next bridge, Saint-Michel, was as chaotic as the others, he presumed for similar reasons. Those trying to leave the island were blocked by a chain across the end of the street. At the same time, on the other side of the chain, a second crowd sought to escape the Left Bank for the Cité.
In the middle of the two mobs a handful of archers in the jerkins and caps of the sergents à verge tried to impose their authority, though to what end was clear to no one, least of all themselves. So far their only success had been to stir the toxic brew of anger, confusion and alarm that characterised the general mood.
From certain upper windows of the houses lining the bridge, a gallery of citizens added taunts, laughter, threats and legal advice to the rising tide of altercation. By means of climbing on the shoulders of a taller comrade, and waving a green neckerchief, one of the sergents won an interlude of relative quiet.
‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Even if we accept that this chain has no sound purpose at all,’ he shouted, ‘we can nevertheless be certain that the chain would not be here if its purpose was to be ignored! In short, gentlemen, it does not matter why the chain is here! What matters is that the chain is here! And in the unhappy absence of any known statute, principle or decree govern
ing the movement of the public in relation to this chain, we are obliged to remain on one side or the other until some higher authority enlightens us!’
The mob absorbed this valiant attempt at quasi-legalistic reasoning as best it could, then erupted into catcalls, obscenities and a variety of learned refutations pooling case histories referencing the rights of the city’s inhabitants, with special respect to the Sabbath, dating back to the time of Julius Caesar. There was pushing and shoving.
The sergent teetered on his perch.
Tannhauser judged the moment ripe to add Clementine’s bulk to the argument.
‘Lads, hold on to Clementine’s tail.’
Once again Grégoire’s choice of mount proved inspired. Clementine shoved her way through the press at a steady, merciless pace. Bodies lurched and in some cases flew to either side, accompanied by oaths and cries of pain. Clementine showed neither remorse nor favouritism for age, disability or sex. When they reached the chain, Tannhauser found himself a head higher than the elevated sergent. They conducted their conversation above the milling crowd.
‘Mattias Tannhauser, Chevalier of Malta, military adviser to His Majesty the Duc d’Anjou, and diplomatic envoy at large to Albert Gondi, Comte de Retz.’
The sergent could not have been happier to see him. He saluted. His grin was distinguished by a single front tooth in his otherwise vacant upper jaw.
‘Constable Alois Frogier, Excellency. You are Heaven-sent. Confusion reigns.’
‘I’ve come directly from a meeting of the commissaires at the Châtelet. Who ordered you to block this bridge?’
‘Excellency, Captain Garnier gave the order.’
‘Are you telling me the sergents of the Châtelet now take their orders from the volunteer militia? Does the Lieutenant know you’ve allowed the militia to usurp his authority?’
Frogier’s fear was as naked as any Tannhauser had seen all morning.
‘No, Excellency, probably not, though no usurpation has taken place, and if any such error, through no fault of my own, appears to have been administered, then perhaps the Lieutenant should not know, that is with your kind permission and sympathy. The confusion, you see. The rebellion. Captain Garnier claimed that –’
‘Bernard Garnier has no claim on the officers or resources of the Châtelet. Do you understand? Can we rely on you in this?’
Frogier saluted as he swayed like a sailor in the rigging. ‘Excellency, you can!’
‘The mass of these people are good Catholic citizens who want only to retreat to the safety of their homes, which is exactly where the King, the Lieutenant and the Bureau de Ville want everyone who lacks a useful role in the maintenance of order to be. A sound policy, you agree?’
‘Excellency, I could not agree more sincerely.’
‘Lower the chain so the street can clear. Have your men create two channels, one to flow in either direction. Then present yourself to me.’
Jostling provoked the sergent upon whose shoulders Frogier sat to launch a flurry of punches at the nearest citizens. Frogier wheeled his arms and toppled towards the ground. Tannhauser could have righted him but, to authenticate his status, chose not to do so. While Frogier picked himself up and began bellowing at his men – who set about the crowd with their maces – Tannhauser looked across the chaos to the Collège d’Harcourt.
Whatever Orlandu had been up to, it was connected to his mother’s death. He could not imagine Carla provoking homicidal intent, but the possibilities for trouble inhering in youth were to all intents infinite. He wanted another chat with the old porter who had warned Petit Christian about Tannhauser. But the smoke worried him. His guns. The printer’s daughters. The porter could wait.
Frogier presented himself at Clementine’s shoulder, the great mare providing the rock around which the two opposing streams of humanity now flowed.
‘Frogier, what’s the situation in the sixteenth?’
‘Excellency, we have been told to keep out of the sixteenth quartier.’
‘By Bernard Garnier?’
‘Yes, Excellency. We have clear orders from the Châtelet not to hunt, arrest or kill unarmed Huguenot citizens; though, as Captain Garnier pointed out, we have not been ordered to prevent anyone else from doing so.’
‘So the militia have a free hand in the sixteenth?’
