Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “There are many such since the Crusades began,” said Sandjer’min. “They are a token of war as much as sacked towns and maimed soldiers are.”

  “So they are.” Ruthier went silent as four slaves came off the barge carefully bearing a pallet between them, on which Torquil lay in a painful haze. As soon as the slaves and their burden had passed, Ruthier continued. “I’ve been told that Torquil joined this pilgrimage at the request of Richere Enzo, who is a learned goldsmith from Milano. He claims that Torquil has been his apprentice, although Frater Anteus says that Torquil is a Templar who cannot wear the mantle on a pilgrimage. Enzo has a slave, Ifar, who has told us all that he is an Egyptian, but he follows the Greeks in his religion.”

  “If he is an Alexandrian, this is quite possible,” said Sandjer’min. “There are Roman and Greek churches there, and Coptic ones, as well. The Sultan permits it so long as there is no trouble from them.”

  A shrug of incertitude was Ruthier’s only comment. He slowed his pace a little to allow him and Sandjer’min to keep behind the slaves carrying the pallet; he could hear Torquil moaning faintly with every breath.

  “And the rest?” Sandjer’min adjusted his stride; he was no longer disoriented, though with the Nile so near, he was not entirely free of the vertigo that had possessed him.

  “Methodus Temi; a blacksmith who makes iron gates and portcullises. He has lost half his sight and seeks to be healed.” He paused. “A very taciturn fellow.”

  “How do you mean, half his sight?” They were approaching the town gates, where a few curious guards lingered to admit them.

  “He hasn’t explained, not where I have been able to hear him.”

  “How many more?” Sandjer’min asked.

  “Four: Micheu de Saunte-Foi, who is the branded penitent; a man nearing old age. You know the one I mean.”

  Something in Ruthier’s voice prompted Sandjer’min to ask, “How penitent is he, do you think?”

  “I can’t say, but he hasn’t the demeanor of one seeking to repent of his sins,” said Ruthier, more bluntly than was his wont.

  “There we agree.” He thought for a few steps, trying to decide what else he might need to know of these pilgrims; for the time being, he was satisfied. “What of the last three?”

  “Agnolus Raffaele dei Causi from Genova, a merchant dealing in linen and cotton; he says his wife hasn’t given him children, and he hopes that this pilgrimage will give them some. His wife was deemed unable to travel, though I don’t know why. Dei Causi has two servants, Carlus, and Vitalis.” Ruthier glanced back toward the landing-master’s table to discover it had been removed, and that one of the torches had been put out. “Aside from the rivermen’s slaves, that is the company.”

  Sandjer’min went several paces in contemplative quiet, then, as they neared the gate, he said, “Have you spoken with Zekri and Olu’we?”

  “Briefly,” Ruthier told him. “We have been on the same boat most of the way.”

  “And what have they said?”

  “Not as much as I would hope,” Ruthier replied. “They are being very cautious, but whether it’s because they are reticent among strangers or they have been ordered not to speak, I don’t know.”

  “Zekri stammers, which might account for his silence,” said Sandjer’min dubiously.

  “True, but that doesn’t account for Olu’we’s muteness.”

  The gates of Edfu loomed ahead, thirty hands high, made of heavy planks of wood and fitted with four iron hinges. The walls were thick, made of rough-dressed stones recovered from the ancient monuments off to the side of the town itself, which lay between the monuments and the river; the fields were up-stream from the village and out of the shadows of the pillar-fronted building against the hills, and a second array of colossal, animal-headed figures half-buried in the sand. A group of three statues of a man with a bearded chin was placed so that the man faced the rising sun, the first thing the rays would touch; the three figures had identical faces and headdresses.

  One of the guards motioned to the slaves carrying Torquil to hurry, but got no results. “It’s getting late. You must hasten; we can’t keep the gate open all night,” another guard shouted in heavily accented Arabic.

  “The man is injured,” one of the slaves replied in much better Arabic.

