The things inside them communed while their hosts slept, delighting in the willingness of their servants and bartering with their still-imprisoned kin for information regarding the Grossbarts. Those without form could do naught but enviously watch, but the two released into the Italians had dutifully scoured with sight not constrained by space before being granted their salvation. They were very close indeed; fortunate, for the oppressive heat that cooked them even as the seasons changed threatened to slay their mounts before they captured their game, and in such desolate regions they might not find replacements before being thrust back into the place they had so vigorously fled.
XXIX. Like the End, the Beginning of Winter Is Difficult to Gauge in the South
Outnumbered five to one, and with Cardinal Martyn and Al-Gassur swooning from the soporific-laden wine, the Grossbarts may well have met their end there on the bank of the Nile had chance not favored them. The impressed men working the oars of that particular galley were prisoners and not birth-slaves, and just as their Mamluk masters had once spurned their bondage and usurped their keepers, so too did these slaves revolt upon witnessing the Grossbarts’ resistance. Chained in place though they were, these wretches thrust their oars and feet before the charging legs of their masters, slowing the Mamluks attempting to join the fight and winning the day-a boon that none of the victorious Europeans would ever acknowledge.
When the last Mamluk contributed his lifeblood to the ruddy fluids of the Nile, the Grossbarts took stock of how the battle had gone. They now had a boat and slaves, and despite the odds only Moritz-the last remaining Hospitaller-had expired from his wounds, a long handle jutting ominously out from between the felled man’s helm and breastplate. Raphael had seen enough carnage in his days with the White Company to know that he too would doubtless join the slain knight before the sun set, for in addition to the pommel that had smashed most of his teeth, his left wrist had caught a blade that nearly severed his hand. Spitting gore and tooth-gravel, he desperately attempted to stanch the wound even as his legs gave out.
While Martyn and Al-Gassur were rolling in the sand and vomiting from their poisoned beverage, the battle seemed to have restored the melancholic Rodrigo to a more chipper mood. He actually laughed periodically as he made the rounds, shoving his sword repeatedly into the prone figures of their attackers. Manfried noticed Raphael’s mortal condition at the same time the still-chained-in-place and now-screaming slaves drew Hegel’s attention to the fact that the last Mamluk had destroyed the rear of the rapidly filling galley. Knowing they could not possibly remove all of the boat’s supplies before it sank, Hegel begrudgingly used a key he had found on the body of the lead Mamluk to free the slaves and enlist their assistance. Not only were the supplies rescued but the slaves were able to haul the prow farther onto the bank, meaning the vessel could be repaired.
“Well, Saint?” said Manfried.
“Well shit,” said Hegel. “We’s in Gyptland proper, so let’s get this done and find grandad’s loot.”
Manfried took one look at the wrecked boat and began smashing wood free for a decent fire, and Hegel set to helping tie off Raphael’s filthy wound. To the horror of all but the Grossbarts, who laid out the first slave who moved to stop them, a bonfire soon raged where the boat had rested. At one point Raphael pitched forward unconscious and by the time the freed prisoners dragged him back the flaming Providence had taken his left hand but seared the wound shut. The result was that the loyal thug lived, although weeks would pass before any could distinguish individual words out of the one-handed man’s shatter-mouthed gabble.
The grandly inflated horde of Grossbarts and Grossbart followers progressed up the Nile with a simpleminded tenacity. The wound of the captain’s passing still festering in his heart, Rodrigo took masochistic succor from their situation, as did Al-Gassur, who despite it all maintained his ruse of being fluent in Arabic by babbling at the freed slaves-a rude assortment of betrayed generals and too-bold beggars who stayed with their liberators more for the food than for the company. Cardinal Martyn believed he had converted a few of the Moslems, and those he had not spared him a beating out of respect for the Grossbarts.
The grains and dried fruit went quickly with so many mouths but the Grossbarts paid no heed to Martyn’s entreaties to ration the remainder-each brother carried a full satchel reserved exclusively for himself and suggested the cardinal do the same. Had they stayed on the river they might have made progress toward reaching at least a small settlement but the Grossbarts insisted that with the swamp bordering the river given over to sandy wastes, forays in pursuit of the tomb-cities were now mandatory. Every few days the water ran low and back they trudged to the Nile to refill their skins, even Hegel and Manfried finally growing weary of the venture. Despair threatening to cripple the spirits of all, Martyn made another entreaty for the Grossbarts to confess their sins.
