Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “If we should encounter anyone while we are here, we will know they are coming and we will be ready to meet them,” Pendibe said, giving Sandjer’min time to translate before adding, “There are other travelers that might be on this trail than the followers, not all of them well-intentioned.”

  “You have said that there is little travel at this time,” Sieur Horembaud said.

  “That is the case, yes,” Pendibe said, choosing his words carefully. “Which is why, if we encounter travelers, it is wise to be wary; this place provides protection.”

  Sandjer’min finished his translating, and added, “Why not be cautious? Where is the error?”

  “Yes. A good point,” Sieur Horembaud allowed.

  “And the advantages of the location are real,” Sandjer’min went on. “The pilgrims, the animals, all your company—”

  “This is a fine place for us to rest. You’ve done well,” Sieur Horembaud reluctantly admitted to Pendibe. “So far.” They were at the end of the remuda-lines, near the pile of tack. “I guess you’ve been here before.”

  “Enough times to know that we should be careful of scorpions and snakes. Mind you shake the pads out before you put them on the animals,” Pendibe said with a tight little smile.

  Sandjer’min translated this without comment, certain that Pendibe recognized the tone in his voice. When he finished, he squinted toward the eastern horizon. “Once the animals have been fed, you could permit the company to bathe in the larger pool. It appears that it has been used for that purpose before.”

  Florien and Baccomeo went by, carrying rolled tents on their backs, the poles used like walking-staves of unknown gods; they ducked their heads in habitual respect, their pace unbroken, their heavy breathing revealing the weight of the tents they bore.

  “I’ll ask Frater Anteus if it would be vanity to do so,” Sieur Horembaud said, paying no attention to the servants.

  “How could it be vanity?” Sandjer’min asked, perplexed.

  “It is not much more than a week since the company bathed. To bathe again so soon shows a preoccupation with matters of the flesh.” Sieur Horembaud folded his arms. “Best to avoid the occasion for sin.”

  “But the sand chafes, and the heat can cause rashes,” Sandjer’min objected. “That would require paying more attention to the body, not less.”

  “Pain and illness may be offered up,” Sieur Horembaud said, dismissing this notion with a wave of his hand. “They may wash their hands and faces, of course, but—”

  Sandjer’min dared to cut him off. “Howe has an open sore on his hip, and Vitalis has heat ulcers on his ankles. Both men must bathe before I can treat them.”

  “Oh, if you must,” Sieur Horembaud conceded. “The rest will want to bathe if they see Howe and dei Causi’s servant do it.” He called out, “Frater Anteus! Attend me. There is something we must discuss.” He motioned Sandjer’min away. “I’ll tell you if I change my mind about the baths.”

  Sandjer’min went back to where Ruthier and Almeric were putting up the tent; two large stacks of chests and sacks lay on the ground; the red-lacquer chest was next to the sacks. The two servants were shadowed still by the defile, although the sky overhead was bright as polished brass.

  “We’ll be done shortly, my master,” said Ruthier as he saw Sandjer’min come toward him.

  “Do you suppose you could pitch this a bit farther back in the shade?” Sandjer’min asked politely in Anglo-French.

  “I was going to do so,” Ruthier said, “but Pendibe pointed out a number of snakes in the rocks. They like the cooler places.”

  “That they do,” Sandjer’min agreed. “This will be in direct sunlight for less than half a day, which is far better than some of the camps we have made. Thank you for reminding me of the snakes.” Like all of his blood, he was immune to their venom, as he was to all poisons, but a bite could be agonizing, and take many weeks to heal.

  “The camp guards will need long-handled mallets to keep snakes and scorpions away from the company and the animals,” said Almeric, rushing through the words as if to make sure he would finish his words before his nerve deserted him; he was unused to initiating talk.

  “That is a careful suggestion. You may take my long-handled mallet for that purpose once the tent is up.” Sandjer’min was aware that Noreberht lo Avocat was standing a short distance away, listening to every word, so he added, “I have a tincture that will keep snakes away from the tents. I’ll make sure the guards have it. That should afford us some protection.”

