When the chief guide was gone, Rogerio came out of the inn to the table where Saint-Germain sat. “We continue west?”
“Yes.” Saint-Germain gestured to the bench the chief guide had vacated. “Sit down. This may be the last chair you see for some time.” He was slightly amused, but there was a more somber set to his face than there had been when he had talked with the chief guide.
Obediently Rogerio sank onto the bench. “I’ve arranged for grain for the ponies and three waterskins. Though neither you nor I have much need of them,” he added in Greek.
“Better to have them,” Saint-Germain responded in the same language. “It raises less suspicion. The ponies might use them. Be certain that we have proper bedrolls, as well. I don’t know what manner of housing we will find to the west.” He gazed along the rising slope of the mountains, into the haze that turned the distance an oddly yellow-tinged blue. “In Shiraz we can rest. Next year, or the year after, we will go to my homeland.”
Rogerio nodded, his eyes turned toward the west with his master’s.
“Do you miss it?” Saint-Germain asked some little time later.
“Yes,” Rogerio admitted. “And you?”
“Yes.”
When they returned to the earthen-walled inn, the shadows were long and the breeze had become chilly. In the largest room the travelers who had stopped here for the night were gathered around a central fire pit where chunks of mutton fat sizzled on spits. The landlord greeted them with inviting smiles.
“You come,” he said, pointing toward the company gathered to eat. “Very good. Food.” He patted his belly, grinning and gesturing to indicate how much the fare would please them.
Though Saint-Germain spoke few words of the local dialect, he was able to decline politely, indicating that it was not his custom to dine in the presence of others. He acknowledged the others around the fire pit with a gracious half-bow, then passed on to his rooms.
“How long has it been since you have … dined?” Rogerio asked once they were in their rooms.
“You know the answer as well as I do.” He leaned back on two of his few remaining bags of earth. “I fear what might happen when these are gone,” he said, frowning. “Without them to sustain me … I think perhaps it will be best if we travel at night, my friend.”
Rogerio turned and regarded Saint-Germain. “At night?”
“It will help conserve my strength,” he said, with a look of distaste. “There is no one to take me as a lover, and no one I desire, not here. The blood of animals, well, you understand the limitations. So we will travel at night.” He started to sit up, then dropped back on the bags. “I have nine of these only. It has been more than a thousand years since I’ve been quite this vulnerable.” His mind went back to a squalid cell under the stands of the Circus Maximus. He had been imprisoned there, and could recall being grateful for the dark.
“And the ponies?” Rogerio was arranging their few spare garments in the red Roman chest. “Will you wish to use them?”
“For the time being. We still have high country to cross, and they manage well in this terrain. Later, we’ll replace them with other animals. Horses perhaps, or mules.” He stared up at the low ceiling. “I think it will be best if we settle with the innkeeper tonight. I will handle that. He might ask questions of you, but he won’t of me.” There was a suggestion of a smile on his wry mouth.
“When do you wish to leave?” The chest was almost in order and Rogerio set out two woolen cloaks. “There are rents in the lining, but I haven’t the materials to repair them.”
“No matter,” Saint-Germain said. He closed his eyes and endeavored to make himself comfortable on the bags of earth. “Wake me at moonrise and I will deal with the innkeeper.”
When he rose, some hours later, the inn was quiet but for occasional snores, and the muffled cries and tussle of lovers from a room down the hall. Saint-Germain dressed simply in his accustomed black, and at the last moment, belted on the katana Saito Masashige had given him. Even as he chided himself for being overcautious, he tested the blade in its scabbard to be sure he could draw it swiftly.
The innkeeper was shocked to see his foreign guests preparing to depart. Distress contorted his features, and he did his best to try to explain to Saint-Germain why it was unwise to leave. “Night demons,” he insisted, spreading out his arms and hooking his fingers like talons. “Attack travelers. Steal money. Drink blood.”