‘Yes, Excellency, and to give credit where it is due, they are killing them wherever they find them. That is, killing heretics. Alley by alley, house by house, room by room. Elements of the student population are assisting them. After all, they live there. They know who’s who and what’s what and which rats might go to ground in which hole.’
‘What were your orders before Garnier commandeered you?’
‘To man our booth in the Place Maubert, as usual.’
‘Then we both know your rightful place. If any other units have been illegally seconded to the militia, you have my authority to release them.’
‘At once, Excellency.’
‘That man of yours with a whited eye, order him to surrender his bow and quiver to me. Let him say it was expropriated by the militia. I will give you an écu d’or, which you can divide as you feel is just.’
‘I wouldn’t want your life to depend on his bow, Excellency, but for two écus d’or you may expropriate mine. As you see, it is a far better weapon.’
Tannhauser examined the bow for cracks and flaws and found none. While not as short as the Turkish weapon he preferred, it was short enough to fire from the saddle or in a tight space. The nocking point was served with red silk and hardly worn. He flexed the bow and reckoned its draw weight at around sixty pounds, enough to fell a stag, though Altan Savas, whose bow drew at over a hundred, would have laughed at it.
‘It’s a decent string at least.’
‘Beeswax and linen, my own weave. Sixty strands of shoemaker’s thread in three cords. Gives a kick this horse would be proud of. There’s a spare in the quiver.’
‘Let me see an arrow.’
Frogier offered a deerskin quiver of a dozen or so. Tannhauser took one. White birch, by the grain. Accurately fletched. The bodkins were the length of his forefinger and filed like stilettos. The nock was made of horn and sought the string of its own accord.
‘Two years seasoned, double-varnished and perfectly matched for spine and weight to this bow. Those bodkins are charcoal-hardened.’
He glanced at Frogier’s wrist guard. He wouldn’t have got it over his knuckles.
‘No broadheads?’
A broadhead was like shooting a man with a knife, and leaving it inside him. Each time he moved or breathed, it sliced him deeper.
‘The Châtelet banned them, Excellency. They were obliged to spend too much money on surgeons – you wouldn’t believe how often these lads hit the wrong criminal. But who needs a surgeon to pull out a bodkin? Don’t despair, those will split a barn door at half a furlong.’
‘The green and red paint between the feathers, is that your own livery?’
‘Don’t worry, Excellency, if a shaft were to be found in the wrong place, the blame would fall on the Huguenot who stole my gear this morning, in the confusion.’
‘They are notorious thieves.’
‘For the extra écu d’or, a man of vigilance might even be able to identify the culprit, among the dead.’
Tannhauser turned south past the Collège d’Harcourt and the Red Ox into the Rue de la Harpe. Just beyond the tavern, as if to demarcate a boundary beyond which decency could be abandoned, a dead man hung by his ankles from the iron pole of a shop sign. Tannhauser had crossed that frontier already. He steered Clementine well clear.
The inverted corpse was naked and a cross had been cut into his belly, though whether as a symbolic act or to facilitate his disembowelment could not be known. His entrails dangled in a twisted cluster that obscured his face. The pink and grey coils were streaked with yellow fat and had not yet lost their lustre, and some of them crawled between the others with slow contractions, as if fear clu
ng to life when all other feelings were extinguished.
Tannhauser pressed on.
Bodies wetted the dust in the street. Five. Ten. A score. More. He stopped counting. Most of them were men, more or less fully grown. Axed, stabbed, bludgeoned, strangled, often a combination thereof. They lay in random locations, struck down on thresholds or at the mouths of alleys, caught outdoors wearing the wrong clothes, the wrong faces, the wrong names. Two hung by the neck from improvised nooses. Men who had ignored the warnings or who had not heard them.
No one was ignoring them now. After yesterday’s teeming the street was eerie in its emptiness. It was filled, as elsewhere, with a sense that a multitude huddled in concealment. Shouts bounced around between walls distant and near, the kind of yells of warning and pursuit as attend a hunting party. Street dogs yip-yip-yarooed. He heard screams. Screams pitched so high by terror even more than by pain that Tannhauser could not tell if they came from the throats of woman, man or child.
Thirty or forty thousand Huguenots lived in Paris. He still would not credit the civic militia with the wit, or even the spite, to execute a purge on such a scale. But hundreds of tiny massacres, conducted by a score or so of small, militant death gangs: that he could believe. Unrestrained, and with time, such gangs could rack up the numbers of an army claiming havoc.
Lucifer trotted to sniff each corpse they passed by. Informed by some logic of his own, he pissed on some but not on others. The blood in the fur on the front half of his body had congealed to leave the hairs stiffened and spiky, so that he looked a good deal bulkier than before. By contrast, on his bald rear half the coating had dried into a dark red sheath, with a strange matte texture, like the skin of some as yet unidentified reptile. The dog was increasingly alert to another smell, and so was Tannhauser. The cloud of smoke that drifted above the rooftops stank of charred paper, grey fragments of which floated earthward. It stank, also, of burning meat.