Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “So you want to divert suspicion from yourself,” said Sieur Horembaud. “Not that I wouldn’t do the same.”

  “No, I want to avoid any more problems than are necessary for this company,” said Sandjer’min without heat.

  “And you think that Gudjei may be a problem, because he tells us little.” He tapped his foot impatiently.

  “I think it is possible that he has intentions you know nothing of, and that he is in a position to take advanta—”

  “I comprehend your meaning. He knows what lies ahead, and the rest of us do not, and yet he says little of what he knows. I agree this is vexing. You tell me that you have been along the Nile but not for some years, and you have admitted that the river is changeable. What you know may not be in accord with the river now, but it is more than the rest of us can say. Will your monks be able to help?”

  “Zekri has knowledge of the river, and information from his father for what lies beyond in the green mountains, where we are bound. You may speak to him if it would reassure you to have a Christian second what I have recommended. He stammers, but he is willing to tell you what he knows.” Sandjer’min shaded his eyes as the sun brightened in the east; the force of it sapped his energy and left him feeling enervated. “He has said he is willing to help as much as he is able. Ruthier can translate for you if you would rather I not do it.”

  “I want to avoid squabbles, if that is possible, and speaking to that monk of yours could offend Gudjei. It is a difficult problem. But I want no misdirection, deliberate or otherwise, to prolong our pilgrimage.”

  Sandjer’min met Sieur Horembaud’s gaze. “Indeed.”

  “I will deliberate on what you say, and guard my tongue when I speak with Gudjei—and you,” Sieur Horembaud conceded after a short moment of consideration. “You, being more widely traveled than most of us, would be more alert to certain kinds of dangers than we are.”

  Sandjer’min gave a single laugh. “If I have misjudged the man, you may blame me for any misunderstandings that may arise.”

  Sieur Horembaud did not share Sandjer’min’s amusement. “You may be sure I will. Though Torquil suffer for it, I would not hesitate to expel you and your manservant from our numbers if you play me false or foolish.” He swung around to summon the leader of his slaves and issued sharp orders in awkward Greek. When the slave bowed and moved away, the knight turned back to Sandjer’min. “Because I am willing to consider your advice, don’t mistake that for an increase in trust. You are still a foreigner among this company, and will be so until you convert to the true faith.”

  “I won’t forget,” said Sandjer’min, and stepped aboard the barge, experiencing the queasiness that bothered him when he was over running water, for in spite of his native earth in the soles of his Persian boots, the activity of the water blocked the annealing power of the earth, and in sunlight he was made most uncomfortable. He went to the edge of the shelter and looked at the supports for Torquil’s pallet, noticing that a little more water had accumulated in the bottom of the barge. He looked about for the bailing pail that had been stored at the first oarsmen’s bench, but did not find it there. He was about to search elsewhere, but was interrupted by the arrival of Richere Enzo, the Milanese scholarly goldsmith who was hoping to find relics on this pilgrimage.

  “They call you Sidi, don’t they?” he said, resting his foot on the landing-rail and leaning his elbows on his knees to enable him to lean forward comfortably. His language was emphatically northern in its pronunciations.

  “Some do, others don’t,” Sandjer’min said, curious why this man had suddenly decided to speak with him; he replied in the Venezian dialect, knowing that Enzo would be able to understand him but the slaves and rivermen would not.

  “A great honor for someone who isn’t a follower of Islam,” Enzo remarked. “You must have gained an enviable reputation.”

  “So I understand.” Sandjer’min waited a short while, and when Enzo said nothing more, asked, “Is there something you want of me?”

  “Not exactly.” For a brief moment, he squinted at the far bank of the Nile. “I want to offer you a proposal, if you’re willing, of course, to advise me on any relics we may come upon. I have heard that some vendors have passed off simulated objects to those searching for relics; I would prefer not to be one of them. I am not looking to buy sheep’s bones on the pledge that they are the relics of a martyr.”

  “What about Nicholas Howe?” Sandjer’min asked. “He is on this pilgrimage specifically to purchase relics. He must know more than I do.”

