;John looked around as the hands tended to him. This was a tailor shop? Haberdashery? Mercery? Was that a tailor's dummy tossed aside in the far corner? Where were the merchants? Gone to ground like hunted foxes, if they were smart.
Now Firsthand shuffled him into heavy knee stockings and drew stiff felt trousers onto his legs. These had no fly, quite inconvenient when Nature called. You'd have to pull everything down like a toddler learning to wee-wee by himself. Next came a canvas skirt, and there followed a smashing long-sleeved shirt that ended mid-thigh and then Firsthand held out the most mingin armor any sod ever designed as proudly as if it were made of chrome steel. Fabric formed ten percent of it, tough fabric but there you go, it was fabric. Any of those swords standing over there could rice, slice and dice it like Anthony Sullivan cut through jicama.
"If you please - " Firsthand asked politely as he rolled up the garment with brass plates the size and shape of the old sovereign coin. Some industrious soul had sewn these in rows onto the fabric. They covered the garment from belly button upward to throat and short sleeves and then downward to the all important crotch and nethers. Firsthand fit the neckline over John's head and then unrolled the armor over his chest and back, straightening the sleeves that protruded beyond the armor as if they would do any good in protecting. The shirt, skirt, trousers, and stockings seemed useless except for modesty's sake and when had John ever cared about that? Firsthand gave a final pat and nodded to Secondhand as Thirdhand poked through a pile of metal on the floor. This outermost garment was his whole armor? It couldn't be.
And it wasn't. Secondhand accepted the last metal bits from the pile that Thirdhand offered. Then Secondhand - a squire, wasn't that the term? - knelt before John as he buckled greaves onto shins and placed leather shoes upon feet. He sagged his head onto his breast. John Reached for a spell of encouragement fruitlessly and then gave in to the urge to clasp the man's shoulder. Their shared world may shatter in minutes, but a mate's a mate, righto?
"Steady on," John said.
The lifted face held sorrows of not only his own life but that of his liege's. "I see before me your lady wives, the first and second each enjoying only a year of holy wedded state before her death." Added grief roughened his voice. "The first dear woman died to give you a girl babe who breathed not at birth and the second wife died days after losing the babe who failed to take true shape inside her. Before I die, know that I admired you for mourning and moving on to plead with your bosom friend George to find a worthy third mate."
"Yeh, that sounds like me."
Secondhand must have thought John needed more heartening despite the flippant statement. "Yes, milord, Ambassador George quested to bring the perfect bride to grace your throne but did not succeed for Your Excellence."
"My Excellence would have killed the poor cow, so no more about Mrs. Emperor The Third."
Earnest consolation arose from Thirdhand, who stopped unrolling a length of silk and approached to stand near although not too near his ruler. It seemed to John in the weak light that Thirdhand owned a face not quite as seamed in age as the others. "Rest your heart, milord. You shall see your Empresses this day in Paradise."
"If you say so. Hells bells, life here is tough on the ladies."
From his kneeling position, Secondhand gripped John's greaves. His gaze burned into John's without magic, without conjures, with only the spell of his inner solid kindness. "You are the Roman Emperor, Constantine the Eleventh Palaiologos. You will not fail today. You will breathe life into your legend forevermore."
John flogged his memory of First Form History as taught by Mr. Forbush. "I got stuck in Istanbul, I mean Constantinople? Named for me? And today sees its defeat?"
"He has lost his reason! We are doomed in certainty!" Firsthand grieved and went to stand by the slitted window, leaning against its opening to gasp for fresh air before he caught himself. He sprang to safety at the side of the gap and John nearly laughed.
"The eleventh and last Roman Emperor Constantine. You lot will die. I will die. Today is my last day. Somehow I knew all my cons would come to this."
Thirdhand would not be deterred from his comforting duty. "Milord, for your head." The hands settled not a sturdy helmet but a wad of red silk rolled into a turban upon John's head. "I ask pardon that your fallen warrior" - he nodded towards the farthest corner holding what John saw now was no tailor's dummy but a nude corpse - "rushed to duty without his helmet and paid the grim price. His plain garb must suffice to disguise his Emperor."
The faithful retainer stood back to assess his work. "You resemble an ordinary soldier. It is the best I can do for you, and now I pray." He sought the side of Firsthand and they both knelt to grasp their swords by the blade, butting the tip into the stone floor without blunting it. They nodded to each other before regarding intently the cross formed by hilt and blade.
Secondhand's voice grew hurried. "Milord Emperor, we make for the gate of Saint Romanus and must fight our way through to its postern hidden gate."
"Not so hidden, was it?" John snorted. "Forrie's lecture is coming back to me. The city's warriors left it open by accident because eight weeks of siege exhausted them and the enemy swarmed into the city."
Screams, pounding feet and shouts passed by the slit of a window. John could not bring himself to look out to see the melee ending a civilization of centuries. He felt sick to have neither a scrying orb nor a simple bowl of water to divine their future if a miracle happened and his magicks returned. Wait! Four swords ... did one have a black handle for athamé reading? No, not one did because all shone softly in either gold or silver. That figured for such posh men as these. "Ah well, all me talent's pissed away except me time smelling sense."
Secondhand was not listening. "We who love you will defend you to the last. Our triple formation will enfold you and we shall prevail against the tide of heathens fouling the streets of your city. They will not expect that. Keep close to us always." He appeared to push his weary mind further. John wondered how much battle he had already seen today. "Milord, the time is now. We seek the postern gate and escape to fight another day! Have faith that we will evade our enemies in the league and one half between us and the sea where surely we may signal a friendly Venetian, Pisan or Genoese vessel to carry us to safety."
"Oi, gents, it's broad daylight and a league is - well I draw bupkis on how far one is but never mind - numbers don't lie, it was eight thousand defenders against eighty thousand invaders according to me old teach- "
"Still, milord Emperor, have faith." All that Secondhand did, was, and hoped for consisted of these two simple words. There was no sense in explaining common sense to this one. John was sure his own face lost its usual knowing smirk and he looked, dare he think it, resigned to his fate.
Another lesson from Old Fatty Forbush slid out from the part of his life that John did not think about much. "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." He stood in agreement to fist bump with Secondhand, ignoring the puzzled look. "All right, bring it. Life is not that great, anyway."
Firsthand and Thirdhand blessed themselves at the words. Thirdhand approached with one of the swords showing a slight curve, offering it to him reverently. Not quite straight, John thought, I knew this weapon was mine. He took it up for a practice swing.
Firsthand moved smoothly behind him.
"Milord, your arm wearies after much battle this morning. Allow me." A chest like a battleship's bow pushed against John's back and an arm of similar rocklike substance pressed over his until the fist covered his own. "Thusly. And thus. And parry. So."
As if a child, John permitted the basic lesson. "Enough, mate. Ta."
Firsthand stepped backwards to rejoin his two companions and the three nodded as one. "May God guard us, guide us and keep us safe and strong in the Faith," they chorused.
"All for one and one for - " began John. The three raised their swords before freezing in a tableau.
His need for a last cigarette grew to a thirst before exploding into a craving and he put down his sword.
"Cigs means cigarettes, not sigils, so gimme those Silk Cuts please - eh?"
Each owner of the hands resembled a wax statue like those in Madame Tussaud's gallery, ten minutes before he and Zee conjured their favorite statues to life as a way to spice up their Halloween together after a mundane dinner and a movie. John padded to each august lord, peering into faces and snapping fingers to wake them.
"Eh? What's going on?"
"John Constantine, this is your life."
John turned to the darkest corner of the mercery. "Oh. It's you."