“This is not His Body,” Sorer Imogen protested as Bondame Margrethe handed her a wide bowl of oil-cakes and a wedge of cheese; she let her spoon drop into the sand and began to weep softly, her head bowed, her hands resting on her knees as if they were numb.
“But you must eat,” said Margrethe, a suggestion of temper in her voice.
“Not this, not this.” Her quiet weeping suddenly became a scream, long and filled with agony and rage.
The rest of the company shifted about; Sieur Horembaud got up and went over to where Sorer Imogen was sitting on the sand, her legs folded under her, her bowl lying at a precarious angle on her knees.
“You must not do this. God will not reward you for this,” she yelled.
“Sieur Horembaud,” Frater Anteus cautioned; Vidame Bonnefiles and Cristofo d’Urbineau exchanged troubled glances.
Sieur Horembaud slewed around and glared at the monk. “You! Stay out of this.” Then he turned back and slapped Sorer Imogen across the face with the full force of the back of his hand.
Shocked and appalled, Sorer Imogen went silent.
“Sieur Horembaud,” Margrethe began, “she isn’t clear in her—”
He rounded on her, lifting his hand. “Do you want the same?” he yelled at her.
The rest of the company had stopped eating and sat staring at the two women and Sieur Horembaud; Lalagia put down her water-cask and moved toward Sorer Imogen.
From his place by the fire, Frater Anteus said, “Think of your pilgrim’s oath, Sieur Horembaud. You must guard against the sin of wrath.”
Sieur Horembaud slowly lowered his hand and once again turned back to Sorer Imogen. “You will pick up your bowl and your spoon and you will eat. Then you will take your tincture and get back on your camel. We need to be at Baruta before sunrise, and by Mary’s Tits, we will be.” He rocked back on his heels, nearly oversetting himself. “Then you,” he said, pointing at Margrethe, “and you,”—he singled out Lalagia, now only a few paces away from him—“will see to it that she remains meek and submissive while you get your tent and chests packed. Olu’we and Temi will help you.” He glowered and walked away toward where two camels were being loaded with his belongings, including his crates of foodstuffs.
“We’d best obey him,” said Noreberht lo Avocat, picking up his cheese in his fingers. “It’s almost midnight now.”
Olu’we began to eat steadily, saying through his full mouth, “I will rise to help you, women. You should eat now, too.”
Temi mumbled something to indicate his agreement.
“Everyone should eat, and eat quickly,” Sieur Horembaud shouted. “We have a long way to go.”
“He says that every night,” Heneri said, not quite loudly enough for Sieur Horembaud to hear.
The company took up their positions once more and resumed their meal. As if she were a wooden puppet, Sorer Imogen picked up her spoon and balanced her bowl more carefully as she began to eat.
* * *
Text of a letter from Kerem-al-Gamil, factor for the Eclipse Trading Company in Alexandria, to Atta Olivia Clemens at Lecco, written on vellum in Church Latin, carried by the ship Starry Crown, and delivered forty-two days after it was written.
To the most excellent widow, Atta Olivia Clemens, the respectful greetings of Kerem-al-Gamil, factor to Sidi Sandjer’min’s Eclipse Trading Company at Alexandria on this, the 11th day of June in the Christian year 1225,
Esteemed Bonadonna Clemens,
I regret to inform you that I have had no word from Sidi Sandjer’min since he left the Monastery of the Visitation at Sese’metkra, bound for the mountains of Ethiopia. It may be that he has written and the letters have failed to reach me, or it may be that he has written and found no safe messenger to whom to entrust them.
I, too, share your concerns for the Sidi’s safety, and at another time of year I might dispatch one of the couriers we have used to try to trace the band of pilgrims he has joined. But the Inundation is beginning in a short while, and that will make travel against the current difficult at best. Overland travel often ceases for the three months of summer due to the extreme heat, or those who do travel are compelled to do so at night, which may be what the Sidi is doing.