  Enzo gave a smile that was as much practiced charm as it was sincere. “You have lived in Egypt for two years, I’m told, and you know what the hazards are apt to be when we arrive in the land of the Holy Grail.”

  “You’d do better to ask Gudjei about that,” said Sandjer’min. “He has lived here all his life and has been to the land of the Holy Grail six times: I have not been there before. He is more likely to know what to look for than I am.” He did not add that he had no interest in relics, knowing such an admission would add to the doubts some of the pilgrims had about him.

  “But he is one who may decide to help his countrymen, not one who is a Roman Christian, as most of us are. God has made you a man of steady character, I’ve heard.” Enzo studied him. “Your manservant has told me that you have a sharp eye for that which is not authentic, a skill which would be useful to my task.”

  Sandjer’min wondered why Ruthier had made such a claim, for although it was true, it was also more revealing than what Sandjer’min usually encouraged. “I have sometimes been able to tell which objects are originals and which are … copies.”

  “That’s what interests me,” Enzo enthused. “If you will be good enough to advise me, I will gladly pay you a portion of what I realize from any sales I might make.”

  Had Enzo been younger, Sandjer’min might have rebuffed him forcefully; as it was, he only said, “If you would like my opinion on any relic you have questions about, I will be pleased to provide it, but I cannot promise that that opinion will be accurate. If Sieur Horembaud dislikes this arrangement, I will withdraw from it at once. If that is acceptable to you, I will do what I can for you.”

  “Understood. And that shows the steadiness of your character, that you admit the possibility of error.” He stepped back and grinned. “You have eased my mind.”

  Sandjer’min resumed his search for the pail, and found it under the cargo platform; he bailed out the water he could reach, and was wiping down the supports for the pallet when the slaves carrying Torquil arrived and put him into his place under the shelter. “How is he?”

  “He is restless, Sidi,” said the leader of the four as he and his companions stepped away from the shelter. “He pulls at his covering, and that causes him pain.”

  “Then I’ll have to provide him a calmative, and syrup of poppies for his pain,” said Sandjer’min, and hoped Ruthier would arrive shortly with his chest of medicaments. He moved to his banded chest that was filled with his native earth; it stood next to the pallet in the shelter. He touched Torquil’s neck, feeling the pulse which was too fast, and then bent to listen at his chest for the workings of his lungs; Torquil gave a bleat of pain, and Sandjer’min sat up at once, realizing that he had accidentally brushed the edge of his patient’s jaw. “Do not fret,” Sandjer’min said quietly. “I will give you something to make you more comfortable shortly.”

  “My master?” Ruthier said from the boarding-plank. “I have your chest.”

  “Thank you, old friend,” said Sandjer’min, rising and going to help him aboard. He unbuckled the sling that held the red-lacquer chest on Ruthier’s back.

  “Sieur Horembaud is uneasy,” Ruthier remarked in the dialect of Lo-Yang.

  “That he is. I think this pilgrimage is proving more difficult than he thought it would be, and he hasn’t decided how to deal with that,” Sandjer’min said in the same tongue.

  “Do you think he will turn back?” Ruthier raised
his arms to help Sandjer’min finish the unfastening of the harness.

  “I doubt it; he has too much riding on the completion of the journey. He wants to lead his troops again, and that will only be possible if he completes his pilgrimage.” Sandjer’min glanced over his shoulder. “Are the pilgrims coming?” he asked in Imperial Latin.

  “They’ll be here soon. They have gone to pray at the shrine to Saunt Jerome.” His voice was exquisitely neutral.

  “I hadn’t realized there was such a shrine here,” said Sandjer’min, and caught the silent laughter in Ruthier’s eyes.

  “There is an ancient shrine to a man in a simple loincloth sitting cross-legged with a board balanced on his knees; he’s writing, this man with close-trimmed hair and a smooth face,” said Ruthier. “The pilgrims say it is Saunt Jerome.”

  “Ah. That shrine,” said Sandjer’min, sharing Ruthier’s amusement, and feeling an ancient pull to the shrines and statues to persons and gods that few recognized for what they were; his centuries in the Temple of Imhotep welled in his thoughts.

