ROJEH
T
ext of a letter from Eustasios Krisanthemenis in Constantinople to his uncle, Porphyry Cantheos, in Sinope, carried by merchant ship and delivered two months after it was dispatched.
The greetings of Eustasios Krisanthemenis to his well-regarded uncle, Porphyry Cantheos, in the handsome port of Sinope on this the 537th anniversary of the beginning of the season of the Birth of Christ, which blessed day will come at the end of this dark, miserable month: may Heaven bless you and send you many good things in the year to come, commensurate with your worth and in forms that need no explication to understand. This letter will not be long, for I want to confine it to both sides of a single page; the Captain of the Diadem will charge me by the sheet of parchment, and so I apologize for the necessarily brusque tone of my communication.
I am writing to you to ask a favor of you, dear uncle, one that may be something of an imposition upon you, and for which I am more than willing to compensate you. I have recently received yet another missive from my sister, dictated to and written by the Patriarch of her local church. She, you will recall, is a window and presently living in Sarai, on the Caspian Sea, where her late husband had his business. She sent a letter to inform me that her house has been damaged in a storm, and since she has no male relations beyond her young son in that town who can order the repairs required and command the monies to pay for them, she has been forced to seek out her neighbor to provide housing and food for her and her family until his forthcoming departure. She cannot not sell her children, for as their mother she has not the authority to do so, and so they are in a most precarious position, and she has said that she must have the promise of some protection soon, or risk everything. She has told me she would like to return to Constantinople, but just at present that is neither possible nor desirable, for the city is much affected with hunger and illness, which makes it an unhealthy place for anyone.
In two previous letters my remonstrations have made no impact upon her, for she is persisting in soliciting my help. It would be a significant task to attempt to bring her and her family safely to Constantinople at this time, but it would be possible to send her and her three children to you, at least until things are less unstable here. This is the proposition I lay before you, and I hope you will consider this request in the sprit in which it is made—as a plea for our family. I am prepared to send you money twice a year to contribute to the maintenance of my sister and her children. We may decide on a reasonable sum if you are willing to take on this responsibility of housing and feeding my sister and her children. I would propose the amount of ten gold Apostles for the year for my sister and six Apostles each for her children. It is not an extravagant, amount, I agree, but in these days, it is the most generous sum I can offer. My circumstances, have never been affluent, and with the privations of the last two years, I have had to reduce my household and keep my business in much more frugal fashion than I have in the past, which has displeased my wife and children, but has been necessary. I have sold three of the household slaves, keeping only eight to tend to my wife and children as well as my stable and racing teams, which have been idle for almost a year and a halt due to this blight God has visited upon us.
I look to hear from you in the spring, and I pray that you will show your family loyalty as well as true Christian charity and say you are willing to bring Thetis and her son and daughters into your house. I also pray that you and your family enjoy good health and as much good fortune as there is to be had in these hard days. May God reward you on earth as well as in Paradise for the kindness you extend to my sister now.
Eustasios Krisanthemenis
Horse-breeder and merchant of Constantinople.
Chtavo rushed into the kitchen, his face white with alarm. “The blue roan’s come back,” he said, panting between each word. He stood in the kitchen door, bits of icy damp clinging to his hair and the collar of his bearskin cloak. “And the weather is turning nasty.”
Dasur looked up from his kneading-board, a rough round of dough lying under his hand. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the master’s mare is here, and the mule. But he isn’t. And it is coming on to sleet.” Chtavo went toward the hearth, his hands extended as if for comfort as much as warmth.
“You know what those Jou’an-Jou’an are, and the master
will
go among those people,” said Dasur, not sounding as confident as he would like, and paying no attention to Chtavo’s last remark. “The two probably broke away when the barbarians became too wild.”
“They never have before,” said Chtavo, his frown increasing to a glower.
“But it is starting to blow; and cold rain with high winds can make horses wild,” said Dasur.
“The mare wasn’t lathered,” Chtavo said, mulling this over as he spoke. “Not that the mule would be rushed.”
“If there had been real trouble, wouldn’t the mule run?” Dasur asked.
Chtavo shrugged. “You can never tell with a mule. Lucky thing they got to the gate before it was closed for the night, or they might have been outside the walls until dawn.”
This bothered Dasur; he wiped his hands on a rag and said, “I will inform Rojeh of what has happened: he can decide what is to be done.”
“Yes,” said Chtavo. “Rojeh will know what is best to do.” He looked around. “Is there any wine left?”
“There’s ajar of it on the shelf next to the herb chest,” said Dasur, trying to decide how to tell Rojeh about the horse and the mule. He gathered his thoughts and started for the corridor to the floor above. “Is the mare in her stall? And the mule?”
“Of course,” said Chtavo, offended at such a notion. “Do you think I would leave them standing tacked in the stable?” He had taken his cup from his capacious sleeve and was pouring wine into it.
