I have written a letter to Bondame Margrethe, explaining what I am doing by declaring myself a follower of Islam to her, so that she will not worry for me, or imagine anything dreadful has happened to me. I have asked her to do what she can to inform Sorer Imogen of my conversion and my reasons for not remaining with the company, which she will do, if only to help contain Sorer Imogen’s worries, for she is apt to decide that I have been possessed or bewitched or some other malign influence has left me a victim of the wiles of Satan. She may add me to her constant prayers, for which the pilgrims will have to forgive me. Since Sieur Horembaud does not read well, I have also prepared a letter for the company’s translator, Sandjer’min, who will be able to comprehend what I have set down and will perhaps be able to convince Sieur Horembaud of my sincerity in my decision, for Sieur Horembaud regards me as a youth, not a young man. With Sandjer’min’s help there is a chance that he will convince Sieur Horembaud that I mean him and his company of pilgrims no disrespect.
May Allah, the All-Merciful, open your eyes and your heart.
He who was Heneri Gosland
8
“Damn their pernicious souls to Hell!” Sieur Horembaud raged as he paced in the shade of the Waterbird’s stable’s mid-day shadow, his brow shining, and his pilgrim’s cotehardie spotted with sweat on back and chest and underarms; his femoralia were wrinkled above the tops of his boots. He glowered at Frater Anteus, daring him to castigate him for swearing; it was two days since Firouz and Heneri had vanished, and Sieur Horembaud had not yet steadied his temper. “The Devil take all Goslands, root, stem, and branch! It’s bad enough that Sorer Imogen is out of her wits, but Heneri departing to become a follower of Mohammed! No prayers will save him from Hell, not even Sorer Imogen’s. What manner of House is theirs, that they have such creatures in it? All that’s lacking now is for dire misfortune to befall Bondame Margrethe! She has been sighing after Sandjer’min for weeks. If she should allow more than that to happen, all the pilgrims will be suspected of breaking their vows, in their hearts if not in the flesh.” He kicked at a barrel, almost knocking it over; an ass, tied up a short distance away, brayed in alarm. “Silence!” The ass brayed again.
“The boy should not have been put in Firouz’s company,” Frater Anteus declared. “There are reasons we pledged to limit our dealings with strangers.”
“I’ll do penance for allowing it to happen,” Sieur Horembaud said, “I have to—the company is rife with gossip, and I must bear the brunt of it.”
“Heneri is a feckless youth,” Frater Anteus stated. “He was willing to be taken in by Firouz, and must answer for his laxness before God at the End of Days. I agree with the Vidame: Heneri should be disowned by his kin, and Anathema pronounced against him when our pilgrimage is over.” He saw Sandjer’min enter the stable. “Had you done your duty and kept up your translating, not spent time weakening our mistrust of foreigners, this would not have occurred. You see what comes of encouraging conversation with strangers.”
Sandjer’min knelt down in the straw, wrapping the on-side foreleg of the copper-dun; he looked up at Sieur Horembaud. “Yelling will not bring them back, either the Gosland heir, or the camels, but it will lead to more gossip in the town than there has already been,” he said levelly. “If you can contain yourself, the rumors will cease.”
“Let them gossip. What harm can it do us?” Sieur Horembaud exclaimed. “I am responsible for failing to require Heneri to ignore Firouz, not to accept instruction from him. I allowed myself to be blinded by your suggestions, Sidi,” he accused.
“This turmoil can make it more difficult to find a new guide,” Sandjer’min told him without heat or rancor. “That could lead to harm for the company, for which you are also responsible. The Nile has risen in the time we’ve been here, more than three hands, and it will rise at least ten more. The longer we must wait to leave, the more hazards are we going to face.” He saw the obdurate thrust of Sieur Horembaud’s jaw, and went on in less stringent tones. “Do as Frater Anteus recommends: declare your penitence and ask forgiveness. Trust your God to settle the matter for you. There is no cause for you to become choleric, and many reasons for you to seek a sanguine state of mind.”
