Sepulchre by Kate Mosse

feel blood trickling from his eyelid, but he managed to twist around slightly to avoid the worst of the hits. The man holding him was also wearing a neckscarf across his face, but his head was uncovered and his hard scalp covered in angry red blisters. Anatole drew up his knee and sent his foot smashing back into the man's shin. For an instant the hold upon him was loosened, just long enough for Anatole to grab at the open collar of the man's shirt and, getting purchase, send him staggering against the sharp-edged pillars in the doorway.
    Anatole launched himself forward, using the weight of his body to try to get past, but the first man caught him a glancing jab to the side of his head. He half stumbled to his knees, swinging out as he fell and catching the man hard in the ribs, but inflicting little damage.
    Anatole felt the man's fists, clenched together, come down on the back of his neck. The force of the blow sent him staggering forward, then he stumbled and dropped to the ground. A vicious kick from steel-toed boots to the back of his legs had him sprawling forward on the ground. He threw his hands over his head and pulled his knees up to his chin, in a futile attempt to protect himself from the worst of the assault. As one blow, then another followed to his ribs, his kidneys, his arms - he realised for the first time that the beating might not stop. 'Hey!'
At the end of the passageway, in the gloom, Anatole thought he saw a light.
     
'Hey! You! What's going on?'
     
For a moment, time stood still. Anatole felt the hot breath of one of the assailants whispering in his ear. 'Une lecon!
    Then the sensation of hands crawling over his battered body, fingers pushing into the pocket of his waistcoat, a sharp tug, and his father's fob watch being torn from its clip. Finally Anatole found his voice. 'Over here! Here!'
With a final kick to his ribs, causing Anatole's body to jack-knife in pain, the two attackers left, running in the opposite direction from the inconstant light of the night-watchman's lamp. 'Over here,' Anatole cried again.
He heard the shuffling feet coming towards him, then the clink of glass and metal on the ground and the old night-watchman was peering down at him.
     
'Monsieur, qu'est-ce qui s'est passe ici?'
     
Anatole pulled himself up into a sitting position, allowing the old man to help him.
    'I'm all right,' he said, trying to catch his breath. He put his hand up to his eye and brought his fingers away red. 'You've taken quite a beating.' 'It's nothing,' he insisted. 'A cut.' 'Monsieur, you were robbed?'
    Anatole didn't immediately answer. He took a deep breath, then reached his hand up for the night-watchman to help him to his feet. Pain shot across his back and down his legs. He took a moment to get his balance, then straightened up. He examined his hands, turning them over. His knuckles were cracked and bleeding and his palms were red with blood from the cut above his eye. He could feel a gash on his ankle where the skin was open, rubbing against the material of his trousers.
Anatole took a moment more to compose himself, then he straightened his clothes.
     
'Did they take much, sir?'
     
He patted himself down and was surprised to find his pocket book and cigarette case still there.
    'They appear to have taken only my watch,' he said. His words seemed to be coming from a long way away as the reality slipped into his head and took root. It had not been a random robbery. Indeed, not a robbery at all, but a lesson, as the man had said.
Pushing the thought from his mind, Anatole pulled out a note and slipped it into the old man's tobacco-stained fingers. 'In gratitude for your assistance, my friend.'
     
The watchman looked down. A smile broke out. 'Most generous, Monsieur.'
     
'But no need to mention this to anyone, there's a good chap. Now, if you could find me a cab?'
     
The old man touched his hat. 'Whatever you say, sir.' CHAPTER 8
    Léonie woke with a jolt, thoroughly disorientated. For a