Guilhem listened with great intent for a while, moved to put in a word from time to time. When the subject shifted to the Gascon Wars, however, his face lost its openness. When the subject didn’t look as if it would change any time soon, Guilhem spun on his heels and left, abruptly.
“He really doesn’t like us,” said Peire, frowning.
* * *
Sylvia was rugged up very solidly against the cold. It was night, and dark, and Sylvia’s favourite time. It had always been her special time. She always had a solitary place where she could sort out her day and her mind. She started with her regular observations of angle and position. Then she would drift into her quiet time. Sometimes she would do craftwork, sometimes she would dream, sometimes she would sing.
Here, in this cloistered cave, she needed the space particularly. There were too many irritants. Too much to be aware of. Too much that she was responsible for. And Luke was hopeless. He didn’t make decisions and he only backed her sometimes. She needed that quiet time.
Sylvia had worked out a path to the hilltop above the caves. It was flat, that hilltop, and she could see vast distances. When the weather was fine, the Languedoc nights were clear and bright and she could climb up Mac’s little ladder to the top then walk to the nearest decent rock for sitting, and she could be alone.
She didn’t care that the others noticed her going up the ladder and into the darkness. She had a cast-iron excuse. She was always going up there to work, even if she intended to do no such thing.
“Double trouble, boil and bubble,” opined Mac.
“That’s not how it goes,” said Geoff. “At least, I don’t think it is.”
They looked to the others for answers, but the others weren’t paying any attention. Neither Ben nor Artemisia had enjoyed Sylvia’s little display of need, and were hiding behind their computer screens. Ben was working. Artemisia was thinking about zombies again.
* * *
“Throw some words at me.” Theo was at his most expansive. His gestures were big and his voice ruled the room. “I want to fill that whiteboard with our work. Words, not concepts. We need to see the shape of the expedition now that we’ve been here long enough to get a feel for it. Be on the same page.”
It was a very big page. Four normal whiteboards cobbled together and flattening the uneven wall behind it. Turning the cavern into an office. Turning everything dull. Artemisia was thinking rebellious thoughts about dullness mainly because she knew that she wouldn’t be allowed to throw words at that whiteboard. She and Mac and Pauline were at the meeting only to see what the page looked like, not to actually contribute to it.
“How technical should we be?” asked Sylvia, all seriousness and scientific intent.
“Not too technical. Allow the non-specialists a bit of leeway.”
“Plant collection,” suggested Tony.
“Testing predictability,” added Theo and wrote them both up. What were they testing the predictability of, wondered Artemisia, but remained obediently silent.
“Ozone layer density, carbon dioxide levels,” was Geoff’s contribution.
“Diversity of species,” added Ben.
“Temperature measurement,” Geoff added in a rush, “And rain. Modelling changes on my lovely new computer.”
“Slower,” said Theo.
“I think in spurts,” explained Geoff.
“Then think in smaller spurts,” suggested Artemisia. Pauline and Sylvia turned and glared in unison, like well-trained monkeys. Artemisia glared back, half-heartedly. Then she smiled. “Fuel use, land use,” she volunteered. This was easy. All the information fell into neat packages. She could probably fill the whiteboard on her own, without knowing the science at all. All she had to do was think about how her new friends approached their work and how they talked about it.
“Good, good,” said Theo, and the monkeys subsided.
“Local species identification.” Ben again.
“Changes between medieval and modern species.” That was Tony.
“Dead stuff!” Mac shouted. When Theo looked across he explained “Extinction. Aren’t we looking at extinction?”
“Ben?” asked Theo.
“Yes,” said Ben, “that comes under species diversity.”
“Dead stuff,” said Theo and wrote it on the whiteboard.
“Astronomical observations,” said Sylvia.
“Make that stargazing,” suggested Mac. Sylvia looked around at him and he smiled back at her, beatifically.
“Biomass measurement,” suggested Ben.
