‘Good,’ approved Sammy. ‘There’s a salve in a small jar. The green one. Apply that to your injuries every morning and night.’
Arent wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Is that the piss-smelling one?’
‘They all smell like piss. It’s not a good salve if it doesn’t smell like piss.’
A musketeer approached from the direction of the wharf, calling Sammy’s name. He wore a battered hat with a red feather, the floppy brim pulled low over his eyes. A tangle of dirty blond hair spilled down his shoulders, a beard obscuring most of his face.
Arent examined him approvingly.
Most musketeers in Batavia were part of the household guard. They gleamed and saluted and were good at sleeping with their eyes open, but this man’s ragged uniform suggested he’d done some actual soldiering. Old blood stained his blue doublet, which was dotted with holes made by shot and sword, each one patched time and again. Knee-length red breeches gave way to a pair of tanned, hairy legs riddled with mosquito bites and scars. Copper flasks filled with gunpowder jangled on a bandolier, clattering into pouches of saltpetre matches.
Upon reaching Arent, the musketeer stamped his foot smartly.
‘Lieutenant Hayes, I’m Guard Captain Jacobi Drecht,’ he said, waving a fly from his face. ‘I’m in charge of the governor general’s household guard. I’ll be sailing with you to ensure the family’s safety.’ Drecht addressed himself to the musketeers escorting them. ‘On the boat now, lads. Governor General wants Mr Pipps secured aboard the
‘Hear me!’ commanded a jagged voice from above them.
Squinting into the glare of sunlight, they craned their necks, following the voice upwards.
A figure in grey rags was standing on a pile of crates. Bloody bandages wrapped his hands and face, a narrow gap left for his eyes.
‘A leper,’ muttered Drecht, in disgust.
Arent took an instinctive step backwards. From boyhood, he’d been taught to fear these wasted people, whose mere presence was enough to bring ruin to an entire village. A single cough, even the lightest touch, meant a lingering, dreadful death.
‘Kill that creature and burn it,’ ordered the governor general from the front of the procession. ‘Lepers are not permitted in the city.’
A commotion erupted as the musketeers peered at each other. The figure was too high up for pikes, their muskets had already been loaded on to the
Seemingly oblivious to the panic, the leper’s eyes pricked every single person gathered before him.
‘Know that my master’ – his roaming gaze snagged on Arent, causing the mercenary’s heart to jolt – ‘sails aboard the
As the last word was uttered, the hem of his robe burst into flames.
Children wailed. The watching crowd gasped and screamed in horror.
The leper didn’t make a sound. The fire crawled up his body until he was completely aflame.
He didn’t move.
He burnt silently, his eyes fixed on Arent.
2
As if suddenly aware of the flames consuming him, the leper began beating at his robes.
He staggered backwards, falling off the crates, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
Snatching up a cask of ale, Arent covered the distance in a few strides, tearing the lid free with his bare hands and dousing the fire.
The rags sizzled, the smell of charcoal singeing his nostrils.
Writhing in agony, the leper clawed at the dirt. His forearms were terribly burnt, his face charred. Only his eyes were still human – the pupils wild, thrashing against the surrounding blue, driven mad with pain.
A scream wedged his mouth open, but no sound passed his throat.
‘That’s impossible,’ muttered Arent.
He glanced at Sammy, who was straining against his chains, trying to see better. ‘His tongue’s been cut out,’ Arent hollered, struggling to be heard over the din of the crowd.
‘Stand aside, I’m a healer,’ came an imperious voice.
A noblewoman pushed past Arent, removing a lace cap and shoving it into his hands, revealing the jewelled pins glittering among her tight red curls.
No sooner was the cap in Arent’s possession than it was snatched away again by a fussing maid, who was trying to keep a parasol over her mistress’s head, while urging her to return to the palanquin.
Arent glanced back towards it.
In her haste, the noblewoman had yanked the curtain off its hook and spilled two large silk pillows on to the ground. Inside, a young girl with an oval face was watching them through the torn material. She was black-haired and dark-eyed, a mirror of the governor general, who sat stiff on his horse, examining his wife disapprovingly.
‘Mama?’ called out the girl.
‘A moment, Lia,’ replied the noblewoman, who was kneeling beside the leper, oblivious to her brown gown piled up in fish guts. ‘I’m going to try to help you,’ she told him kindly. ‘Dorothea?’