  “Sieur Horembaud will be grateful,” said Almeric.

  “Will he,” Sandjer’min said, and went to unfasten the bands around his red-lacquer chest.

  But surprisingly, Sieur Horembaud sought out Sandjer’min as he was spreading an unguent of primrose and powdered malachite on the raw place on the side of Nicholas Howe’s hip; it was time for the company to sleep, and most of the pilgrims hurried to finish their prayers. Howe was in his small clothes, the waist-band untied to expose the injury. “There you are, Sandjer’min,” Sieur Horembaud said with an attempt at geniality. “Pray forgive my intrusion: I understand from Noreberht that I have you to thank for the tincture that keeps away snakes.”

  “I provided Carlus and Ruthier with vials of the formula,” Sandjer’min told him as he rose from the stool next to Howe, and pulled down the hem of his tunica. “I am pleased they found it useful.”

  “One of those things you learned to make in your foreign travels?” Sieur Horembaud prompted.

  “Yes, it is.” He turned to Howe. “If you can, try not to sleep on that side. Less pressure will help it to heal.”

  Howe offered Sandjer’min a little bow. “You’re most kind, Sidi.”

  Sieur Horembaud nudged Sandjer’min’s arm. “I want to ask your opinion on something that puzzles me,” he explained as he guided Sandjer’min out of Howe’s tent.

  Sandjer’min put his jar of unguent into his sleeve and stopped still. “If you will tell me what it is, I’ll give you my opinion, if I have one.”

  “Come with me,” said Sieur Horembaud, striding along the irregular avenue of newly erected tents, then out to the mouth of the defile where Baccomeo and Vitalis were cutting the limbs from the shrubbery and setting them across the opening. Sieur Horembaud shoved some of the branches aside and went out into the full blaze of the sun, where he stopped and turned south, pointing as he did. “You and Pendibe say that those shapes are mountains.”

  “Yes,” said Sandjer’min, the light as painful as shards of glass in his eyes.

  “Then what is happening to them?” Sieur Horembaud asked, pointing to the distant smudge of obscured peaks.

  Sandjer’min shaded his eyes with his hands, and squinted into the distance, trying to discern what Sieur Horembaud meant. Gradually the horizon became visible. “Ah. I believe what you are seeing are rain-clouds. You should have Pendibe look at them to be sure, for that is his homeland and he knows its humors, but I have seen similar sights in other mountains, and they always meant rain was falling.”

  “How long does it rain? This is July, not the season for it,” Sieur Horembaud complained. “Rain should fall in winter, and only occasionally in summer.”

  “It rains in the summer in those mountains to the south; you were warned that the Nile would be in flood through part of this pilgrimage, and now you see the reason,” said Sandjer’min. “All the itineraries at the Monastery of the Visitation said that from the end of June until the middle of September, there are long and heavy rains in the Ethiopian Highlands.” He stepped back into the shadow of the defile. “The Nile will continue to rise through the middle of August.”

  “The Inundation; I reached Alexandria shortly after the last one had ended,” said Sieur Horembaud. “And it comes from such a distant place.” He stared at the southern horizon for a long moment, then he turned and came back to where Sandjer’min was standing. “How long will that storm last?”

  “That is something to ask Pendibe.
”

  Sieur Horembaud was thoughtfully silent, though he said nothing. Finally he motioned to Vitalis. “Move those boughs.”

  Vitalis and Baccomeo did as he ordered, and when Sieur Horembaud and Sandjer’min passed through, replaced them before cutting more of them.

  “Will you be out of your tent this afternoon?” Sieur Horembaud asked as they went back through the camp.

  “If there is enough shadow from the walls of the defile, yes.” He waited a long moment. “Is there something you would like me to do if I am?”