“So you would preach to me? You? Do you purport to embrace this pilgrimage, take our vows? It’s all very well to advise tranquility, but you’re not a Christian, are you? How can you grasp what these turns of events mean to us? It does not strike at the heart of your faith to see a youth like Heneri turn away from the Church to embrace its enemy.” Sieur Horembaud shuddered in disgust, then sat down on a simple plank bench. “Firouz deceived us, and there is nothing we can do to claim redress of wrongs, not while the followers of Mohammed rule in Egypt.”
“We are not in Egypt, and will not be until we complete this pilgrimage. There are Christian churches throughout this country,” Sandjer’min reminded him. “There is one a few streets away, with a monastery. The Coptic Church is still predominant in southern Nubia.”
“Oh, yes. Islam is only just arrived in Nubia, and it moves cautiously; in Egypt, Christians may only live in Christian districts, and must allow their male children to be soldiers for the Sultan. What family would not be upset at this inequity? It is the task of Christian chivalry to contain the spread of Islam, and to preserve our faith.” Sieur Horembaud shook his head, staring out at the horses and asses drowsing in the shade of a stand of palm trees. “To take our camels!”
“He provided excellent replacements in the six horses and seven asses he left us, and he was right to say that the camels would not help us when we climb up into Ethiopia. He has been fair to us according to his own lights. We would have to sell them and buy horses,” Sandjer’min said before Frater Anteus could speak.
“The Devil lurks in soft words,” Frater Anteus muttered.
Sieur Horembaud flung up his hands. “Another one of your facile answers. Tell me, Sidi,” he said with overwhelming derision, “do you have any faith in our pilgrimage or is this all an amusement for you? Something to get you out of the monastery?”
“I rarely find travel in the desert entertaining,” Sandjer’min said more sharply than he expected, remembering his journey across the Takla Makan, nearly seven hundred years ago.”I left the Monastery of the Visitation because it was becoming unsafe to remain.”
“Then you do have faith?” Sieur Horembaud raised his thick eyebrows, looking now like a startled bear.
“When I was hardly more than a child, I was initiated into the priesthood of my people. I had faith then.” He did not add that this had happened almost thirty-three centuries ago.
Sieur Horembaud shook his head. “So you were a novice. What ruined your faith?”
“I was captured by our enemies.” He did not mention his execution by disemboweling, nor the centuries afterward when he exacted vengeance on all those who had contributed to or descended from those who had betrayed his family.
For once, Sieur Horembaud did not scoff. “That was hard. But perhaps God is giving you this pilgrimage to restore your faith, to learn from those in the company what faith can achieve.”
“Twice blessed is he who repents his sins before God,” Frater Anteus announced.
Sandjer’min weighed his answers carefully. “I know some of your company are sincere in their purpose, but you also have dangerous rascals in your numbers; they all, rogues and virtuous alike, deserve more than lambasting for keeping to their vows thus far.” He knew Sieur Horembaud assumed he had been Christian, and that his captors had been Islamic, and had no intention of correcting this impression.
“Very worthy sentiments,” said Sieur Horembaud with a prolonged, angry sigh that ended on a snort. “Foreigners!”
“Here in Nubia, I am not the only foreigner in your company.” He said it easily enough, having grown accustomed to being a perpetual stranger. “Every one of us is in a strange land, except for Olu’we, and he is well beyond his … native earth.” A quick, ironic smile tweaked his lips and was gone.
Sieur Horembaud muttered something under his breath, then folded his arms and glared into the distance. “All right, Sandjer’min, I take your point. We are in a bad position. Getting a guide is essential to our travels and no one in the company can fill that post at present. We must find a guide.”
“Not an Islamic one,” Frater Anteus interjected.
Sandjer’min was tempted to tell Sieur Horembaud that this had not been his meaning, but decided it was best to accept Sieur Horembaud’s interpretation for the time being. He changed the subject. “I am going to the Master of the Market as soon as I am done with trimming the hooves of the new horses; I’ll do what I can to arrange the feed for our next part of our journey.”
“Tell me what you decide upon,” Sieur Horembaud ordered. “We will have to be more prudent in how we load our pack-animals now the camels are gone.”