The party sat in yet another cemetery-free valley amidst the countless dunes, this one thick with enough dead trees to stoke two fires. The thirty-odd freed prisoners sat some distance off at their own blaze, debating amongst themselves the practicality of turning on the Grossbarts as opposed to simply quitting their company that very night. Had one among them understood the words spoken at the other fire-or the reverse-then blows would surely have been the result, but as it stood the majority of the Moslems had at the very least lost their curiosity as to what the bearded Christians intended by hiking into the desert and then back to the Nile several times a week as the food supplies dwindled.
“Told you twice now and I ain’t sayin again,” Manfried grumbled through his last mouthful of dates. “We’s got nuthin to own up.”
“Everyone must confess, Manfried.” Martyn bowed his head. “I will not judge, only He is allowed that.”
“She,” Hegel corrected, “and it can’t hurt, brother.”
“So why don’t you do it then?” said Manfried.
“She’s already seen my sins and absolved me.” Hegel looked to the spectral ceiling of the heavens. “Every rotten trespass I committed washed clean.”
“But you admit you have sinned!” Martyn said, excited they were making progress. “So why not confess them to me, absolved though you may be, so your brother can understand that which he does not realize are sins still must be confessed!”
“Well shit.” Hegel rubbed his hands and bit his lip. “There was that witch.”
“Which?” asked Martyn.
“Witch?” asked Manfried.
“That one up in them hills. Alps.” Hegel looked his brother in the eyes. “Guess I oughta come clean with you seein as She knows it anyway. I done that witch.”
“The witch what lived in the valley with the mantiloup? What you did to’er?” Manfried asked.
“No, confess to me,” Martyn insisted.
“Shut it,” said Hegel. “Yeah, that’s the witch. I, uh, done her. Physically.”
“Kilt’er? When you did that?”
“No, meckbrain, carnal-like. She, uh, sexed me.”
“What!?” Manfried burst out laughing. “Ain’t proper to fool with me, Hegel. That old thing?”
“Some a us what possess a proper palate recognize mutton’s superior to lamb.” Hegel crossed his arms.
“Women ain’t the same as meat!” said Manfried.
“Tell that to the lady-fish we et on the boat. But the point with the witch is I should a known better but I didn’t, so I lost my purity. But She gave it back to me. Mary I mean, the Virgin, which is what the witch’s spell made her seem like.” Hegel spread his hands. “See? No shame for those in Her Graces. Confess to me and you’s absolved same as I.”
Martyn wanted to interrupt but could not retrieve his lower jaw from the sand. Manfried continued to laugh until Hegel punched him. Then he tried to talk several times but kept chortling every time he opened his mouth.
“That old thing?” Manfried repeated. “Christ, brother!”
“Why you think I done it, huh?” Hegel said, furious. “
Think I was aimin to knock my Grossballs gainst some witch’s stink-hole? If I hadn’t you would a died from that sick wound a yours, you selfish cunt! That was the price.”
“Should a let me die!” snorted Manfried, but observing the pain in Hegel’s face he sobered. “Thanks, brother, that’s better than I deserve. Had no inklin you had to suffer like that on my account. Damned pious behavior.”
“I’d feel a sight better bout it if you came clean yourself so I wouldn’t have to worry bout you burnin in the pit.” Hegel gave his brother the eye. “Thought’s sinful as deed, Manfried.”
“Is it? Yeah, I reckon it is.” Manfried squinted into the shadows behind them, as if the secret lay hidden in the dark beyond the firelight. “Guess I done some things I shouldn’t, thought some things worse than what I did besides.”
“Come on, then,” Hegel prodded. “Out with it, and spite the Old Boy.”
“Uh, well, that nixie…” Manfried swallowed.
“Yeah?”
Martyn wanted to interrupt but his curiosity overpowered him and he remained silent.