“Adaptation of the ecological system following the Medieval Warm Period.”
“Shorter words, Tony, and fewer,” said Theo, scribbling madly. Artemisia wondered whether silent Tony was being told to speak less. This group was living in irony. They were making new discoveries using old paradigms, she realised. It was how they constructed their science, in fact, congratulating themselves on newness while not questioning where the basic approaches came from.
“Biological indicators of climate change,” added Ben, defiantly. When Theo raised an eyebrow he explained, “It’s what we do. They’re all aspects of understanding biodiversity.”
Theo looked across at Ben, as if he were analysing the comment for hidden sarcasm. “Biodiversity,” he said, eventually, and wrote it on the whiteboard.
“Erosion analysis,” said Sylvia.
“Vulnerability of forest,” said Ben.
“Medieval warm period ending,” said Geoff. “And if there’s water stress.” Artemisia thought that stressed water probably needed counselling.
“Nature of the managed ecosystem,” Ben volunteered, into silence. Artemisia’s thoughts turned to why it was fine for Ben to use five words at a time and not for Tony. She suspected they were all so used to his silences that even three words would sound voluble. This feeling was reinforced when Ben added, “Impact of climate change on pathogens and phytophages,” and Theo quietly wrote it down.
“Temperature and rainfall measurements,” said Geoff.
“Haven’t we had that?” asked Sylvia.
“Then put down atmospheric pollution.” Theo did.
“Modelling the impact of climate change, studying the effects of change at the local level.”
“How does that work?” asked Artemisia.
“We have modern studies,” explained Geoff.
“This is one of the most studied regions of France,” added Ben. “It’s why we’re here.” To chase answers that they’d already half-formulated, Artemisia added to herself.
The explanation gave Theo a moment to catch up, but before he could turn away from the board, Geoff added “The human factor in climate change.”
“I hate you,” Ben told him, informatively. “That was mine.”
“You can do all the work,” Geoff reassured him. “I just want the whiteboard credit.”
“Delta T,” Sylvia said, defiantly. “Refining it.”
“You’re a very refined person,” Geoff volunteered.
“Thanks for that,” Sylvia retorted.
“CO2 measurement — titre molaine,” Geoff answered. Theo sighed and kept writing.
“Plant genome study,” said Tony.
“Geology,” said Sylvia.
“What about your project?” Pauline spoke up. “Theo, there’s nothing of yours up there.”
“Later,” he said. “My hand is tired.”
“Well, then,” said Sylvia, “Can we talk about briefings?”
“Good idea,” said Ben. Theo nodded and took a seat.
“I think that Dr Wormwood’s last briefing was far too long and discursive and wasted a great deal of our valuable time.” Artemisia waited for someone to defend her, but no-one spoke. “Perhaps they could be short, in future, and only deal with essentials?”
“Good idea,” said Theo, obviously exhausted by the inordinate strain of writing using words. “Also, Sylvia, have you given Artemisia a picture yet?”
“Done. Two days ago. No r
esults.”
“I may be able to help a bit,” said Geoff. “I’ve noticed he keeps an eye on the back paths to the village.”
“You’ve seen him,” said Sylvia.
“Three times, but by the time I found Artemisia, he was gone.”
“You could return the book,” Sylvia said.
“Yes, Sylvia, I could, and I could apologise, but he wouldn’t understand a word I say. I would be arrested for stealing.”
“Huh,” was Sylvia’s considered response.
“Anyhow, I know more about him. For instance, he’s not a forester. At least, I don’t think he is?”
“What do you mean?”
“Or maybe he works for someone who’s not a forester?”
“Maybe if you start at the beginning?”
“What a fine idea,” Geoff grinned. His grin was very much like a child’s, direct, confiding and perhaps a little bit cheeky. “I saw him with someone in a uniform and the guy checking the paths was very respectful to the guy in uniform.”
“What kind of uniform? Maybe it was some kind of livery?”
