Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  "Looks like they'll just be settled in time for the 'Maghrib' prayer. Tents are going to go up slow then." Skiouros said wearily.

  "Bloody prayer times every ten minutes. I swear this caravan hardly moves sometimes. Some of these lot would stop in the middle of a shit if the call to prayer went up!"

  Skiouros smiled. Most of the Tuareg clung to their strange old faith, but perhaps a quarter of them followed the Muslim doctrine - adopted from the settled Berber cousins in towns and villages across the landscape - while curiously still carrying the idols and talismans of their old Gods. How they reconciled the two apparently irreconcilable faiths fascinated Skiouros and he really wished he could converse enough to ask them about it. His own complex feelings on the blending and blurring of borders between the Muslim and Christian faiths could, he felt sure, benefit from understanding such a working dichotomy. The practical effect on the caravan, however, was five pauses a day for the Islamic prayer ritual.

  Unsure at first what to do, given his guise, Skiouros had joined the Tuareg Muslims in their devotions, given that their faith was closer to his than the strange ancient beliefs of the others. While they knelt and faced their holy place, reciting the prayers, Skiouros kneeled among them, muttering what he could remember of the Nicene Creed from his days in church - surprisingly, it had almost all come back to him - and adding a couple of personal prayers for himself and his friends. Curiously, he had found over the past few days that he had begun mouthing the Muslim prayers alongside when he had finished his own, so often had he listened to their escort repeating the words. In a way, it was comforting. After all, Lykaion had tried to tell him again and again that Allah was the only true God and Mohammed was his prophet, and it felt reassuring that he add a few words in favour of Allah in addition to the religion of his youth… just in case Lykaion had been right.

  It had earned him odd looks from the Tuareg Muslims, but in time they had come to accept it as some quirk or some facet of his specific piety and had smiled at him as he tried to wrap his mouth around the unfamiliar syllables. The words and the language may be different, but the intonation and the meaning were clearly very similar to his own devotions.

  "Best get my prayer rug out ready" he smiled.

  "You worry me" Parmenio rolled his eyes. "Bad enough that you're starting to believe your own disguise, but now you're starting to turn into one of them!"

  "There's no harm in an open mind."

  "Tell that to the Dominican inquisitors. They'd peel a man for heresy. Our Holy Father's got a thing about witches, you know, and he's no lover of the Arabs! Stick to your prayer rope and your liturgy. Rome may not be a big fan of your Greek church, but they won't burn you for it, like they might if they saw you out here."

  Skiouros shrugged. "Then it's a good job they can't see me."

  The captain rolled his eyes again. "Think I'll go back and talk to Nicolo. He may have a head full of mad Goblins, but he's ten times more balanced than you."

  Skiouros grinned as he watched the man leave. In truth he was grateful to be left alone for a while. For some reason, his friends had spent most of the day walking alongside him as he bounced up and down on this hairy sack of broken hammers, and when they hadn't been there, some of Tuareg had always been present.

  And there was something he'd been waiting to do when he had a moment alone.

  Now he looked up and down the line. No one ahead was paying a jot of attention, and those behind were busy, the three Christians in deep conversation some way back now that Parmenio had returned to them and the rest minding their animals.

  Angling himself so that his actions were somewhat obscured from behind, Skiouros gently, carefully lifted the side of his outer cassock, hooking his fingers under the inner garments and shirt too and lifting them.

  A faint odour of chicken broth rose from his side, tinged with some underlying current of foul sweetness. Why it should smell like chicken was beyond him, but it was the only way he could describe it to himself. The stitches were all still in place, but the wound had lengthened a tiny amount and the area around the stiches and the incision itself had turned a yellow-orange colour. Skiouros peered at it with dismay. It had become noticeably worse just in the last few hours.

