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was to be taken seriously, and Peter had been right to organize its removal from the city. He had simply chosen the wrong man, and it was fortunate that Julius was on hand to advise and help. ‘Leave now.’
    ‘I am already gone,’ said Julius, taking up his travelling pack and heading for the door. ‘Finish the wine I brought before you go to tell your brethren of our success. It will fortify you, and you are looking pale.’
    Julius took the proffered cup and drained its contents. By the time he had finished, Julius had slipped out of the door and closed it behind him. Marcus was rather startled to hear the sound of a key in the lock. He pulled himself to his feet and staggered towards it, pulling ineffectually until he realized that it would not open. He wondered why Julius had done such a thing, when he had just instructed him to tell his brethren what he had done. He swayed uneasily, feeling dizzy and a little sick, and went to the table, where Julius’s goblet of wine stood untouched. And then he understood.
    Julius had poisoned him, and had locked him inside this remote hovel so that no one in his Order would know what had been done. But why? Marcus had given Julius the relic in good faith and willingly. Why had it been deemed necessary to kill him? He slumped to the floor as his legs became rubbery and unable to hold his weight. The answer to that question was clear, too: it was not Pichard whose motives and character were questionable, but Julius’s. Julius intended to use the relic for his own ends.
    Shadows clouded Marcus’s vision, and he could not feel his legs. Would he have died anyway, if Julius had not killed him? He had touched the relic–to make sure it was the right one when he had stolen it back from Pichard–and had resigned himself to his fate. But would it have happened? Barzak’s curse could have nothing to do with Julius’s decision to commit murder. Or could it? As he closed his eyes for the last time, Marcus wondered how many more people would die before the relic reached Rome. He smiled. Julius would be one of them, because he had laid his profane fingers on it. But how many more?
    Then darkness claimed him.

ACT ONE
     
    Devonshire, 1194
     
     
    The cargo boat glided up the last half-mile of the mirror-calm river, its single sail tightly furled, the flood tide being sufficient to drift it to its mooring against the quay. Short and stubby, the Mary and Child Jesus sat low in the water, her hold full of casks of wine from Anjou and kegs of dried fruit from Provence. The weather on the return voyage from St-Malo had been kind, unlike the outward trip, when the master had wondered whether he would ever reach harbour alive, with his load of Devonshire wool and Exeter cloth. Thorgils the Boatman, who owned the vessel, as well as being its captain, swore that this was going to be the last trip of the season. November was really too late to be risking the long Channel crossing from the mouth of the Exe to Brittany. After they had discharged their cargo at Topsham, he would take the Mary back the few miles to Dawlish and haul her out on the beach for a refit, then spend the time until Easter in his fine new house with his young blonde wife. The thought warmed him in spite of the cold mist that hung over the river, though the ache in his joints told him that he was getting old–twenty years older than the delectable Hilda.
    The boat rode sedately along on the tide and Thorgils leaned on the steering board to make sure that her bow would nudge against the quay at exactly the right spot. He glanced to port and saw the flat marshland stretching away to the low hills in the distance. If he were to look back a little, he would almost be able to see Dawlish, the better to imagine Hilda’s warm embrace.
    Ahead was the river, which rapidly narrowed to reach Exeter five miles upstream. A few yards to starboard was the village of Topsham, with its welcoming alehouses and brothels, though he had no need