“South, bearing slightly east,” Sandjer’min reminded him; he felt the wind rising, making the cooling sands buzz.
“Yes, yes. If we must, we can ask Firouz if we get too far off track.” He swung around in the saddle to make sure his people were following him. “We’ll have some moonlight tonight, that’s something.”
“It will rise soon after we have gone the first league,” said Sandjer’min, knowing that Sieur Horembaud was as appetent as he was excited.
“When do we stop to rest?” Sieur Horembaud asked, although he knew the answer; he had spent from noon until almost sunset yesterday going over all the plans with Sandjer’min and Firouz, so the question was more of a check to find out if Sandjer’min were still in agreement with his plans. He had to call out as if ordering soldiers in battle; Sandjer’min knew Sieur Horembaud would be hoarse by dawn.
“At midnight,” said Sandjer’min, keeping his voice level, aware that despite his show of enthusiastic confidence, Sieur Horembaud was anxious about this phase of the journey. “We rest, we have food, we water the animals, and we travel until dawn.” He could not keep from adding, “As we have agreed already.”
“I wish we had met with the pilgrims bound north who came through Syene Philae ten days before we did—we could have learned so much from them. As it is…” The words trailed away in the hum of the cooling sands. “Well, we know our route, and Firouz knows the way. We’ll do, if we keep to our plans.”
“In general, I agree,” said Sandjer’min carefully, “but I know too rigid a commitment to plans can end up creating its own trap. We must be prepared to accommodate the dangers we haven’t anticipated.” It had happened to him the first time when he was still breathing, and several times after that; the worst so far had been on the road to Baghdad.
Sieur Horembaud accepted this reprimand with the appearance of good grace. “I know you think this repetition is useless, but when you’ve commanded troops in battle, as I have, you learn that you cannot go over plans too often or too firmly. We are in strange territory that could be dangerous, and all of us need to know what is expected; what is true for soldiers is true of pilgrims, and they deserve the same instruction soldiers do, and for much the same reason: so that they can cover the distance with as little difficulty as possible. Like an army, our men will need to know what is planned for them, and they will have to remember accurately during the fight.”
Sandjer’min did not mention that he had commanded troops in the past, and that he understood the need for repetition, saying only, “We face no army here, only the desert.”
“And that is enough,” said Sieur Horembaud, watching how his mare made her way through the sands. “That is why we hold to the walk and are strung out in this double line, which would be folly if there were enemies nearby.”
A short distance on, they passed a pair of great heads emerging from the sands, carved by ancient hands and long neglected; the heads were no longer smooth, but pitted from the constant abrasion of sand, their mouths partially covered, the nose of one broken off. Sieur Horembaud stared at them as the band of pilgrims approached them. “What manner of people make such monuments and then bury them? How much more than the heads are there?”
“Probably a whole body for each head,” replied Sandjer’min, knowing that there was. “And I doubt the ancient people buried their monuments: the wind and sand did that.”
“Then the sand is deeper than I thought, to have covered so much.” He looked about him, as if he expected the dunes to rise up and cover him.
“We have been climbing slowly since we left Syene Philae, and the dunes are stretching out ahead of us,” Sandjer’min reminded him as calmly as he could. “Firouz told you that the ground rises gradually toward the hills south of here, where we will find the Gold Camp. You can see the edge of the hills ahead of us. They’ll be plainer when the moon has risen.” He patted his horse on the neck, aware by the angle of his ears that the gelding was listening to the conversation. “Nothing to trouble you, Melech,” he said.
“You coddle your horse, Sandjer’min,” said Sieur Horembaud, shaking his head. “He doesn’t even belong to you.”
“For this leg of our journey, he does,” said Sandjer’min. “He is a strengthy animal, and for that I thank him.”
“A mere convenience, nothing more. And yet you cater to him,” said Sieur Horembaud, looking for some manner of dispute to rid him of his anxiety; now that he and his company were out in the vastness of the desert night, he was becoming uneasy.