  “I want you to keep an eye on the rim of the defile. This is a protected place, no doubt, but we are vulnerable from above. If the men following us are seeking an opportunity to attack us with impunity, it would be in this place.” Sieur Horembaud pointed out the high walls; as if to underscore his anxiety, he swept his arms wide to take in all the sky they could see. “Look there, Sandjer’min.” A pair of vultures were slowly circling, not directly overhead, but a distance away, so that a third of their circle passed over the defile. “Something is dying out there in the desert. The birds are a warning, or are they an omen?”

  “Perhaps they are simply hungry birds, looking for something to eat,” Sandjer’min suggested, all the while remembering his centuries at the Temple of Imhotep at a time when the vulture goddess Maat was the embodiment of truth, the goddess who held the whole account of a person’s life in the balance of one of her feathers.

  * * *

  Text of a writ of detention from the Master of the Gold Camp regarding the foreign monk, Frater Giulianus, written on papyrus in Nubian Coptic and placed in the Gold Camp archives on the 29th day of July, 1225.

  The Council of the Gold Camp has met to determine the possible fates of Frater Giulianus, a Roman monk who volunteered to work among the lepers some weeks ago, and who has been discovered to have been using the lepers in the old quarry beyond the Camp as miners; for so long as they are capable of lifting the tools of that trade, they have been ordered by Frater Giulianus to labor on his behalf. He has accumulated a goodly amount of treasure: we have discovered two large baskets such as farmers use to bring crops to market that were near to full of nuggets and pouches of gold dust. He admitted that he had arranged with a few of the traders waiting here for the end of the Inundation to carry as much gold as he can accumulate to send down-river, entrusted to the Poor Knights of the Temple, for the benefit it may provide to Mother Church. What such a donation would be worth to the Templars we have yet to determine, but it is most certainly a large amount, and one that must be factored in our final decision. One of the lepers, another Roman Christian, has made himself Frater Giulianus’ assistant, and he must also bear some of the blame for what happened at the quarry.

  We of the Council have settled upon three possible sentences for the transgressions that have been defined. First: Frater Giulianus would have his right hand struck off, and be sent away to beg his bread until God claims him. Second: both hands would be struck off and his eyelids removed and he would remain in a penitent’s cell until he departs this life. Third: that he be turned out from the Gold Camp with only a begging bowl and a small cask of water. These choices are fixed, and which one will be his fate will be voted upon when next we meet. Until then, Frater Giulianus will remain in his cell.

  As to Sieur Arnoul, God has already sentenced him to the destruction of leprosy. He will be left among the lepers he has misused, where he may come to value those who suffer with him. Once he has lost his fingers and his feet rot, he will be wholly at their mercy, and say we all Amen.

  2

  In the last four nights, Sieur Horembaud’s company had passed from a vast expanse of sand to dry, gritty ground punctuated occasionally by small clusters and tussocks of low-growing plants scattered over the rocky soil; there were more animals now, some that Sieur Horembaud planned to hunt once they came to the Atbara, to offer his company an occasion to celebrate before they reached the steeper, higher mountains, and the more demanding climb. The pilgrims had already ascended to a plateau about two hundred paces above the rising Nile that was roiling in the narrowing canyon below, its constant roar echoing up toward the broad ledge on which their tents were pitched at the edge of a cluster of stunted trees. Far to the south the wind was beginning to stir; lenticular clouds lay clustered in the sky, the line of the highest mountain ridges stretching up as if to hook them like vast, celestial fish.

  The servants had set up a small fire for cooking their morning meal, and were almost finished serving the company; three servants were waiting for their bowl of breakfast. From the cooking-pot there arose the odor of wheat porridge that gained more interest from the animals than the pilgrims, most of whom were more eager for sleep than for such tasteless food. Sieur Horembaud was taking time to pray with Frater Anteus, having spent part of the midnight supper castigating his company for becoming lax in their religious observances, and swearing to amend his conduct to provide an example for the rest of them. Jiochim Menines and Agnolus dei Causi lingered at the cooking-pot, not out of hunger, but to have a little exchange of gossip. Methodus Temi was making his way along the remuda-lines, giving each horse and ass a quick examination before making a bed in the shade of the piled baggage. Though the sun was barely up, its long, slanting rays promised another grueling day.