“White. Long red cross. He carried a sword, but then the other guy does, too.”
“Templar,” was all Artemisia said. It was all she had to say. She was surprised that none of them had read up on the Templars back in Melbourne, given the team’s destination. She wasn’t quite as surprised that one had appeared here, on a pilgrim route.
This made things complicated. Artemisia had to return the book to someone who was involved with one of the long, dangerous arms of the Church. Maybe they would be lucky and maybe their forester/farmer/knight-about-town had been hailed to ask the way.
* * *
Guilhem’s next visit to Pézenas accomplished nothing, which was Guilhem’s aim precisely. When Bernat wanted to talk about his Order, Guilhem let the man babble. He was so proud of the organisation, with the groups of subordinate locations and the central commanderies all over the Christian world. Guilhem was surprised to discover that France was the jewel. After seeing Jerusalem, Guilhem was expecting to hear that all Christendom was at the edge of the world.
“The pilgrim routes,” explained Bernat. “Pilgrims pass through France.”
“You protect pilgrims, of course.” Guilhem nodded as he expressed his understanding, but his mind drew a picture of the routes and their Templar protectors and his mind did not like the chart it visualised. He had seen the brother-knights in action.
For all their immense courage and military skill, they had failed at the single most important command: they had lost the Holy Land. They should have dissolved their Order in 1291. Now they were living on borrowed time, usurers in so many ways. They should give up their money-changing and their loans and their network of command, and either they should reconquer Jerusalem or they should petition the Pope to forgive their oaths and excuse their failings. In the shade of the limestone big wall, Guilhem thought the position of the Templars was very simple and very ugly.
From that moment, he walked through the Commanderie with his eyes open to what it was. He saw the complex of buildings outside Pézenas as somewhat more than a monastery, with its squat and powerful buildings and its position of control. He wanted to hate the complex, but realised that, really, it was the Templars about whom he was ambivalent. He was comfortable with their lifestyle. Too comfortable. I need to consider this thought next time I visit.
* * *
Luke called Artemisia into his office. The walls were faced with temporary whiteboard, covered with equations and words and diagrams and arrows and squiggles. Luke worked in as many dimensions as he could colonise and the boards moved and the equation shifted, and each time Artemisia entered his office she wanted to look at the new patterns they made. She wanted to ask what it all meant, but she had done that the first time. He had dismissed her. “Basic university mathematics is going to be tough for someone like you: this is going to be impossible.” She ached to ask, But what questions are you posing? What is your framework?
“What’s it for, then?” she timidly pushed a little, instead.
“I’m shifting our paradigms here,” and he waved at the tall wall, where he must be standing on a chair to reach the top and scrawl those sums. That tall wall had been jerry-built from other whiteboards. Under Theo’s writing, ‘titre molaine’ was still faintly discernible. “Over here I’m processing the data from our transit. I believe I can reduce the likelihood of certain potential errors. And all the rest” - his arm took in the remainder of the office - “is what we couldn’t even think of until we had travelled here and produced the data here,” he patted his computer fondly. “It will change our reality.”
“How?” Something that changes the questions that people asked, something that gave inconceivably new answers. This was big. This was exciting.
“Later, later,” he said, “It’s still early days. It’s why we’re all here. Why it’s us and not that American mob. Early days.” His voice drifted into some other realm for a moment, then he pulled at his beard, sat down and he got down to business, checking permissions and making sure that he and Artemisia agreed on what would keep the team’s environmental impact low.
The next time he had refused to explain at all. It was obvious by the rearranged boards that he had been working mainly on changing reality. Artemisia took this to mean that he didn’t want to talk about how he intended to change reality. Maybe he intended to surprise everyone when they woke up one morning and the sky was purple and the sea was ink-black?
This time she didn’t push. She merely admired the pretty pictures the equations made and then she sat down.
“You haven’t given back that book,” Luke said, without preamble.
