The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 42
‘Bread knives?’ snorted Achilles. ‘That’s no use.’
‘You need license for the big hunting knives,’ explained the shopkeeper. ‘I no have this. You need the hunting shop.’
‘Very well,’ shrugged Andronicus looking disappointed. ‘Where’s one of those?’
‘No hunting shop near here. You need go out of town for this. You have car, yes?’
‘No,’ replied Andronicus. ‘We’re on foot.’
‘What about this?’ suggested Achilles, picking up a garden fork and twirling it around like a marionette. ‘Isn’t this a weapon?’
‘You be careful with that!’ warned the shopkeeper, as Achilles knocked over a pile of delicately balanced wicker baskets. ‘You break. You pay. And no, is not weapon, is for digging the dirt … in garden.’
‘Gardening?’ laughed Achilles. ‘Do I look like a farmer!’
‘I dunno,’ shrugged the man. ‘But is all I got.’
‘I suppose it could be used as a weapon,’ mused Andronicus, rummaging nearby. ‘As could this … this ….’
‘Rake,’ explained the shopkeeper. ‘Is a rake.’
‘Well, you could certainly do someone some harm with one of these,’ mused Andronicus. ‘If you put your mind to it.’
‘Listen, friend. You gives me money, you can do what you want with it. I no give the crap.’
‘Very well,’ said Andronicus. ‘Then we’ll take all these “gardening” tools. One for each of our men.’
‘And these shields,’ added Achilles, taking the lid off a galvanised metal dustbin.
‘You only want lids?’ queried the confused shopkeeper.
‘Yes …,’ snapped Achilles. ‘And?’
‘Hey. You know best, friend.’ The shopkeeper backed away with raised hands. ‘Whatever you want. How you wanna pay?’
‘Pay?’ snorted Andronicus. ‘Why would we pay? I’m your Emperor.’
‘You take,’ replied the shopkeeper, reaching down behind the counter for a baseball bat, ‘… you PAY.’
‘You can send a bill to the palace,’ declared Andronicus, dismissing him like a tradesman. ‘I’ll have it sorted once I take the throne.’
‘You crazy,’ snarled the shopkeeper, slapping the baseball bat into the palm of his hand. ‘You pay, or you get out. Understand?’
‘Enough of this crap,’ announced Achilles, reaching over the counter so rapidly that the shopkeeper had not a nanosecond to respond. Still holding his bat, the man was dragged forward by the hand upon his throat, then slammed with wanton violence against the wooden counter and rendered silent.
‘Wow,’ marvelled Andronicus. ‘You don’t mess about, do you?’
‘There’s no time for customer services,’ replied Achilles, letting the shopkeeper slide to the floor. ‘Let the men take what they need.’
Ten minutes later, the Myrmidons were once again on the move. But now they were fully equipped, armed with an impressive range of domestic and garden hardware, dustbin lids and dinner trays in place of shields.
Returning to the seafront road, the spectacle immediately drew a crowd. Full of historical entitlement, the warriors marched towards the city’s ancient centre, Homer held aloft upon his white plastic lounger at the rear.
‘See,’ said Andronicus, as they rocked up to the massive city walls. ‘They swell in numbers. My people are adoring me!’
‘You reckon?’ asked Achilles. ‘They don’t look very adoring.’
Achilles had a point. Up on the balconies, the adoration looked a lot more like pity or ridicule. Also concerning for former Emperor Andronicus I Comnenus were the Turkish flags lining their march along the esplanade, the crescent moon motif distinctly un-Byzantine.
‘How have they let all these heathens hang up their banners?’ said Andronicus. ‘The current emperor is being very lax if he lets all these foreign devils come and go as they please, hanging up their flags.’
Now, they began to be dogged by small lippy boys on bicycles, their mockery coming thick and fast in a language none of them could identify.
‘Why is no one speaking Greek?’ demanded the increasingly uneasy Achilles. ‘I don’t know what those little bastards are shouting at us, but it definitely isn’t Greek … ancient or otherwise.’
‘By the Gods!’ yelled Ajax from the ranks behind them. ‘Someone just threw something at me.’
‘And me!’ added Patroclus. ‘Is that … a cabbage?’
‘Why … they laugh at us!’ snarled the indignant Achilles. ‘At the Myrmidons!’