  “The sculpture is preserved quite well.”

  Sandjer’min kept his recollections to himself. “If it pleases the pilgrims to honor that Saunt Jerome with prayers, so be it. There are worse gods and men they could pray to.” He sat on the chest, taking strength from its contents, but still feeling the depletion the sun and water worked on him. “It will be hot in an hour.”

  “There is wind from the north.” Ruthier knew that Sandjer’min was feeling the strain that traveling over water always gave him. “Perhaps you’ll have a chance to rest during the worst of the heat.” He placed the medicaments chest in its position for the day’s travel. “Sieur Horembaud plans to travel at night tonight.”

  “If all goes well with Bondame Margrethe, then perhaps I may have a rest.” He moved a bit so that the shadow of the shelter-cloth covered him.

  “And you may be able to sustain yourself with something more than the blood of horses,” Ruthier added.

  “That would be risky, I fear,” said Sandjer’min. “Our privacy is limited, and only one of the women is likely to be willing.”

  “But not wholly impossible, and night will give you cover. As to which is willing, that may change once we start across the desert. We have a long way to go; you would benefit far more from what a woman could offer than any creature.” Then, satisfied that he had made his point, Ruthier asked as he unlocked the chest, “What do you need?” He looked down at Torquil. “He’s not looking improved, is he?”

  “To begin, pansy-and-willow-bark in solution with date-wine,” said Sandjer’min at once. “It should provide relief for Torquil’s fidgetiness.”

  “And syrup of poppies in his drinking water?”

  “If you would, please.” Sandjer’min was studying the burned man’s face. “You’re right. There is little improvement, but fewer of the blisters are opening, and his color is improved.”

  “Yes, and he is more restless, which means his vitality may be returning,” said Ruthier. “He is beginning to itch in a few places.”

  “That’s a sign of healing,” Sandjer’min remarked. “But he mustn’t be allowed to scratch, for it could bring putrescence.”

  A new voice spoke up. “Why should he not scratch?”

  “Bondame Margrethe,” said Ruthier, offering her a bow as she came across the boarding-plank.

  Sandjer’min turned to her. “Bondame,” he said, extending his hand into the sunlight to help her aboard. “I am most grateful to you for coming to assist me with Torquil.”

  “And why shouldn’t he scratch?” she repeated.

  “It could lead to putrescence in the open blisters, and then there would be more difficulty in treating him.” He looked directly into her eyes. “We must guard against putrescence at all costs.”

  “Sidi—is that what I’m supposed to call you? It’s what the Egyptians call you, isn’t it?” she asked as she put her hand into his.

  “Sidi, or Grofek, if you would prefer,” said Sandjer’min, paying almost no attention to Ruthier’s look of surprise.

  “What manner of title is that?” she asked him. “If it is a title?”

  “It is, and it is used in Hungary,” said Sandjer’min.

  She laughed to cover her confusion. “Sidi would probably be best. Everyone will understand it.” Stepping down into the well of the barge, she said, “Thank you for explaining about the scratching. I am told I should take instruction from you in regard to Torquil and any others who may need your skills. You must tell me how I am to aid you.”

  “That is my understanding as well,” said Sandjer’min, drawing her into the shadow of the tent-like shelter.

  “It was good of you to relieve my sister-in-law; she would far rather keep watch on Heneri than have to tend to—” Her gesture in Torquil’s direction completed her thought.

  On the far bank, a trio of crocodiles began to slide toward the river as the increasing warmth wakened their hunger; a few of the slaves at the landing exchanged uneasy glances as they continued loading the barges while keeping a careful eye on the water. One of them made a series of gestures at the dark shapes in the river, only their eyes and snouts showing.

  “Sieur Horembaud said you have tended your husband for some time.” Sandjer’min was careful not to make this sound intrusive, or the sort of discussion that would gain Sieur Horembaud’s disapproval.

