"What happened?" His voice was thick and difficult to follow, his tongue still tied with the juice of the poppy, but Parmenio smiled.
"You've been out for a while. Probably a good thing from what we were told. Our new trader friend helpfully translated everything for us. This boka fellow is some sort of herbalist and took you to a proper physician he knew in the town. He's been given instructions to change your dressings and clean the wound every day, and you've got some sort of poppy-juice potion to take while he does it. They reckon you'll be alright so long as the wound stays clean and you're sensible. We'll know for sure in a week, he thinks."
Skiouros slumped, his feeble strength giving out.
"They're putting together some sort of litter so that you don't have to ride a camel. Should be nice and comfortable" Parmenio smiled. "I'm thinking of sticking myself in the side so that I can have a nice ride too."
Skiouros tried to smile but it turned into a wince.
"Where were you?"
His friends shared a look, and Parmenio leaned forward.
"We saw people - unveiled but shadowy like the ones back at Tugga. Tailing us as we moved through the town, we think. We tried to find them, but they melted away into the streets like ghosts and it took us some time to find our way back here. We cannot be sure, but it seems highly likely that Sidi Najid's men are still tracking us."
"It is to be hoped this new caravan we're joining is large or well armed enough to put off potential attackers" Orsini added. "Anyway, you've only been out for an hour, so you should try and get some more sleep. We're on the trail with our new friends at dawn."
Skiouros sank into the comfortable bed with a sigh. More than four weeks still to go.
Chapter Sixteen - Of Gods and fevers
Parmenio struggled to control the writhing form of Skiouros, his teeth clenched, his hands gripping the young Greek by the shoulder as slowly, gradually, the fight went out of the recumbent form and his friend subsided into a fitful slumber once more.
Peering down at him, Parmenio sagged as he took in the waxy complexion and the sweat that ran freely from his friend's hairline and face, drenching the covering of the bed upon which he lay. His torso was swaddled with fresh linen and his priestly garb sat on a chair nearby, freshly laundered, stitched and folded.
The captain's eyes rose to the figure opposite, who was now letting go of Skiouros' other shoulder with visible relief. The physician nodded and then used his eyes to motion them across the room and away from the patient.
The caravan had pulled into the small trade post of Miliana the night before last, seven days out from Sedif, and Skiouros had already been deep in the throes of his fever by then, his temperature controlled as best the travellers could with wet rags and kind words. Miliana was little more than an overgrown village built upon the fragmentary ruins of some lost ancient site and scattered across the ground at the foot of a range of heavily wooded hills, but its position at the meeting point of trade routes that ran east to west, south into the desert, and north to the coast had secured it a position as a regular stopping place for many caravans.
Consequently the populace, small as it was, was open to contact and exchange with the passing traders and the people there showed signs of a number of racial roots in their physical makeup. Upon arrival, Parmenio, Nicolo and Cesare - along with the caravan's herbalist and the short, bulky, pop-eyed man who spoke traces of Italian - had approached the village's central square and made enquiries. The locals had happily directed them to the house of one Eleazar ben Tabbai, who turned out of be a Jewish doctor and apothecary who had settled in Zayyanid lands a few months earlier, having been ejected from his beloved home in Cordoba by the new laws of the despots Fernando and Isabella.
The caravan that had brought them to Miliana had moved on the next morning, taking their herbalist and translator with them, and passing them into the care of a group of traders out of Al-Jazair and bound for Fas - another caravan who shared no common tongue with the travellers.
The four had stayed on, waiting for their new guides to be ready and grateful for the pause on behalf of their sick friend. Ben Tabbai had readily agreed to look at Skiouros, and the young Greek, already delirious and sweating, had been taken to the house by his friends.
The Jew, a middle aged man with sad, hollowed eyes and a drawn face, had announced that contrary to their fears, the fever that currently gripped Skiouros was almost certainly a good sign. He was battling the infection and, while there was always the chance that he would lose that fight and his health would decline once more, ben Tabbai believed his patient to be strong and taking the upper hand in the war.
A quick examination of the wound had earned another positive reaction, and the physician had nodded in satisfaction at the cleanliness of the wound, confirming that the young Greek was ridding himself of the evil within. Fearing to stitch in case he caused further infection, ben Tabbai had smiled at the half-healed incision and rebound it, tighter and tidier than before, announcing that as long as Skiouros won his battle, the wound should be fully closed and healed in little more than a week. Then a further week or so to regain his strength and he should be well on the path to full recovery.
It all sounded like a fabrication to Parmenio as he held his friend down during the worst thrashing and raving, yet he could do nothing but trust the physician. He had asked whether some sort of soporific could be administered to prevent the worst of the fevered movement, but ben Tabbai had shaken his head and very clearly stated that any interference in the young man's struggle could lose him the fight. It was all down to Skiouros' body now.
And so while Cesare and Nicolo had organised everything with the traders and gleaned what information about the coming journey they could, Parmenio had stayed with the doctor and his patient overnight and through the day, helping wherever he could and restraining Skiouros as required.