Dasur nodded and continued on. The more he climbed, the less he liked the news he carried, and the more reluctant he became. Only the certain knowledge that keeping such information to himself might earn him a whipping kept him at his errand—not, he reminded himself, that anyone in this house had ever whipped him, but he had never had to give such worrisome news. He first sought Rojeh in Ragoczy Franciscus’ study, but found the room unlit and empty. His second attempt met with more success, for he discovered Rojeh in the room where cloth and clothing were stored. “You should have Aethalric do that,” he said to announce his presence.
“Aethalric is busy with the children, and I would not want to take him from them,” said Rojeh, making a mark on his wax tablet with his iron stylus. “What is it?”
“I … I have a word to offer from Chtavo,” said Dasur hesitantly.
“Is there some reason Chtavo could not deliver it himself?” Rojeh asked, his austere features showing little more than polite interest.
Dasur avoided answering that question. “I thought you ought to know, so I have come to tell you.” He cleared his throat. “Chtavo reports that the master’s horse and mule came back to the stable without him.”
Rojeh’s demeanor changed at once; he put his tablet and stylus aside and confronted Dasur. “When?”
“A short while ago. It had to have been in the hour after sunset, or how would the animals get through the gate?” Dasur was beginning to feel a cold lump of fear settling in his chest.
Not bothering to reply, Rojeh rapped out a brisk order. “Have Chtavo saddle my horse for me and buckle on a scabbard for my long-sword. I am going to change and get my weapon; I will be down very soon.” He all but shoved Dasur out of the room, then halted him. “Not a word to the widow or her children. They mustn’t know anything about this.”
Dasur nodded and bolted for the kitchen, where he found Chtavo on his second cup of wine. “Rojeh says you are to saddle his horse. At once. Oh, and the scabbard for his long-sword.”
Chtavo gave Dasur a long, puzzled stare. “Then he thinks something is wrong?”
“Do as he says. Now.” Dasur clapped his hands for emphasis. “He won’t like being kept waiting.”
“Oh, all right,” Chtavo grumbled, and set his cup down. “I’ll come back as soon as I’ve done. Don’t touch that.”
“I won’t,” said Dasur, beginning to worry in earnest. Chtavo left the kitchen, the plank door slamming behind him as he went out into the worsening weather; an icy breeze writhed through the kitchen, justifying the shivering that had taken hold of Dasur. He went to pour himself a cup of wine and had just taken a long first sip when Rojeh arrived in riding gear, a vast muffling mababa secured around him, his long-sword in one hand and a small case in the other. “Chtavo is saddling your horse.”
“Excellent. If I am not back by midnight, have someone carry a message to Emrach Sarai’af that Ragoczy Franciscus may have met with an accident. If I am back before then, depending upon what I find, I will inform you what must be done. See you remember what I have told you,” said Rojeh, not allowing Dasur to dither. “And nothing to the widow.”
Dasur blundered on, “Do you really think he could be dead?”
“I hope he is not,” said Rojeh with great feeling as he reached the outer door and let in another insidious draft as he went on toward the stable, where he found Chtavo just finishing securing the scabbard to the saddle. The spotted stallion was restive, and Chtavo had to keep one hand on the bridle as he worked, swearing under his breath by all the gods of his Volgamen people.
“He’s ready, and then some,” said Chtavo as he saw Rojeh approaching.
“Fine.” Rojeh handed him his sword. “Put this in the scabbard, will you?” He did not bother to see if Chtavo obeyed; he secured the case to the cantle and tested the metal foot-loop. “A good length.”
“The sword’s in place,” said Chtavo. “I’ll open the gate.”
“And keep watch for my return,” Rojeh ordered. “Dasur has my orders in that regard.” Saying this, he swung up into the saddle, gathered the reins, and turned the horse toward the door, pausing only long enough to raise the hood of his mababa before going out into the rising storm.
Chtavo hurried ahead of him to open the gate, hunching as he jogged to keep the sleeting rain from getting down the neck of his cloak. He drew back the bolt and tugged the gate, pulling it back enough to allow Rojeh to ride out into the street. Then he pressed the gate closed, set the bolt, and made his way back to the kitchen, all the while trying to keep from worrying about his employer.
The streets of Sarai were almost empty, and those few people not indoors either scurried along, cloaks drawn close about them, or huddled in doorways, trying to stay out of the stinging sleet. At the gate, the guard accepted a silver coin to open the gate and two more to ensure he would open it again upon Rojeh’s return, saying to him as he released the counterweight to open the door, “It must be a very important thing, to take you out at this hour on such a night.”
“Yes. A matter of some urgency.” Once outside the gate, Rojeh held the stallion to a walk down the long slope to the low-lying islands; the last thing he wanted was for his horse to be injured before he could find Ragoczy Franciscus. Rojeh could feel the constant tug on the reins from the bit, and he could sense the horse’s uneasiness in his mincing walk, and the stiffness of his neck; in spite of the cold, the horse was sweating, his head coming up at sudden noises, nostrils flared. It was difficult to find and follow the pathways through the maze of small islands to the one on which the Desert Cats were camped; Rojeh kept the spotted stallion moving forward. Twice he took a wrong turn and had to retrace his way back to the poorly marked trails and bridges.