“Of course. With a little foresight and good fortune we should be away from here in less than five days.”
A sudden, impertinent breeze tossed dust into the air around them, bringing the scent of the fields to them; the horses whuffled and one of the mules huffed.
“How do you reckon that? Are you going to find us a guide?” Sieur Horembaud asked sarcastically; he rocked back on his heels and gave Sandjer’min an appraising look. “You’re still losing flesh. Not getting enough of whatever it is you eat?”
“It is not a question of quantity, but of quality,” Sandjer’min replied accurately but obliquely. “Unfortunately, what provides the most sustenance for me is not to be had on pilgrimage.”
“How inauspicious for you, then, to be among us; I am surprised that you choose to remain with the company,” Sieur Horembaud said with no indication of sympathy before he turned and walked back toward the Waterbird Inn, Frater Anteus following him as if guarding him from Sandjer’min’s gaze.
The copper-dun tossed her head, fussing out of boredom.
“Quiet, girl.” Sandjer’min watched the two men go, more aware than ever that Sieur Horembaud was losing the capacity to lead his pilgrims safely. The company would have to leave Baruta as soon as possible or face disintegration. With Richere Enzo and Ifar officially no longer part of the group, but lodging a short distance from the Waterbird Inn, there was a constant reminder that turning back could occur. With these discomfiting thoughts for company, he took his nippers and rasps and set about his farrier’s chores.
By the time he was finished, the mid-day meal was over and most of the inhabitants of Baruta were napping through the worst of the day’s heat. Sandjer’min felt a bit queasy, the brilliant sun and the enveloping heat having taken their toll upon him; he knew it was useless to go to the market until the sun was lower in the western sky. He put his tools away and returned to the inn and went along to the room he shared with Ruthier. Although Ruthier was not in the chamber, Sandjer’min decided to rest while he had the opportunity. He removed his black-linen cotehardie, and his underclothes, then pulled on an old-fashioned black cotton tunica, turned back the fine linen sheet that lay over a thin mattress set atop an iron-banded chest, got into this austere bed, lay back, and quickly fell into a stupor that served as sleep for his kind.
He was wakened by Ruthier speaking to him. “Would you say that again?” he asked as he sat up, fully alert.
“I believe I have found a guide,” he said in Imperial Latin. “He is from Ethiopia. He has been staying at the monastery, helping the monks draw up some maps, which makes me believe him, or why would he be instructing the monks?” He smiled. “He might be willing to show us the way to his homeland, in spite of the Inundation.”
Sandjer’min got off his bed and pulled up the sheet, and spoke in the same tongue. “Sieur Horembaud will be most pleased to hear this, if I present the matter carefully. Just now, Frater Anteus is warning him off of strangers, so Sieur Horembaud is frustrated now: he’s like a porcupine, all prickles. Having a guide will let him resume his plans. What languages does this possible guide speak?” For he was certain that Ruthier had ascertained that.
“He speaks Coptic, but nothing more than his own tongue, and those of the peoples living around his people. No Greek, no Arabic, no Latin, Church or otherwise. But he has a few phrases in Hebrew that he learned from the Jews in the old city of Axum.” Ruthier dropped down on a low hassock, and absent-mindedly brushed sand off the open sleeves of his cotehardie.
“At least a few of us can communicate with him. And he will be able to speak with peoples none of the rest of us can understand; he sounds very promising,” said Sandjer’min, hoping he could convince Sieur Horembaud that this guide would be an asset to the company. “Is there another black cotehardie in our clothes chest? The one I’ve been wearing is developing thin patches that will shortly be holes, and if I am going to speak with this guide, I had better present an appropriate appearance.”
“I think there is a paragaudion in cotton. I could cut the sleeves at the elbow, if you like.”
“You needn’t cut the sleeves quite yet.”
“Then I will wait until you make up your mind.” Ruthier got out the dark-red Anatolian wool femoralia from the smaller clothes chest. “These are still in good condition.”
“The sand has worn out two pair already. How many more pairs of femoralia do I have?”
“Three more pair you haven’t worn yet, another four you have not worn through at any point,” Ruthier told him, and came back to the more pressing matter. “Will you recommend the Ethiopian to Sieur Horembaud?”