“I haven’t found the person to give it to. I know where the shepherds run their sheep. Goats and I scare each other and the goats run away a lot. I’ve learned the times that farmers are likely to be out and about. Oh, and I’ve worked out that those packs on animals that head up the cliff from time to time are bringing supplies to the castle.”
“The others have seen him.” He didn’t quite sound accusing, but his tone certainly made Artemisia seem negligent.
“I’ve noted where they saw him. I’ll keep trying. I keep documenting everything else while I try. It’s important to know land use patterns and lifestyles and what farmers actually do and when.”
“Write a paper about it when you get back. Maybe it will be published one day,” Luke’s tone was dismissive. Artemisia looked across at his ‘changing reality’ equations. Maybe Luke didn’t realise his attitude condemned?
“Did the others tell you the man was seen with a Templar?” Artemisia was determined to make sure that the team understood their locality and its ramifications. She would push the history until they damned well accepted that the world outside the caves was no theoretical study, but actual people leading real lives. What was wrong with all Luke’s notations all over his office is that they left out the people and the consequences that people always brought. There was something missing in his emotional makeup… his next statement confirmed this thought.
“No,” Luke was only half interested. He wanted his information packaged according to his needs. How on earth does that work, anyway, when he’s trying to change realities?
“It could be important. The Templars were”
“Write me a briefing about it,” said Luke. “Just get that book back to its owner before Sylvia reclaims it.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Artemisia, sarcastically. Luke nodded and turned his face towards his computer. Luke might have something missing in his makeup, but he understood Sylvia.
“If you can’t find that man, the book is mine,” she announced over dinner two days later.
“What?” Artemisia was totally flummoxed.
“I found it. It’s mine.”
“Sylvia,” said Ben, gently, “it’s not yours unless the Director decides, when we return home.”
“I’ll find the owner,” Artemisia
said. “I’ll return it.”
“Hah,” said Sylvia, her face showing her thoughts with window-like clarity. She had Harvey twisted around her little finger, as she had Luke. The book was hers.
* * *
Guilhem was sitting on the hillside, sunning himself. He fell asleep. It was that kind of day and he was in that kind of mood. A noise woke him up. He thought “Hillfolk” and kept his eyes shut. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see strange beings that day. Then he heard laughter. He knew that laugh.
He opened his eyes a slit and saw a hand moving away from the pommel of his dagger. His own hand reached out quickly and grasped that other hand. A piece of chalk dropped out of it.
Fiz said, “I wasn’t doing anything.”
Guilhem opened his eyes fully and said, “We’ll see about that.” He looked at his dagger. Its beautiful flat pommel was now decorated with a very silly and rude picture.
Fiz twisted his wrist and freed himself, and then scrambled down the hillside. Fiz was remarkably good at negotiating impossibly steep slopes in a great hurry, Guilhem thought. He himself was not half mountain goat. So he stood there, arms crossed, looking dour.
When Fiz was out of sight, the boy looked back at where the knight was invisible and smiled, a big, goofy smile. That was a good moment, when he saw his drawing on the dagger. His drawings of knights with huge male parts were the best of anyone’s, he thought. Fiz frowned. Bona was scrambling up the slope, anxious to join him.
“Go away,” he said. “I don’t want you.”
She still came, obdurate, but a bit careful. Fiz used that care and went down the hill in the other direction, faster than she could catch. He could climb these hills better than anyone!
Bona had another hindrance. In the distance, she could hear her brother crying. He had followed her. He had skinned his knee. Bona gave up her attempt to be adventurous and glumly made her way down to the wounded one. Fiz, as usual, would have his adventures without her.
* * *
Artemisia was determined to write about William. Not the short briefings that she was told she had to write, and not academic papers, but the stories. She wanted to engage the time team and make them understand that the outside was real and that the figures they saw in the landscape were human beings with lives. Whose possessions mattered. Whose futures mattered. Consequences - she wanted to get the rest of the team feeling that there were consequences.
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