Tamburlaine Must Die by Louise Welsh Read Free Book Online Page A

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kin.'

    `No,'
the little man wagged a finger at me, and though his words were pious
his tone was all dissent. "Twas the Jews killed Christ. The same
dark race as pollute our land now.'

    It
was nothing I hadn't heard before and my retort was well rehearsed.

    `The
Jews were his own folk and knew him best. They had the choice between
Christ and Barrabas and chose Christ, though Barrabas was a thief and
a murderer. I can only suppose Christ deserved all he got, though
being the bastard son of a whore, it's no surprise he turned out
bad.'

    I
placed my pipe between my teeth and started to light it. Baynes shook
his head, his clever grin caught in the light of my flame. His eyes
gleamed red, like a devilish cleric coaxing an inverted catechism
from a new wrested soul.

    `You
can't think it so.'

    I
took a draw and puffed smoke into his face. `Oh I do.' I was enjoying
myself now. `The angel Gabriel was but a bawd to the Holy Ghost. Did
he not solicit Mary and was not Christ the result?

    Baynes
feigned shock.

    `But
Christ gifted us the sacraments. He made us safe in God's love.'

    An
evil love that requires his own child's blood as sacrifice.' I forgot
my mission to discover Tamburlaine. The drink had lifted my senses
until I delighted in the kind of blasphemies that set sober men
reciting prayers or singing hymns, because it is unsafe even to think
these truths. I stared Baynes in the eye and whispered, `If Christ
had any sense he would have made more ceremony of the sacrament. The
papists have the best idea. They know the theatre of religion. They
make a spectacle of the thing. I'd rather watch a show by some papist
priest with a shaven crown than a hypocritical Protestant ass.'
Blaize laughed, goading me to further outrage. `Christ knew nothing
of theatre. Better he should ...' I took another pull of my pipe
searching for inspiration. `. . . Better he should praise God with
tobacco than wafers.'

    I
raised my cup to the room and felt all-powerful, cursing Christ and
his vengeful father to a man dressed in the Devil's colours.

    Baynes
hissed, `But surely as a man of letters you must love the Bible. Is
it not the finest book ever written?

    If
I had been sober, I would have marked he slurred less now than
before. But the thrill of drink and danger was on me. I laughed and
told him it was filthy done and were it up to me I would much improve
its style. My tomfoolery cheered Blaize, though he had heard it all
before. He laughed and coaxed me on.

    `Tell
him what you think about the apostles.' And so it went, I spinning
blasphemies, Blaize encouraging my outrages and the small man
remonstrating irony as he fed us ale, until he emptied his purse, the
night drew dark and we sallied into the street.

    P
Blaize reeled down the alley and stood against the wall, muttering to
himself as he fiddled with his codpiece. His mumbles ceased and I
heard the splash of his stream hiss against the wall. He sang softly
as he pissed. A child's lullaby. For some reason the song lowered my
spirits. I rallied all my optimism and slung an arm around Baynes,
declaring him my new brother and all past differences forgot. The
small man returned my hug and I thought him full of filial love. Then
the mood changed. His body stiffened and I realised his small frame
was more vigorous than I'd supposed. Suddenly he was pressing his
poniard into my waist, letting me feel its point, pushing hard enough
to pierce my doublet, but no further. He held my arm in a lock I
would not have believed him capable of. Then he put his face close to
mine and I thought I smelled a whiff of sulphur. I gasped against the
shock of his attack, gathering my breath to call for Blaize. But
Baynes pressed the knife deeper, piercing my flesh, slicing a cut
along my side, stopping, but promising more should I make a noise.
For a full second the street was silent save for our ragged breaths
and the sound of Blaize's stream. Then Baynes spoke. His voice
rasped, full of hatred and