Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  "What?"

  "Try to read everything in a conversation, not just the words."

  Indeed, as the friends looked past the woman, they realised that two of the menfolk were holding out their arms, proffering bundles of blue cloth.

  Without delay, Cesare ran past his three friends, pausing to bow respectfully at the lady, and then over to one of the blue-clad traders. With a nod of thanks, he jabbed the sword into the gritty earth and grabbed one of the billowing robes, pulling it over his head.

  Stung into action, Nicolo and Parmenio rushed over to don the gear themselves, leaving Skiouros tottering and almost falling, weak and unsupported. Grumbling irritably, he righted himself and shuffled over to the proffered robes, still clutching his side as he moved and only dropping the dusty black priest robes to the floor as he reached for the blue garb.

  One of the men mimed something to Orsini and then gestured to the sword. Cesare nodded and the Berber tore the blade from the ground and moved over to the cart, tying the tell-tale Christian sword to the underside of the cart's slat bed.

  Dressing was hell for Skiouros. Every move seemed to pull whatever stitches remained in place and it felt as though someone was trying to insert a boiling khave pot into his gut through his side. On the third attempt, with a lot of puffing of breath, he got the robe over his head and let it drop.

  "What happened back there?" Parmenio asked the young nobleman as they changed clothes rapidly. Cesare simply shook his head and it took Skiouros but a moment to realise what news Orsini was imparting. Yet another fallen innocent in his quest. A true man of God a thousand times more pious than Skiouros.

  More bodies in his wake.

  Clenching his jaw, Skiouros settled the robe in place and looked down at the priest's black gear on the ground with distaste. Could he really justify wearing it again? Yes. Of course he could. It was not just a matter of survival, now. Nor was it about his end-goal: the demise of that traitorous cur the usurper Cem Sultan. A new head had risen from the Hydra that plagued Skiouros and his friends: Etci Hassan.

  Hassan's anger had destroyed the priest in Tunis, not Skiouros, and he would no longer allow himself to feel such guilt over unsolicited aid, given freely by a good man. But regardless of what the old Romani had said in Crete about selfishness and revenge, Skiouros remembered the old saying 'an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth' - a favourite of Father Simonides back in Hadrianople. The old Tunisian priest-knight, whose name Skiouros had never even known, would rest in the knowledge that somehow, somewhere on his ever-growing quest, Skiouros would drive three feet of steel through the black heart of Hassan the Butcher.

  One of the Berbers strode across and collected the priestly garments, cradling them respectfully while wrinkling his nose at their odour, and placed them among the wrappings and bags on the cart, where they blended in and became yet another miscellaneous empty container.

  By the time Skiouros had finished struggling into his robe, his friends were busy having turbans bound round their scalps and veils strung across their faces. As the process was repeated for Skiouros the others shuffled around impatiently.

  "We need to move now" Orsini declared as soon as a Berber tucked the loose end of Skiouros' turban away and hooked the veil across. "They will be searching for us and we're still dangerously close to the church. They could come across us at any time."

  With signs and hand motions, Cesare explained to the Berber lady their need for urgency. She simply smiled and bowed her head.

  "This is going to be a long and lonely journey if no one speaks our language" Nicolo grumbled as he settled in with the other Berbers alongside the cart.

  "Remember not to speak until we're fairly certain we're safe" Skiouros hissed through the indigo veil across his face. He felt stifled from the neck up, with the veil and turban, though the billowing robe was easy enough, and he could imagine that with baggy clothing beneath, it would be the perfect garb for the blistering sun of Africa.

  The Berbers made noises and chatted for a moment, and then the donkeys started walking, the cart clunking and bouncing off the uneven street. The traders fell in alongside and the lady strode across and climbed aboard the cart, taking position on the seat up front while her people walked as an escort, the brothers who had purchased her goods walking out ahead, leading the vehicle through the streets.