“Well, I, uh, kind a got a fondness for her and that song a hers.” Hegel nodded while Manfried continued. “Reckon some a them things I was thinkin was put there by her witchery, but some a them, er, probably come by my own volition. Mecky thoughts, things what’d shame the Virgin.”
“And what’d you call her?” asked Hegel knowingly.
“Eh?”
“By what name was she called in your thoughts, brother? I know cause I’s guilty’s well a callin a witch by Her Name.” Hegel bowed his head. “Terrible sin.”
“Does it count if you say it stead a me?” Manfried kicked his brother. “So yeah, I reckon lackin a better title the name Mary might a been used. I’d creep into that wagon and watch but I never touched her, well, uh, never meant to touch her. Then that time in the river I was kissin that Road Pope, thinkin it was her. If I was right a mind I never would a laid one on her, let lone no bandit.”
“There it is.” Hegel sighed.
“But that ain’t the worst, brother!” Manfried said anxiously. “I done worse yet. Wickedness to blush Scratch’s smooth cheek. See, when we was with the captain the first time we met Angelino, he was fightin with Barousse and you and Rigo was off lookin outside and I was, I was…”
“Whatever it was, you’s forgiven soon’s you tell me,” Hegel said gently.
“I was fillin my wineskin from her tub, and since then on anytime I was feelin low I’d take a sip out a that salty bathwater, even after she went monstrous.” Manfried’s shame brought his chin low. “Still got a little bit left.” Manfried kept his head bowed until he heard a strange noise and looked up. “You laughin at me, you hag-touchin degenerate?”
“Hey now.” Hegel covered his mouth with one hand. “Just cause you’s forgiven don’t mean you ain’t a mecky whoreson! Her bathwater, brother? Disgustin!”
“Well fuck you and your witch-kissin ways!” Manfried shouted.
“Calm yourself!” Hegel swelled up, then relaxed at seeing Manfried’s eyes threatening to pop. “Calm, calm. Mockin a man’s confession’s a worse sin than any either a us done, so you got my confession on that too, fair? Hell, you wanna keep drinkin it, it’s alright now cause I bless you and I’ll bless it too, make it holy water. It’s alright, brother.”
“It most definitely is not!” Martyn roared, and Manfried socked him in the gut.
“You got any interest in delayin your reunion with the fuckin infinite, you shut your mouth in the presence a the saint!” Manfried roared back, and Martyn keeled over clutching his stomach. “Go on, brother.”
“I was bout done,” Hegel said, then looked around at the shining eyes watching him from across the fire. “Anyone else wanna be washed clean?”
Raphael stood and walked to them, plopping down and addressing Hegel directly for the first time since losing his hand and most of his teeth. He told them of all the atrocities he had committed during his service in the White Company. The mercenary army had taken part in all sorts of debauchery involving wine, women, and extreme violence, and Raphael confessed until the tears came and he shook with remorse.
“You’s forgiven, boy.” Hegel exchanged a shrug with Manfried, neither having understood most of what was said. “We’s all sinners in this mecky world.”
“I too have something to confess.” Al-Gassur giggled, crawling toward them around the fire. “But first, is my miserable, lowly Arab-self allowed the same benefits as you?”
“Long as you don’t keep prattlin on and own up already,” Manfried said.
“And no revenge will be inflicted upon my flesh for whatever evils I have done?” Al-Gassur pressed, the hoax that had kept him laughing all these months almost told.
“Yeah, yeah, spit it,” said Hegel.
“I, I’m, I’m not-” Al-Gassur tried to say it but his whole body trembled with mirth. “I am no Arab!”
“No Arab what?” Hegel’s eyes were slits.
“No Arab at all! Not even a Turk!” The laughter overpowered Al-Gassur and he rolled in the sand.
“Heth mwad,” Raphael guessed.
“No!” Al-Gassur hooted, “Neither mad nor Arab! I am from Constantinople, probably the same stock as the rest of you! Born a beggar, yes, but an Arab? Not on your souls!”
“What are you, then?” Hegel asked. “Not honest, whatever the breed.”