  The guards moved to block the entrance to the town. “If he is ill, he must remain outside the gates,” the first warned.

  Sandjer’min listened to this exchange, and intervened. Stepping up to the front of the pallet the men carried, he said, “I am the pilgrims’ physician, and I tell you that this man is suffering from burning by the sun. He is pale, as you can see by his yellow hair, and his burns have blistered and broken. He has no sickness that any need fear, but he requires regular treatment as if he had been kissed by fire.”

  “Why are his eyes covered?” the third guard asked, pointing to the strips of linen that circled Torquil’s face, only the tip of his nose and the slit for his mouth showing.

  “Because they are damaged,” Sandjer’min said. “I hope to save him from blindness.” For an instant he found himself wondering what the blacksmith meant by half-blind.

  “Show us his burns,” said the first guard. “We know what the burning you describe looks like, and will decide if you’re telling the truth.”

  “Carry him up to the gate,” Sandjer’min said, standing aside so that the slaves could obey. “Let me lift his sheet. I don’t want him hurt,” he told the guards.

  One of the guards chuckled, saying, “Arrogant foreigner,” in Coptic.

  Sandjer’min turned to face him, and spoke in that language, “Not arrogant: protective. This man cannot speak for himself, so I must defend him.” As he said this, he lifted the sheet up and held it, revealing Torquil’s legs to the knees. “Take a look at him.”

  Three of the four guards gathered around, the second carrying a torch to illuminate Torquil’s ruptured blisters. “By Saint Philip!” he exclaimed as he bent over the pallet. The other two blinked with shock.

  “Those are burns,” said the first. “How bad is his face?”

  “Worse than his legs,” Sandjer’min said somberly.

  The third guard shook his head slowly. “Should he be traveling? Wouldn’t it be better to find a place where he can recover?”

  “And where would that be?” Sandjer’min asked. “I have been told he is pledged to go on, to seek out the shrines and holy places in the highlands far up-river.”

  The first guard moved back far enough to allow the slaves with their burden to pass through. “Keep him away from the old monuments. Who knows what manner of spirits would be drawn to him in this condition.”

  “He might end up with the head of an ibis,” said the second, making a sign to ward off the Evil Eye.

  “It might be better than how he’ll look as a man, even if his blisters heal,” said the first guard, trying to make a jest of his fright.

  “Take him through. The foreigners’ quarter is to your right, behind the fretwork gates,” said the third guard.

  “Thank you,” said Sandjer’min in Coptic, then in Arabic, and went into the town of Edfu, Ruthier and the slaves behind him, walking in the shadows of the ancient monuments behind the town walls.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Tsura’gar at the Monastery of the Visitation in Sese’metkra to Venerable Minseh at the Church of the Holy Apostles on the island of Elephantine, written on papyrus and delivered by the tertiary monk Kefrin nine days after it was written.

  To the most reverend Venerable Minseh in this most sacred time of Our Lord’s Passion in this, the 1225th year since His birth,

  The greetings from the most humble monk, Tsura’gar, serving at the Monastery of the Visitation in Sese’metkra, who assures you of his devotion to the Coptic Christian Church and all its work, and in the cause of that work makes bold to send you this letter with the good offices of our tertiary Kefrin, with the prayer that what it contains will lead to the
resolution of our plight in this place.

  As you are doubtless aware, our leader, Aba’yam, is suffering from a damaged foot, and because of that has been unable to fulfill his duties during this holy period. It is increasingly obvious to most of us that what little progress has been made in his recovery, he is not going to be able to participate in our sacred celebration, and thus compromise our demonstration to our people and to God. Although the foreign physician and his manservant have left our monastery, Aba’yam has continued to follow the regimen of washing and bandaging that Sandjer’min recommended for him, but which I believe has contributed to Aba’yam’s slow recovery. He prays for healing, as do we all, but he will not abandon the medicaments and potions that Sandjer’min prepared for him, which indicates that Aba’yam remains in the foreigner’s thrall to the determent of all monks and the people of Sese’metkra. He sets an example that does his position no good and spreads the belief that there are other ways than God to regain health. Thus, I fear, there is much that the foreigner has done to Aba’yam that is beyond medication, and that more than his body may be affected, and that his soul could be forfeit for his allegiance to Sandjer’min instead of to God. This weakens us all at a time when we must be steadfast.

