“Do you think having Dukkai vanish will keep them together?” Rojeh was puzzled, and he leaned over the answer as Ragoczy Franciscus wrote.
I trust they will believe her magic took her to the Underworld Judge, and that she will become one with the Gods of the Smoke. This could not happen if they found her body.
Rojeh read the last answer twice. “Why do you care what becomes of them? Dukkai cut your throat and was prepared to offer your life to her gods.”
For the living, life is so very short, and the dead slip away so quickly. I have the luxury of time—centuries and centuries of it; how can I live among living humans and not do what I can to make their brief lives less precipitous? I will be here far longer than any of them, and I must not abuse my long life, for if I did, I would lose all claim to humanity; I have worked much too hard to maintain it to want to relinquish all I have sought.
“How long do you think you have to make up for the years you hunted men as fodder, as vengeance for the slaughter of your family?” Rojeh asked with more bluntness than he intended.
That is so far in the past that I doubt I could. What I do now I do because I know the souls of people through the intimacy I have with— His charcoal stick broke. Dusting his hands on his thick leather leggings, Ragoczy Franciscus rose to his feet and pointed toward the chest, gesturing, You. Sleep.
Knowing it was useless to pursue this any longer, Rojeh took a deep breath. “We should travel at first light. Will you wake me before dawn?”
Yes, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured, moving over to the stool to sit guard while Rojeh slept.
Text of a letter from the Roman merchant Antoninus Octavianus Stellens in Ostia to the merchant Lucius Valentius Gnaeo, expected in the port of Salonae, carried by merchant ship and delivered on the nineteenth of May.
To the renowned merchant Lucius Vatentius Gnaeo, at his warehouse in Salonae, the greetings and good wishes of Antoninus Octavianus Stellens, presently in Ostia, on this, the twenty-fourth of February in the year 537 of the Pope’s calendar, with thanks for your communication of last autumn, and the hope that your ventures have prospered since then, that your family has suffered no further losses, and that no contract you have entered upon has been compromised.
I am pleased to tell you that I have come upon a supply of raisins and dried plums from a peasant living to the north of Roma. He has kept four barrels of each in reserve and has started to offer them for sale. He also grows the apples of Api, which can be stored much longer than most of that sort of fruit, and he has a few trees that are bearing still in his orchard. He has named a price that I, by myself, would find hard to meet, but if you were to go shares with me on the purchase, I believe that both of us would profit from the transaction. If this holds any interest for you, notify me as quickly as you may, and I will tell him that he has found a buyer. I hope the storms of winter will abate in time for you to receive this and make your decision.
As to your offer to go partners on the Armenian grains, given the sad state of farming here around Roma, I will dispatch a courier with the amount you quoted to me, so that you may secure as much of the coming harvest as you may. It is unfortunate that the reason they have grain to sell is because there have been so many deaths among the people of the region, but that is true everywhere. Even my old uncle has succumbed, although he did live almost fifty-two years—an ancient, indeed.
You must tell me more about this stone bone. I have read your description of it and still find it too incredible to believe. Is it from the dragon that fell from Heaven when the Rebel Angels were cast out? If it is truly of the size you say it is, no doubt it would attract fascination and wonder. In difficult times, the people of the world cling to those marvels that remove them from their misery, if only for a short while. I am interested in helping you bring this treasure to Roma, if it is truly as remarkable as you have said it is. Tell me what you will need to transport it safely, and I will see you have it, in exchange for an equal share in your profits.
I have made arrangements with a group of weavers near Neapolis for the fine wool they have been making. I would like to think that the terms we have established will serve us all well. Should you wish to participate, receiving shipped woolens and selling them in the ports of the Adriatic and the Black Seas, I will be more than happy to introduce this possibility to the weavers to see if it suits them, both in market and in their own shares of such sales. I know they are not as numerous as they once were, but I am sure some degree of accommodation may be reached, especially if you can guarantee markets that they have not been able to reach in the past.