They most certainly were laughing. People were not only laughing; they were also jeering, gleefully mocking the invaders from their open windows, or leaning out of passing cars to hurl rich local expletives. The children, circling the column on their bikes, were having a wonderful time, making obscene gestures at the jittery Bronze Age warriors.
‘What kind of a welcome is this?’ demanded Achilles, fending off a mouldy grapefruit with his dustbin lid. ‘Don’t they realise who they mock? Do something, Mr former Emperor!’ he demanded. ‘It’s your accursed city, dammit!’
‘People of Constantinople!’ shrieked Andronicus. ‘It is I, Andronicus I Comnenus, your beloved Emperor.’
‘Go to hell, arsehole!’ bellowed a rich local voice, followed immediately by a not-insignificant pebble.
‘Argghhh!’ screamed Patroclus, slapping his hand to a bloodied forehead. ‘I am smited!’
‘Damn you, you filthy peasants!’ roared Achilles, lashing out with a garden rake. ‘Show some respect. Get on your knees, damn you, for I am Achilles, the sacker of cities.’
‘Bunch of losers,’ laughed a small boy on a mountain bike. ‘You crazy in da head.’
Incredulous at this response, Achilles looked back at the child, his shock at the lack of recognition enough to numb him to an impacting red onion.
‘There must be some mistake!’ wailed Andronicus, now trying to ward off a rain of breakfast leftovers. ‘This didn’t happen last time I took power.’
‘What is happening?’ shrieked the unseeing Homer as something splattered his over-furrowed forehead. ‘I can smell egg!’
‘Protect the Bard!’ ordered Achilles, coming back to life. ‘Myrmidons … form a ring!’
‘We have to keep going!’ wailed Andronicus, pointing at the vast city walls. ‘We are so close.’
‘Rig for defence,’ shouted Achilles, dashing into the ring. ‘We need to back up!’
‘No …,’ implored Andronicus. ‘Keep going!’
An overripe watermelon splashed onto the road beside him, the mouldy interior of red pulp and black seeds exploding up and over the former emperor.
The jeering crowd loved it, cackling and pointing at the Greeks, laughing hysterically as they tried to fend off a rain of fruit and vegetables.
The Myrmidons began to edge backwards, away from Andronicus’ city.
‘No!’ screamed Andronicus through his fruity facemask. ‘This cannot be. This is my city. Mine … do you hear me, mine!’
It clearly wasn’t.
Sensing blood, the crowd quickly morphed into a classic angry mob, arming themselves with crowbars, metal poles, fence posts and a seemingly endless supply of fruit. Ridicule was going to be the least of the Myrmidons’ problems.
‘Retreat!’ shrieked Achilles. ‘They mean to kill us.’
‘But you can’t!’ insisted Andronicus.
‘I’ll not lose my life again,’ replied Achilles. ‘Not for you. Not here. Not like this … to this … rabble. This is not a battle worthy of the mighty Myrmidons.’
‘But you’re a sacker of cities. Can’t you take the city by force?’ pleaded Andronicus.
‘Not a hope!’ yelled Achilles, batting away a cloud of slimy aubergines. ‘There’s only forty of us and hundreds of these bastards. We cannot win. We need to go back! MYRMIDONS … RETREAT!’
‘Retreat?’ shrieked Andronicus, as the Myrmidons began to back away down the coast road. ‘Think of the Spartans … stand your ground. But, but ….’
‘You stay,’ advised Achilles, leading his men from the back, ‘you die.’
The crowd was turning from ugly … to hideous. Seeing Andronicus separating from the retreating Greeks, they surged forward like a wave of B-movie zombies. Andronicus, finally convinced of where things were going, reared backwards, screaming, fighting off the clawing hands as he lurched after the retreating Myrmidons.
‘My City!’ lamented Andronicus, pushing his way into the centre of the ring. ‘My dreams are in flames! Oh, cruel fate, why must thou torment me thus?’’
Beside him, Homer was off his lounger, sightlessly cowering beneath a hailstorm of rotten vegetables. ‘Damn you, Andronicus!’ he cursed. ‘You promised us a kingdom! Yet all we have … is rotten cabbage.’
‘Waaaah!’ blubbed Andronicus. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘You big girl’s toga!’ sneered Achilles. ‘Pull yourself together! We have to get out of here, fast … before they tear us apart!’
‘This is not my beloved Constantinople,’ continued the heartbroken Andronicus. ‘It’s full … of Moors.’