  “Not quite four years; he was struck on the helm in battle and lost that armor so that he had another blow to the head that cracked his skull; the Devil entered into him through the break, or so our priest told me. Sieur Dagoberht has been clumsy and forgetful and … and childish ever since, requiring as much attention as a baby,” she answered without rancor. “It is for his sake that I am making this pilgrimage. If I return safely, we hope God will restore him to health. If he is not improved, his lands and titles must go to Heneri, for they need administration that my husband cannot give them. Sorer Imogen was chosen by the Bishop to accompany Heneri and me, since she is so truly dedicated to God.” She moved to the narrow bench where Sorer Imogen had sat and sank down upon it, studying Torquil’s bandaged face. “Poor man. He will be dreadfully scarred, won’t he?”

  “That he will,” said Sandjer’min. “It is unfortunate. Did no one warn him of the risks with such a burn?”

  “I believe Iri’ty said something to him, but Torquil dismissed it.” Margrethe sighed. “He’s a Templar, you know, but presently excommunicated, which is why he’s on pilgrimage, so he cannot wear the mantle or use his title. He hadn’t been in Egypt long when he was excommunicated; the Order made no allowances for his unfamiliarity with Alexandria. This pilgrimage is to restore him to the ranks of the Templars again.”

  “What did he do to deserve excommunication?” Sandjer’min asked, curious now why Sieur Horembaud had made no mention of it.

  “Frater Anteus said that he had pillaged a Christian church, taking the sacred vessels from the altar,” Margrethe replied, looking a bit ashamed for him. “If this burn is his punishment, then excommunication is a small matter.”

  “I wonder if Torquil thinks so,” said Ruthier.

  “We’ll discover that in time,” Sandjer’min said, deciding that he needed to know more about his patient. “For now, it is our duty to keep him alive and to save him from as much pain as we are able to.”

  “How much attention does he need?” Margrethe asked without any outward show of distress. “Is it more than watching him?”

  “Didn’t your sister-in-law tell you? For now he moves with difficulty and his vision is impaired. He is weak and his skin is … fragile.” Sandjer’min took the ewer of water Ruthier handed him. “I supposed Sorer Imogen might have informed you.”

  “No; she only prayed for him. She said it was for God to heal him, not men.” Margrethe hesitated, then asked, “What do we do with his urine and excrement?”

  “We do with it as we all do: give them to the river.” Sandjer’min turned to Ruthie
r. “The syrup of poppies is mixed in already?”

  “Yes, my master,” Ruthier said. “And I must go to my boat.”

  “So you must. The rest of the pilgrims are coming.” He answered Ruthier’s wave with one of his own as his servant left the barge.

  “How long do you think it will take us to reach the land of the Holy Grail?” Margrethe asked after a brief silence; she watched Sandjer’min as he placed a fine cotton mesh over Torquil’s half-open mouth, and then moistened it with water from the ewer Ruthier had given him. “Is this what you want me to do? give him water that way?” She watched Sandjer’min measure out another small amount of water onto the thin cotton.

  “Yes. This will keep him from dying of thirst, and the anodyne in it will lessen his hurts and help him to rest,” Sandjer’min told her.

  “And the water has been boiled, or so Sorer Imogen told me?” Margrethe pursued.

  “Yes. It kills animacules that can harm the guts. When we rest at mid-day, there is a gruel of peas and wheat you will offer Torquil for a meal. He may have figs if he is actually hungry, but otherwise, save the figs for another time. If we have fish to eat, see he has a little of it.” He could see that she was paying close attention to his instructions, and would follow them. “Keep out of the sun yourself, Bondame. You are not as fair as he, but your skin might still blister if you remain in the sun.”

  “So Frater Anteus has warned us all,” she said.

  Most of the pilgrims were at the landing now, and half of them were boarding their boats. The horses and asses were being led aboard their barge, moving anxiously in anticipation of the handful of raisins and ground millet each of them would receive at the start of the day’s travel; the slaves leading them watched the water for any sign of trouble. The landing was filled with activity as the loading of goods was completed, and the rowers and oarsmen took their places on the barges, while the rivermen raised the sails on their boats.