Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Then do so. He’s with the servants and slaves.” Sieur Horembaud told himself that God had given him a suspicious mind, and that it was not unusual for a warrior like himself to have little cause to admire men like Enzo, who earned their bread by procuring relics for the great churches in Europe.

  “What he and I should discuss is private,” Enzo said.

  “Then wait until the women are done with their relieving themselves, and go to that second boulder. No one will disturb you.” Sieur Horembaud wanted to urge Enzo to move on with a wave of his hand, but was certain that Enzo would be offended, and so cocked his head toward the nearer boulder. “I have my own needs to attend to.”

  Enzo blinked. “Why, yes. I won’t detain you. I’ll just go find Ifar and tell him what you have approved.” With that said, he went off to where the asses were circled together, and quickly found Ifar with three lead-ropes in his hands. “When the women return, we may go speak privately in the curve of the farther boulder.” He spoke in the Milanese dialect, his demeanor revealing nothing.

  Ifar spoke the same, but more roughly. “I’ve been trying to learn more about the Apostle’s Hand, but only Firouz knows anything about it, and my Arabic isn’t very good, as you know. I haven’t been able to find out anything useful.”

  A short distance away from Enzo and Ifar, Ruthier seemed not to be listening, although he was. He patted the flank of the nearest ass, and peered up at the moon.

  “Do we know which church is said to have it?”

  “Not yet,” said Ifar, revealing his impatience with the situation. “Shouldn’t we wait to talk about—”

  “Probably not. And I have no wish to intrude on the women,” said Enzo.

  “We’ll know more as we get nearer our goal,” said Ifar as if speaking to a restless child. “Hold yourself in patience.”

  “But we know the Apostle’s Hand is in Ethiopia? Ifar, you told me that’s where we can find it, didn’t you?”

  “I know it is rumored to be there. But who’s to say the rumors are reliable?” Ifar scratched at his scrawny beard. “I think it is possible the Hand is there, perhaps it is even likely, but it would help if we could find out where it is. Ethiopia is a large place. It would take years to visit all the churches there.”

  “To have come so far and not to have any useful information about it: this grows worse and worse. Do you think we should turn back, or continue? It’s so hard to know what to do,” Enzo complained.

  “You could pray,” Ifar suggested, and laughed quietly, then changed his tone, to one sounding much more certain than Enzo did. “Don’t speak too much about it, for I’ll wager that Nicholas Howe and Frater Giulianus are after the same relic.”

  “True enough. And it is possible that Howe can understand the Milanese dialect,” said Enzo, glancing over his shoulder. “Well, when we reach the Gold Camp, we may find out something useful.”

  “And then we could turn back; once we have what we want, we can—” What they could do went unsaid; Ifar ducked his head respectfully, and he spoke, this time in Greek. “It would be a wonderful accomplishment to come upon three or four relics that can be carried with respect. I believe the ass would be better than the camel.”

  Enzo took his cue from Ifar. “God made the camel to express humility. Surely that makes it a better choice.”

  Behind them, Methodus Temi waded ankle-deep in sand toward the nearer boulder, making no effort to hide his curiosity about the conversations around him as he went; watching the smith eavesdrop brought Ruthier perilously close to laughter.

  “It could, but relics must be packed in straw and cloth to prevent damage while on a camel’s pack-saddle,” Ifar said in a self-deprecating manner.

  “I would do that in any case, out of reverence.” Enzo glanced at Temi’s retreating figure. “I think he’s out of range.”

  “That doesn’t mean he won’t try again,” said Ifar.

  “Howe is the worst of them,” said Enzo, once again in the common tongue of Milano. “He keeps trying to find out what I know, and he would call me a liar if I told him I don’t know enough to lie.”

  “Don’t be petulant. The rest will notice.” Ifar shrugged.

  “Oh, God, why did I let you talk me into this? We did well enough in Alexandria.” Before Ifar could speak again, Enzo shook his head. “I know. If we could get the Apostle’s Hand, we could make our fortune, and our reputations.” He looked up as he saw Sieur Horembaud approaching. “Something is wrong, Sieur?”