“Of course; while I am able to, so he will remain loyal when I am not.” Sandjer’min saw Sieur Horembaud try to stifle annoyed laughter. “I see no reason to argue over the matter.”
Sieur Horembaud snorted in derision. “I’m not arguing: you are being unreasonable. That horse is your servant, as God made him to be. As master, you will enforce your authority; he will take what you give him and be grateful, for men are masters of beasts. And he will obey you if you keep a firm hand on him and use spurs to correct him—and I don’t mean those coin rowels you use; you need spikes, to enforce your will.”
Rather than argue with Sieur Horembaud, Sandjer’min said, “On that we must disagree,” and rode on in silence.
A little later on, Sieur Horembaud said to the air, “You were right; we do need the extra asses we bought in Syene Philae.”
Sandjer’min was wise enough to say nothing.
Some way back at the head of the main body of pilgrims, slaves, and servants, Firouz was trying to help Heneri to learn to ride his camel. “Rock with his movements; do not strive to remain fully upright. Your back will pain you if you do,” he said in Arabic, and exaggerated his own motions to show what he meant. “Be like a flag in the breeze—let the air do the work. The camel is like the air; you are the flag.”
“Like a flag? It’s like being at sea in a tempest. I might be sick,” said Heneri in schoolboy Church Latin as he clung to the saddle; he knew Firouz did not speak it beyond a few words, but he persisted in using it, as if by repetition, Firouz would gain understanding; he told himself that no matter what he had promised Pater Foulepiau back home, it would be best to learn more Arabic, and to improve his Greek, as well. He struggled to come up with an Arabic word that would convey the sensation he was experiencing on the camel, and settled for miming throwing up.
Firouz chuckled. “You are making it too hard,” he said, and even as he said it, realized Heneri did not understand him, so he showed the boy a second time how to move with the camel, all the while resolving to teach Heneri—and any of the other pilgrims who wanted to learn—some basic Arabic so they would not constantly be caught in a mass of misunderstanding, requiring the help of Frater Anteus or Sandjer’min to explain what was being said. It had been hard enough on the boats, but riding compounded the problems. He decided to make his start now, and held up his finger, pointing the direction they were traveling. “South,” he said in Arabic.
Heneri repeated the word, and pointed, asking in his woefully inadequate Arabic, “Aysh?” meaning what.
Realizing he was attempting too much, Firouz held up his finger again, and said, “Wahid,” then raised a second finger and said, “ihtnane,” and raised a third, saying, “tahlatah.”
With a sudden smile, Heneri held up a single finger. “One—wahid,” then a second, “two—ihtnane,” then a third, “tahlatah—three.”
Firouz echoed Heneri’s smile with one of his own. “Yes,” he said in Greek, nodding several times. “Ney.”
Although Heneri did not understand the word, which sounded more like no than yes to him, he knew approval when he saw it, and settled down to learn a few more words of Arabic; only then did he realize that he had been riding the camel without difficulty since he had put his attention on words and not the animal’s rolling gait. He glanced at Firouz, and saw him grin. “A fine beast, this camel.”
“Yes,” said Firouz, smiling and nodding to make his meaning clear.
At her own request, M
argrethe rode astride on an ass, a thick, surcingled pad serving as a saddle and two lead-ropes tied to the noseband of the halter for reins. She was positioned behind the two pack-camels with Torquil’s sling between them, where she could keep watch over him, waiting impatiently for the moon to rise so that she could see him more clearly, for now he was little more than a dim shape in a broad shadow. Behind her, she could hear Sorer Imogen praying, her cadences matching the sway of her camel, her eyes turned toward Heaven. “May God hear her prayers, and may we have no need of them,” Margrethe said softly; she carried in the leather bag slung across her chest an array of medicaments Sandjer’min had provided her, in anticipation of need; for now, Torquil was heavily asleep, having been given some syrup of poppies shortly before they left Syene Philae. She decided that when they stopped at midnight, she must speak with Lalagia, who had experience with caring for wounded men while traveling, to learn how best to deal with Torquil if he should become restless.