‘Go home, you greasy bastards,’ ordered a woman from a balcony. ‘It no “Constantinople” anymore, Greek! This is Turkey. Have you not read your history?’
‘Yeah!’ added another, brandishing an evil-looking sledgehammer. ‘Welcome to ISTANBUL!’
‘Istanbul … not Constantinople?’ bleated Andronicus, as they retreated back into the marina.
‘You’d better believe it, Greek!’ laughed an elderly woman lobbing pomegranates at them from a nearby vegetable stand. ‘And, what’s more, it’s nobody’s business … but the Turks!’
‘Quick,’ screamed Achilles. ‘We need to get back on the boat. Ajax …. Patroclus, get the Bard on board; the rest of you hold them off till we are all on. Then we can put this accursed dungheap behind us forever!’
As Homer and Andronicus ran up the gangplank, the last of the Myrmidons lashed out at their tormentors, keeping the enraged locals at bay as they edged backwards along the jetty towards the Black Sea Princess.
From the deck, Dima spotted the danger. Firing his automatic into the air, he gave the rearguard the margin they needed to bolt up the gangplank, reaching safety just as the engines roared into life. Braving a barrage of locally sourced projectiles, the crew of the Black Sea Princess rushed out to release the mooring ropes, allowing the superyacht to bound away from its berth, her gangplank collapsing into the water as they tore away from the marina towards the open sea.
Sobbing like a baby, Andronicus the Terrible looked back at the angry mob, gesturing hatefully at them as they sailed away, his narcissistic ambitions ripped into tiny fragments. What remained of Andronicus the Terrible’s city, his Constantinople, quickly drifted unconquered over the horizon … and was gone, probably forever.
Chapter 32
A Black Sea
Driven from the Istanbul marina, the Black Sea Princess had charged away into the Sea of Marmara like a scalded cat, its passengers desperate to put as many nautical miles as possible between them and their humiliating failure. Mooring down the coast, Andronicus the Terrible, Homer and Achilles had convened in the executive salon, still covered in vegetables and bereft of ideas.
‘I just don’t understand it,’ said the despairing Andronicus. ‘They didn’t even look like Byzantines. What were they? Arabs?’
‘Arabs?’ replied Achilles. ‘I thought they had a touch of the Hittite about them. Which would explain a lot.’
‘I’m sure they were Arabs,’ insisted Andronicus. ‘Oh, my beloved Constantinople … to be conquered by Arabs! Latins would have been bad enough … but Arabs? Oh, the shame of it. It would never have happened under my watch, let me tell you. By the love of Mary and all the blessed saints, I need to know how this happened,’ he demanded. ’I could ask that Astrid girl but I suspect she’s not the sharpest arrow in the quiver.’
‘We could ask the Russians,’ suggested Homer. ‘That Dima fellow. He might know.’
‘No. We can’t risk looking weak in front of our allies,’ responded Andronicus. ‘While he still believes me to be that Nahrapov man, he will obey me without question. However, if he should discover I possessed his beloved leader … then he’ll turn on us in the blink of an eye. He and his men are pretty mean.’
‘I could take him,’ boasted Achilles. ‘Just saying.’
‘In time, mighty Achilles,’ said Homer quietly. ‘In time.’
‘What about those Purgatorian bitches?’ asked Achilles. ‘I know they are only women, but they may still know a thing or two.’
‘Good point,’ nodded Homer. ‘Believe it or not, they educate women these days? I know, right … madness! However … in this instance, that may be of benefit. Why don’t you get Dima to bring them up here?’
Andronicus opened the door to the deck.
‘DIMA!’
‘Da, Comrade Boris?’ responded the gunman, appearing instantly.
‘Get the two Purgatorian hostages,’ ordered Andronicus in his thickest Russian accent. ‘The girls. Bring them to us.’
‘Da, Comrade Boris,’ replied Dima, obediently rushing away.
Five minutes later, Gabby and Viv, hands tied, were being roughly bundled into the stateroom.
‘Sit.’ Dima pushed Viv down into a chair. He pointed at Gabby, who was glaring back at him from beneath her trademark heavy make-up. ‘And you, girl. Sit the hell down.’
‘Seeing as you asked so nicely …,’ replied Gabby. ‘I don’t mind if I do.’
‘You,’ barked Andronicus, pointing rudely at Viv. ‘Tell me about Constantinople.’
‘Tell you about … what?’ asked Viv.
‘The city. What’s happened to it?’
