“Most of the new-gathered herbs are sorted, and ready for hanging,” Ruthier said when Sandjer’min remained silent. “I have a plucked chicken, and I’m about to eat. Is there anything you need me to do first?”
“No,” said Sandjer’min, reaching for the tall stool in the corner and pulling it to the work-table. “For now I’m going to spend a little time making up medicaments.”
“Do you need anything for that?” Ruthier inquired.
“No; I have wool-fat to use in ointments, palm oil for infusions, olive oil for lotions, honey for unguents, and will gather eggs for poultices, as I need them.” He gave a half-smile, his dark eyes somber. “Enjoy your meal.”
Ruthier took flint-and-steel and lit the rush-lamp that hung over the work-table. “There. The monks expect you to need light for your tasks.” He knew Sandjer’min well enough not to question the reason for his sudden reticence; the prospect of having to travel again during the year ahead was making him fretful.
“It may be a long night,” Sandjer’min said. “Last year they chanted and danced until well past midnight.”
“They danced until dawn before the Paschal Mass,” said Ruthier. “Only half the night for the Feast of the Martyrdom of the Baptist.”
“And for the Annunciation,” said Sandjer’min, looking toward the door with mild curiosity. “I don’t think they will go on so long tonight.”
“Why?” asked Ruthier.
“There is a wind coming up, from the east, and that will blow sand into the monastery grounds. That cannot be a good surface for dancing. As the monks grow tired, they may slip and fall.” He set the second latch on the shutters, and the rattling stopped.
Ruthier considered this. “I don’t know. Monks aren’t the same as holy-day worshipers; if it serves their faith, they will undertake all manner of demanding acts. A little sand in the courtyard would not be enough to stop them.” He ducked his head. “I will be finished with the chicken in a little while. If you have need of me then—”
“Yes, I know; I will call you; but I doubt that I will. Go along and enjoy your meal, and afterward, rest if you like.” He nodded in the direction of the second room.
Ruthier put his right hand to the center of his chest, then turned away.
Over the next hour the wind rose, going from a whispered tapping to a persistent drubbing; Sandjer’min sat at his work-table grinding dried herbs and mixing them with various oils and honeys, distantly aware of the monks chanting from the Gospel of Thomas, “I am the dancer and the dance. I am the singer and the song. I am the way and the wayfarer. I am the lamp and the flame,” and other verses from the millennium-old text. By midnight the wind was promising a sandstorm, and the monks were chanting less steadily in the irregular torchlight; Sandjer’min watched through the small gap in the largest shutters—luckily facing away from the wind—as the monks slowly circled in front of their chapel, their steps unsteady, their voices more harsh than when they began. He could see that the wind was taking a toll on them, and wished he could recommend they cease their rite for now, but knew his intrusion would not be tolerated. “There’ll be sprained ankles tomorrow,” he said to the room. “And dust-coughs.” With a fatalistic sigh, he went and set out the medicaments he would need to treat the monks in the morning.
But the morning brought higher winds and more drifting sands; the monks kept to the chapel until mid-day, when they huddled into a group to scuttle to the refectory, where a meal of lentil soup and simple bread awaited them.
“The nights are growing shorter,” Ruthier observed as he swept the sandy floor with a broom of stiff reeds.
“And will do so for the next six months, less ten days,” said Sandjer’min, pausing in his on-going work of labeling his medicaments.
“True enough,” said Ruthier. “It will be easier to travel in the dark of the year.”
“I’ll send word down-river to Kerem-al-Gamil to see how trading is going now that the Crusaders are gone. He should be able to give us some useful information.” There was a grim note in his voice; Ruthier knew why.
“Do you mean to travel by water?” Ruthier asked, his usually impassive face revealing his shock; Sandjer’min rarely boarded boats, for crossing running or tidal water was an ordeal for him that left him almost immobilized if he endured it for more than a day.
“If necessary.” Sandjer’min extended his hand to a knot of dried reeds, removing them from their hook. “I’d prefer to hire a messenger.”
“There are roads to Alexandria,” Ruthier reminded him.