  One of the most regular subjects of his prayers in those strange Muslim/Christian pauses had been the decline in health of his gut wound. He knew it was infected and, whatever priests usually claimed, no amount of beseeching the divine seemed to be making a difference, whether he called him God or Allah. He should have told the Tuareg who re-stitched the wound after Tugga, but Skiouros had watched him and come to the conclusion that he was some sort of artisan, trained in piecing together the hides that made the tents and coverings of the Tuareg, and not a medical man at all, and bringing the infected cut to the man's attention seemed like inviting some rather unskilled probing he would rather avoid.

  The downside was that he knew as well as any man that an infected wound would almost certainly lead to a painful demise eventually.

  Orsini, who had suffered a similar wound once, had informed him after Tugga that the stitches would need to stay in for two weeks, which meant that they would be expecting Skiouros to have the sutures out and be exercising to return to full health in the next few days. In truth, he was starting to feel distinctly unwell and declining all the time.

  Despite the difficulties involved, he resolved to try and find someone in Sedif this night who might be able to help. It was the largest town they had passed since Tunis, and if he was going to find a medic anywhere in this region, Sedif seemed a likely place.

  Lowering his robe once more he breathed in the warm, late afternoon air of the Tamazgha - as the Tuareg seemed to call this land - trying to drive the stink of the suppurating wound from his nostrils.

  Yes, he would have to do something tonight. Prayer was doing nothing and the problem would hardly go away on its own.

  For the next ten minutes or so, as the caravan moved off the track and gathered on the edge of the trader camp, Skiouros ran through everything he could think of saying in signs that might help when they stopped.

  His deep concentration was interrupted as his three friends wandered alongside once more.

  "Ho, master Skiouros" Cesare smiled. "You look uncomfortable. No matter as you'll be down and in a tent soon now."

  "A pleasing thought" he replied. "But I have something to do first."

  "Ah yes. Time to raise your voice in prayer along with our friends." Orsini smiled.

  "I think God may have to start without me tonight. I have a mind to go into the town and look for a physician." He noted the concerned narrowing of the eyes in his friends and shrugged. "Time these stitches were out."

  Orsini nodded slowly, his eyes still suspicious.

  "There are men in the caravan that can do that."

  "Tent makers and the like, yes, but a doctor would be a little more careful and delicate, I feel."

  Again Orsini nodded. "Then I will accompany you."

  "That's really not necessary."

  "Piffle. It's more than just necessary. You have no idea how these people will react to a Christian monk in their midst. We're not in Hafsid lands now, you know." He turned to the others. "Will you two gentlemen be joining us?"

  "Better than standing around watching the tents not going up, 'cause they're all busy praying" grumbled Parmenio, raising nods of agreement from Nicolo.

  "Very well. As soon as we've stopped, we'll head off."

  Skiouros sighed. He'd wanted to avoid company. The fact that he'd hidden his declining health from them for days now was embarrassing, and they may be insulted by his decision not to tell them. Clearly they were determined, but perhaps he could make them wait outside if they found a physician?

  The camels were being corralled as most of the trade party moved around removing the tent sections, ropes, poles and so on, preparing to make camp. Six of them moved off to one side, where they could kneel and carry out their devotions. They would have
to do so without his company tonight. God would understand.

  One of the Tuareg threaded his way between the rest and approached them, beckoning. With a frown, Skiouros and his friends followed the man, who led them past the unloading of the camp gear to where the elegant lady in charge stood with a small group of Tuareg Skiouros did not recognise.

  Skiouros bowed with a hiss of pain, and smiled at the men.

  "Oy ik?" he asked, mimicking the greeting he had heard so many times over the last week and a half. "Mani eghiwan?"

  "Much good" one of the Tuareg said from behind his veil. He was a short, heavy man with bulky arms and large, bulging eyes, and though his accent was thick with the desert dwellers' inflection, his Italian was surprisingly clear.

  "You speak Italian?" Parmenio said in surprise.

  "Little. Few word. Trade tongue."

  Parmenio sagged with relief. "That makes things somewhat easier."

  "You come us now. We west seven days at Khemis."