  Skiouros fell in behind Cesare and tried his best to walk normally, despite the pain in his side that had now subsided to a constant heavy throb after his brief rest. Parmenio and Nicolo walked alongside, the captain in front, Berbers before and behind them all. Veiled and with covered heads, as long as they kept their eyes averted or lowered and their paler hands from view, the four friends were indistinguishable from their escort.

  Skiouros, aware that on this ever-troublesome journey the unexpected could always be expected to occur, took note of their route as they moved through the edge of Tunis, marking any points of interest that he could later use to find their way should anything go wrong.

  After five minutes of travel, the cart emerged, bouncing, out into a major thoroughfare and a quick glance ahead as they turned revealed one of the city gates. In a structure heavy and squat and of glowing gold-brown stone, the pointed arch was dark. The gates were shut! Had the Arabs and the Berbers accounted for this? Perhaps it was normal to close the gates at sunset, and the sun was now sinking behind the hills ahead, leaving only an amber glow tracing the indigo sky with lines. Men in white with shining armour strode across the towers that flanked the gate, while others stood beside the forbidding dark portal.

  "Closed!" hissed Skiouros, receiving 'shushing' motions from his friends in reply. Skiouros turned back to the gate, noting just in case the position of the priest's sword where it lay fastened just out of reach beneath the cart.

  Skiouros realised he was holding his breath as they closed on the guards and forced himself to breathe as normally and calmly as he could. Parmenio and Nicolo looked equally nervous, their hands twitching and constantly gripping and ungripping, though Orsini strode calmly as though born to the role. The man never ceased to amaze - and slightly irritate - Skiouros.

  The cart trundled slowly to a halt and the two Hafsid guards stepped out from their position at the side of the gate. Skiouros could just see another white-clad soldier in the gloom beneath the arch. One of the guards - perhaps an officer? - approached the cart and nodded at the lady, offering some sort of challenge in Arabic to the two local brothers who stood before them.

  The one with the neat beard - who Skiouros had decided could be Faysal, since they couldn't communicate enough to determine which brother was which - spread his hands and bowed his head, answering the question. With a curt nod, the guard looked up at the Berber lady. His voice took on a strange tone. Skiouros could not quite determine whether it contained respect, fear or disdain, or perhaps a combination of the three.

  The Lady answered in her languid, honeyed voice and the guard actually smiled. Skiouros felt something ease within him. How could any ordinary man argue with this Goddess?

  More conversation. More questions, easily answered, the brothers interjecting as required, and after perhaps two minutes of discussion, the guard officer nodded and, stepping back, bowed.

  Skiouros had not seen any coin exchange hands during the conversation, but he did notice the officer's closed fist disappear beneath his cloak, apparently securing some bribe or payment at his waist. With a single command, the man stepped back further, his companion alongside, clearing the road before the cart. The guard beneath the arch moved and there was a series of clunks before the great wooden gate swung ponderously open.

  Skiouros felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck in an almost preternatural warning. Risking a casual glance over his shoulder, he confirmed his fears. He thought he'd heard a distant commotion and now he could see, back some way along the wide, straight street, figures moving apace.

  The killers had caught up with them.

  Skiouros bit into
his cheek in tense desperation. He wanted nothing more than to shout a warning to the others, who had not heard and were standing there blissfully unaware, waiting for the cart to begin moving. But there was no way he could speak without drawing deadly attention.

  He turned his wide eyes forwards again, where the second leaf of the gate was being slowly swung wide. Simultaneously, the cart began to creak and then trundle forwards, so slowly Skiouros was starting to wonder if they would ever leave the city. Beyond the gatehouse, the open land stretched out towards the irregular humps of the hills that lay to the west of the city. It was a fairly dry and open stretch of land, though there were the tell-tale signs of farming on the more distant slopes, shadowed by the setting sun. It was a wide expanse, framed by low peaks with no great sign of habitation beyond these walls.

  But that was only a small part of what that landscape meant to Skiouros and his friends. That wide space with its fertile slopes, scrub grass and intermittent farmland was freedom. Freedom from Etci Hassan and his corsairs. Freedom from this Sidi Najid and his criminals. Freedom from the grip of the Hafsid Emir.