“If the guide is willing and I am satisfied that he will be acceptable to the company,” Sandjer’min said. “If it seems the man will suit, I will notify Sieur Horembaud. Until then, I’ll say nothing to him. There is no use in getting his hopes up unnecessarily.”
“True enough,” said Ruthier. “Do you want to dress now?”
“Shortly.” He stretched slowly, then went through a series of moves that he had learned in China a decade ago. “Tell me what you can about this man. How did he seem to you?”
Ruthier nodded as he got up and went to open the clothes chest. “He’s very dark of skin, I would guess him to be twenty-five or a little older. Tall, well-muscled but lean. Clever features, but not rascally. He is thoughtful in his questions, not intrusive but more than cursory. He carries himself with the dignity most of the people of this region possess, reserved but not arrogant. His voice is not loud, but it is low, and it carries well. He says he has guided pilgrims before, both going toward Ethiopia and going toward Egypt. I liked his manner; I think he will be a good choice if he can be persuaded.” He tossed the paragaudion onto Sandjer’min’s bed. “I’ll fix the sleeves later, if you wish it.”
“Did you learn his name?” Sandjer’min pulled off his tunica, turning his back to Ruthier so that he would not have to look upon the wide swath of scar tissue that covered his torso from the base of his ribs to his pubic bone.
“I did. He is Gulema Pendibe.”
“Gulema Pendibe,” Sandjer’min repeated, opening the neck-frog, then tugging the Greek garment over his head, letting its hem fall to his knees, a wide pleat in the back made for comfort when in the saddle taking a little time to settle in place. He reached for a belt of black leather, set it around his hips while notching it two holes more tightly than the wear on the leather marked as usual.
“You need to find a woman to visit in her sleep; you’re thin,” said Ruthier.
“So Sieur Horembaud told me earlier, about being thin, not about visiting a sleeping woman.” He took a deep breath, banishing his attempt at levity. “You’re right, of course. But where am I to find such a woman in Baruta? It’s not as if I can starve. Most women keep to their quarters at night, wives sleep with their husbands, and widows usually enter religious houses as tertiaries. I would not be able to find a woman alone unless she is ill, and then—”
“I know your scruples, my master,” said Ruthier.
“One Csimenae is enough.” He took his boots from the larger clothes chest, rem
oving the heavy cotton cloth that was wrapped around them. “Sharing blood might strengthen someone with a disease, but she would not be prepared to come to my life, and I would not be able to teach her what she would have to know before we go on southward.”
“You needn’t share blood with her, only take enough to nourish you.” As he said this, he knew it was useless.
“Ruthier, old friend, you know how I am inclined to want to heal those who are ill, and there are only two women abed with illness in this quarter of the town that I know of: one of them has an infestation of water animacules that causes her fever, the other has bloody flux. Even if I were to visit one of them in sleep, how could I have intimacy with her if I do nothing to ameliorate her suffering.” He went to a small wooden box with his eclipse device carved on the top, unfastened the elaborate catch on the side, and removed a heavy silver chain from which a black-sapphire pectoral depended. He put the chain around his neck, centered the pectoral, and turned to Ruthier. “Will this do?”
“You’re going to the monastery? Now?”
“The monks are at meditation at this time of day; Gulema Pendibe and I may talk privately. Best not to put this off. Am I dignified enough for his company?”
“Once you put on your femoralia and your boots you are: you look impressive but not imposing,” said Ruthier.
“That was what I was hoping to achieve, but lacking a reflection … What would I do without you? You protect me from myself,” Sandjer’min said. “I will arrange for more feed for our animals when I am done with Pendibe. And you?”
“I have a pair of ducks for a meal. If you want their blood, I’ll wait until you return; otherwise I’ll dine now.”
“Dine now. I will visit the horses and asses tonight. The new spotted mare looks to be a hearty animal, able to spare what little I will take. That will hold me over for a day or so.” He studied Ruthier’s face. “There is no reason for you to fret. I have managed on less than I have now.”
Night Pilgrims Page 28