I am pleased to learn that you are coming to Roma. While you are in Ostia, you must be my guest. I have an enclosed villa; it has only been attacked once in the last decade, and it came through the battle with only minor damage, which has since been repaired. It may be wrong to pray for profits in this precipitous time, but if not now, when should we pray for more goods to sell, and more markets in which to sell them, for if these two things are granted, then the world will once again bask in God’s favor. While we languish, I will offer to God all the sorrow and misery that I endure, but I will rejoice when my daily litany does not reflect the weight of affliction and turns again to praise for bounty and success. To that end, I engage to continue our business together, and to expand it as the opportunities arise. I will continue to search out goods to sell and ask that you find markets in which to sell them, to which end you will remain in my prayers.
Antoninus Octavianus Stellens
Merchant of Ostia
4
“We haven’t seen any lions since we left Tok-Kala, nor their skins for sale,” Rojeh observed as they halted beside a carcass of a wild boar. It was the fourth clear day in a row, and the snows were beginning to melt; only under the trees did the drifts remain, and the boar was lying half-covered in the shade of a pine.
Ragoczy Franciscus nodded and mouthed, No tigers, either.
“But we have heard tigers,” Rojeh reminded him. “Just two nights ago. And a few of the fur traders have their hides to sell.” They were eight days away from the stone fortress and were traveling through a stand of scrub forest, with thick-barked pine trees and thickets of close-growing brush. They had been on the road since before dawn, and now that half the morning had slid by, they were looking for a place to rest through the height of the day.
“And wolves—we have heard wolves and seen their pelts,” Ragoczy Franciscus said silently. He stared down the ill-defined track ahead of them and with a considerable effort whispered, “Be alert.”
“For wolves? With the sun up?” Rojech asked with a slight, humorous smile.
“The human kind of packs, I fear.” There was a hint of sound in the words, faint and rough, but as audible as a leaf skittering over the ground.
“You think we could be in danger here? From animals and men?” Rojeh tugged on his mule’s lead and tapped his horse’s sides with his heels; the stallion was as tired as any of them. The mule was equally recalcitrant, forcing Rojeh to tug on his lead. “What killed the boar, do you think?”
“Probably hunger. It has killed many others,” whispered Ragoczy Franciscus, his hand going to the high shearling collar of his shuba; what little speech he had regained came in short bursts and quickly overburdened his slow-healing throat. “That is probably why we have seen no lions.” He could manage nothing more.
“You mean they have died, famished?” Rojeh asked.
Or moved on, Ragoczy Franciscus motioned broadly so that Rojeh could understand.
“Like the Jou’an-jou’an and the Uighurs,” said Rojeh.
Yes. Ragoczy Franciscus turned back toward the track through the forest.
“Are we far from the Don?” Rojeh asked when they had gone half a league.
Ragoczy Franciscus gestured his uncertainty and pointed to a curve in the descent of the trail and made the signs for Robbers followed by Possibly.
“It could be a place to lie in wait,” Rojeh said, calculating the distan
ce as he laid his hand on his shimtare. “I’m ready for—” He did not finish that thought.
They continued down the slope, following the way marked by the patches of hard-trodden earth that were revealed where the watery sunlight had melted the snow. The woods around them rustled and shook in the gusty wind, making the place seem emptier than quiet would have done. As Ragoczy Franciscus led the way into the hidden curve, he tugged his Chinese mace with the stellated head out of the sheath he had tied to his saddle that morning. The heavy weapon hummed on the air as he swung it, testing its heft.
Negotiating the declining bend, they entered a stand of mixed pines and birch; no outlaws surged out to meet them, no shouts of challenge or warning interrupted the steady clop of hooves. A creek chortling over stones was the only new sound among the trees, many of which looked bedraggled, with stunted ends to their branches, and bare twigs where the first, faint furls of leaves should have been. Here and there lay recently fallen logs, a few with the beginning of moss on them. Snow was thick on the ground, but broken here and there by melting, leaving damp edges to the heaps of white.
“We’re doing well so far,” Rojeh called out.