“There are,” he agreed, putting the reeds on a chopping board. “But getting away from Egypt may require speed, and that means the Nile.” He took up a knife, but paused to add, “Fortunately we do not have to decide now. Though it would probably be sensible to leave at the end of the summer, when the heat isn’t so extreme.”
“The nights are longer, as well,” said Ruthier, and swept himself and the sand out the door into the shade of the sycamores.
“They are,” Sandjer’min agreed; he finished writing on the jars he had filled the night before, then went to an iron-bound chest in the corner, opened it, and removed a sheet of vellum, a vial of ink, and a broad-tipped Persian stylus with which to write.
“Kerem or Olivia?” Ruthier asked as he came back inside.
“Kerem,” said Sandjer’min, setting his supplies on the corner of the work-table. “I’ll write to Olivia when I have decided where we are to go, and when. I have no desire to cause her anxiety.”
Ruthier gave a rare chuckle. “She’ll chastise you for making her worry.”
“That she will,” Sandjer’min conceded with a faint smile. “And no doubt I’ll deserve it.”
Ruthier nodded, then said, “There is a great deal of sand inside the walls. I’d like to spend the afternoon shoveling as much as I can out of the monastery’s grounds.”
“You don’t need my permission to do that,” Sandjer’min said, amusement in his tone.
“Possibly not, but the monks will want to know,” Ruthier responded as he went to get his shovel from the tall cabinet near the table.
As soon as Ruthier was out the door, Sandjer’min opened the vial of ink and set it at an angle in a wooden stand made for it. He was cleaning the broad point of the stylus when he heard someone calling, “Sidi! Sidi! Come at once!” He got off his stool and went to open the door, shading his eyes with his hand against the sunlight.
A young monk was standing there, his face worn from the previous night’s celebration. “It’s Aba’yam,” he said without any greeting. “His foot is swelling, it stinks, and his face is red.”
Sandjer’min nodded. “I will bring my medicaments. Where is he?”
“In the chapel. He stayed there to pray when the rest of us went to eat. He said he wasn’t hungry.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said Sandjer’min, stepping back inside the house; in the second room he opened his red-lacquer chest, where he took down three jars and two rolls of bandages. Then he took a vial of opalescent liquid from a drawer set under the shelves, and put all these things in a small leather case. He closed and latched the chest, then went back to the monk. “You are…”
“Dinat.”
“If you will come with me?” Sandjer’min saw the young monk wince.
“I should.” He swallowed. “I will.”
Sandjer’min stepped outside and pulled his door closed; the weight of the sun struck him with the force of a blow, and he was once again grateful that Ruthier had taken care to replace his native earth in the soles of his Persian boots just two days ago. “The chapel, you say? Not the Church?”
“Yes.” Dinat started off down the gentle incline; every step kicked up sand, and he had to steady himself twice to keep from falling.
“Tell me,” Sandjer’min asked as he kept up with Dinat, “when did this begin for Aba’yam?”
“He was limping at Mass this morning,” Dinat told him. “He had trouble dancing toward the end of the
rite.”
“I don’t suppose he soaked his foot afterward, or do you know?”
“I am not aware of it.” They had passed the refectory and were almost at the chapel. “I had to feed the goats this morning; he might have done it then.”
“It doesn’t seem likely,” Sandjer’min said.
Dinat shook his head, and hurried ahead to open the chapel door for Sandjer’min, his eyes flicking nervously. “Near the altar, out of the light,” he said, standing aside to permit Sandjer’min to pass.
The interior of the chapel was dark but for a pool of light beneath the square dome atop it; heavy, greenish glass let in sunlight through this oculus, but lent it an underwater quality. The altar itself was shadowed but for the lamp that hung over it, providing faint illumination to the Coptic crucifix at its center.
Aba’yam was lying in a heap at the base of the altar, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms encircling his knees. He was reciting prayers rapidly; his eyes were squinched shut, and his face was plum-colored. As Sandjer’min approached him, he let out a little cry and sketched a blessing in his direction. “God is merciful,” he said as Sandjer’min knelt beside him. “Praise Him for His mercy.”