  With the men of Islam coming more and more frequently to this village and others in the region, specifically at the Sultan’s behest to spread his religion, we must be especially careful to preserve our rites and rituals, or we may lose our flock to the followers of the false prophet, a fate that we must avoid, or consign our souls to the outer darkness that is the destiny of those who refuse to honor God and His Son in the practice of the true religion.

  The Holy Days are upon us, and it is our duty as monks in the service of God to uphold the promise that is the heart of Christian faith and devotion. In all our days upon this earth it is our calling to keep the sacrifice God made of His Son before the eyes of the faithful, and to show our gratitude for what God gave us with Jesus’ most precious blood shed to redeem us. Aba’yam says that is his purpose, but he cannot yet lead our solemn rites, nor can he reveal the Grace of salvation so long as he remains unable to be whole in body as well as in spirit.

  Little as I wish to say this, I am growing ever more certain that our present Aba’yam has reached the end of his tenure as our leader, and that for the sake of all of us in this Brotherhood, we must be allowed to elect a new leader to be Aba’yam so that we may provide the prayers and service that it is our duty to offer all of our flock. Surely you must be aware that the situation here is precarious through the monks who send you regular reports of the monastery and the village. You have been patient with Aba’yam, as is your nature and the obligation of your high office, but there are limits to patience if it allows laxness and self-indulgence to flourish. I ask you to pray and meditate on our situation, and to consider encouraging Aba’yam to do the same so that we may rightly uphold God’s Glory here on Earth. You are the only one who can require Aba’yam to step down, which is why I have taken it upon myself to inform you of what is transpiring here, and to supplicate with you to guide us in this trying time.

  May you reap the blessings of your holy office,

  Tsura’gar

  monk

  6

  “Sieur Horembaud,” Sandjer’min said as the knight paused in his supervising the loading of the boats and barges to continue their journey, “may I have a word with you?” It was early morning and most of the pilgrims had not yet arrived at the landing at the town that had been called Ombos the last time Sandjer’min had been there, where the Priests of Imhotep had settled after the Christians had come to power.

  Sieur Horembaud turned an exasperated face toward Sandjer’min. “Is it necessary? Can’t it wait?”

  “Yes, it is necessary, and no, it cannot wait,” said Sandjer’min. “It is something that I would prefer not to discuss in front of the others.” He waited while Sieur Horembaud sighed heavily, then gestured to him to speak. “I would like to ask you to remove Sorer Imogen from her work as Torquil’s nurse, for his sake and for hers.” He was wearing a black linen kalasiris instead of his cotehardie, and he had donned a square headdress such as many Egyptians wore; in the first flush of morning, he appeared to be one of the figures on the carved wall below Edfu brought to life.

  “Why?” Sieur Horembaud asked, surprised by the request.

  “She is not being helpful, and a few of the things she has done have been harmful—not that I believe she sees her actions as causing hurt, but she is not trained in treating the sick and injured; she lacks the … the temperament for nursing a man in Torquil’s condition. She has told me that she is a weaver and seamstress and her faith is—”

  “Would you take Bondame Margrethe in her stead?” Sieur Horembaud cut in. “It’s the Bondame or Lalagia, and she’s a camp-follower.”

  “I’d rather have Ruthier; he knows how to dispense medicaments and succor those who are suffering, but you wouldn’t permit that,” said Sandjer’min. “It would also keep me from falling into common discourse with those of your company.”

