“What do you call your departure? It is desertion, nothing less,” Sieur Horembaud asked, his temper beginning to fray.
“I am helping you so that when I go, you will not be stranded; if I were to leave you now, taking my camels, you would very likely perish,” said Firouz, adding to Sandjer’min, “Can’t you make him understand?”
“I am trying,” Sandjer’min said in Arabic, then translated Firouz’s remark for Sieur Horembaud, adding, “It would not be prudent to depend upon a reluctant guide. If Firouz is unwilling, he may also be unreliable. You should be able to find another to lead your company. One who is trustworthy, perhaps even one who is Christian.”
“Truly? And yet he”—he pointed at Firouz as if his finger were a sword—“is preparing to abandon us here at the edge of the Nile. I cannot permit him to do that. Tell him that he is abjuring his pledge.”
When Sandjer’min had translated this for Firouz, he said, “I have offered to find you a guide, and I will. Others might leave you to your own devices, but you are entitled to my help, as I am entitled to reclaim my camels.”
“Do you think any of this is acceptable to me? to us? You are a scoundrel, a caitiff.” Sieur Horembaud’s choleric visage warned Firouz to answer carefully.
“It does not matter if it is acceptable or is not.” Firouz was doing his utmost not to challenge Sieur Horembaud. “You do not rule here.”
“Neither do you, Firouz,” Sieur Horembaud warned.
“No, but I have relatives and friends who ply the river, who know the lands to the south, and they have taught me much about its ways,” Firouz said flatly. “And I do not harbor a madwoman, as you do, who will call all the demons of the desert to her before you can reach the mountains.”
“It is our duty to care for the afflicted,” Sieur Horembaud said. “Our oaths as pilgrims require us to minister to her.”
“A woman who has lost her wits? A woman who speaks only to pray constantly, without understanding, and will do nothing more? She is a servant of God, or so she says when spoken to. If that is so, why does God not care for her by allowing her to say what she requires? Has He turned His Face from her? Or does He seek a sacrifice from her? Could it be that she is a harbinger of disaster?” Firouz watched Sieur Horembaud as Sandjer’min explained what had been said.
“Sorer Imogen has faith beyond most. She prays for our salvation, and her own.” Sieur Horembaud spoke stiffly. “She has exhausted her body in the ardor of her faith.”
Firouz laughed as he heard Sandjer’min’s careful translation of Sieur Horembaud’s words. “But what good will her prayers do you? She cannot guide you. You are strangers here; I am at home. She is a chain around your company, and may yet drag you to your death, if Allah so wills it.” He sala’amed to Sieur Horembaud, then turned and walked away.
“Go after him!” Sieur Horembaud ordered Sandjer’min.
“And do what?” Sandjer’min asked, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.
“I don’t know.” Sieur Horembaud pulled at his beard, scowling. “Talk to him. He respects you. He’ll listen to you. Persuade him to remain. Show him it is his duty to guide us all the way, as he agreed.”
Sandjer’min glanced at Firouz, who was now at the improvised pen where their animals were milling about, making ready to start on their way; Firouz was talking to Heneri, their voices too low to be overheard. Sandjer’min shook his head. “I doubt that will work. He has already made up his mind, and pressing him is apt to make him more obdurate, not less.”
“But we need him,” said Sieur Horembaud, putting his big, square hands on Sandjer’min’s shoulders. “You have a glib tongue, and you have the man’s respect. You must know some way to bring him around to—”
“He has pledged to find us a guide, and I will hold him to it.” He moved back a step. “Firouz isn’t being unreasonable, for all you think he is. He knows Egypt and Nubia with the familiarity of home and years. If he says there is danger, I believe him.” He shook off the jumble of memories he had acquired during his centuries at the Temple of Imhotep, and the occasional droughts that blighted all Egypt, and the occasional years of terrible floods that swept away villages, fields, livestock, and human beings; the Inundation was a gift of Hapy, the Nile’s hermaphroditic deity, but it was a gift that was not always welcome. “Neither you nor I know what lies in Ethiopia, other than mountains and the Chapel of the Holy Grail. It is not just the roads we must travel, it is the people with whom we must deal. Firouz is right: any fool can follow the river, but a guide will know what to do among the people encountered, what is safe, what is dangerous, how to behave to win the good opinion of the people, and that is more valuable than camels and slaves and horses.”