“My father was a Wallachian peddler.” The memories of his youth calmed Al-Gassur’s delight. “He took my mother to Constantinople to practice his trade. But he was robbed and beaten, and without any coin to even travel home he moved to the only place which would take him, the Jews’ quarter. I was born there, and so to the ignorant city folk I was a Jew. My father and mother both died when the rival Christian merchants launched one of their attacks on the ghetto, killing anyone they could catch. But not I!”
“That don’t tell us why you act the Arab.” Manfried had risen to a crouch.
“Even the exotic Arab with his thirst for Christian blood is less despised than the Jew,” Al-Gassur hissed. “And a converted infidel, one who fought for the Pope in a crusade, can coax coin from even the least charitable Christian. As a young man in the ghetto what chance had I as a beggar or anything else, when all who see you know you for a Jew? I adopted a new name and what name I had is long forgotten.”
“So you ain’t a Jew or an Arab, is that right, Arab?” Manfried insisted.
“No! Yes! The golden horses and other riches my father believed to stand in Constantinople as proof of the city’s wealth were long before stolen by Venetians in a crusade as noble as that on which we are now engaged, and that is why I journeyed there. I intended to abandon my Arabian ruse along the way but it stuck fast and earned me as much pity and drink as it did beatings. My true ancestry won my father naught but a broken heart and an empty pouch, and had I adopted a Jewish name be assured the beatings would have surpassed the mercy, especially in those plague-ridden days when every scapegoat was whispered to have horns beneath his pointed hat.”
“So how’d you learn to talk like’em?” Hegel asked.
“The few Arabs I saw in my youth taught me a bit, and while I had forgotten it all by the time we met, our recent company has rekindled the spark of language so that I may speak a little instead of simply spouting nonsense that would only fool a Christian.” Al-Gassur puffed out his chest, waiting for the blows to fall.
After a long silence, Hegel and Manfried exchanged a glance and began to chuckle. Raphael and Rodrigo soon joined in, and all four laughed until their ribs ached. Al-Gassur and Martyn looked on amazed until Manfried recovered enough to ask another question.
“And you got nuthin else to confess? No other lies need tellin? Last chance!” Manfried’s smile was too broad, too honest.
“What, er, no?” Al-Gassur had not expected them to be amused, but then they fulfilled his expectations by leaping upon him, Hegel holding his arms and Manfried seizing him around the thighs.
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“We’ll make you honest yet, Arab!” Manfried began tearing Al-Gassur’s breeches. “What’s under here, then, a stump? I seen you runnin in Venetia, Arab, seen you runnin with both legs!”
Al-Gassur struggled but they held him fast. Blocking the man’s view of his own exposed lower half Manfried revealed the bound leg and tore the rags keeping it lashed against thigh and ass. Then Manfried drew his dagger and pressed the dull side against Al-Gassur’s knee.
“Gonna cut it off, Arab, so’s you ain’t a liar no more!” Manfried dragged the metal across his skin, making the beggar scream and wail. Then the Grossbarts let him go, and he scurried away into the dark while they laughed and laughed. They had not had such sport since they first came to Gyptland.
Heartbroken that his confession had not bothered the wicked twins in the slightest, Al-Gassur took succor in that he no longer needed to bind his leg. In the dark between the fires he stealthily extracted his hidden treasure from his smaller bag, as well as the spool of thin, flexible cable he had found in Alexandria. He noosed one end of the line around the swaddled bottle and the other around his thigh, then stuffed the bottle back into his satchel and shoved the bag up the front of his short tunic to serve as a false potbelly. Only a searching eye would notice the cable leading from the top of his breeches to the bottom of his shirt; having robbed him of even the satisfaction of his deception, Al-Gassur had little doubt the Grossbarts would soon turn to his physical possessions, but if they wanted his brother’s heart they would have to cut it out of him.
“I have a confession as well,” Rodrigo said after the cackling at Al-Gassur had calmed. “When I came above deck on the ship it wasn’t to save your lives, it was to watch you hang. I wanted to witness your suffering, for I blamed you then as I do now for Ennio’s death.”
“What brought illumination to your ignorant fuckin ass?” Manfried said.
The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart Page 38