Saint-Germain’s sad laughter horrified the innkeeper. “I am not afraid,” he said gently, and gave the man a silver coin.
“The Revered One will be…” He did not know the words, but he made a bludgeoning motion with his joined hands.
In answer, Saint-Germain put his hand to the hilt of the katana. “I do not fear demons. And this will take care of robbers.”
With a lifting of his arms that was clearly intended to let the gods know that he had done all that he could, the innkeeper went to the door, assuming his usual servile eagerness. “If the Revered One so wishes.”
“Distressing though it may be, I do wish it,” Saint-Germain said in a very high-caste dialect. He motioned to Rogerio. “My servant has a number of things to load upon our animals, and then we will be gone and will not trouble you again.” He motioned to Rogerio to follow him as he stepped outside.
It was chilly, but not unpleasantly so. A few night birds were singing, and aside from one crashing sound in the woods, nothing disturbed the hour. Saint-Germain stood looking up at the sky, marking out the constellations, thinking back to all the various names he had heard them called over the years. He traced out the way north, looking for the Pole Star, but the rising bulk of the mountains cut him off. On the high, frozen plateau of the Land of Snows, he had spent one or two nights watching the slow wheeling of the stars overhead, and had marveled at the clarity and brightness of them. Here the stars seemed less distinct. He smiled slightly, enjoying the darkness.
“My master…” Rogerio said at his elbow.
“Are we ready?” Saint-Germain asked without turning.
“Yes. I have taken the liberty of dividing your sacks of earth between all the animals. That way, should anything happen…” He nodded as Saint-Germain turned to him.
“Very wise,” he said to Rogerio after a moment. “When have we been reduced to these straits, Rogerio?” He did not let the man answer but went on. “Twice with Aumtehoutep I was very near despairing. In one instance, I was in prison. That cell in Rome was enjoyable by comparison.” He flinched inwardly as the memory returned to him with more force than he thought possible after so long a time. There had been rats at first, and then a voracious stupor and a prison guard whose foolishness had ended so horribly.
“My master?” Rogerio said quietly, disturbed by Saint-Germain’s appalled silence.
At once the dark eyes regained their familiar ironic expression. Saint-Germain shrugged and busied himself with the fastening of his cloak around his shoulders. “We’ll manage it somehow, old friend. Do not fear it. Though perhaps it will not be entirely pleasant.” He touched his brow with one small, beautiful hand: he did not want to face such privation again, for he had come to loathe what he became at such times.
“Are you ready to ride, my master?” Rogerio knew that Saint-Germain was still held by his memories, and had not entirely broken free. He started toward their waiting ponies.
Saint-Germain followed him slowly, letting his thoughts drift. He stopped before the first of the ponies and reached up for the lead tied to the bridle. “I will walk,” he said quietly to Rogerio. “It’s better if I walk.” He patted the pony’s muzzle and murmured a few reassuring words to the animal before he led the way out of the innyard.
The village was sleeping, and no one except a very old man who spent his nights sitting and waiting for death saw them go. The road wound between the clusters of houses, then out onto the rising slope of the mountain. Soon the night was being measured in steps and the steady sound of the ponies’ hooves on the rutt
ed trail.
The first night passed uneventfully enough, and toward dawn Saint-Germain found a ruined temple above a spring that had run dry many years before. “There’s grass for the ponies—with broth and grain that should be adequate. I’ll take care of watering them.” He looked at the toppled stones of the largest part of the ancient building, noticing that there was a gigantic face carved into one of the fronts. “From the tongue sticking out, I’ll guess this was Kali. She must be very pleased. Why Kali at a spring, though?”
“She’s in charge of fecundity, too, as well as destruction, isn’t she?” Rogerio asked as he began to hobble the ponies.
“Certainly sexuality. One of her other manifestations is in charge of fertility and growth. I forget the name.” He regarded the balefully ruined face. “It was probably dedication to her other form, but she was represented this way, as well.” He glanced into the smaller portion of the building, which was untouched. “Be on guard for snakes, but I don’t think we’ll be bothered.”