  “No; I’m about to open the first water-cask. Bring your cups and pails so we can get the horses and asses watered and be on our way.” He went to the pack-camel carrying the water-casks and unfastened the net holding the highest of the casks. With a grunt, he tugged the cask free of its netting, moving it to his shoulder so that he could choose a place to stand where he could pour out the portions for men and equines. “You.” He was addressing Zekri, who was standing a little apart with his ass’s reins in his hand, and the lead-rope from a pack-ass.

  The young monk jumped visibly. “Me, Sieur?”

  “Water,” he announced, repeating the word in Greek and a poor version of Coptic.

  Zekri ducked his head, and reached into his saddle-pack for his pail and cup, pulling them out and going to Sieur Horembaud. As he and his animals moved, several of the pilgrims came up behind him, clustering the asses tightly around the servants and slaves who used them. One of the asses squealed and kicked out at another that was pressing against Vitalis’ two asses. Carlus and Baccomeo moved quickly to separate the irritated animals, which put an end to the excitement. But now the men were jostling one another, and an occasional sharp word put the other pilgrims on notice that pilgrimage or not, there was rancor to be dealt with.

  “It will go more quickly if you make a line,” said Sandjer’min quietly to Sieur Horembaud. “And the women won’t have to take the last drops from the cask.” He held the reins of his gelding and Sieur Horembaud’s mare, ready to lead them to drink.

  Sieur Horembaud nodded. “Make a line,” he said in a voice that would rally troops in a battle. “We must resume our travels.”

  Gradually the line was formed, and the appropriate ration of water was provided. The horses and asses drank last, each horse and ass being ridden getting three ladles in shallow pails; the remounts received two ladlesworth. It took a little longer than Sieur Horembaud had planned to get their company back into order to travel; when he mounted his feisty mare at last, he was feeling more harried than he had anticipated, and it made him cross.

  “Are we ready?” Sieur Horembaud called back to Firouz, and Sandjer’min repeated the question in Arabic and Coptic.

  “Not quite,” Firouz said in Arabic.

  “My sister-in-law is adjusting the covering on Torquil’s sling,” Heneri added, his Anglo-French needing no translation for Sieur Horembaud.

  “Tell her to get on with it,” Sieur Horembaud grumbled.

  “Would you like me to assist her?” Sandjer’min volunteered.

  “Yes,” said Sieur Horembaud, jobbing the reins impatiently. “We’re taking too long.”

  “A word of advice,” Sandjer’min said quietly to Sieur Horembaud as he turned his gelding around to face the company. “Don’t take your ill-temper out on your horse.” Without waiting to hear whatever Sieur Horembaud might say, Sandjer’min tapped Melech with his heels and the dove-colored horse moved out at a brisk walk, going back along the line until they reached the pack-camels carrying not only chests and sacks, but a sling between them. Sandjer’min dismounted and signaled to Margrethe, who had not yet mounted her ass; she was bending over Torquil, her face worried. She straightened up and removed her veil to speak with Sandjer’min.

  “He’s doing poorly,” she said bluntly.

  “I can see that.” He touched Torquil’s neck. “His pulse is fast and he’s hotter than he should be.”

  “I gave him the willow-bark tincture, but I don’t think it’s done much good.” She offe
red a confused semi-smile to him; it was disturbing to have Sandjer’min so near. “He was moaning for a time, but I gave him more syrup of poppies when we stopped, and he’s resting now.”

  Sandjer’min examined the blisters on Torquil’s head and neck carefully, his eyes unimpeded by the dark. “When we make camp at dawn, I’ll do what I can for him. What he needs now is to have his pain taken away, and the syrup of poppies should do that.”

  She laid her hand on his arm as he carefully replaced the coverlet over Torquil. “What if he becomes worse before then? What should I do?”

  “Stop the company and let me see how he’s doing.” He saw dissatisfaction in her face. “What is it?”

  “I’d have to scream to stop the company, and that would cause Torquil distress.”

  “Better distress than putrefaction,” said Sandjer’min bluntly. “Get on your ass; we have a long way to go.”

