Sandjer’min shouted to the fleeing men, “Go back and get your comrade!” Then he reached for one of the iron grappling poles and ran to the water’s edge, using the hook at the end of the pole to attempt to break the creature’s skull, though he was finding it difficult to see the crocodile in the glinting reflections spangling the river. When the fourth blow struck home, the hook sinking through the tough hide behind the skull, the crocodile writhed, its long tail thrashing the water to foam. Sandjer’min held on, fighting off the nausea and weakness that threatened to overcome him. One more jerk on the pole brought the slave within reach; Sandjer’min leaned on the pole, not only to stay on his feet, but to immobilize the crocodile; memories from his ordeal in the Roman arena returned as he struggled against water, sun, and crocodiles. The current here made it worse than the Circus had been. After a last attempt to wrench itself free of the hook, the crocodile opened its jaws, and Sandjer’min bent down to pull the slave from harm. The man’s lower leg was torn and bleeding, so that when Sandjer’min tried to raise him to his feet, the slave shrieked and lost consciousness.
“There are more coming!” BetreMussie shouted, and pointed toward long, dark shapes coming toward them, eyes and snouts above the water, the rest beneath. “Fend them off! Don’t let them get near us!”
Struggling to resist the enervation of the water, Sandjer’min fell back, his eyes aching, his attention unfocused. He sensed the crocodiles moving nearer, some of them going toward the boat, the others toward him; he strove to regain his nidus, and through that his intent.
Then Ruthier came, taking hold of the slave and handing Sandjer’min his Japanese sword. “There are more coming,” he said in Imperial Latin. “About a dozen, I count.”
“That they are.” Sandjer’min clambered backward on unsteady feet, his eyes fixed on the crocodiles. “Get the man back and wrap his leg above the wound, tightly enough to stop the bleeding. I’ll sew the tears closed if I can, when I’m through here,” he ordered, drawing the blade from its scabbard. “I’ll get the rest to move away from this place.”
“I’d rather remain here,” Ruthier said, lugging the slave by one arm to pull him all the way to safety.
“Go. He needs immediate help.”
“So do you,” said Ruthier as he moved to obey.
“Tell BetreMussie to get his craft into the water as fast as he can. If I can redirect the crocodiles, it won’t be for long; they will keep coming until we leave.”
“I will,” said Ruthier, picking up the slave and slinging him over his shoulder before he trudged off to the landing.
Sandjer’min flung the scabbard up the bank and found a low rock near the landing; he took up his position on it, willing himself to shut out the pain, the disorientation, and the sense of peril that wore on him. He studied the approaching crocodiles, then waded into the river and shoved the dead crocodile away from the landing, hoping those others of its kind would follow the body away from where he stood, seeking an easy meal in the swollen river. Cramps ran through him as the river leached his strength, pulling at him as if luring him to surrender to the current. He held the katana over his head as he staggered back to the rock and heaved himself out of the Nile, as exhausted as if he had climbed the outside wall of a castle, or had been caring for the stricken in a time of plague.
One of the crocodiles did not go after the body, but came on toward Sandjer’min, who was still on his knees when the crocodile surged out of the water less than a forearm’s length from Sandjer’min’s foot; he kicked out, turned halfway around, and struck down with the sword an instant after the crocodile’s teeth scraped along his right ribs with its teeth, paddling back as its snout fell away from his head, its blood reddening the water beneath the rock on which Sandjer’min huddled, the wounds in his side growing more encaramined. For an instant he was glad that he had no pulse to drive his blood from his veins as it did with the living, but that quickly gave way to the realization that he would have to bind up his injuries or risk being reduced to something as ravening as the crocodile.
Two of the crocodiles that had almost reached the shore stopped, then launched themselves at the injured beast, pulling the dying crocodile under the water, where the two began to pull it apart.
Slowly, painfully, Sandjer’min heaved himself to his feet, light-headed and filled with growing agony. He stumbled toward the landing where BetreMussie’s men were trying to deal with the wounded slave and, at the same time, reconstruct the barge-boat, all the while keeping uneasy watch over the water. He tried to call out for help, but could not draw enough air into his lungs to make more than a duck-like quack; he sank down on his left knee, wondering how much blood he would lose, even without beating heart, and dreading the devouring need such a loss was starting to waken in him; he had experienced that craving before—not often nor recently, but the memories of the five times it had occurred since he came to the House of Life shamed him—and was certain he would have to do his utmost to keep from savaging anyone on BetreMussie’s boat if he did not find his way out of the sunlight and away from the water, where he could tend to the rents over his ribs. His body was growing weaker and he could not summon enough stamina to stop the continuing erosion of his condition; he tried not to despair, but the appalling thought of what he might well become shook him like a fever, and he asked himself if the True Death would be preferable to the possibility of being transformed, famished beyond all reason.
Then he heard Ruthier’s voice and felt himself lifted and moved along the shore away from the water. The shadow of some large object fell across him, and he took a deep breath of relief.
“I have your red-lacquer chest, my master, and I will do as you bid me,” Ruthier said, then raised his voice, calling out to BetreMussie, “I’ll attend to your slave as soon as I have done with my master.”