Before the sun had risen, the ponies had been watered and left, hobbled, to graze on the new grass which had sprung up around the wreckage of the temple. Saint-Germain and Rogerio lay asleep in the part of the temple that was still intact. The snakes that ordinarily inhabited the place avoided it that day.
Night found them once again on the road. They made good time, for here the way was less steep, though the mountains were no less formidable. The trail had been cut along the side of the range, and though at a fair elevation, it was almost flat.
“In the day, I would guess that the view is impressive,” Saint-Germain said to Rogerio as they stopped somewhat after midnight to rest and water the ponies. “Yet, do you know, for all the size and majesty of this range, I would prefer the mountains of my homeland.”
Rogerio said nothing, but shared some of the emotions of his master. They had been gone too far and too long, and although he did not share Saint-Germain’s need, he understood the affections of the older man. But what, he wondered, would Gades be like now, since the Moors had come to Spain? He had heard a Crusader call it Cadiz, twenty years ago. Gades, when he had lived there, had been predominantly Roman—now it was quite different. Would he recognize the place, he asked himself, or would too many of the buildings be gone, and the sense of home be lost?
A few nights later, near the village of Nawakot they were confronted by a number of men, all of them armed with long knives and clubs, who blocked the road.
“We are peaceful foreigners,” Saint-Germain said in a dialect he hoped they would understand. “Why do you detain us?” He put his hand to the hilt of the katana, very much on the alert.
The spokesman for the men stepped forward, folding his arms on his chest. “Where have you come from?” he demanded, saying the words awkwardly.
“From the southwest today. Before that, from Bod, the Land of Snows. I have traveled widely.” He allowed himself to sound slightly perplexed.
“You are not of Bod,” the spokesman said confidently.
“No,” Saint-Germain agreed, and volunteered no more.
“You travel at night. Demons travel at night.” The man gave an unpleasant laugh, and said something to the men with him. They echoed the laughter. “Demons cannot be killed with knives and clubs.”
“But robbers can. If you beat us and we die, we are thieves. If we do not die, we are demons, and you will cast us into the flames.” Saint-Germain could not forget that similar arguments had been used in Europe not long ago to condemn those of his blood to the flames for heresy.
The spokesman seemed somewhat startled that a foreigner should be able to follow his reasoning. He regarded Saint-Germain closely. “Who are you?”
“A traveler, as I have said. In the Land of the Snows I was regarded as a magician. I am an alchemist.” He hoped that these isolated men had heard the term. “It is my desire to return to my home, far to the west of here.”
Again the spokesmen addressed the others, and they burst into laughter once more, this time more boisterously. “If you are what you say, then it would be rude not to have you stay with us. If, in the morning, there are no signs of more robbers or you have not assumed another form, then we will show you the respect that a magician deserves.” His gesture for Saint-Germain and Rogerio to follow left them in no doubt that they would have to fight these men or accede to their wishes at once.
Rogerio was somewhat surprised when Saint-Germain agreed without question. “My master…”
Saint-Germain began a singsong kind of chanting, making curious gestures. His words were in Greek. “Do not oppose them. They could do as much harm, and neither you nor I have the strength to spare for a fight. If these men are satisfied that we will do them no harm, we can use their goodwill to advantage. There’s bound to be a certain amount of communication between these villages. If these men speak well of us, we’ll be spared similar delays.”
Rogerio chanted his answer in the same language. “We must be on guard, but this may be the wisest way.”
The spokesman had stopped and was watching the exchange between Saint-Germain and Rogerio. “What are you saying?”
“I told you I am a magician,” Saint-Germain said arrogantly. “I have put an enchantment on the bags I carry. If anyone other than myself opens or moves them, the gold in them will surely turn to earth and will never become gold again.” He tapped one of the bags strapped to the nearest pony’s saddle.