  Out there was the only way forward and, while it required a lengthy journey in the company of these strange desert folk, it was safe. It was freedom.

  It was also on the other side of this gate and past a cart that was being drawn by two of the slowest donkeys Skiouros had ever encountered. His ears picked out voices back along the street, but he dared not turn his head again, not least because of the childhood fear that seeing the pursuers would bring them somehow closer.

  His heart almost skipped a beat as he realised he was moving and passing beneath the shade of the heavy gatehouse's arch. It was progress, but his somewhat acute hearing told him that it was not fast enough. The voices behind were now clear enough to be heard. If he had understood Arabic, he would have been able to hear what they were shouting.

  The guards clearly had.

  Skiouros glanced in the direction of the sword once more, picturing the way it had been loosely tied and how he could retrieve it. The others had finally realised that something was wrong and their heads turned towards the noise.

  The guard holding open the gate, through which the donkeys were about to pass, faltered, his grip on the wood tightening as he prepared to close it again, trapping them in Tunis. The guard commander turned a look of consternation on the traders and his fierce, uncertain gaze met that of the Berber lady, who raised her eyebrows and turned, spitting imprecations back down the street. She cast a malevolent look at the guard officer, who actually took a couple of paces back in shock, and snapped something out at him in Arabic.

  Skiouros and his companions stole the opportunity to share a quick glance of confusion and surprise and then, suddenly, the guard officer and his companion rushed past them, taking up a defensive position behind the cart and its escort, preparing to defend them against this new threat from within the city.

  The soldier holding open the gate smacked the donkeys on the rump, stirring them to heightened speed, and the cart bounced and jolted through the gate, the men at the front jogging to keep control of the vehicle, the Berber lady holding tight as she was shaken about. The escort picked up the pace and suddenly Skiouros and his friends were through the gate and out into the open countryside.

  Freedom?

  The idea that they may have evaded the thugs back in the street did not sit well with him. The criminals would argue their position with the Hafsid guard and it all came down to whether the officer found more value in the opinion of a foreign desert trader or a local thug. Not much of a choice to make, he would guess.

  Behind them, the man beneath the arch slammed the gate shut and Skiouros could hear the sounds of bolts and bars being rammed home.

  Perhaps they were free after all?

  Of course, there was every chance that after a brief explanation, the gate guard would let the thugs out to chase them down. And even if not, Sidi Najid and his men seemed now to know when and where they had left the city. Skiouros was an experienced enough tracker and fugitive - in city streets at least - to realise that they would not be hard to find with that knowledge. The sooner they could put a few leagues between themselves and Tunis, the better.

  He shared a look with Parmenio and mouthed something at him. The captain frowned and shook his head - the level of light was too low for him to make out what his friend was saying. Skiouros exaggerated the shapes as he mouthed again 'why do we not speed up?'

  Parmenio shook his head. 'We do not want to look like we are running' he mouthed back slowly. Skiouros nodded to himself. They were playing it above board as proper traders in the hope that the thugs in the city would be recognised as Sidi Najid's men and dismissed as criminals. If the cart suddenly fled, it would lend credence to whatever the thugs were claiming and the various sharp weapons of the men atop the walls and towers would find targets among the Berber traders.

  Skiouros instead held his tongue and his breath as they slowly moved out across the open ground, away from the walls of the city. With every step he expected to hear the creak of the gate opening behind them, yet they reached the top of a low rise with no such trouble and as the cart sank behind the hummock, Skiouros allowed himself to breathe easier.

  The Berber lady turned with a smile and said something unintelligible to them. Skiouros frowned, but decided that she meant it was now safe to speak.

  "That was about as close to capture as I ever want to come again."

  Parmenio sagged with relief. "Looks like we've seen the last of Tunis. Nice enough place, but I won't be hurrying back if you get my drift."