“Keep Margr—” Sandjer’min gasped.
“Away, I will,” Ruthier told him.
BetreMussie made some diffuse comment from where his men had largely prepared the barge-boat to return to the water. “Will he be able to travel with us?” he asked as he came into the shade of the stone slab that angled up from the end of the landing.
“I don’t know,” said Ruthier, then looked over at the slave. “I doubt he will; the muscles in his leg are shredded and he is clammy to the touch. He could be dead in an hour. My master is gravely injured, and I need to close his wounds.”
BetreMussie bent over Sandjer’min and made a face. “Exposed ribs: four of them.” He shook his head. “Neither he nor the slave have much of a chance,” he added, speaking in slightly stilted Anglo-French.
“It seems so,” said Ruthier, making no comment on BetreMussie’s skill with the language. “And I must be about treating him now.”
“We’ll pull to the bank a little farther down-river for tonight. In the morning, you will tell us how we are to proceed.” He gave a single, explosive laugh. “What about the woman? Does she stay with my boat or with you?”
“Let her decide,” said Ruthier, and saw Sandjer’min wince. “For now, I know what I must do.”
BetreMussie cast another cursory glance at Sandjer’min, unaware that he could hear and understand everything. “If we lose him, I suppose we will lose the rest of the fee, and the work.”
“Let us see what the morning brings,” said Ruthier, opening the red-lacquer chest and taking out a folded and rolled swath of linen. “I doubt you want to see this.”
“Probably not,” BetreMussie said, and left the shelter of the canted rock.
Once he unrolled the linen, Ruthier removed a coil of silk thread and a steel needle. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” said Sandjer’min faintly.
“Is there anything I should use on the wounds before I close them?”
“I don’t know,” Sandjer’min conceded. “It would be wise to wash the open flesh with the tincture of pansy and willow-bark, though it won’t lessen my hurt.” He fell silent while he made another effort to regain
a modicum of composure. “If there are animacules in the rents, they will breed and have to be lanced later.”
“You want nothing more than that?” He threaded the needle.
“If it would do some good, yes, but not even syrup of poppies will relieve the pain for the undead. I’m prepared to deal with it, if you will give me the smaller biting bag, so I won’t alarm the Captain or Margrethe.”
“I will,” said Ruthier, and opened one of the four bottom drawers to remove the leather-covered bag of sand, which he bent down to place in Sandjer’min’s mouth. “I’ll start now.”
Sandjer’min bit down hard and gave Ruthier the sign to begin.
After rinsing the wounds, Ruthier carefully pinched the lips of the wounds together and sewed them closed. He worked quickly and efficiently, pausing often to study Sandjer’min’s state before continuing. When he had completed the task, he sat down on the folded sail that had often sheltered the asses and horses, and using some Padovan soap, washed his hands to be rid of the blood on them, then wiped the needle and returned it to its place in the linen roll. He studied the sky to judge how long the closing of the wound had taken, then went to see how the slave was faring; the man had sunk into a coma, barely breathing, his color tinged with an ominous shade of blue-gray. Ruthier shook his head, fetched some oil of arnica, and spread it on the man’s thigh above the ruined leg, which he surmised could not be saved.
Day faded; fires were lit along the shore where boatmen and watermen would spend the night. Lanthorns and torches were set out to keep the hunting creatures at bay; many tents were erected and guards were posted; prayers and chanting arose from various pilgrim companies: still Ruthier remained where he was, his whole attention on Sandjer’min.
“Ruthier,” Sandjer’min said weakly when the constellations overhead revealed that the night was more than half over.
“My master,” said Ruthier in Imperial Latin. He left his place on the folded triangle of canvass.
“You did well, Ruthier,” said Sandjer’min.
“I wanted to see you safe before I caught a duck,” Ruthier said.
“Go eat,” Sandjer’min said, and sank back into the stupor that was his version of sleep. When he wakened the night was nearly ended; Ruthier was sitting on the folded sail once again, his attention flagging as the events of the previous day bore in on him. Sandjer’min made an effort to raise his right arm, trying to bend sufficiently to see the bandage that Ruthier had tied around his chest; the pain from his injuries made this impossible and he lay back. “I know what I would like you to do for me,” he said, a bit more loudly than earlier, and with greater cohesion in his speech. “I hope you will agree to it.”
Ruthier swallowed a yawn and got up, going to Sandjer’min’s side. “What is it?”
“I can’t travel yet,” he remarked without distress. “But if you will arrange a shelter for me, and leave an ass and a pair of horses with me, I will come to Alexandria as soon as the wounds are healed.” Ruthier started to speak, but Sandjer’min went on, “I want you to escort Margrethe on her way home; I have pledged to do it, but it would mean not setting out until next spring, and that will not do. She has been gone too long as it is. To add another four months to her stay in Egypt would be no kindness to her.”
“Probably not,” said Ruthier, and listened intently.
“When I am able to travel, I will go to Alexandria where I will stay at Eclipse Trading, in my personal quarters.” He stopped and took three hurried breaths. “I would not ask this of you, but I cannot think of Margrethe traveling alone, but neither can I ask her to remain here. I would not trust the Templars to escort her; the Hospitallers might consent, since she is nobly-born.”
