Sandjer’min spoke up before Bonnefiles could respond. “Lalagia is telling the truth. Without the camp followers, many Crusaders would be dead, some from wounds, some from hunger, some from mischance. Even the Templars and Hospitallers have such women in their companies, though they are sworn to chastity.”
“Absurd,” said Noreberht, his face eloquent of disgust.
“He’s right,” Sieur Horembaud said, his voice forceful. “Lalagia is searching for her man, who is missing from his own pilgrimage. Most of you know the story: Sieur Arnoul is from Brabant, and he has been gone for more than two years, so she is seeking him: they have children and she is trying to find him for their sakes.”
“You’re right—we know this,” Nicholas Howe complained.
“It doesn’t sound like it,” Sieur Horembaud shot back, staring at Vidame Bonnefiles. “You have forgotten her reason for being with us.”
“All right, all right,” d’Urbineau soothed. “The Vidame has been less than charitable, but this arises from his zeal. A man in his position must be diligent in keeping his reputation as a zealous Christian unstained, or the Church could rescind his office in favor of another, more acceptable Vidame.” He turned to the visibly annoyed camp-follower. “If you, Lalagia, can forgive him for Christ’s sake, then the offense is mended.”
“And it will fester, unless God has truly imbued her soul with compassion,” said Micheu de Saunte-Foi in cynical satisfaction. “Forgiveness always does when there is no true compensation for it.”
The rest said nothing. In the awkward silence, Sandjer’min got up, bowed slightly to Sieur Horembaud, and went toward the door; he was almost out of the room when Sieur Horembaud called out to him. “You’re leaving us?”
“For now. I trust you will enjoy the meal. My manservant and I have matters to attend to before we leave here. Tonight we pack the medicaments.”
“Go then, with our blessing,” said d’Urbineau.
Howe forced a lascivious chuckle. “Make the most of the evening. It’s a long way across the desert.”
Sandjer’min went out, leaving the hostel and making his way to the stables, where he found Ruthier inspecting tack and ropes. He summarized the dinner conversation, adding, “Howe is right—I intend to make the most of the evening.”
“Packing your chests and crates?” Ruthier suggested. “Or something more useful?”
“If it is possible, something more.” His tone was deliberately ambiguous and his brows drew together in a frown.
Ruthier concealed his relief at this admission with a nod. “Are you in the stable for that purpose?”
“Not tonight. I need more … substantial nourishment with the desert ahead of us.”
“Of course. There are women you can visit in their sleep here in the foreigners’ quarter, but you will have to wait until past midnight to seek one out,” Ruthier said in the Spanish of six hundred years ago. “From what I have discovered, there are many opportunities for amusements until midnight.”
“No doubt you’re correct,” said Sandjer’min in the same tongue.
“In the meantime, what do we need to do?” Ruthier inquired.
“All the medicaments in the red-lacquer chest need to be readied for crossing the desert. I have a stack of rags. We can wrap each container in one, and that should keep them sealed and guarded against breakage.” He looked out to a section of wall near the rear of the hostel; half of it was deeply buried in the sand, but the part above it showed a procession of ancient gods. “Horus, Thoth, Min,” he said to himself. “Anubis, Maat, Isis, Osiris, Hapy, Bubastis, Sekmet. All good gods for a journey, with the exception of Sekmet.”
“Forgotten gods,” said Ruthier with sympathy.
“Not by me,” Sandjer’min said with a trace of a smile; he picked up a rag and went to open the red-lacquer chest. “And not by those who see their images, little as they know which gods these are.”
“No; they think the gods are demons that Moses banished to the wastelands.” Ruthier shook his head. “Is it the animal heads, do you think?”
“In part,” said Sandjer’min as he worked the lock and opened the door. “But Maat—she’s the one with the wings—is also regarded as a demon, when you’d guess she were an angel.”
“Probably one of the rebels cast out of Heaven, or Lilith,” Ruthier said.