  "Indeed I do. But you know that's not the end of it, don't you?"

  Parmenio nodded. "Hassan's not going to let this go. Not after you lost your brains for a moment and stuck him in the foot."

  Again, Skiouros bridled. It seemed so damned unfair that Parmenio kept blaming him for the Butcher's wrath, but it was also hard to deny the consequences of that act of desperation. The captain was right, but did he have to keep ramming the point home?

  "Of course, Hassan had some appointment to keep with his superior, and he won't leave the coast and his ship in unfriendly waters long enough to chase us" he said quietly.

  "No. But you saw how much silver and gold he had. He can pay Sidi Najid enough to keep those cutthroats on our tail right to the edge of the God-damned world and chasing us until we're too old to run any more" Parmenio replied. "I won't even countenance the word 'safe' until I am in a Christian city with a bloody great wall between me and the Muslim world.

  It was sad to have to think like that, and it particularly rankled for Skiouros, who had been raised as a Christian, yes, but within a Muslim culture that had shown itself to be refined, educated and tolerant. Having given almost everything he had to save the life of the Ottoman Sultan, it seemed appalling that he was now driven to seeking the protection of Christian states and turning his back on all things Islam just because of yet another bastard using a position of authority to carry out his own personal jihad.

  But the captain was absolutely correct, regardless - as he often was - in that until they reached the Portuguese controlled port of Ceuta they would never be safe.

  "We'd best be on our way into the desert as soon as possible. I hope these Berbers plan to leave in the morning."

  "I hope one of them speaks Italian" grumbled Nicolo, kicking an errant stone on the dusty road and watching it skitter among the dry grass alongside.

  "I would not hold your breath for such an eventuality" Cesare smiled. "But whether we can communicate or not, they appear to be friendly, and for that I am grateful."

  The other three nodded and gave up their own silent thanks to the Lord for this latest miracle.

  Perhaps ten minutes they walked, the donkeys matching a standard walking pace, until they crested a low saddle and gazed down into a shallow bowl-shaped depression.

  The light now was little more than the glow of the silver moon and a few low streaks of copper
that stained the western horizon, but the size of the merchant camp was impressive even at night - perhaps more so at night. A collection of tents and low huts sprawled across the centre of the dip creating a shifting temporary settlement larger than many villages Skiouros had visited in his time.

  Fences had been erected at some time creating animal pens that contained horses, camels, cattle, sheep, goats and other miscellaneous livestock. Closer examination revealed that the tents and huts, for all their sprawling appearance, were actually organised into tight groups - families or clans? Perhaps trading parties? Torches and lamps burned throughout the camp giving it a glittering appearance, like a reflection of the stars above, and large fires blazed in the five or six open social spaces that had been left between the habitations. Music and voices issued forth into the night. After the last week or two, the very idea of a place filled with song, laughter and happiness seemed so alien to the four friends that they had already descended halfway down the slope towards the camp before they began to smile.

  "Looks friendly" Parmenio said with a grin.

  "I wonder if they have wine?" Skiouros muttered hopefully.

  "Don't prepare yourself for carousing," Cesare laughed. "Remember that you're a monk. As soon as we get down there you need to change and start being all pious again."

  "Piss off."

  The three men laughed, and Skiouros spared each of them a caustic glare in turn, but his ire bounced off their happy relief at this turn of events, and as he thought about it, Skiouros realised with a sinking heart that they were serious. And they were right. The only reason the old priest had managed to secure a deal with the Berbers to take the four travellers had been because one of them was a holy man. While none of them knew anything about the desert folk, and none of them could converse, it seemed very likely that, given the deal, 'no monk' meant 'no help'.

  He glanced with distaste at the dirty robes in the cart.

  "At the very least, if I'm going to be trapped as Brother Skiouros again, I expect you three to help me. And the first thing is to wash these robes. There must be a source of water here somewhere for the camp to survive, and I refuse to spend the next six weeks travelling through the landscape smelling like a pile of vomit and excrement."