“Her presence could be useful to you, my master,” said Ruthier, making the suggestion as indirect as possible.
“I don’t think she would accept my true nature; she is troubled enough by my being an alchemist. She does not know what I am, and she will not know; I don’t want her to fear she has been set upon by a minion of the Devil. She has not tasted my blood at all, and I have only tasted hers twice. She is in no danger of waking to my life.” The spurt of energy he had summoned up all but vanished as he closed his eyes, frowning.
It was useless to argue with him, and Ruthier was not surprised to hear this. “Then, if she consents, I will see her on her way back to her husband.”
“I am very much obliged to you,” said Sandjer’min, trying to hang on to his last small reserves of energy. “If I were to try to—”
“You must rest until the scars are gone,” he said.
“That is not what vexes me. I don’t want to be tempted to impose my will upon hers.” His quick smile was wry. “There is vellum and ink and trimmed pens.”
“In the second drawer,” said Ruthier.
“Yes. I will write several notes for you to deliver, and entrust you with the missives from Aba’yam Hodilleilo.”
“I will arrange for a courier to carry them.”
Sandjer’min did his best to smile his approval. “Margrethe should be able to travel before the winter storms make the seas unsafe, if she does not dawdle here.”
Ruthier felt increasing relief, for he could tell that the worst of Sandjer’min’s anguish had passed. “And I’ll speak to BetreMussie about where you might remain; there is a trading village not far away, or so I’ve been told, and I will go there once the sun has risen.”
“Thank you, old friend.”
Ruthier stood up, then thought of something. “Would you rather dictate your letters and let me write them? With your right side so damaged…”
Sandjer’min shook his head. “I write equally well with my left hand,” he said, and no longer fought the fatigue that held him.
“And Margrethe? What shall I tell her?”
It took Sandjer’min a little time to answer. “Tell her I would like to see her toward day’s end; I’ll think of something to tell her by then.”
* * *
Text of a letter from Bondame Margrethe de la Poele, written in Anglo-French on vellum from Creisse-en-Aquitaine, carried by Ruthier on the Eclipse Trading ship Santa Laetitia, and delivered in Alexandria, forty-six days after it was written.
To the most dear, most excellent Rakoczy Sandjer’min, Grofek and Sidi, the greetings of Margrethe de la Poele, on this, the 23rd day of May in the 1226th Year of Salvation,
Most adored Sandjer’min, or as Ruthier has told me you are, Comes Saunt-Germain, I want to inform you that I have reached Anglo-French territory, and to thank you for your generosity and care that brought me safely home. Our voyage from Alexandria to Genova was interrupted at Messina when the ship lost its minor mast in a sudden wind, and we, perforce, had to stay on in Sicily while needed repairs were made. We continued on, though there was already a turn in the weather, and so traveled into the Aquitaine in rainstorms, arriving much later than either Ruthier or I had anticipated, nearly ten months after we left the Monastery of the Redeemer.
It was all for naught. Sieur Dagoberht died well over a year ago. I am now a widow, and with Heneri turned Islamite, Sieur Dagoberht’s lands and titles will pass to his cousin, Aluradus, who has vowed he will provide escort to return me to Rutland. With my father and two brothers dead, I cannot believe that Persival will be pleased to have to provide for an older, widowed sister. I am pleased that I have not been ordered to take the veil since Sorer Imogen’s example has given me many reasons to avoid the cloister. Perhaps I can be useful to him because of the pilgrimage, telling what is true and what is not about Egypt, and in that way assist him. I met an English merchant in Messina who told me that he would find experiences like mine most helpful in his line of work.
When you can, will you write to me, and tell me how long you had to stay in that abandoned bird-coop? You said it might be three or four months; I hope it was fewer than that, and that your recovery is complete. I trust you are well. I hope you are no longer in Egypt, but have gone to your homeland as I have to mine.
I have heard nothing of any of the other pilgrims in Sieur Horembaud’s company since we parted from them at the Monastery of the Redeemer. It is as if the desert has absorbed them into its own silence, as it does the dust-devils and the bones of those who die in its embrace. When I first saw a forest again, I longed to weep for the joy of it. I never understood why the pagans of old worshiped trees; now I have learned a little of their faith.
There is so much I want to tell you that I cannot summon up the words. I do not want to dither on foolishly, so for now, I will take my leave of you. Ruthier has given me a number of places to which I can direct my letters to you, if there is need to contact you again. If you send me letters, I ask that you send them through Sieur Aluradus; he will know where to find me. I am sorry we had so little time alone. Every night I have dreams, the same kind that I described to you, and for that little time, I feel I am again in your company. Pray remember me with the same kindness you showed me in Nubia.
With my thanks for all you have done for me,
Bondame Margrethe de la Poele
by my own hand
EPILOGUE
Text of a letter from Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, in Ragusa to Atta Olivia Clemens at Lecco on Lago Comus, written in Imperial Latin on vellum and delivered by hired courier twenty days after it was written.
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