While in the marketplace, Padraig and I had taken the opportunity to have our clothes brushed so as to present a slightly less disagreeable presence at the board. Upon entering the dining chamber, the lady offered a washbasin filled with scented water. Roupen, however, did himself a great dishonor by not only refusing the washbasin, but scowling at everyone and everything as if enduring humiliations to his dignity so intense as to be physically painful.
The lady departed, leaving us to our ablutions. We were alone only a moment when she reappeared. If not for the fact that I had just seen her, I would not have known her as the same person. Having removed the white robe, she now wore a gown of the lightest, most delicate fabric I have ever seen. What is more, the thin stuff shimmered in the candlelight, glistening with a luster like that of moonbeams on water. It was blue as the midnight sky, and cut low over her bosom, to reveal the graceful swell of her breasts. A wide cloth belt of gold gathered the gown at her slender waist, emphasizing the curve of her hips. Her dark hair hung in loose curls over her bare shoulders.
Unexpectedly, the sight of her slender, shapely arms sent a pang of longing through me of an intensity I had not experienced since my own dear Rhona held me to her heart. It was all I could do not to stare openly at her as she invited us to sit and make ourselves comfortable, saying, “My father has been informed of your arrival. He will join us when he is ready.”
“Your graciousness, my lady, is exceeded only by your loveliness,” I said, wishing I had something better to offer her than common flattery.
Still, she smiled at the compliment, and it came into my mind that despite her assured and forward manner, she was not as confident as she appeared. Truly, she lived in a madhouse and was likely unaccustomed to common courtesy. “My name is Sydoni,” she told me.
“I am Duncan of Caithness,” I replied, offering her my hand in greeting. She placed her hand in mine without hesitation and, lifting it, I lightly brushed it with my lips. I then introduced her to Padraig and Roupen; I was explaining who they were and how we came to be together, when Yordanus entered the room.
Grim and tight-lipped, he acknowledged us with chilly, if not hostile, indifference and the meal commenced. Our unhappy host reclined at the head of the table with the peevish and sour disposition of a man being bent into an unbecoming shape. Full of sighs and prickly noises, he fumed and fretted, giving every sign that he wished to be anywhere else in all the world but where he found himself just now. Shameful behavior in a host, to be sure, and it might have spoiled the evening save for the fact that I only had eyes for Sydoni, and she ignored her father’s unpleasantness to the point of invisibility. Clearly, the evening was hers, and she was not about to allow anyone to ruin it.
Once we were all seated, Sydoni presented us with small bowls of peeled pears cooked in a sweet sauce, cooled, and seasoned with a spice I had never tasted before. Tangy, pungent, it gave a warm tingle to the mouth and tongue; when I asked what it was, Sydoni smiled and said, “It is called cinnamon.”
Roupen grunted at this, as if to say it was a commonplace too drearily familiar to mention. I thought it wonderful, however, and praised it loudly. I praised the next dish also: fish roe and curds of soft new cheese with cream and flavored with garlic and lemon, all mixed together to form a thick paste into which we dipped strips of flat bread. There was sweet wine, too, and several kinds of bread, and grapes.
When we had eaten our fill of these things, Sydoni brought out the next dish: roast quail stuffed with bread crumbs, pine nuts, and herbs. Glazed with honey, the succulent birds were done to such perfection, even Roupen begrudgingly commended the art of the cook. Before I knew it, I had eaten two of them and was reaching for a third when I saw Sydoni watching me. She smiled the proud, contented smile of a woman well satisfied with herself. It was a look I knew well; Rhona had often worn the same expression when serving me something she knew I enjoyed.
The food and wine worked their age-old magic, and gradually both Roupen and Yordanus began to grow more amiable. As the meal went on, the surly young lord became quite pleasant, and the sour old man grew sweet-tempered and convivial.
“Fill the cups!” he cried at one point, thrusting his beaker into the air. “I want to drink the health of my new friends.” Happy to oblige, I took up the jar and poured the good red wine. Yordanus then raised his cup high and said, “I drink to friendship, health, and peace—God’s blessing on all his children.” We acclaimed this sentiment with cheers, whereupon our host said, “May the Lord of the Feast eternally bless us with good food, good wine, and dear friends around the board—forever and always! Amen!”