From the back of his camel, Micheu de Saunte-Foi watched the group of servants and slaves ahead of him, all mounted on asses; behind him came the camels, but for the pack-camels, that were ahead of him, in the middle of the lot, in theory for protection of their goods, food, water, and Torquil des Lichiens. He shook his head, thinking how ill-prepared these pilgrims were, and how little they knew it. Why, he wondered, had the pilgrims not hired their servants from among the abandoned soldiers in Alexandria, instead of bringing their helpers from Europe with them? Those idle fighting men would have been grateful for work and for a chance to do something more than loiter around the waterfront, looking for someone to hire them. These servants might have their uses, but they would not be much good in a fight or some other crisis. Only Viviano Loredan’s man, Salvatore, looked as if he might be able to hold his own, and Sandjer’min’s Ruthier, if he were younger, had the bearing of a fellow capable of facing danger. For the rest, Micheu de Saunte-Foi was all but certain that at best they would cower and at worst would flee. How was it that God had made so many men to be cowards, since courage was a virtue? He wished now that he had accepted a prison cell in which to do his penance instead of this disastrous pilgrimage. Most distressing was Sieur Horembaud’s insistence that they not leave Torquil des Lichiens behind. What was the advantage in having him with the pilgrims? How could an excommunicated Templar inspire the pilgrims to greater faith? Why burden everyone with a dying man? What would happen when Torquil died? The most likely result would be that several pilgrims would want to turn back, no matter what oaths they had taken. He began to contemplate the possibility of escape, some means to make it appear he was being heroic, not shaking off the legal chains that bound him to this group of ill-assorted travelers. What would arduous travel do to rid his soul of his crimes, he asked himself for the hundredth time. Yet he took satisfaction in his own preparedness. For the first time since they left their boats on the Nile, Micheu de Saunte-Foi, convicted assassin and spy, began to relax; he would not have to endure leagues and leagues and leagues of boredom and danger, after all. He could go to another part of Africa, or cross the Red Sea to Muslim lands, or take ship and travel over the sea to Hind. He turned these options over in his mind, wondering if it had been God or the Devil who had wakened such plans in him.
Riding to the right of Micheu de Saunte-Foi, Cristofo d’Urbineau watched the penitent as covertly as possible, taking care not to seem overly curious about the man. Studying Micheu, d’Urbineau puzzled again on what Micheu had done that required him to journey to such a distant outpost of the Christian religion in order to expiate his sins. He had made only vague references to being accused, and had resisted all of the attempts to convince him to speak. For his own case, d’Urbineau had broken the Seal of Confession, telling his fellow-priests that the merchant Davin Morcetroit had been kidnaping children and selling them to slavers from the County of Austria and from Leon and Castile in Spain. Most of the time Morcetroit blamed the gypsies while he pocketed large sums of money. This was such a great scandal that d’Urbineau had been unable to keep it to himself, and had informed the Console of Morcetroit’s activities. D’Urbineau understood that his being reinstated as a priest was completely dependent on this pilgrimage, and once again, he studied Micheu, wishing he could see more clearly; the vast scattering of stars were not enough to reveal more than general shapes, and moonrise was still a short while away.
From his vantage point behind d’Urbineau, Noreberht lo Avocat fought the urge to sleep. The camel was the very devil to ride, and once he had become accustomed to rocking as if he were back on a boat, the inclination to doze was well nigh irresistible. He reproved himself for failing to stay awake and alert much as he might belabor an opponent in court. He prided himself on his style of delivery, and knew that his flair for the dramatic had won him cases in which the law, strictly enforced, would have held his client to account. The trouble was—and he was well-aware of it now—he was lazy. He had realized early in life that his charm and glib tongue made the profession of his father easy for him, and this knowledge ended by drawing him into what was described as collusion and corruption, though he was fairly sure he did not have such ignoble goals in mind, simply the inclination to take the facile way. He was beginning to see how real struggle had more value than the priests had ever convinced him of with their haranguing and castigation. Perhaps, he thought as he started to drift off again, the pilgrimage would improve his character after all.