"Say what you like, master Eleazar, but every time he lapses into stillness, I fear he is on the way out. Are you sure he's improving?" Parmenio queried in passable Spanish - a tongue he had used in trade dealings in the west for many years.
The physician smiled.
"He needs to rest between fights, as any soldier does. However, you might note that his periods of rest are lengthening, and his struggles for control are ever shorter. Unless something causes a down-turn we should see a change by sunrise tomorrow."
"Do you think he'll be out long?"
"Who can say? Though I believe, God willing, that he should be at rest for an hour or two now."
"Then if you're amenable, I will go and find the others and get myself a quick bite to eat." He pictured the other two now, as it was nearing the evening meal time. Nicolo would be sitting in his tent preparing a dinner from the meat, cheese and bread they had bought upon arrival, waiting for the captain to return and join him. Though Cesare dropped in regularly, he had taken to eating and drinking khave with the friendly - if incomprehensible - village elders, though he'd not explained why, only tapping the side of his nose infuriatingly when pressed.
Ben Tabbai nodded with a smile. Parmenio had gratefully accepted his offer of a meal the previous night, but it appeared that slow-cooked kosher mountain goat was not to the captain's taste, and since then, he had sought the company of his friends to eat whenever time allowed.
Parmenio paused only to lay his hand palm-flat on his recumbent friend's shoulder, wishing him speedy recovery, and then strode across to the door, noting again with interest the table full of goods near the door. In the past day as he'd stayed with his friend, he had realised just how often the local populace and passing traders visited the Jew for help and advice, paying him in whatever manner they could, from eggs or cheese or vegetables to curios, clothing, even furniture. Eleazar ben Tabbai was a poor man monetarily, but he clearly wanted for nothing.
With a small smile, Parmenio opened the door and breathed in the warm evening air, infused with dust and animals and the heady scent of rosy garlic and bay laurel that co
vered the slopes above. It was not difficult to imagine why the Jew had found this place worthwhile as a replacement home. It may be smaller than his native city of Cordoba, but the climate was similar, the scents and landscape intoxicating and the villagers respectful and friendly towards this most welcome settler.
Parmenio sighed and stretched on the step.
The arrow thudded into the doorframe three inches from his eye.
Parmenio stared as in his peripheral vision the feathered shaft vibrated in the timber.
Half a heartbeat later, he was ducking back into the room and slamming the door, just in time to hear the thud of a second arrow smashing into the wood.
"Shit."
The physician looked around in surprise.
"Captain? Ma koreh?"
"We have trouble."
His mind racing, Parmenio tried to decide what to do, drawing the slightly curved blade he'd taken from a body at Tugga and hefting the sword somewhat inexpertly - he'd little experience with such an exotic Arabic-style weapon.
Dashing across to the wall, he shuffled next to the table of foodstuffs and gifts and peered through the gap between the ill-fitting shutters that covered the windows. It took a moment for him to pick out the shapes of men moving between the buildings on the far side of the street.
"Do you have a back door?"
"Well yes. What is happening?"
"Bandits" Parmenio hissed.
"Here?"
"They took a personal dislike to us on the road a while back. They must have followed us into Miliana."
"Are they Godless men who would trouble a sick patient?"
Parmenio pictured Sidi Najid's men. "I think they'd rob and rape a corpse if the mood took them, doctor."
"Then you should not leave your friend to them" the Jew adminished
"I wasn't planning to. I didn't mean to use the back door on my own. We can take him out the back and try and sneak to the traders' camp. Hopefully we can be streets away before they know I'm not in here any more."
Eleazar shook his head. "Such a route is not feasible. Besides, it would be bad for your friend to be rough-handled through the streets."
"Worse than being cut into strips by angry bandits?"
"If you open his wound up again with such rough movement you risk new infection, and with the young man being already so weak, I do not think he would survive a second bout."
Parmenio sighed. What was it about pious men that they could not see the worse, more earthly dangers right in front of their face?
"If they find him here, infection will be the least of his worries, doctor. We have to get him out of here. I cannot protect him from three or more bandits and, unless you happen to be a physician and a swordsman, I see no alternative."
Ben Tabbai smiled infuriatingly. "Such plans are rendered moot, I fear, by the fact that the rear exit of this building leads only into an alley that emerges onto this same street, unless you feel you could carry your friend up onto rooftops.
"Shit" Parmenio repeated, peering between the shutters and now counting four men visible in the street. "So we're trapped and outnumbered."
"It would appear so. I trust that these men would not be willing to listen to a well-reasoned argument, if I were to step out and speak to them."
"Take one step out of that door and they'll pin you to the wall, doctor."
He lapsed into silent, desperate thought, his gaze straying across to his friend. "If I could think of a way of getting word to the others…"
Ben Tabbai shrugged. "The locals say that the people once urged Mohammed to call Mount Safa to come to him to prove his holiness, but when he did so and it did not come, he reminded the people that, had it done so, it would have crushed them, and so instead he went to the mountain."
"What?"
"A meshuggah story, I know, but the meaning holds true. You cannot bring your friends to the bandits. But you can bring the bandits to your friends."