Roupen affirmed the benediction, but could not let the comment pass. “Lord of the Feast?” he said when everyone had drunk. “That is a title which belongs to Christ, I should have thought.”
Yordanus turned his head and regarded the young man quizzically. “Yes?”
“Strange words from the mouth of a Copt,” Roupen observed with wine-induced carelessness.
The old man stiffened; the smile hardened on his face and his eyes narrowed.
Roupen, seeing he had offended his host, looked to me for help. But I remained silent and left him to face the consequence of his intolerance. “I meant nothing more than that,” he offered weakly. “Why does everyone look at me so?”
“You think Copts unworthy of salvation?” asked Yordanus, quietly bristling.
Roupen red-faced now, raised a hand in defense of his blunder. “I meant no disresp—”
“You think because I am a Copt, I am less a Christian than you?” Yordanus challenged, growing rigid with indignation.
I made to intercede for the young man, but Padraig prevented me. “Let him squirm,” the priest whispered. “It will teach him a lesson.”
Yordanus stared with dull anger at the impudent young lord. “Once,” he said, his voice growing cold, “I would not have suffered an insult beneath the roof of my own house. But,” he lifted his bony shoulders in a shrug of heavy resignation, “I am not the man I used to be.” He extended a long finger toward Roupen. “It is lucky for you that I am not.”
“Father, please—” said Sydoni, reaching across to tug his sleeve.
The old man raised his hands. “That is all I will say.” Rising to his feet, he threw down his empty cup. “You must excuse me. I am tired. I am going to bed.”
Roupen, stricken and guilty, stammered, “Please, sir, I am the one who should leave. And I will do so.” He jumped up from his place. “Before I go, I will beg your pardon and ask your forgiveness for the offense I have caused. Please accept my deepest apologies.”
He spoke with such contrition that Yordanus, urged by the silent entreaty of his daughter, grudgingly relented. “Oh, very well,” the old man said. “Sit down, young man. Sit down. There is no harm done.” He sighed, and forced a sad smile. Flapping a hand at the young lord, he said, “Come, sit down. We will put this unfortunate misunderstanding behind us.”
Reluctantly, Roupen lowered himself to his place once more. Yordanus gazed at him for a moment. “For more than thirty generations,” the old man said, thrusting his finger skyward, “the House of Hippolytus has been a Christian house—before Byzantium, before Rome, before the Gospel of Christ was proclaimed in the streets of Athens, we were Christians.”
“An ancestry to glory in,” Padraig remarked. “If every family could claim such long obedience, this world would not labor under so great a weight of faithlessness and falsehood.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Yordanus proudly. “When the followers of The Way were thrown out of the High Temple at Jerusalem where they were meeting in those days, my ancestors were there. On the day that the Blessed Stephen was put to death, my ancestors carried his poor, battered corpse to the tomb. When the persecution began, the infant church scattered—north, south, east, west—wherever they hoped to escape the terrible oppression of the mob, and the tyranny of the temple leaders.”
Yordanus raised his cup, and Sydoni emptied the
last of the jar into it. He drained the cup and said, “But all that was a very long time ago. No one wants to hear it now.”
Roupen, duly chastised and anxious to make whatever amends he might, quickly said, “If you please, sir, I would hear it.”
Certainly, that was the right thing to say, for the old man’s eyes rekindled with a spark of his former gladness.
“Well, perhaps I will just say this one thing more—so to improve your understanding,” Yordanus conceded, swiftly overcoming his reluctance. Taking up a small bronze bell from the table, he rang it vigorously several times, and then said, “Jerusalem became too dangerous, so my people fled south. Since the time of the great patriarch, Abraham, whenever trouble threatened in Palestine, the Jews took refuge in Egypt. This my people did, and in Egypt they stayed. In time, we became Egyptians, and those of us who remained staunch in the faith became known as Copts. My ancestors prospered greatly; they became traders—some with fleets, and some with camels, some with important stalls in the principal markets of the great cities.