They set to work wrapping the medicament containers and putting them back in their places in the chest. The stable grew dark as the last of sunset faded, and after a while, Ruthier lit one of the rush-lights so that they could be observed at their work; neither he nor Sandjer’min was visually hampered by darkness. The two men kept at their labors with the contents of the red-lacquer chest. Most of the time they maintained a companionable silence, though occasionally they exchanged minor remarks.
“The wind’s coming up,” Ruthier observed.
“It often does at night,” said Sandjer’min, then changed his tone. “I’m not easy in my mind about the next stage of our journey; I apologize for being brusque.”
Ruthier smiled. “You are not the only one. Sieur Horembaud only repeats himself when he is worried, and he’s been doing that all day.”
Later, when the unmusical clang of a gong announced the city gates were closing, Ruthier said, “Tomorrow night’s the last time we’ll hear that for a while.”
Some time after that, after the noise level from the hostel had dropped, Carlus and Vitalis, dei Causi’s two servants, came into the stable, both carrying heavy cases. They nodded to Sandjer’min and Ruthier, then lit a few more rush-lights; their wavering flames provided uneven illumination to their work.
“Are they still at table?” Ruthier asked in the common tongue of northern Italy as the two servants strove to put their burdens in a safe place.
“No,” said Vitalis, the older of the two. “Noreberht has gone off with Menines, I suppose to a house of pleasure.”
“And him so against Lalagia,” scoffed Carlus.
“Do they have such a thing here?” Ruthier did his best to look surprised.
“Everywhere has such a thing if you know where to look for it,” said Vitalis. “This place is no different.”
Ruthier gave a diverted snort. “True enough. Well, I wish them joy of their evening; they’ll find little such amusements in the Nubian Desert.”
“Do you mean there really are pleasure palaces in the desert?” Carlus asked, wide-eyed.
“He’s joking,” Vitalis explained with exaggerated simplicity.
“Not entirely,” said Ruthier. “After a few days on the sands, an oasis seems like Paradise.”
“Then you have traveled the great desert?” Vitalis looked at Ruthier with real interest.
“I have traveled a great desert, but not this one.” He saw the look on Vitalis’ face. “I have crossed the Takla Makan, to the north and west of China, some years ago.” Almost seven hundred years ago, he added to himself.
“He has; I was there,” said Sandjer’min, giving the first indication that he was listening; he knew Sieur Horembaud and Frater Anteus would disapprove of this discourse, and gave a warning gesture toward Ruthier.
Vitalis laughed. “Travelers! They would have us believe all manner of tales. I have heard that there are ponies in the East that breathe fire, and that there are men as spotted as leopards in the forests of Russia.”
“Since you are curious, my servant is answering your questions. Would you prefer he did not?” Sandjer’min’s tone did not alter at all from its geniality, but there was something in his eyes that made Vitalis take a step back, and Carlus brush his hands on his femoralia as if to rid them of something unwelcome. “For the sake of the company, perhaps silence would be better—what do you think?”
A stillness came and passed: Vitalis shrugged. “It will be as it must.”
Ruthier regarded the two men closely. “Are you worried about the crossing?” He wrapped the last jar in a linen rag, put it in place, and stepped back so that Sandjer’min could
lock the chest once more.
“Yes,” said Vitalis at the precise instant that Carlus said “No.”
“You have crossed desert before,” Ruthier said to Vitalis.
“Yes. Twice. Before dei Causi employed me.” He coughed. “Not that one, the Syrian Desert. The second time we came as near to dying as I would ever want to again until God calls me.” Vitalis gave Carlus a sharp look. “He believes that crossings are tests provided by God, that so long as his faith is strong, he will be able to make his way in safety. But he has never before faced the open sands.”
“You’re getting old,” Carlus said as if that contravened any opinion Vitalis might express. “Your faith is faltering, like your legs.”