  “I think he should have been sent back to Alexandria, excommunicant or not,” she said, and before he could speak, she shook her head. “I know: the Templars will not take him back until the pilgrimage is complete, no matter how badly hurt he is.”

  “True enough,” said Sandjer’min, and added, “I’ll arrange to care for him while you sleep during the day.”

  “That’s … very kind of you.” Before she said something more, she motioned to him to leave. “You’re right, we have a long way to go.”

  “We do,” he said, walking away toward Melech. As he mounted he scanned the sands behind him, and wondered if he should inform Sieur Horembaud that they were being followed.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Tsura’gar at the Monastery of the Visitation at Sese’metkra to the Venerable Minseh at Edfu, written on papyrus in fixed ink and carried by the monk Dinat; delivered nine days after it was written.

  To the Venerable Minseh, august leader of our Christian community, and leader of eleven more such communities, the respectful greetings of Tsura’gar, monk and monitor of the treasury and charity for the Monastery of the Visitation at Sese’metkra, and the prayers for your long life and valiant faith on this, the 4th day of May in the 1225th year of Salvation.

  Most esteemed Minseh,

  It is with great reluctance that I write to you, but I believe no other course is now open to me, and I cannot, in good conscience, keep my concerns to myself, for that would only tend to let the rot spread. Thus it is with many misgivings and trepidations that I write to you on behalf of the monks of our community, seeking to preserve them from evil.

  As you know, two years ago, Aba’yam took into our monastery a foreigner and his servant, though the man said he was not a Christian, nor was he a follower of Islam, nor was he a Jew; he divulged nothing of his religion, though I made many attempts to learn what gods he worshiped. He declared that he did not serve the Devil, and Aba’yam took him at his word, giving him a place to make his medicinal salves and unguents, and allowing him access to the scriptorium, where his knowledge of many languages proved useful. He cared for the monks when they were ill and he set bones and dressed wounds, gaining the good opinion of the monks.

  We know that the Devil has a pleasing face and that he presents himself as virtuous when his heart is black with sin. His followers are the same, and this Sidi Sandjer’min, as I came to realize, was one of them. I followed on three occasions when he left the monastery late at night, and under cover of darkness visited a woman in Sese’metkra, whom he abused most lasciviously; I myself heard her shrieks and moans, and when he left, he had blood on his mouth, as I saw by the light of her lamp. She was in a swoon and her face was not good to look upon, for she was in the throes of the lust he had wrought upon her.

  Our Aba’yam has said that he does not believe any of this happened, and that Sandjer’min is a man of good character, an assertion that fills me with alarm, for it shows that he, too, has been deceived by this foreigner’s manners and supposed acts of charity. How can we maintain our vows as monks if we continue to be led by a man who is in the thrall of one of the Devil’s minions? I ask that you exert your authority and remove Aba’yam from his post and consign him to one of the hermits’ cells back in the hills, where he may pray for forgiveness for his great error in bringing this terrible foreigner among us.

  I volunteer myself to serve as Aba’yam until you select who shall succeed our present Aba’yam, and to work to eradicate all trace of Sandjer’min’s influence and presence in this place, so that we might once again seek to live holy lives, unbesmirched by the ungodly nature of Sidi Sandjer’min.

  If I have overstepped my position, I crave your forgiveness and in all humility tell you that it is my zeal that has caused me to speak of my dismay. If you decide to keep the present Aba’yam in his post, I ask that you release me from my monkish vows so that I may be free of the dire taint of diabolism that has come upon this place, and may seek other means to live in the embrace of sanctity.

  Amen,

  Tsura’gar

  monk

  2

  Morning sunlight set the east wall of Sandjer’min’s square pavilion-tent aglow, and the heat increased as the sun moved higher in the eastern sky; Sandjer’min sat on the woven-reed mat that served as a floor, dribbling water onto Torquil’s swollen lips; the man was not improving, and Sandjer’min realized it was only a matter of time before the sun-scorched knight shed the life that had become such a torment to him. In the four days since Sieur Horembaud’s party of pilgrims had started across the desert, Torquil had sunk into an ever deeper torpor.