Sieur Horembaud glared at him. “If you will not do as I ask, Firouz isn’t the only one who may leave us at Baruta.”
Sandjer’min shrugged Sieur Horembaud’s hands off his shoulders without effort. “That is your frustration talking, Sieur, not your good sense. You asked me to come with you, though you knew I had never traveled into the mountains to the south. You needed my command of languages to help you, and you need my medicaments to keep your company in good health. Send me away, and where will you find the soporific to calm Sorer Imogen. Or do you plan to leave her in Baruta, too, as Firouz thinks you will?” He inclined his head respectfully. “I must pack my chests and tent onto our beasts of burden, and I still haven’t treated the pastern on the copper-dun for tonight’s travel.”
Sieur Horembaud scowled. “Say you will talk with Firouz again before we reach Baruta, that you will make him understand.”
“You mean sometime tonight?” Sandjer’min inquired.
“Of course sometime tonight. We will have our night-time meal around the usual hour, and that will make it possible for you to seek Firouz out. God’s Nails, man, whenelse should I mean?” Sieur Horembaud swore in French, his whole manner expressive of his disdain.
“I will talk with him—if he will talk with me—after we stop at midnight for our meal; I cannot promise you that his mind will change, but I will do what I can to explain what the company requires, and guarantee him better pay if he stays with us,” said Sandjer’min, knowing whatever extra sums were to be set aside for Firouz would have to come from his own supply of gold; he walked away toward his tent, now lying flat on the sand as Ruthier busied himself folding and rolling it for packing. Two camels and two asses waited patiently to be loaded up for the night’s journey.
“More unrest,” said Ruthier in the language of Poland five hundred years before.
“And likely to increase,” said Sandjer’min heavily; he made an attempt at shifting the subject. “What do you hear from Lalagia or Bondame Margrethe? They are sharing the burden of Sorer Imogen now, and I believe they have some degree of assessment of her condition they may offer? Do they think that Sorer Imogen is any better? I have only seen her once today, and that was early this morning, and neither Lalagia nor Margrethe could take time to speak with me.” He paused. “Margrethe feels guilty for her desires, and has kept clear of me, to rid herself of the shame.” His face, for a moment, revealed deep sadness.
“I have seen that,” said Ruthier.
“So has the rest of the company,” said Sandjer’min wryly. “I’m afraid I have to rely on your reports: has there been any change in Sorer Imogen’s condition?”
“Yes,” said Ruthier. “It was wise to provide a second dose of the tincture; it allowed all three of them to get some rest.” He cocked his head. “Do you want to see the nun now, before we move on?”
“If she is unchanged, I will wait until we stop at dawn.” He hesitated. “It is disconcerting to have days and nights vary so little in length through the year.”
“It is,” Ruthier concurred. “It makes it difficult to sort out the days and the seasons, there being so little variation.” He was silent, then asked, “Is that why the men of Islam measure their time by the moon, do you think?”
“Possibly; the star
s wheel overhead as the moon waxes and wanes—the sky reveals the time of year, not the desert,” said Sandjer’min, and resumed his inquiry. “At mid-day, when you visited the women’s tent, how did Sorer Imogen behave?”
“As I mentioned, she slept through most of the morning, thanks to your tincture of poppies. She has been groggy when she wakes, but that is the nature of the tincture. She may yet resume her prayers once she is fully awake again, but with the tincture to calm her, and without the passion that distresses the rest of the company. The last time Heneri came to see her, two days ago, she denounced him for terrible sins, including gluttony and apostasy.” Ruthier glanced in the direction of the women’s tent, one of the two still standing. “The problem this evening will be to get her onto her camel and belted in place.”
“We’ve managed so far,” Sandjer’min said, aware that there was more in Ruthier’s words than a simple complaint. “Why the unease, old friend?”
Ruthier took a long breath. “Bondame Margrethe is worried about Sorer Imogen; the nun frets and curses in her sleep.”