If I should hear anything of the Sidi, I assure you I will send you word at once, no matter whether the news is good or bad. And I will tender your greetings to him in the way you have asked by giving him your letter, which I will keep in my office in my closed chest. It is humbling to see such affectionate consideration expressed so clearly, and by a woman. But then, women are more perceptive in these matters than men can be, judging by the conduct of the European knights we see in Alexandria.
May God bless and guard you, and may you and the Sidi be reunited as soon as God wills it.
Kerem-al-Gamil
factor, the Eclipse Trading Company
Alexandria
7
Baruta was a green frill at the northern edge of the bend in the Nile, the residents’ part of the town running along the low bluffs that rose thirty-five hands above the river that was already two hands above its usual level, leaving the slip at the base of the cliffs half under water, and the barge that ferried goods and people across the river was secured to a pair of cedar columns anchored in the soil at the top of the bluff. In the western two-thirds of the town, palm trees and small plots of fodder, papyrus, flax, and vegetables spread out along the bluffs watered by a system of irrigation ditches that were kept filled by Archimedes screws located at regular intervals along the river-front. Back from the river where the farmlands gave way to desert, there was a travelers’ quarter that included markets and inns. This was where the Coptic Church of the Nativity and a monastery housing twelve monks was located; on the other side of the travelers’ quarter was a small mosque.
It was mid-morning when Sieur Horembaud’s company arrived at Baruta, weary, hot, and hungry. A drowsy wind carried the scent of the fields to them, and made their animals restless.
“There,” said Firouz, pointing to the gate in the high walls. “We go in there.”
Sandjer’min started to translate, but Sieur Horembaud waved him to silence. “I got his meaning.” He swung his arm, directing the company to follow him into the town.
The guard at the gate was a Nubian man with dark skin and well-defined muscles. A Coptic cross hanging from a thong around his neck, he stepped out to meet them; he inclined his head slightly, holding up a placard that showed an exchange of coins. In the full glare of the sun, his elaborate loincloth was rust-colored linen and he carried two spears and a wide-bladed knife. There was an exchange of greetings which Firouz spoke in Arabic, and then Sandjer’min repeated in inexpert but adequate Nubian Coptic, which was the guard’s native tongue. After some general haggling, they finally arrived at an entry sum to be paid for the pilgrims to spend up to ten days inside the walls, money changed hands, the guard suggested the Waterbird Inn on the livestock square to Sieur Horembaud, pointing out which of three streets to take to reach the foreigners’ quarter.
“Is there another inn you could recommend for Richere Enzo and his slave? He will be staying here until the Inundation is over, when he will take a boat down-stream. Since he is no longer of our company, I believe it is best that we part here.” Sieur Horembaud waited for Sandjer’min to translate for him.
The guard spoke quickly, and Sandjer’min told Sieur Horembaud, “There is a small inn, the Old Grain-House, that should suit him. It is near the monastery. You follow the second street to reach it.”
“Thank him for me,” Sieur Horembaud said.
“It is my duty,” the guard said, then stepped aside to admit the pilgrims, remarking as he did in Nubian Coptic, “You are into the beginning of the Inundation; you will have to use much caution when you travel on.”
“We will; we still have a long way to go,” said Sieur Horembaud through Sandjer’min, who added, “Thank you.”
“You show great faith, keeping to your pilgrimage despite t
he Inundation,” the guard told Sieur Horembaud. “Most pilgrims abandon their quest once the water rises, or remain here until the river drops; they would rather face winter in the Ethiopian Highlands than the Inundation on the Nile. May God bless you for your piety, that you place your trust in Him to protect you. May He keep you safe.”
“God bless you, too,” said Sieur Horembaud, signaling his company to follow him into the town. “Caution!” he muttered as soon as he was beyond the guard-station.
“I think it was good advice,” said Sandjer’min. The sun was beginning to hurt him, giving him a headache and increasing vertigo; his native earth in the soles of his boots could not completely block the enervating impact of the summer sun. “The Nile in flood is ferocious; it is best not to underestimate its strength.”
“So everyone keeps telling me,” Sieur Horembaud grumbled.