The Jou’an-Jou’an camp was completely dark, the tents like gigantic mushrooms around the cold fire-pit. Rojeh went into the camp very slowly, peering into the dark. At the fire-pit he dismounted, buckled a long, braided-leather lead to the chin strap of his stallion’s bridle, and proceeded on foot, leading the horse. He saw the new cooking pot standing empty next to the fire-pit and knew that Ragoczy Franciscus had reached the camp. As carefully as he could, Rojeh began a methodical search, hoping as he did that Ragoczy Franciscus was not in one of the tents. “Do this first,” he whispered to himself. “The camp, and around the camp, then the tents, if it is necessary.” Steadied by the sound of his own voice, Rojeh continued his explorations; he began to circle the camp, moving out from the tents to the reeds that marked the boundaries of the island. On his sixth circuit, a startled whicker from his horse alerted him to something at the edge of the water; going forward carefully, he found Ragoczy Franciscus lying facedown, his feet in the water, his body limp and cold. Knowing that the icy, slow-moving water had leached the little strength Ragoczy Franciscus’ native earth in his soles might have imparted, Rojeh admitted to himself that Ragoczy Franciscus had almost fallen into the stupor that overcomes badly injured vampires, and that would make moving him a difficult proposition. With an oath to the gods of his youth, Rojeh dropped to his knees beside Ragoczy Franciscus and strove to determine what had been done to him. Working as quickly as he could, he was relieved that Ragoczy Franciscus had no broken bones, but that relief was short-lived, for as soon as he touched the edge of the deep cut in the vampire’s neck, he gasped. Sitting back on his heels and staring at Ragoczy Franciscus’ body, he tried to decide how to deal with this appalling situation.
Then he saw Ragoczy Franciscus’ hand move.
That single, small motion ended his doubts. He bent forward. “Holy Jermen Franzic Ragosh-ski,” he said, using Ragoczy Franciscus’ name from his breathing years. “You have been badly hurt. You are lying at the edge of a marsh stream. This is Rogerian. I am going to take you back to your house here in Sarai.”
The hand moved again, not much, but enough to confirm he had heard.
“I may cause you some pain when I move you,” Rojeh went on, as much to explain to himself as to Ragoczy Franciscus. “I will bind your neck when I have you on my horse.”
This time the hand was more emphatic, the fingers closing into a loose fist.
“Do you think you can hold on, or should I put you up before me?” As he asked, he realized there was no way for Ragoczy Franciscus to answer. “If you should be in front, move one finger. If you can ride behind—” He broke off, knowing that Ragoczy Franciscus would not yet know how much his strength had been compromised. “I’ll put you ahead of me, in the saddle.”
One finger tapped.
“Then make yourself ready and I will lift you,” said Rojeh, “after I turn you over.”
The finger tapped again, twice.
At that, Rojeh faltered. “I know you are badly hurt, but your spine is intact. You would have died the True Death if it were not. If you want me to stop at any point, open your hand wide and I will.”
The finger tapped a single time.
“I’ll take that for agreement,” said Rojeh, and crouched next to Ragoczy Franciscus, trying to determine how best to roll him onto his back; Ragoczy Franciscus could not endure much more harm to his neck without risking far greater damage. At last, Rojeh put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his head. “I’ll start with the top; I’ll try to move your head and shoulder at the same time. Once your shoulders are squarely on the ground, your legs will follow, and I can turn them when this first part is done. If something seems wrong, wave your hand and I’ll stop at once.” Taking a deep breath, he began a careful, deliberate turn of Ragoczy Franciscus’ head and shoulders toward him, making a point not to look at the wound in his neck, for fear of shaking his resolve. He managed to get Ragoczy Franciscus onto his back, and then tugged at his hip to bring his legs over as well.
The spotted horse snorted, startled by the sudden odor of old blood. He pawed uneasily and tried to toss his head to show his distress.
Rojeh pulled sharply on the lead, forcing the animal to stand still. “You have to carry him,” he said firmly. He straddled Ragoczy Franciscus, leaning over him to try to determine how much he could take from the travel ahead of them. “I’d best do your neck now,” he decided aloud, and without waiting for a signal from his employer, he went to unstrap the small wooden case from the cantle. Opening it as he walked, he took out cotton bandages, three times the length of the height of a tall man, and a handbreadth wide, thinking of how best to employ them. As he reached Ragoczy Franciscus’ side, he said, “I will wrap these around your throat and over your head. That should give you a little support and keep your head from lolling.” He knelt down again, and working quickly but with as little disruption as he could manage, he swathed Ragoczy Franciscus’ neck and then his head in the bandages. “This is the best I can do until we are indoors again.” He set the little case down, knowing he would have to leave it. “I am going to help you sit up now,” he said to Ragoczy Franciscus, and saw his hand clench. Doing as much as he could to brace his employer’s head from behind, he levered him to a sitting position, then stopped as the sleet increased on a sudden gust of wind. “We’ll be moving shortly.” He prepared to help Ragoczy Franciscus to get to his feet. “I will take you under your arms and stand up with you; if you can assist me, so much the better,” he said, wanting Ragoczy Franciscus to know what was coming. “If you will stay balanced, I should be able to get you up.”