“Gold?” The spokesman could not bring himself to scoff at that. “Those bags contain gold? All of them?”
“For me they do,” Saint-Germain said, correcting him sternly. “If any other person were to open them now, they would find only earth. When morning comes, then if the bags have been undisturbed, perhaps I will present you with some of the gold they contain, and I give you my word that it will remain gold forever. If you and your men tamper with the bags in any way, you will not have any gold at all, and I will be left with sacks of earth.” He called over his shoulder to Rogerio, this time in Latin, “How much gold do we have left in the chest?”
“A fair amount. There are also a few jewels,” was the answer, but said as if he were responding to a most stringent order.
“I’ll need a dozen gold pieces when we leave. And put the rest into the tops of the sacks of earth. Do it carefully—these men will probably put a guard of some sort on us.” He looked back at the spokesman. “My servant will be on watch throughout the night.”
With a glance at Rogerio, the spokesman said, “You are the master and he is the servant, you say, and yet it is he who rides and you who walk.” He added something to the men with him, a few of whom gave Rogerio a quick, curious look. “Perhaps,” he went on, “it is he who is the master and you the servant.”
Saint-Germain raised his fine brows imperiously. “It is for the master to guide the servant. At night and on such roads, it is fitting that I should lead. And it is wiser to lead on foot, would you not agree?”
Impressed now, the spokesman addressed the others, apparently repeating Saint-Germain’s comment. “You say you have traveled far, foreigner,” he said as they neared the entrance to the village.
“Farther than you know.” Saint-Germain sighed, speaking his native language, then gave the man his attention. “To the north and east there is savage war being fought. In the west men have taken up arms against their fellows. I have tried to find…” He stopped. What had he sought through all this? Peace? Stability? Sanctuary? The village spokesman was looking at him with curiosity. “Pardon. I could not remember the correct word. I have looked for a place where I could pursue my work without interference. War, you will agree, is an interference.” This was not entirely honest, he knew, but it was an acceptable answer.
“Those in the north and the east,” the spokesman said at his most knowing, “they are men of strange customs.”
“Indeed,” Saint-Germain agreed dryly. They had entered the village now, and Saint-Germain saw that it was fairly good-sized, with a place for a
granary, which indicated a fair level of prosperity.
“There is a house for travelers,” the spokesman was saying.
And undoubtedly, Saint-Germain told himself, it had provision for observing the travelers who stayed there. “Most commendable,” he said without a trace of mockery.
When they had arrived at the guest house, the other men departed, but the spokesman regarded Saint-Germain for a bit, and then said, “My wife’s younger sister will share your bed, if you wish it.”
Saint-Germain had long since ceased being startled by such offers. “You compliment me, leader.” So that was to be his guardian and spy. The sister of the wife of the village spokesman. He assumed that the men here were polygamous and that the woman in question was some sort of inferior wife to the man.
“She’s a clever girl,” the spokesman assured him. “She’s slept with other foreigners, and has learned many things.”
“You are a fortunate man,” Saint-Germain said, adding, “The traditions of my magic forbid me entering an uninitiated woman,” he improvised, “but there are ways that we could seek satisfaction of each other. If that is acceptable to her…”
“She’s slept with other foreigners,” the spokesman repeated, and opened the door to the guest house. “There are servants who will aid you with the ponies. I will send my wife’s sister to you when you are ready to retire.” His face creased in smiles, and he started to move away.
“There is one other thing,” Saint-Germain said just as the spokesman began to stride off into the dark.
Caught unexpectingly, the man turned, his confidence subtly diminished. “What is it, foreigner?”
“In the morning,” Saint-Germain said evenly, “if there is one of your village who would be willing to guide me and my servant through the mountains, there might be more than one piece of gold for you and this village.” He had been toying with the lead-rope of the first pony.
“I will let it be known, foreigner,” the spokesman said, unable to conceal the greed Saint-Germain’s offer awakened in him.
Path of the Eclipse Page 29