“Those who have struggled with the fumes of madness often do those things—you know this from Rakhel.”
Ruthier nodded. “I remember her well; it was not so long ago—hardly more than four centuries. But Bondame Margrethe says that there has been a change in Sorer Imogen. Nothing so obvious as her first distress, but still worrisome.” He lowered his voice, for he noticed Jiochim Menines lingering nearby. “She told me that Sorer Imogen is still not herself, that she is not as meek as she appears. It is not just her outrage at her half-brother, who she says is becoming an apostate, that troubles the Bondame, it is the things Sorer Imogen says along with all her prayers, things that are worse than curses. During the day, she chafes in her sleep, and does things that are unlike her. The Bondame wants to ask your advice, if you will speak to her when we stop at midnight. She does not want to cause gossip, but she needs to talk to you.”
“I will try to do as she wishes,” said Sandjer’min, seeming apprehensive; now there were two members of the company he would have to speak with when the company stopped to refresh themselves.
“She’ll be most grateful,” said Ruthier.
“Will she,” Sandjer’min wondered aloud.
Ruthier paused in his gathering up of belongings. “What troubles Sieur Horembaud?”
If anyone but Ruthier had asked him, Sandjer’min would have fobbed him off with a facile phrase or two, but Ruthier received a direct answer. “Sieur Horembaud is not as capable as he would like to believe, and that is catching up with him; he is beyond his skills, though he cannot admit it, and that is a problem for all of us. Since he has been told that God is protecting him, he is sure that he cannot err.” He helped to roll the tent into the heavy net that would keep the tent in place on the pack-saddle.
“How could he be the master he wants to be? He’s a soldier, not a leader of religious; he wants to do his penance and return to battle, doesn’t he?” Ruthier asked. “He knows very little of the desert, and almost nothing about the people who live in it.”
“And nothing about Nubia or the lands to the south,” Sandjer’min agreed. “He may still succeed in this pilgrimage if he keeps in mind what has to be done, and doesn’t allow himself to be distracted by every minor problem confronting his pilgrims. As it is, he jumps at every petty inconvenience and pays no heed to greater difficulties.” He picked up his red-lacquer chest and secured the bands around it. As he lifted it, he touched the concealed scabbard of his katana. “We may still need this.”
“I hope it will not come to that,” said Ruthier. He took the chest of Sandjer’min’s clothes and tied it to the second camel’s saddle. “They say we will be in Baruta tomorrow.”
“The chances are good.”
“Some of the servants think that Richere Enzo and his man will leave us there, as Loredan and Salvatore have done. And with Frater Giulianus staying in the Gold Camp, we cannot continue on if our numbers decrease much more.” There was no emotion in his voice, just a simple recitation of information.
“Which of the servants think this will happen? Do they have guesses or are they actually informed?” Sandjer’min asked in the same level tone.
“Vitalis and Florien are certain, at least they’re the ones talking about it,” said Ruthier. “They are persuaded that Enzo will leave, and that he will take Ifar with him.”
“How very awkward,” said Sandjer’min in Imperial Latin.
“For all of us,” Ruthier agreed.
“They’ll want asses and camels, I suppose.”
“No,” was Ruthier’s surprising answer. “Florien says that Enzo wants to remain in Baruta now that the water is rising, and then, when the flood is over, to ride the Nile down to Alexandria. It would not be difficult to find a Genovese galley to carry him home. Milano and Genova are at peace just now, or they were when we joined this company. Enzo believes it will save him time to go down-river, and entail less hazard than another crossing of the Nubian Desert. Enzo has lost his interest in what lies in the mountains. Ifar admits that to the other servants. Enzo wishes to return to Milano and his family. He has enough experience now to do a work on travel up the Nile, and that will enhance his reputation as a scholar; he need not depend on goldsmithing. It isn’t necessary that he complete his pilgrimage to have enough material to produce a useful volume for other Christian travelers. His Bishop will accept his efforts, and grant him the position he is seeking, or so he claims, and Ifar says that he is convinced of it. He will gain the post of Episcopal Librarian and be an instructor at the cathedral school.” His Imperial Latin was less precise than Sandjer’min’s, having a suggestion of his Iberian origins in its cadences.