“Young men always say that when we old men disagree with them.” He laughed and aligned a long case next to the far wall. “Put the smaller cases on this for now.”
Ruthier came up to Sandjer’min. “I’ll test the water casks now and fill them for the journey shortly before we leave.”
“Thank you; and be sure the water is boiled; this company cannot afford flux at this time.” He took one of two bridles from his chest of tack, pulled it out, and began cleaning it, taking care to inspect it for signs of wear.
“Boiling, to be rid of the animacules,” Ruthier said, ducking his head; he had been very careful to behave like the pilgrims’ servants since their journey began, especially when the other servants were present.
“The casks are with our supplies,” said Sandjer’min.
“Yes,” Ruthier agreed, and went toward the four closed rooms at the end of the rows of stalls.
Sandjer’min worked steadily, finishing his inspection on the bridle and the spare set of reins he carried, then started on the halter-with-reins that Ruthier would use for the ass he rode; he paid little attention to the two servants: Carlus and Vitalis had almost completed stacking dei Causi’s crates and chests and were both showing signs of fatigue. When Carlus yawned for the second time, Vitalis set down the crate of Egyptian pottery their master had already purchased on his journey south.
“Shove your crate out of the way for tonight,” he recommended to Carlus. “We can deal with them in the morning.”
“And have dei Causi deliver his thanks with a stick? No. We must finish this.” Carlus attempted another step, nearly tripped, and let out a shriek of dismay. He stood still until he was steady on his feet once more, then shuffled to the wall and very charily set down his crate with a sigh. “Excuse us, Sidi,” he said to Sandjer’min. “We are going to retire before we collapse into a stall for the night.”
“Most wise of you,” said Sandjer’min, evincing a hint of irony.
Carlus gave Sandjer’min an uncertain scowl, then made for the door; Vitalis lingered, dawdling over securing a cord around a box filled with cloth.
“Don’t hold his youth against him, Sidi,” he said.
“Certainly not,” Sandjer’min said with an ironic smile. “All of us were young—once.”
“Yes,” said Vitalis, ducking his head respectfully before he left the stable.
Sandjer’min inspected a girth-buckle and decided he would have to make a new one; tomorrow would be time enough, since they would have the whole of that day and most of the next to make ready. He returned his tack to its chest and closed it, securing it with a lock he had carried from Lo-Yang. After taking a quick turn around the stable, checking stall doors, leaving ripe figs in the mangers, and topping off the water in the troughs, he blew out his rush-light and left by the rear door.
The streets were almost empty; only the torches at the intersections of streets were lit. Music came from the upper floor of a food-and-entertainment shop; Sandjer’min passed them by, going toward that part of the foreign quarter that was given over to more private pleasures, and to the foreigners who had decided not to move on, up or down the Nile. He had turned down an alleyway, planning to go toward the side-gate of the town, when his attention was caught by a boy of eight or nine, who stepped out of a doorway.
“You. Foreigner,” he said in acceptable Arabic.
Sandjer’min realized that unless the youngster were addressing the two striped cats a half-dozen paces ahead of him, the boy was talking to him. “Yes?” he said in Arabic, looking around in case there should be more youths in the shadows, though his night-seeing eyes could make out none but the boy. “What do you want?” He moved a little to the left so that he could bolt from the passage if he had to.
“You. Are you looking for a woman?” The sensual smile he gave was at odds with his age, something he had been taught to do without being aware of its intent. “I know where women are. Pretty women. Women as fair as the full moon.”
“Do you.” Sandjer’min went up to him.
The boy moved back into the doorway, continuing with his rehearsed offer. “It is no trap. There are women. Pretty women. Waiting for men.”
“But there is only one of me,” said Sandjer’min in amused apology after giving the house a brief but thorough scrutiny; small as it was, there might be as many as three women living in it, but that did not seem likely. “What are all these pretty women to do?”
The boy took hold of Sandjer’min’s sleeve. “You come with me. It’s getting late. You come.”