  “How much longer? He’s beginning to stink,” Ruthier said in Farsi, more bluntly than was his habit. It was the first time they had had to speak privately since the camp was set up, and would be the last until the brief evening meal; he stood by the closed tent-flap, ready to go out to take up his post with the animals.

  “Do you mean how much longer do I think he will live?” Sandjer’min asked in the same language, and saw Ruthier nod. “Not long. Five, six days at most. He is losing flesh and is refusing almost all food, which weakens him still more. And he has stopped fighting his burns. There is putrefaction in his skin, and it has spread too much for my sovereign remedy to stop it. It won’t be long.”

  “And we are what? five days from the Gold Camp?” This obvious display of anxiety was rare for Ruthier, and for that reason, Sandjer’min paid him close attention. “What will happen if he dies on the way?”

  “Roughly five days, if the wind doesn’t pick up, in which case it will take longer to get there, so he may not get that far.” He lifted the bandage across Torquil’s eyes and dampened it in the little bit of remaining water in the bowl, then put it back in place. “It will depend upon the weather; the winds are increasing, and that will slow our travel. We’ve come twenty leagues and have about thirty-two or thirty-three to go to the Gold Camp.”

  “What will Sieur Horembaud do when Torquil is dead?” He asked this quietly, in case Torquil should be able to hear them.

  “With the body?” Sandjer’min thought about it briefly, understanding what Ruthier intended; would they have to transport his corpse, and if so, how far? “I don’t know. He won’t be able to take the time to boil the flesh off and send the bones back to English France, much as the family might approve, but Sieur Horembaud won’t want to leave him in a desert grave, either.”

  “He won’t have much time to make up his mind once Torquil is dead,” Ruthier said. “In this heat…”

  “Yes. In this heat.” Sandjer’min sighed fatalistically. “Poor man.”

  “If there is a church in the Gold Camp, do you think they would bury him?”

  “He has been excommunicated,” Sandjer’min reminded Ruthier. “If the clerics at the church—which may or may not be there—knew about it, they would not be willing to take him, I suspect.”

  “Then why tell them? Why not say he is a Templar taken ill, who died while the pilgrims were traveling? It is true, up to a point. Wouldn’t that guarantee his burial? Assuming ther
e is a church?” Ruthier waited a long moment, but Sandjer’min remained silent. “You think Sieur Horembaud will tell of Torquil’s disgrace, don’t you?”

  “The pilgrims may insist. It’s in accord with their vows to do so: not to reveal Torquil’s excommunication would be to bear false witness by omission, which is against—” Sandjer’min finished with a palms-up sign of futility. “They must lead virtuous lives as pilgrims or forsake the benefits of the pilgrimage.”

  “So they say. But what does it matter? Once the man is dead, the question of damnation or salvation is settled, isn’t it? Why disdain the body?” Ruthier asked, his aggravation unabated. “Don’t attempt to explain it. I wouldn’t understand it now any better than I did seven hundred years ago.”

  Sandjer’min stopped moistening Torquil’s lips and set the empty bowl aside. “Then we can both be puzzled, old friend.”

  Ruthier took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I should go out to stand guard on the animals. We may have to put up the sail for shelter.” He reached out and lifted the door-flap, asking as if it were a matter of minor curiosity, “Will you want to take some nourishment from one of the horses or asses this evening, before we move off? You look tired, and there is no one among the pilgrims you may safely visit in sleep.”

  “No, there is not.” He ventured nothing more.

  “So it must be horses or asses that provide blood for you,” Ruthier said patiently, aware that Sandjer’min was once again feeling the weight of isolation. “I’ll take you to the ass while the pilgrims have their meal.”

  “So you can ensure my privacy?” Sandjer’min asked with a suggestion of ironic amusement. “Or keep it from braying?”

  “You’ll probably require caution while you feed, and I can make it appear that you are tending to the animals rather than taking sustenance, which should not be difficult; most will have their minds on their supper, not yours,” said Ruthier, unfazed by Sandjer’min’s sardonic remarks. “Sieur Horembaud will want a full report on Torquil before we set out tonight, and you will not have long to take the little blood you need. And you do need it, my master.”