“It could be a dangerous voyage; the crocodiles at the First Cataract are hungry after the Inundation,” said Sandjer’min, balancing one of the smaller chests on the off-side of the larger mule’s pack-saddle while Ruthier did the same on the on-side.
“Yes, it could be a dangerous voyage,” said Ruthier, “for more reasons than crocodiles.”
“Well, worry won’t change it, and it may be that Enzo will elect to continue on with the company, once he understands about the Nile in flood,” Sandjer’min said, a small inclination of his head warning Ruthier that they were being overheard. “We must hope that there will be no more resignations among the pilgrims. It would be dangerous for all of us.”
“Yes, it would,” said Ruthier. “I haven’t heard Ifar say anything about the possibility, and that keeps me from being wholly convinced.” He adjusted the girth on the pack-ass. “The animals are thirsty.”
“There will be some water tonight. By morning we should reach Baruta, and our casks will be refilled again,” Sandjer’min said.
“Do you think that Firouz will leave the pilgrims?” Ruthier asked suddenly.
“Yes,” said Sandjer’min. “Unless something changes.”
“How do you mean, changes? What sort of changes could there be?” The question was unusually blunt for Ruthier, and the shine in his faded-blue eyes indicated he was not inclined to accept a simple assurance.
“The weather is starting to shift again, and could bring us another sandstorm; Firouz knows it, and Jiochim Menines senses it, too; both of them know the temperament of the weather here. As for Richere Enzo, he has discovered we are being followed. He’s afraid that robbers or slavers are hunting us, and will come after us once we’re beyond the Fifth Cataract.” Sandjer’min had explained the last in the old Polish tongue. “Thank all the forgotten gods for the chatter of servants.”
“What else can they do?” Ruthier asked. “The desert is usually silent but for the wind on the sand and the bells on the camels. After a night spent in silence, and a day of chores and exhausted rest, they speak to one another to keep from being overcome by the emptiness.”
Sandjer’min studied Ruthier’s composed features. “I ask your pardon; I had thought that they spoke out of boredom and to hear their own languages,” s
aid Sandjer’min, sympathy in his compelling eyes.
Unable to think of what to say, Ruthier asked, “Do you think the followers will attack?”
“Three men with three camels and two asses? No, I don’t think so,” Sandjer’min said ironically. “But if they are scouts for others, or vultures, hoping that we will die and they can pick over our belongings and take our animals if they’re worth saving, well, that is another matter.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “If our followers were captured, then he might change his mind, but otherwise, I wouldn’t think so.”
“How did Enzo find out about the followers?” Ruthier asked. “Do you think anyone else has seen them?”
“I expect Enzo saw them as we broke camp night before last. He kept looking over his shoulder as we moved south; he hadn’t done that before. You say the servants don’t talk about it, and no one of the pilgrims, other than Enzo, seems vexed. If anyone else is aware of them, I haven’t seen anything to suggest it.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said Ruthier, and went on with the last of their packing, adding only, “It’s another cause for dispute.”
“If it becomes a matter of discussion, you’re right. I should make ready to travel.” Sandjer’min said. He checked the buckles on the asses’ pack-saddles, then asked, “Does it ever bother you, watching and listening to the servants?”
“No; I, too, am a stranger in this company, and I must use all the information I can garner if we are not to become more pawn-like than we already are, my master.”
“That is a very disconcerting thought,” Sandjer’min observed, and when Ruthier said nothing more, went to find Melech; the gelding had proven to have stamina as well as steady gaits, and a steady disposition so that he was alert without being skittish. Sandjer’min was planning to buy him from Sieur Horembaud when they reached Baruta.
The sands were thrumming by the time the company stopped for their midnight meal; fine sprays skittered off the crests of dunes, like spume from the tops of waves. Huddled around the small fire that Methodus Temi had built, Frater Anteus and Almeric supervised the preparation of chick-pea oil-cakes and wedges of firm, pale-yellow cheese taken from Sieur Horembaud’s own supplies, the pilgrims strove to keep their meals free of the encroaching sand. Lalagia measured out water into their cups.
Night Pilgrims Page 25