“From what Dinat told me, this is more a worldly problem, or a fleshly one.” He helped Aba’yam to unfold himself, saying over his shoulder to Dinat, “Go and get a bucket of water from the well and have the cooks boil it, then bring it to me while it is hot. Do you understand?”
“I will do it,” Dinat said, and left the chapel with alacrity.
“My foot has swollen,” Aba’yam said.
“So I gather,” said Sandjer’min as he pulled back the hem of Aba’yam’s habit, revealing the unbandaged foot, distorted now by massive swelling in the arch, heel, and ankle. “Why did you unwrap it?”
“It hurt,” said Aba’yam, regarding Sandjer’min with fretful eyes.
“And no doubt it is more painful now,” said Sandjer’min, bending over him and inspecting the inflamed injury. “When did this begin?”
“Mid-way through our dancing.” He stifled a cry as Sandjer’min gently touched the puffiest part of his foot; a drool of yellow pus seeped out of the puncture in his heel.
“You would have done better to leave the wrappings in place,” said Sandjer’min, bracing him so he could sit up.
“I realize that,” Aba’yam said. “I am very hot.”
“You have a fever. I will give you something for it in a moment, and then I will deal with your foot.” When he had wiped away the pus from the wound, he opened his case and pulled out the vial of pale liquid. “I want you to drink this. I’ll bring you more later on today.” He broke the wax seal and removed the stopper, then handed it to Aba’yam. “Drink all of it. It is the sovereign remedy.” As he handed the vial to Aba’yam, he felt the heat in his palms. “I’ve been told that it doesn’t taste very good.”
“So many medicaments don’t,” said Aba’yam, and drank, pursing his lips against the remedy’s sourness.
“As soon as Dinat brings the hot water, you will soak your foot; I’ll add salts to the water to help draw out the putrescence. Then I’ll dress the wound with linen that is spread with willow, hyssop, and pansy, to lessen the pain and promote healing. Tomorrow I will give you syrup of poppies, and then I’ll search the injury to discover if there is anything remaining in the wound that is causing this putrescence. If there is, I will remove it, and close the wound with silken threads.” He had brought a good supply with him on his return from India, but he was careful not to squander it; with Jenghiz Khan marauding along the Silk Road, Sandjer’min did not know when he would be able to get more of such quality.
“That will mean I won’t be able to walk for some time,” Aba’yam said, his frown deepening.
“No, not for many weeks, and you will have to soak it daily until the swelling is gone and the wound is healed, but if we are diligent, you will keep your foot,” Sandjer’min told him levelly.
“There is no other way?” Aba’yam sighed as Sandjer’min shook his head. “If you must, you must.”
Sandjer’min moved a bit so that Aba’yam could lean on him, and took more containers out of his case, trying to decide how best to proceed; it would take time for Aba’yam to recover, and that could keep the Sidi at the monastery well into summer to tend Aba’yam through it. If the wound continued unhealed, and the monks blamed Sandjer’min for it, he and Ruthier would have to be gone sooner, traveling in the long days of oppressive heat. “I must,” he said.
* * *
Text of a letter from Wilem van Groet, farrier with French forces remaining in Egypt after the Fifth Crusade ended, to Emmerico Cammaro, Captain of the Venetian ship Diadem, both at Alexandria, written in Church Latin on papyrus and delivered the day after it was dictated to Frater Giordano.
To the great Captain Emmerico Cammaro, of the trading ship Diadem, the greetings of Wilem van Groet, farrier, presently residing in Alexandria, on this, the third day of February in the 1225th Year of Grace,
Most esteemed Captain Cammaro,
I am hoping you will read this and give me the honor of your attention: as you know, Malik-al-Kamil, the Sultan of Egypt, has asked all foreigner residents of Alexandria, with the sole exceptions of merchants living in the walled quarter and religious pilgrims, to leave this country by the Vernal Equinox, or face imprisonment until the threats to the country have gone.