‘What do you mean what’s happened to it?’ replied the puzzled Viv. ‘It’s not called Constantinople anymore. There’s that.’
‘Yes, yes …,’ replied Andronicus testily, ‘we’ve just discovered that. Istanbul, or some such stupid name. Tell me, why is it full of heathens?’
‘Heathens? Don’t you mean … Turks?’
‘Hittites,’ muttered Achilles. ‘I’m telling you, they were Hittites.’
‘Saracens,’ continued Andronicus. ‘Arabs … Moors, whatever they’re called these days. How come we didn’t see a single Byzantine?’
‘Is that where we are?’ said Gabby.
‘Cool!’ exclaimed Viv. ‘Always wanted to see the Hagia Sophia.’
‘Never mind that!’ snapped Andronicus impatiently. ‘Tell me why the capital of my Empire is infested with cursed Saracens.’
‘Well … they took it,’ answered Viv.
‘They did what?’ exclaimed Andronicus. ‘But …. the walls! It had huge great walls!’
‘Didn’t stop ’em,’ explained Viv. ‘Big siege, I saw a thing on BBC Four about it.’
‘But when?’ demanded Andronicus. ‘When?’
‘It was about three years ago,’ said Viv. ‘I saw it on catch-up.’
‘No. No. No,’ flustered Andronicus. ‘When did Constantinople fall to the Saracens?’
‘I’m not a bloody historian,’ replied Viv. ‘I dunno … mid-14th century, maybe? Can’t you look it up online?’
‘Can’t we what?’ asked Achilles.
‘The Internet, dumbass,’ laughed Gabby.
‘The what?’
‘Oh, never mind,’ said Gabby.
‘This is a catastrophe,’ wailed Andronicus, putting his head in his hands. ‘My beautiful, gleaming Constantinople. The beating heart of the Holy Roman Empire … taken … by the heathens. It’s almost too much to bear.’
‘It was quite a while ago,’ Viv pointed out. ‘People move on.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ snarled Andronicus, keen to marinate in his outrage.
‘If I had an army, I’d take it, then burn it to the ground,’ mused Achilles, digging a hole in the boardroom table with a paper knife. ‘But, we are few.’
‘If I can’t have it, I don’t want anyone to have it,’ sulked Andronicus. ‘Sack the damn place, for all I care.’
‘Our plans have been cursed! Every step of the way, disaster!’ grumped Homer. ‘Why … it is as if the Gods themselves seek to drive us mad!’
‘And what plans might they be?’ enquired Viv.
‘It is not for thee to know,’ sneered Homer. ‘Be silent.’
‘Okey-dokey,’ said Viv.
‘Look, we need to think,’ suggested Andronicus, trying to regroup. ‘It’s a mess, but it’s not over yet. It’s time to fight back.’
‘And how exactly do you propose to do that?’ asked Achilles.
‘Look. The oligarch I’ve possessed, he was a man of power, of influence,’ explained Andronicus. ‘We can use that, can’t we?’
‘Go on,’ invited Homer.
‘He’s linked to all sorts of powerful people,’ continued Andronicus, closing his eyes. ‘I’m seeing something called “the Consortium”, sworn enemies of the Purgatorians who imprisoned us in that hell hole of an Afterlife. And there’s a brother, too, in the army. A general, I think.’
‘Whatever plan you come up with, it’s not going to work,’ warned Viv. ‘The Purgatorians will never let you get away with it, no matter how bonkers it may be.’
‘The Purgatorians?’ laughed Homer. ‘Those fools cannot stop us. No one can. Those do-gooding morons are incompetent, bumbling and incapable of heroic deeds. We ancients … we are the future.’
‘Isn’t that an oxymoron?’ laughed Viv. ‘It sounded like an oxymoron.’
‘Who are you calling a moron!’ snapped Andronicus. ‘You will show your Emperor some respect.’
‘Emperor? Ha!’ snorted the defiant Gabby. ‘You’re nothing more than a chocolate despot.’
‘That does it!’ raged Andronicus, storming around the table. ‘You want to see something worth respecting? Eh?’
‘Not really,’ replied Gabby, feigning boredom.
‘How about I take you as a concubine? You can join the one I’ve already got. She’s in my master suite,’ said Andronicus. ‘You may look like a witch, but even a witch can be made to respect me … in my chambers.’
‘You leave her alone!’ snarled Viv, alarmed at the change in atmosphere.