“Then it may be wise to listen to them,” Sandjer’min suggested. “Even that guard thought you will be taking a great chance.”
“He may have reasons of his own to do that.”
“And if he hasn’t?” Sandjer’min asked lightly. “You would do well to consider his warning, or at least make your own inquiries while we stay here.” He saw the shadow of figures in the upper rooms of the houses that lined the street. “We are being watched,” he remarked.
“Of course we are,” Sieur Horembaud said. “In market-towns like this, everyone watches strangers when they come.”
Sandjer’min nodded, and said again, “Will you find out what you can about the Inundation and the road south? This may be your last chance to do that before we face the Nile’s flood, once we set out, we may well be at the mercy of the river.”
Sieur Horembaud thought that over, and concluded aloud, “He did seem a sensible guard; I’ll ask around, if you will assist me.” He drew up at the Waterbird Inn; he raised his heavy brows. “Enzo, you and your man go on to the Old Grain-House. I think it’s that way. They’ll take care of you until the Inundation is over.”
Enzo, who was riding at the rear of the company, started to say something, then drooped in his saddle. “Should we leave our camel and ass here?”
“You have belongings on each, which you will want to unload yourself,” said Sieur Horembaud. “Firouz will collect the camel and the ass from you before sunset.” He turned to Sandjer’min. “If you will come with me, we will have a word with the innkeeper. We’ll see if that guard steered us right.”
“As you wish,” said Sandjer’min.
“That guard—he probably gets a doucement from the innkeeper at this place.”
“He is as reliable as anyone in his position is,” said Sandjer’min with supreme neutrality. “And what man in his position doesn’t expect doucements? Or commissions?” He had a brief, unpleasant memory of Telemachus Batsho, whose avarice, eight hundred years ago in Roma, knew no limits, and who invented taxes and fees for the sole purpose of filling his own purse. “This guard seems fair enough. He has no reason to discourage Christian pilgrims, being a Christian himself.”
“Why do you say it that way?” Sieur Horembaud asked as he watched the first few camels sink down to allow their riders to dismount; Richere Enzo and Ifar moved off in the direction Sieur Horembaud had pointed. “You’re suspicious of him? Why? The amount we’re giving him is reasonable.”
“Because we haven’t left yet. Who knows what costs we may have to meet when we depart. He has no vows to fulfill.” Knowing that he had blundered in giving voice to his concerns, and eager to correct his error, Sandjer’min swung out of the saddle and lifted Melech’s reins over his head. “Is there a stable?”
“There must be; what inn lacks a stable? I’ll want the copper-dun sound by the time we leave, if you have to treat her in a pasture,” said Sieur Horembaud, clicking his tongue as he watched the camels Bondame Margrethe and Lalagia rode kneel down; the women dismounted and went to get Sorer Imogen off her camel. “What are we going to do about her? The nun? She’s not getting any better, and you’ve told me you haven’t very much of your calming tincture left.”
“We will care for her,” said Sandjer’min, looking around as two young men bustled out of the inn. “As your vows require you to do.”
“My vows. Yes.” He stared at the ground, and when he raised his head, it was to yell at Firouz. “Come here, you rascally rogue. You and I must talk.”
Sandjer’min stepped aside so that one of the grooms could take Melech and the red-roan mare Sieur Horembaud had been riding to the stable. As the horses walked off, Sandjer’min translated Sieur Horembaud’s orders, noticing as he did that Firouz appeared to have understood a large part of what the leader of the pilgrimage had said. Perhaps, he thought, it isn’t only Heneri who is learning a new language. “We will go speak to the innkeeper, to see what he has to offer,” he said to the rest of the company as they began to get off their animals. Olu’we and Methodus Temi gathered up the reins of the horses and asses as their riders relinquished them.
The Waterbird was a large hostelry built around a courtyard, and boasted a pond in the middle where reeds and other water-plants grew; fish swam among the stalks, feeding on the insects and scraps that landed in the pool.