  Before all the company had retired for the day, Sieur Horembaud bawled out to them from the flap of his tent, “Each of you: six penitential Psalms before you sleep. I want to hear your voices! Servants, attend to your duties. No frivolous talk, no slacking of work. This is God’s mission we are on, and we must show our devotion in all things.”

  Menines glanced at dei Causi, speaking in the northern Italian dialect, but with a pronounced Spanish accent. “We’d best do as he says,” he remarked as he got to his feet. “He’s determined to restore piety to the company. One Heneri is enough.”

  “Out here?” dei Causi asked incredulously. “Where would an apostate go? What faith can be found in such wild places?”

  “It worked for the Desert Fathers,” said Menines, brushing off the backs of his thighs.

  “Amen to that,” dei Causi agreed, stood up, and reached for a cloth to wipe his bowl clean. “I will look for you at sunset.” With cordial nods, they parted; the camp was preparing for a day of sleep, with the pilgrims bound for their beds, the servants and slaves attending to the last of their chores.

  Pendibe was in the shade of the sail put up to keep direct sun off the animals, where he went about his morning prayers in the privacy the remuda-lines provided him. As he completed his orisons, he nodded to Sandjer’min, who was finishing his tasks before retiring. “Sleep well, Sidi,” Pendibe called out to him. “The wind is changing.”

  “I’ll be abed in a little while. May you sleep well.” Having treated Howe’s abrasion and provided a new dressing for it, Sandjer’min now went toward the women’s tent, his bag of medicaments slung across his chest, noticing as he moved that his black paragaudion was beginning to show wear from the sand; he would have to choose another garment from his dwindling supply, or go about in worn and tattered clothing. He paused at the edge of the flap. “This is Sandjer’min. May I come in?”

  “She’s had a bad night,” Margrethe said to Sandjer’min as she raised the flap to admit him. “Thank you for coming to tend her.”

  “More praying?” Sandjer’min asked, knowing the answer.

  “That, and exhorting us—Lalagia and me—about our sins. She is certain that Heneri left us because she sinned, and I did not stop her. She says that Sieur Horembaud was right to rebuke us, and Frater Anteus. She keeps saying to me that if I break my oath to keep sacred my chastity, the company would have to stone me.”

  Sandjer’min kept his face impassive. “Does that apply to Lalagia, or to Sorer Imogen herself?”

  “Only to Sorer Imogen; Lalagia is in the company of pilgrims searching for Sieur Arnoul, and as his woman has taken no such oath. She would probably be made to leave the company, for setti
ng her virtue aside, but she would be alive.” She lifted her hand to touch him, but changed her mind; her face became as impassive as his. “She is not getting better, is she?—Sorer Imogen?”

  As kindly as he was able to, he said, “No.”

  “She isn’t being guided by angels, is she?” Margrethe held her breath for the answer, trying not to touch him for reassurance.

  “It doesn’t seem so,” he said gently.

  “Then she is prey to sins and evil,” Margrethe said with terrible fatality. “Dear God, what is to become of her?” For an instant there was something wild in her pale eyes, then, once again, her features went mask-like.

  Lalagia, who had been rolling out two beds on the floor of the tent, paused in her work. “She is in God’s Hands now, for all she is not receiving visions from Him; it is within His power to turn her visions to Heaven. I pray He is merciful with her. All we can do is keep her from hurting herself.”

  “Has she done that?” Sandjer’min did his best to minimize the alarm he felt. “In what way? When?”

  Margrethe gave a sigh of chagrin. “Yesterday morning, as we were making camp, she managed to find a hatchet that had been used to cut new tent-stakes, and she used it to score the palms of her hands.”