I am among those who will have to depart by then, being neither merchant nor pilgrim. Since I came here as a volunteer with the French knights, they are not obliged to aid me in returning home, and they have said that they can do nothing to assist me, which would mean I will have to find a band of pilgrims returning to Europe by ship, or try to travel overland through the summer; unless you are willing to allow me to go aboard your ship as far as the Serenissima Reppublica, the great port of Venezia, I will starve or be taken captive when I try to return through the regions held by Islamites.
As a farrier, I am a capable metal-worker and would be pleased to bring my forge and put it to your use on the seas. I have many years of experience to offer you in regard to smithing. I can repair all manner of metal objects, from cooking stoves to runners for block-and-tackle, to batons for hold-covers. I am capable of doing other work as well, no matter how humble. I have very little money, but my back is strong, and I would be at your service for the whole of the voyage. The reason I am appealing to you is that I have heard that your company, the Eclipse Trading Company, has accepted such arrangements in the past; I hope you will do so now.
It is seven years since I have seen my home and my family. You are one of the few Captains who have extended themselves to men in my position in the past. You are scheduled to depart in three days. If you consent to take me aboard, send me word by the messenger who carries this, and I will present myself to you before sundown with my possessions, such as they are, and my pledge of honest labor. I ask you to consider my request with the concern that all Christians should have for one another.
With my most sincere prayers for your travels and the hope that I will travel with you,
Wilem van Groet
farrier
by the hand of Frater Giordano, Trinitarian
2
Sandjer’min studied the letter that a monk called Yaboth had brought to him in the scriptorium behind the chapel. “Sieur Horembaud du Langnor, in the Aquitaine,” he mused as he read the message a third time. “He certainly knows what he wants.”
“Is it important?” Yaboth asked, hesitating a bit as he spoke while he peered at the letter he could not read. He was middle-aged, about thirty-five, with a long, tangled beard and fingers gnarled from his years of copying.
“It may be,” said Sandjer’min. He set his stylus aside and looked down at the page of formulae for medicaments, part of a book of remedies he was preparing for the monastery. “But that depends on Malik-al-Kamil more than on Sieur Horembaud.”
Yaboth looked askance. “What does the S
ultan of Egypt have to do with a Christian knight?”
“Directly, I would think very little, but if the Sultan has decided to banish most Europeans from Egypt, then it may have everything to do with him, and me.”
“There has been no word of such a ban yet, Sidi,” Yaboth said, not looking directly at Sandjer’min.
“But if it comes, then I must consider Sieur Horembaud’s request seriously.” He gazed out through the unshuttered window into the warm afternoon. “I shall be sorry to have to leave here.”
“Do you want to send this Sieur Horembaud an answer?”
“It seems unnecessary. He is planning to stop here on his way south in any case.” Getting off the writing stool, he began to refold the letter, sliding it into the sleeve of his cotehardie when he had done, then closed his dish of ink and covered his ink-cake, a mixture of powdered charcoal, rat-skin glue, and ground marsh-berries. “It’s time I go to Aba’yam.”
“He is improving, isn’t he?” asked Yaboth, more doubt in his voice than he liked.
“Yes, he is improving, but he still needs to become better: why do you ask?” Sandjer’min regarded Yaboth with a penetrating gaze. “Is Tsura’gar persisting in seeking to replace him as Aba’yam?”
“He says not, but who knows the hearts of men but God,” Yaboth said unhappily. “He has said that the continuing pain in Aba’yam’s foot is a sign that he is no longer fit to lead the monastery and that we should elect a successor.”
“An unfortunate situation,” said Sandjer’min.
Yaboth scowled. “Has he said anything to you—Aba’yam, not Tsura’gar? Do you know what he is planning to do?”
“What would he say to me? I am a foreigner not of your faith. It would not be advisable for him to speak to me about the monastery or the monks. For the most part, we discuss his progress and the treatment I provide.” This was not entirely true, but he did not want to break Aba’yam’s confidence. He gestured his farewell for the day and left the scriptorium, walking around the front of the chapel, past the refectory to the dormitory, where he knocked to summon the monk who supervised the building. “I am here to—”
Night Pilgrims Page 4