  Skiouros nodded. "Before we do, I must see a doctor. Do you know of one here in Sedif?"

  The man frowned in incomprehension.

  "Physician? Medic? Healer?"

  Still the trader frowned, shrugging. Skiouros bit his lip. "We go into town to find healer" he said in the end.

  "Show him your stitches" Parmenio urged. "Then he'll understand."

  Skiouros swallowed. Damn it. Taking a deep breath, he turned so that the wound would face the man and away from the others and slowly lifted his vestments.

  The smell emerged once more and the Tuareg's eyes widened. Skiouros dropped the black robe once more, but Cesare caught it falling and lifted it again.

  "Infection?"

  "Sadly" Skiouros replied with a sigh.

  "Why didn't you say anything?"

  "What could you have done?"

  "Nothing, but we might have helped you on and off your camel and perhaps enquired with the traders as to whether there was anyone who could help."

  "Precisely. Nothing."

  The Tuareg had gone into a brief discussion and finally the short leader nodded and scratched his forehead.

  "Timaswaden" he announced. "Boka."

  "Erm. Alright?" Skiouros hazarded.

  "Boka! Boka!" the man repeated, earning more shrugged agreement from the four travellers. A moment later, another Tuareg appeared from somewhere behind them and bowed.

  "Boka." The leader said yet again. Skiouros frowned and the two Tuareg fell again into deep conversation. When it ended, without further discussion, the new man - the boka? - beckoned to them and began to walk away. The four friends exchanged glances, shrugged, and then followed.

  The man rattled away in his own language as they walked, apparently not expecting them to answer, since he left too little pause in his words for reply, and the friends followed with mixed interest and nervousness as they moved into the edge of the town. Unlike the great Hafsid city of Tunis, Sedif sprawled out across the flat landscape, having expanded beyond its ancient containing city walls, which now stood in ruined fragments at the sides of streets, houses built into the defences. There were no guards or figures of authority in evidence and, as they moved along a wide, dusty street, Skiouros looked about and realised that many of the houses were empty shells, gradually falling into disrepair. Sedif, it appeared, had seen better days.

  Along the wide thoroughfare the Tuareg led them, before taking a side street just short of a shattered ancient bastion of the walls. The call to prayer began to echo across the roofs, warbled by some Imam high in his minaret in the town's centre. The men walked on to that exotic aural backdrop and finally arrived at a plain door in a house no different from any of the other white, squat buildings. The man knocked, and a few minutes later the portal opened and a local appeared, speaking Arabic.

  Skiouros stepped back with the others as the Tuareg launched into an incomprehensible conversation, occasionally using the word 'boka'. As the house's occupant seemed to nod in some sort of agreement, the Tuareg grasped Skiouros by the shoulder, taking him somewhat by surprise, and dragged him forth, lifting his cassock, inner vestments and shirt to display the infected wound.

  The old, bearded man stepped from his house and bent to peer close to Skiouros' side, sniffing at the wound. Straightening, he nodded and beckoned them inside.

  Orsini and the others stepped forward and Skiouros shook his head. "You three stay out here and keep watch. I'm not too sure about all this."

  Unhappy with his decision, the three men scowled, but remained in the street as the Tuareg and the local led Skiouros inside, closing the door behind them. The older man who owned the house lit an oil lamp and beckoned Skiouros over to a low table, while he removed his own long gown and flexed his fingers. Skiouros eyed him nervously as he slowly sat on the table and then turned and lowered himself so that he lay on his back. The doctor - if that was what he was - gestured him to lie on his side instead and Skiouros did so with some discomfort. His vestments and shirt were pulled up to beneath his armpit and his breeches pushed down below the hip, revealing the entire area around the wound.

  Skiouros stared at the wall, feeling utterly helpless, while the two men held a brief discussion. As he felt fingers probing the tender area around the wound, Skiouros resolved to learn Arabic when he finally returned to civilisation and had some time on his hands.