Ragoczy Franciscus raised his hand to acknowledge his comment, then slipped the mace back into the sheath, making sure the closing was secure. He was in need of shelter; the sun was marginally stronger this spring than it had been the previous year, but for him, it was enough to wear on him, particularly since he had not been able to take nourishment, not even from the horses, since Dukkai had cut his throat and so was wholly dependent on his native earth and shelter. With the advancing day, he felt more and more debilitated.
“Is there any likely place you can see ahead?” Rojeh called up to him. “You’re worn-out. And so are the animals.”
Shaking his head no, Ragoczy Franciscus straightened himself and made himself maintain a correct seat, but it took more of an effort than he wanted to expend. As the trail continued its zigzag way down the slope, he made a point of peering into the trees in the hope of seeing a cabin or other shelter. They had covered almost a league when he noticed something that might be a barn some distance from the track, and he motioned for a halt, making the sign for Shelter before pointing to what he had seen.
Rojeh came up beside Ragoczy Franciscus, saying as he did, “I hope you’re right.” After a rueful pause, he said, “We should have stopped before midnight.”
“But we did not,” whispered Ragoczy Franciscus.
“No.” Rojeh handed his mule’s lead to Ragoczy Franciscus, saying, “I’ll ride over to see what is there.”
“Keep your weapons to hand,” Ragoczy Franciscus soughed as he took the lead.
“I will,” said Rojeh, and set his spotted horse jogging toward what might be a barn. He drew in to a walk as he approached the building—for it was surely that—so that he could listen for any telltale sounds that might reveal something about the place. He took a long breath, hoping he might detect the characteristic scents of livestock. As soon as he did, he knew that nothing alive waited there; the metallically sweet odor of decay hung about the barn that fronted on a paddock, in which four shaggy ponies lay, dead at least five days. Rojeh rode near enough to see how they had died and pulled back his horse at once. “Black Sores!” Neither he nor Ragoczy Franciscus had anything to fear from that disease, but their horses and mules did. He swung the stallion around and started back toward where Ragoczy Franciscus waited on the trail, then stopped. “It is Black Sores!” he shouted, then realized that Ragoczy Franciscus could not answer. “Did you hear?” he called when he could see Ragoczy Franciscus again.
Yes, he gestured.
“Should I approach, or must I dismount and kill my horse?” Rojeh loathed the very notion of having to put an end to the stallion’s life.
No, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured emphatically, and then added, Come.
Hesitantly, Rojeh complied, saying as he rode up to Ragoczy Franciscus and the two mules, “Are you sure this animal is safe?”
“No,” whispered Ragoczy Franciscus, “but if there has been contagion, we have all been touched by it. We must find a place to rest, and I will give each of the animals a dose of the sovereign remedy, and it may guard them against the Black Sores.” This taxed him to the limits of his voice, and he made a gesture of apology, then touched his throat, a movement of frustration and fatalism. He kept his mouth firmly closed. We go on.
“Yes. We must,” said Rojeh, and continued to keep looking for a place they might rest safely; the downward path led to a narrow valley that was beginning to show a little promise of spring: there were shoots of the hardiest grasses poking up through the loamy soil, and a few of the willows hanging over the fast-running stream appeared to be trying to produce new verdure. The track followed the stream, stopping at a ford that had obviously been damaged during the storms of the winter. “We can get across, but we’ll have to watch for drop-offs.”
The way Ragoczy Franciscus nodded showed that he was not pleased by what he saw. He pointed down into the deep hole by the head of the ford. Rocks. Deep water, he motioned, and pointed to the narrow band of shallows that now made up the ford. Stay careful.
“You have my pledge I will,” said Rojeh, only partly in jest. He watched Ragoczy Franciscus start across the ford, keeping the mule drawn up close to the blue roan; running water always gave Ragoczy Franciscus vertigo, and Rojeh was prepared to follow closely after him if he showed any signs of succumbing to light-headedness; Ragoczy Franciscus kept erect in the saddle, showing no indication of distress from the water. Rojeh started across after Ragoczy Franciscus; his horse and his mule had reached the far shore. Rojeh’s horse tried to pull free of the bit so he could plunge across the ford, but the footing was wobbly enough to force the spotted stallion to keep to a steady walk, which he did, constantly tossing his head to indicate his displeasure; the stolid mule followed behind with the determination of his kind. As they came out of the stream, Rojeh said to Ragoczy Franciscus, “It could have gone worse.”