“This is the life that was handed down to me. I became a trader, after my own fashion, and my son likewise.” At these words, a shadow passed over the old man’s face; his voice faltered. “My son…” he paused, cleared his throat, and finished, saying, “Once the extent of my interests stretched from the banks of the Nile to the tops of the Tarsus mountains. Now all that is gone…gone and finished and dead—like my son. The last hope of my illustrious line.”
Yordanus raised his eyes and smiled sadly. “I am sorry,” he said, sinking once more into himself, “my grief is a burden I did not intend forcing upon you. Forgive an old man.”
He paused, during which time the fat man who had met us at the door appeared. “Gregior,” Yordanus ordered, “bring us more wine.” The sullen servant turned without a word and lumbered off. “And try not to drink it all before it reaches the table,” his master called after him.
“I do not believe in keeping slaves,” explained Yordanus. “But I make an exception for Gregior and Omer. They are hopeless, you must agree. If I turned them out they would soon starve, and I cannot, in good Christian conscience, allow that to happen. So, I keep them for their own good, as no one else would have them.” He smiled weakly and spread his hands. “I apologize for your sorry reception. Mind you, it would have been no different for anyone else. Be you caliph or king, beggar, leper, or thief, Omer would treat you exactly the same.”
“What language does he speak?” asked Padraig. “I could not make out a word of it.”
“So far as I know, it is no language at all,” answered our host, chuckling to himself. “Omer imagines he is speaking Latin, but so long as I have known him, I have never had so much as a single intelligible word out of him in any tongue whatsoever.” He shook his head wearily. “Hopeless.”
The wine arrived in a great silver jar, and Sydoni poured it into the cups which Yordanus offered to us once more, saying, “I drink to my friends, old and new! May the High Holy One keep you all in the hollow of his hand. Amen!”
We drank and our host, placing his cup firmly on the table, said, “Now then, to business. Tell me, why did our Templar friend de Bracineaux send you to old Yordanus?”
TWENTY-FOUR
YORDANUS LISTENED WITH half-closed eyes while I made a brief account of the events which had led us to his door. He nodded and glanced at Padraig as I described how the priest and I had come to be on pilgrimage, and how we had met the Templars and young Lord Roupen in Rouen, and all that had flowed from that meeting—all, that is, save for Bohemond’s plan to reclaim the Armenian stronghold at Anazarbus. I thought it best to keep that to myself.
When I finished at last, Yordanus frowned mildly and said, “A fascinating tale, to be sure. Yet, you have omitted one or two significant details, I think. No doubt you have your reasons, but if I am to help you…” He turned his palm up as if offering me a choice.
I hesitated, trying to decide whether to risk telling him more. He saw my reluctance and pressed me farther. “For example,” he continued, “you have not said why you were forced to flee from Antioch so quickly.” Lifting a hand to Roupen, he added, “Would I be wrong in thinking your troubles, whatever they may be, began and ended with your young friend here?”
“Not far wrong,” I replied cautiously. Roupen lowered his eyes, but said nothing.
“Come now, my friends, if I am to help you I must know everything about this affair. What have you done? Impugned the prince’s virtue? Sullied the patriarch’s good name? Stolen the Rood of Antioch?”
At mention of the Holy Cross, my heart clutched in my chest. “Forgive me, my lord,” I said quickly, “but I did not care to burden you with our troubles unnecessarily.”
He waved the feeble excuse aside. “Tell me.”
So, I told him of Prince Bohemond’s intention to attack the Armenian stronghold, and how Padraig and I had—out of friendship for Roupen and at the strangely veiled behest of the Templar commander—determined to thwart the impetuous prince’s ambition if we could.
“We went to him to ask him to repent of his plan,” I concluded. “Unfortunately, things got out of hand and de Bracineaux was taken prisoner in the citadel. Padraig, Roupen, and I were forced to flee before Bohemond could capture us as well. The good commander suggested we come to you.”
Yordanus plucked a red plum from a basket and bit off the end. He sucked the juice for a moment, and then observed, “It seems to me that your path has been prepared from the beginning.”