“I didn’t realize how dry I am,” said Sieur Horembaud as he hesitated at the pool’s side. “I think I will ask for a ewer of water for each of us, once we’ve arranged for our lodging. Some tea would be welcome, too. And perhaps a bath, if they have such a thing here.” He looked around, taking stock of what he saw.
“Water, tea, and baths for everyone? including servants and slaves?” Sandjer’min inquired.
“Um.” He went through the open arch into the central room of the place and shouted, “Guests have come.”
Sandjer’min repeated this in Coptic, his voice at a much lower level than Sieur Horembaud’s was. “Pilgrims bound for Ethiopia.”
The landlord appeared, a middle-aged man with a skin of dark bronze, with short, curly hair that was graying at the temples, dark-gold eyes, and wearing a tan-linen garment that looked like a long smock, being pleated at the shoulder and tending to billow around his portly body when he moved. He bowed in the Coptic fashion. “You are most welcome. I see you have a company of pilgrims with you, but not so many that we cannot house you all. You are most fortunate. We have only a few guests at present, so room is no problem until the end of summer, when the caravans will come again. How long do you expect to stay? all through the summer, perhaps?”
When Sandjer’min had translated this to Sieur Horembaud, his response was, “Tell him no. We’ll leave as soon as we find a trustworthy guide. Firouz! Come in here and tell this fellow what we require.”
Firouz appeared in the doorway. “What is it you want me to say?” he asked, and waited while Sandjer’min translated. “Rooms for each of us, or shared rooms for all?”
“We need to allocate space as we do with the tents, assigning our comrades to rooms in pairs or more,” Sieur Horembaud said when he heard the translation. “So, most of the pilgrims in pairs, the three women together, the servants and slaves three or four to a room, all in the same part of the inn, for our safety’s sake. If the innkeeper can accommodate us.” This last was sarcastic, since the Waterbird was conspicuously short of patrons.
Firouz explained this to the innkeeper when Sandjer’min finished relaying the message. “They will pay; they have paid me as we agreed, and have kept to the purpose of their pilgrimage; they will cause you no harm,” he assured the innkeeper. “I have been with them for many leagues and many days, and I can tell you they will not withhold your money. It would be wise to offer them a low rate. The company is large enough that you can do that without any disadvantage to you.”
The innkeeper smiled, and asked, “The man who translates, why doesn’t he bargain with me instead of you? He speaks the language well enough.”
“Because he is a foreigner, and I am not,” said Firouz.
“Ahh,” said the innkeeper with a wise nod. “An excellent reason
.”
Sandjer’min translated that exchange for Sieur Horembaud’s benefit; he laughed and clapped Sandjer’min on the back. “You’re a foreigner to all of us,” he enthused. “For which I thank God. Keeps you from playing favorites.” He nodded to Firouz. “But he’s right. In a place like this, being a stranger has no benefit.”
Firouz did not wait for the translation, making Sandjer’min think that he had indeed improved his understanding of Anglo-French. He leaned forward and spoke rapidly to the innkeeper, then listened intently to the innkeeper’s answer. Then he turned to Sieur Horembaud, leaving Sandjer’min to translate. “The innkeeper will provide five rooms with two beds for a ducat for each room per night, or its equivalent in gold; he will also have two rooms with four beds for slaves and servants and monks. Your smith can sleep in the stable with your animals. The two rooms and the pallet in the stable will be another ducat. Food for the company can be negotiated later, as can feed for your animals. That would be six ducats a day, as things stand now.”
“Can you get him to go any lower?” Sieur Horembaud asked, and waited for Sandjer’min to relay his question. “I could get luxury in Alexandria for such a sum.”
“But you are not in Alexandria,” the innkeeper said through Firouz in Arabic. “If you cannot afford it, there is always the grounds of the monastery; they permit pilgrims to camp there for a small donation.”
“It is a high price,” Sieur Horembaud insisted.
“Alas,” said the innkeeper.
Sieur Horembaud rubbed at his beard, then addressed Firouz through Sandjer’min. “Do you think he will go lower, or is this his price?”
Night Pilgrims Page 26