Parmenio narrowed his eyes.
"That's an exceedingly dangerous gamble on whether or not they know Skiouros is here. It's quite possible that one of them followed me here this afternoon and was waiting for his friends before he moved, but what if they have been watching the house for a while and they know the lad's here? They'll just come in and kill you both once I leave."
"And what will they do if we simply all wait?" Eleazar asked with a crooked smile.
The captain sighed. "Come in here and kill us all."
"Precisely."
Parmenio knuckled his forehead in anguish as he tried to decide on a course of action. Finally, sighing again, he straightened. "If they come, protect him."
"As God protects us both. Mazel tov, captain Parmenio"
"Good luck."
Ben Tabbai smiled that infuriating smile again and watched as Parmenio reached for the door handle. Taking a deep breath, he swung it inwards, stepping into the gap, but maintaining his grip on the handle. Sure enough, the tell-tale sound of an arrow in flight cut through the night-time air and Parmenio slammed the door to again just in time to block it. As soon as the arrow hit with a thud, he threw it open once more and was out into the street and running.
There were five of them. That much became quickly plain as the four men with drawn blades burst into activity following him off down the street, the fifth - the archer - emerging from a side street. Though it seemed unlikely he could loose an accurate arrow on the move, Parmenio deliberately zigged and zagged from one side of the street to the other, presenting as difficult a target as he could manage.
Another thing that quickly became apparent was that the thugs on his tail were younger, fitter and faster than he. He risked a momentary glance over his shoulder and could see already how much they had gained on him, though the fact that the street outside the Jew's house seemed to be empty was heartening. The archer was busy attempting to shoulder his bow and draw his sword as he ran.
Parmenio tried to picture the layout of the town. So sudden was the attack and so unplanned his response that he had turned from the door in the direction that would give him the greatest head start. Sadly, that direction was also leading him further into the town and away from the traders' camp.
In a desperate attempt to right himself, he charged into a side alley, bouncing off the white walls as he disappeared into the shadows. They would be on him in a few moments and, while he could do with putting some distance between them, he could not afford to lose them, lest they go back to the house and find Skiouros.
Breathing deep and trying to regulate himself as he ran, Parmenio burst out into another small street and skidded to a halt, his feet kicking up chips of stone, gravel and dust. The way ahead was soundly blocked by half a dozen more thugs, their naked blades gleaming in the evening light as they advanced slowly on him.
Parmenio grunted as he backed towards the doorway of a house. The thought of turning and running back the way he had come occurred to him, the odds being slightly better in that direction, but already his pursuers were emerging from the alley behind him. He was trapped in the street by eleven men with no way out. They had outmanoeuvred him, herding him into a trap. Now, as soon as they'd done away with him, they could stroll across to the Jew's house and put the doctor and his patient to the sword before dealing with the others at the camp.
Desperately, Parmenio scrabbled with the door handle at his back, but the house was sealed tight and there was no exit. Had he been twenty years younger and considerably fitter, he might have managed to vault up onto the low roof and run from here, but he knew for certain that he would have a blade in his back before he gained the parapet.
Clenching his teeth in preparation, he hefted the curved sword in his hand, waiting for the first move. He would take at least one or two with him and was determined that if his time was up, he would go in the fight and not let them take him alive to slowly torture to death later.
"Come on then, you pieces of fetid camel dung. Who's first?"
The advancing thugs pau
sed and one of the new arrivals stepped out - a large man, naked to the waist and with a wicked blade in hand. He grinned a malicious grin, made uglier by the scars that had misshapen his nose and knocked it out of line.
The bandit said something in gravelly tones that Parmenio could not understand, though its meaning was fairly clear.
"Alright, lad. The bigger they are, as they say…"
"Apologies," came a voice from somewhere hidden, "but this big one, I think, is mine."
Parmenio grinned at the voice, recognising those tones even before he spotted Cesare Orsini sitting on the flattened roof of a house a few doors down, his heels kicking the white wall, sword balanced across his knees.
"I thought you'd be eating?"
"While you get all the fun? Please, captain."
With a flash of white teeth, Cesare dropped to the floor and straightened, testing the swing of his old knight's sword as he stepped across the street towards Parmenio, keeping between him and the big bandit.
"Very stylish and funny, I'm sure" the captain said quietly, "but even back to back that's still more than five men apiece. You might have been better staying quiet and out of the way. You could have gone and got Skiouros to safety."
"Master Skiouros will be fine" Cesare smiled, 'figure-eighting' his blade in the balmy air. "Friends are already with him."
"Friends?"
"Friends. I'm sure even you have them, captain. I appear to have many."
Parmenio gave a mirthless chuckle and then fell silent, his eyes widening as a dozen figures emerged from the alleys and doorways around them, a few armed with swords, but more with cooking knives, sickles and staves.
"What the…?"
"I have been cultivating a relationship with the locals" Orsini smiled. "You would be surprised how much they themselves dislike bandits. They were quite incensed when I told them there would be some in their own town. So we decided to trap them in their own trap."
Priest's Tale Page 23
