Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [70]
And his face…
The woman gazed at the flawless complexion, the jet‐black, glossy hair, the large almond‐shaped eyes and delicate, full‐lipped mouth.
Yet she knew he could only be one man, the Magna, and a wave of cold terror swept through her as he advanced into the cathedral.
The prostrate Chaptermen scuttled away at his approach, clearing a pathway to the steps at the far end of the chamber. Yong swept up the steps and positioned himself on the bare, plain wooden throne. Fifty feet above his head, inset in the ceiling like a great sleeping eye, was a circular wooden panel. A matching panel some hundred feet across occupied most of the cathedral floor.
The woman had seen these features before but had never noticed how exactly they corresponded. But for now she was more concerned with the ceremony in the cathedral.
At a nod from Yong, the massed ranks of Chaptermen rose to their knees, silk robes whispering, and began to chant a strange dies irae in a low, humble murmur. The mournful song rang throughout the cathedral, rising above the constant pounding of the gong.
The woman closed her eyes and shivered as a further pang of remembrance stabbed at her.
A few of the supplicants struggled to their feet and, crossing the floor, picked up rows of censers. They processed down the cathedral aisle, swinging the incense‐filled spheres back and forth and gurgling incomprehensible intonations. Sickly vapour gushed from the censers and the woman fought hack a coughing fit as it filtered through the fenestella into her hiding place.
Yong stood up and his gaze swept over the assembly. His coffin‐black eyes narrowed and he bent down to retrieve a huge wooden cross from behind his throne. The shaft was covered with a filigree of gilded flame.
He leant on it as though it were a walking stick and stretched out his other arm, his elegant fingers splayed wide.
‘Hear me!’ he bellowed. ‘O, fragile and unworthy animals! Though you think yourselves pure and unpolluted, I tell you that in the eyes of Saint Anthony you are naught but the offal of beasts!
And though your hubris may convince you that you are worthy of His mercy, I tell you that he will show none in the face of your grave and unforgivable sin.’
The ranks of Chaptermen, penitents, flagellents and general supplicants murmured in hysterical dismay.
Yong’s expression lightened slightly. ‘Yet I tell you now, o pigs of Saint Anthony, that you might yet find absolution in the conversion of heathens, for He looks kindly upon those who spread His gentle creed.’
The assembled groaned with relief. This was a familiar ritual. The woman herself had heard it several times.
Yong descended the steps, the huge cross in one hand clattering on the stonework.
‘There are among us today some wretched souls who do not believe as we believe, whose darkness has yet to be illuminated by the one true faith.’
He pointed towards the cages and the inhabitants cowered as his voice echoed around the cathedral. ‘These scum. These pustules on the body politic. These poor unfortunates must now know the glory of Saint Anthony!’
He reached the bottom of the steps, laid down the cross and flung his muscular arms wide. ‘Bring them to me!’
The Chaptermen scuttled across to the cages and unlocked the heavy padlocks. Terrified and cowed, the wretched people began to spill out into the cathedral, hugging at each other for comfort.
The woman hid her face. She felt sick and scared, almost as though she were down there herself.
The Chaptermen began to prod at the prisoners with spindly spears and herded them up the aisle towards the throne. Yong stepped forward, wreathed in the thick incense which was clinging to every stone of the cathedral.
Chapterman Jones jabbed at a small, skinny child and she stumbled forward, her wide eyes gazing appealingly at Yong. Surprisingly, he smiled.
‘Child,’ he whispered, ‘do you