A nacreous glow limned the angular eastern horizon, heralding the coming of the moon. Sorer Imogen stopped her prayers long enough to tell herself that the desert-dwelling hermits of long ago may have hit upon something in this fastness, for the emptiness lent a purpose to her prayers that no cloister could. She caught sight of Heneri on his camel at the head of the asses, riding beside Firouz. This troubled her, for she knew the camel-drover was a faithful Muslim and therefore likely to try to spread his evil teaching to her half-brother. Only the recollection that they had no more than a dozen words in common offered her any consolation. She resumed reciting the Psalms, which seemed more appropriate in the desert than Pater Nosters and Ave Marias.
By the time the moon, showing slightly more than half its face, was fully clear of the distant hills, Sieur Horembaud called for a short halt. “Camel dung to my servants, for our fire.” He pointed out Florien and Almeric in case the pilgrims had forgotten which servants belonged to which pilgrims. “Human excrement is to be buried. Men will go behind that boulder, the big one with the hollow on the east side. The women will go to the next boulder on, the one with the overhang, and take care to stay well out of sight while their skirts are up. Remember to bury what you leave. And watch where you put your hands.” He had noticed the massive stones as they approached, and was now pleased with how rapidly he had reached his decisions for the boulders; he had worried that he might not find so convenient a place for their short rest. “We will open one cask of water, but don’t take it unless you are truly thirsty.” He swung down off his mare. “Water for the horses and asses, not the camels. All will drink when we camp for the day.” He trudged toward Frater Anteus, leading the mare by her reins. He was finding it difficult to move quickly in the deep sand, and he decided this was another thing he would have to make allowances for.
“Sieur Horembaud,” the monk said, inclining his head gracefully. “This ass has a trot that could churn butter. He doesn’t want to walk, but his trot is killing me. He’ll make a eunuch of me if I have to endure much more of it.”
“Our Lord rode an ass,” said Sieur Horembaud, thinking as he did that he missed war: he knew how to handle himself in a war, but on this pilgrimage, with few useful weapons and an ill-assorted company around him, his confidence was badly shaken, a state he was committed to conceal from everyone.
Frater Anteus laughed; this seemed a little forced, but that could be as much because of fatigue as lack of amusement. “So He did. He must have had an Angel between Himself and the animal’s spine. That pad we’ve been given isn�
��t nearly enough.”
“We haven’t the time to break them all to saddles,” Sieur Horembaud said, and deliberately changed the subject. “You still have made no progress with Sandjer’min.”
Frater Anteus hung his head, abashed. “I’ve tried. He’s … stand-offish. He’s not a Christian, and makes no secret of it, but says little about whatever religion he follows. He has said that he has promised not to disrupt the company with tales of his travels or anything beyond what he is pledged to do for the company.” He gave Sieur Horembaud a pointed glance. “I don’t think he’s going to open his heart to a monk like me.” Seizing on the one positive sign, he added, “It appears to me that Sandjer’min is more likely to befriend you than me. I observed you talking shortly after we set out. You should be able to learn more about him while you ride.” He could not keep from adding, “On horses.”
“What we spoke of was nothing important.” Sieur Horembaud cleared his throat and spat. “But you may be right; I’ll see what he’ll tell me in the next few days.”
“May God lend you His aid,” said Frater Anteus, and moved off toward the jutting boulder.
Richere Enzo came up to Sieur Horembaud, walking stiffly, his face looking remarkably pasty in the moonlight. “I need to have a word with my man Ifar.”
Night Pilgrims Page 16