Without any sign of effort, Sandjer’min pulled his square, black-linen cotehardie’s sleeve from the boy’s determined grip. “Why should I believe you? You could be luring me off to a trap set by robbers.”
“You must come,” the boy said, a note of desperation in his plea. He tried to catch hold of Sandjer’min’s clothing again.
“No trap? Why would you say that if you had no plans for a trap?” Sandjer’min took a step toward the youngster. The game, paltry as it was, was beginning to wear on him, so he added, “Very well. Show me where I will find these pretty women.”
The boy gave a little scream and fled to the interior of the house; a moment later an attractive woman of about twenty appeared; sloe-eyed and olive-skinned, she wore a simple long deshba of sheer linen, and her face was partially veiled by a length of fine, pale silk. “Never mind Kayru. He hasn’t learned how to approach strangers yet. He needs more practice.” She gave him a brief appraisal in the dim light cast by a guttering lamp inside the doorway. “He may have been wise to stop you.” There was a world of innuendo in her simple words. “It’s been a slow night so far. You could change that.”
Sandjer’min studied her, trying to decide what was best to do. Taking shared pleasure as something more than a dream was tempting, but if this woman were a practiced whore, she might have set her own satisfaction aside in favor of business: not all women in that profession were pleased with their work as much as Melidulci had been, or as gratified by it.
“See? Pretty woman. You go with her,” said Kayru.
“Hush, you wretched boy,” said the young woman, her eyes never wavering from Sandjer’min’s.
“I am not wretched,” Kayru declared, and winced in anticipation of a reprimand that never came.
To fill the silence growing between them, Sandjer’min asked, “What is your name?”
“Ruia,” she answered. “Kayru is my brother.”
“You live here, just the two of you?”
She smiled. “My family sent Kayru to me a year ago, to teach him. He is a very beautiful boy, and will be so until he has a beard.”
“I see,” said Sandjer’min.
“Would you prefer him?” The question was so direct that Sandjer’min was startled.
“No,” he said, no change in his demeanor. “He is a beautiful boy, and doubtless will do you proud, but my tastes run to women, not boys.”
Ruia shrugged. “Whatever you prefer.”
Sandjer’min watched her watching him, seeing her trying to decide how to lure him in. “I am interested,” he told her. “What do you expect, if I should accept your offer?” He did not know how to deal with this woman, but he was increasingly curious about her; over his long life, he had encountered many w
omen, and a number of men, who earned their livings by selling sexual pleasure, but this woman was a puzzle to him.
“Tell me what you expect: that is what will matter.” She regarded him speculatively. “I will not allow knives used on me, I won’t be whipped, and I won’t pray. And I will not do any of those things to you.”
“That’s acceptable to me,” he said, making up his mind to make the most of the opportunity she presented. Ruia was a willing, awake partner, and that was more than he had hoped to find this night. “So this night will not end in rancor, what would you charge me for your company from now until dawn?” He waited while she made up her mind.
“You are a foreigner—don’t deny it, I can tell by your accent, and your clothes.” She calculated. “Ten silver denarii for that long.”
“Why not a Venezian ducat?” Sandjer’min suggested, catching Ruia’s surprised blink.
“That is more than twice as much as the denarii,” she told him, maintaining her composure with an effort as her eyes glittered at the thought of the money. “Why would you pay more?”
“Why will you not accept it?” he rejoined, and once again waited while she thought.
She glanced over her shoulder at Kayru, then looked back at Sandjer’min. “I will take your ducat, but it will buy you no favor.”
“Understood,” he said, making no effort to hurry her inside. “I will abide by your terms.”
“Oh. You’re one who likes to be coaxed,” she said with the world-weariness of an old woman. She stepped back. “Come in. The second chamber on the left is mine.” She rounded on her brother. “Kayru, you can go to sleep now.”
Night Pilgrims Page 14