  He drew in a sharp breath as the first stitch was snipped. A few of the sutures were the original ones put in professionally by the knight-priest two weeks ago, and they were now a little embedded in the flesh and painful to remove, the others less neat and put in by the Tuareg tent-stitcher, but fresher and therefore less painful.

  After his first hiss, there was a pause and then the 'boka' leaned over him with a vial and a stick. Skiouros stared at them, and the man mimed tipping the vial into his mouth and then proffered it. Skiouros frowned nervously, but as a particularly painful stitch was snipped, he grabbed the vial and tipped some of its contents into his mouth, swallowing the sharp, spicy cocktail. As he opened his mouth to take another swig, the vial was lifted from his hand and the stick was jammed gently between his teeth. Skiouros simply bit down, knowing now what they were about.

  He began to run through the Orthodox litany in his head as he tried not to tense and jump with each fresh pain they inflicted as they removed the stitches one by one and allowed the infected wound to open up once more.

  The local said something he could not understand in a soothing tone which was followed a heartbeat later by a probing that caused such intense agony, Skiouros almost bit through the stick. Raising his head to see what was happening he quickly wished he hadn't and lowered it again, closing his eyes. The local physician was mopping the inside of his wound with some sort of swab, while the Tuareg stood by with what appeared to be a jar of honey.

  Before he realised what he was doing, Skiouros found he was muttering by rote the sounds of the Muslim prayer. It must be about the right time, given the recent prayer call he'd heard, and either the doctor was not a Muslim or he took his work so seriously he was prepared to bend the rules of prayer.

  Skiouros could not say how long he lay on his side, and he certainly passed out briefly, but suddenly he awoke with a start as the Tuareg wafted something beneath his nose. The pain in his side bloomed as he moved, but whatever they had given him from the vial - poppy juice among other things, he suspected from the smell - had floated his mind and senses on a cushion of drug-comfort and the pain seemed somehow removed from him, as though he were having it described to him rather than enduring it himself.

  He moved slowly, peering at his side. It had been padded and dressed, and a linen wrap wound around and around his middle.

  The physician smiled at him and nodded in an encouraging manner before entering into another discussion with the Tuareg. Skiouros tried to sit, but immediately slumped back, woozy. One thing he had discovered in that sudden move, though, was that apparently they had not put in any new stitches. There was no tell-tale tug
as he moved, just the dulled pain of the wound moving.

  As he tried to sit up again, the two men scurried over and helped him until he dropped his feet over the side and to the floor. He tried to plaster an expression of mixed gratitude and enquiry on his face, but the two men either failed to notice or declined to react, instead grasping him by the elbows and slowly hauling him to his feet.

  The following five minutes or so were a blur once again, and the next thing Skiouros could remember with any clarity was the door opening and being escorted outside, where the Tuareg continued to support him. The physician smiled and nodded encouragingly again, and then passed a small pile of linen and a vial of clear liquid to the Tuareg.

  No money seemed to change hands and Skiouros suddenly felt both guilty and beholden. Had his unnamed saviour healed him for no recompense? He scrabbled round his middle, wondering if he had anything of value to give the physician, but the man simply smiled, shaking his head, and closed the door.

  Skiouros turned, and the sudden blurring movement almost blacked out his senses again. When he focussed, he realised that his friends were no longer outside the door.

  Panic gripped him and he tried to pull away from the Tuareg, but he was still shaky, in fairly serious pain and very much in danger of passing out into comfortable bliss, and the man hardly had to struggle to hold onto him.

  Helplessly, Skiouros staggered back through the town, the Tuareg both guiding and supporting him, and eventually, with some relief, he spotted the tents of the camp.

  Everything went black.

  When he came round again, he was lying on his travel bed in the confines of a familiar Tuareg tent. The panic hit him as he remembered leaving the physician's house to the empty street, and he started to struggle upright, the pain ripping through him, until Parmenio's hand landed on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down. Skiouros blinked and turned his head. Nicolo and Cesare were seated beside the captain on leather cushions.