“Indeed?” I wondered. Padraig nodded, smiling as he regarded the old man with, as I thought, renewed respect and appreciation.
Pushing himself back from the table, the old man beamed expansively. “Rejoice, my friends!” he declared. “Yordanus Hippolytus is the one man in the whole world with both power and inclination to speed you to your purpose.” Glancing at the young lord who had yet to exchange his wary, haunted expression for a more mirthful countenance, the ageing trader leaned over and gave him a fatherly pat on the arm. “Be of good cheer! Your adversaries, though they be legion, have now to deal with me, eh?”
“I did not know we had so many enemies,” Roupen replied, struggling to rise to the occasion.
“For a fact, you do,” Yordanus told him. “There are many in this part of the world who would love nothing more than to see the Armenian House obliterated by the swiftest means possible. Unsavory, perhaps, but it is the truth.”
Turning to Padraig and me, he asked, “Now then, who else knows about your errand?”
“De Bracineaux, of course,” I replied.
“And Bohemond probably, too, by now,” added Padraig.
“No one else?”
“Apart from you and your daughter,” I glanced at Sydoni, who was leaning on her palm and gazing at me, “no one.”
“Have you spoken to anyone along the way?”
“Not a soul,” I said. Padraig shook his head. Roupen looked glumly ahead.
“Well and good.” Yordanus rose stiffly from his cushion, his mind made up. “We must work quickly. The necessary arrangements must be made. We begin tonight.”
It was late and I was exhausted; traipsing through the hills all day had taken their toll. “Tonight?”
“Forgive me. You are tired from your travails. Leave everything to me. Take your rest, and in the morning, God willing, we will be ready to depart.”
He rang the bell and summoned Gregior to lead us to the guest rooms. We bade good-night to our hosts and went to bed in far better spirits than we had enjoyed for many days. Padraig stayed up a little longer saying his prayers, but I lay down and slipped at once into a deep and dreamless sleep—only to be roused some time later by the whispered hush of urgent voices in the courtyard. I listened for a while, but was too sleepy to make anything of it, and soon drifted off again.
The next thing I knew, someone’s hands were on me, shaking me awake. I sat up with a start.
“Peace,” said Sydoni, crouching beside
me. “All is well, but it is time to leave.” She rose. “Gregior has brought you a basin of water. I will leave you to wash and dress. Join us in the great hall as soon as you are ready.”
She left and, as I scraped my scattered thoughts together, I heard her in the next room, waking the young lord with an explanation of our purpose. I stumbled to the steaming basin and washed, praising the Gifting Giver for the luxury of soap. I then dried myself quickly on the linen cloth provided, dressed, and lumbered out the door and down the long, cloistered corridor of the villa to the great hall. The sky was dark, and daybreak still somewhat distant, by my estimation.
Yawning, I joined Yordanus, Sydoni and the others already gathered inside the door of the great hall. Gregior was ambling here and there, lethargically lighting candles and throwing dark glances at his master, who scurried around the enormous room, beckoning us to follow. We caught up with him, pawing through a pile of old maps stacked high on one of the many tables in the room. “Here! See here—this,” he pointed to a black spot in the center of the map, “this is Antioch. The port of Saint Symeon is here, and—” he moved his finger a fair way up a wavy line representing the coast and brought it to rest on a brown spot just below a tiered stretch of jagged sawtooth mountains, “—Anazarbus there.”
Frowning, Roupen bent down and examined the crude representation of his home.
“See here,” Yordanus continued, tracing the route to Antioch with his finger. “Bohemond must go overland because he has no ships to carry so many men and horses and supplies.”
“Two roundships were still in the harbor at Saint Symeon when we left,” Padraig pointed out.
“It makes no difference,” asserted Yordanus with conviction. He had assumed the aspect of a man very much younger than he had shown himself to be. He became decisive and earnest, and I realized I was seeing a glimpse of the man he had once been. “Two, you say? Two ships would not even carry enough fodder for the horses. He would need twenty, at least.
The Black Rood Page 23