  “I will consider it. Frater Anteus has said that you are wise to keep apart from the rest of us, so long as you and your servant do not conspire together, which I agree. You told me you understood my decision in that regard from the first time I wrote to you; nothing has changed.” Sieur Horembaud offered a quick, cynical smile. “Will you take Bondame Margrethe to assist you? She has been caring for her husband for four years or so. It will prevent any concerns regarding you and your servant.”

  “May I have a few days of her aid before I make a final determination?” Sandjer’min countered.

  “If Bondame Margrethe is agreeable, then I will order it so.”

  “Must it be a woman?” Sandjer’min asked.

  “Yes, it must. There are those who say you are a magician already, and if you have only your servant to assist you, they’ll be sure of it, and then you will not be welcome to stay, and I have need of your abilities.”

  “Why should a woman prevent me from being a magician?” Sandjer’min asked, truly confused.

  Sieur Horembaud opened his hands, then folded his arms and held his elbows. “The Pope believes that the Devil intrudes if men who have not taken holy vows are alone in their shared company, which leads them to deadly sins.” He exhaled slowly. “If you were Christian, things would be different, but, as it is—” He stared at Sandjer’min as if his eyes could drill the certainty of his words into the foreigner. “You may have three days to decide if Bondame Margrethe will do. If she is not what you require, then it must be Lalagia, in which case there will be gossip.” He put his hand on his broad leather belt. “That will have to suffice; any greater concession would lead to unrest that would disrupt our journey, and that would result in danger to us all. You have more privileges now than many of this company: additional concessions would cause misgivings of the rest of this company to increase.” He pulled at his short beard, at present in need of trimming. “What would you like me to say to Sorer Imogen and the rest of the company about this? The women are sisters-in-law, and everyone knows it.”

  Sandjer’min had anticipated this question and had a ready answer. “You may say that since Sorer Imogen would prefer not to devote herself to the work of one who is not a Christian, you are allowing her to resume her devotions without the problems of faith that have so distressed her. I think she will be grateful to be relieved of her duties here.” He decided not to ask why the Pope thought the absence of women among pilgrims would lead men to sodomy and magic.

  “I am doing her a kindness, in fact? as are you?” Sieur Horembaud asked, then regarded Sandjer’min with narrowed eyes. “Very astute, Sandjer’min. You cannot be thought a man against the pilgrimage if you put your position so charitably. You are more clever than you show yourself to be.”

  “My thanks,” said Sandjer’min, and ducked his head respectfully; he would have gone aboard the barge to ready the shelter for Torquil’s return but was stopped
by Sieur Horembaud.

  “The days are growing warmer, much warmer.”

  “And they will be hotter still, and the wind will come up; by high summer the Nile will begin to flood and the Inundation will restore the Egyptian lands,” said Sandjer’min. “We will soon have to travel by night, or risk the kind of burns Torquil has.”

  “Up the river? It would mean changing boats in order to reach the Second Cataract, wouldn’t it?” Sieur Horembaud asked with anxiety tinging his tone. “If it is going to flood—”

  “No; as Gudjei told you when we left Edfu, we will arrive at the First Cataract and from there we will need to travel overland, first along the Nile, before the flooding begins, and then through the Nubian Desert: Gudjei has told you the same thing. It will save us many days on the river, even if we move quickly enough to avoid the start of the Inundation, and bring us closer to the junction of the Blue Nile.” He hesitated, then said, “If you will permit me: I would suggest that you not be over-trusting toward Gudjei; I know Iri’ty recommended him to guide this company, but Gudjei is as yet an unknown among us, nor are we known to him. If the pilgrims are uneasy about me and my servant, spare a few doubts for Gudjei, though he is a Christian. He has been chary of revealing his thoughts or his plans for this journey, and that troubles me. I do not suspect him of any ill, but I have seen little virtue in him thus far.” He saw Sieur Horembaud nod; he continued. “When a man is a guide, he should be generous with his knowledge, and Gudjei is not. For as long as we travel with him, it would be wise to observe him.” He thought again of the road to Baghdad, and what had happened there; he had been too trusting of his guide then and was determined not to make a similar mistake now.