Very slowly Ragoczy Franciscus nodded and pointed toward the trail winding ahead. Go, he signaled. He was about to give his blue roan the office when a loud whistle announced the arrival of a goatherd and his flock. The goatherd was possibly twenty-five but looked forty, with sun-leathered face and hair starting to go white; his beard was long and unkempt, and the odor of his body was as strong as that of the goats. He wore a heavy sleeved dalmatica of poor-quality wool, and over it a tunica of leather that was so old some portions of the front had almost worn away; his leggings were of patched goat hide with laces crossed over them to keep them in place. He carried a staff and was accompanied by two dogs, which busied themselves directing the goats.
“Something for the ford,” the goatherd said in a nearly incomprehensible dialect that had Persian and Khazar elements in it, as well as the tongue of the Byzantines. He held up a grubby hand and turned his huge eyes on first Ragoczy Franciscus, then on Rojeh. “We keep it up for travelers, my cousin and I.”
Not knowing if it was wise or foolish, Rojeh reached into the wallet hung from his belt and pulled out a silver coin, which he handed to the goatherd. “For your work.”
The goatherd was dazzled; he stood staring at the coin as if entranced. “Too much,” he crooned to the coin. “Too much.”
“Then you will use it for the benefit of others,” said Rojeh.
The goatherd mumbled something incomprehensible to the silver, then slipped it into his leather wallet that hung from a thong strapped around his waist. “God give you safe travel and may your branch ever bloom,” he said as if he suddenly recalled what was expected.
Rojeh actually laughed once, then said, “Thank you.”
Ragoczy Franciscus sketched a reverence in the goatherd’s direction and started his blue roan moving carefully through the throng of goats, even as he loosened the closure on the top of his mace’s sheath. Then he made a quick motion of Beware to Rojeh as they threaded their way through the goats.
The goatherd shouted something, and ahead on the trail three large dogs rushed from cover, teeth bared, and rushed at the two travelers, their horses and mules. Behind them the two dogs rushed toward them, scattering the goats, their snarls joining with those of the first three.
Rojeh pulled his shimtare and raised it to strike, saying loudly, “I hate having to kill dogs.” His blow did not fall, for the stallion kicked out, sending the nearest dog tumbling away with a single shriek before it dropped in a heap. The mules had laid back their long ears and were in defensive stances; one of the dogs reached Ragoczy Franciscus’ blue roan, raking a double furrow in the slope of her shoulder with his teeth. The mare reared and lashed out with her front hooves even as Ragoczy Francisus brought his mace into play and, with a long, sweeping drub, sent the dog that had hurt the mare flying. Rojeh had managed to cut the flank of another dog, and it had slunk off, limping and whimpering. Rojeh’s mule let out a squeal of equine rage, swung around, and bit the dog attempting to gouge his rump.
Standing in appalled stupefaction, the goatherd finally realized that his dogs were taking a beating, and he shouted two short syllables. The dogs retreated, all but one, and he did not move from where he had fallen. The goatherd let out a bellow of grief and held out his arms to the four remaining dogs, who slunk up to him, tails tucked and heads down, ashamed of their failure.
Shelter, Ragoczy Franciscus signaled. Now.
Rojeh tugged on the lead to get his mule moving and only then realized that the animal had sustained a gash on its foreleg, a wound that was bleeding freely. “Yes. We must,” called Rojeh, forcing the mule to limp along with his jogging horse.
They had gone perhaps a league when they finally came upon a small cabin that had clearly been used by slavers, for there were heavy bars on the windows and stanchions for chains. A crude painting on the side of the small building showed a procession of men all linked together.
Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 44