“My animals, too,” Rojeh said, just to be sure.
Yes. All in.
The interior was cramped, but there were sleeping shelves around the walls that accommodated more than twenty grown men and women; these were separated by stanchions to which chains could be locked. Deliberately ignoring the purpose for which all this was intended, Ragoczy Franciscus knelt down to look at the gashes that the dog had made in his mare’s hide; the injuries were fairly superficial, but they had bled steadily for some little while, which troubled Ragoczy Franciscus. He took his blue roan’s lead and knotted it to one of the stanchions in the wall. Then he led the mule to the other side of the cabin and tied it to another of the stanchions before removing his small chest of medicaments from the pack saddle. He opened it and took out his longest needle, threaded it with twisted silk, and went to stitch the mare’s cuts closed.
“At least this looks deserted,” Rojeh said as he came in with his spotted horse and mule; he secured his horse and his mule to stanchions, saying as he did, “If the slavers are coming, they won’t be here until late in the spring, and by the look of it, no one else has used the cabin.”
No,
Ragoczy Franciscus agreed as he set his last stitch. He patted his mare’s neck to reassure her, then took a jar of ointment from his case and smeared a generous amount of the odd-smelling compound over the closed gashes. “Which of your animals is—” he said in an undervoice.
“The mule. One of the dogs got to his on-side fore pastern and cannon bone,” Rojeh said. “He’s been bleeding most of the way here, and favoring his foot.” He caught the sharp look Ragoczy Franciscus gave him. “Yes. Between your mare and this mule, there’s a clear path any hungry hunter could follow.”
“Wolves,” Ragoczy Franciscus whispered. “Or tigers.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Rojeh, stepping aside to allow Ragoczy Franciscus sufficient room to kneel down and examine the slashes; the mule cocked his hoof and gave a dispirited kick before allowing Ragoczy Franciscus to touch the messy wounds that were still oozing blood. “Is there any risk of Black Sores?” This possibility distressed Rojeh as much as his worries about predators.
Ragoczy Franciscus turned his palms up to show he had no answer to offer. He brought his case next to the mule and squatted down again, brushed the wound clean with a bit of cotton bandage, then brought out his needle again, threaded it, and set to work. When he finished, he dressed the injuries with the same ointment he had used on his mare, then wrapped a bandage around the pastern and up the leg, tying it off with care. As he got to his feet, he managed to murmur, “I will dose all four of them.”
“With the sovereign remedy? Do you think it will be enough?” Rojeh asked.
“I hope so,” Ragoczy Franciscus said silently, and removed two vials from the case.
Rojeh started to unload the pack saddles, but had trouble making a place for the chests, cases, and crates in the confines of the cabin. He finally put most of the items on the sleeping shelves, thus leaving the four animals a small amount of room to move. As he reached for his grooming supplies, Ragoczy Franciscus came back into the cabin. “How was the exploring?”
Ragoczy Franciscus sat down on the chest of his native earth, patting the cover with affection.
Rest
, he signaled, and rubbed his eyes.
Midafternoon.
“Midafternoon it is,” said Rojeh. “You can deal with the animals then.”
When he had finished with the horses and mules, Rojeh left the cabin to hunt for something to eat. He found what he sought in a large hare, which he killed, gutted, and skinned before going back to the cabin, where he sat on a stump where he could watch the door, and sliced collops of meat from the skeleton, eating them off the blade of his knife; when he was done, he carried the bones a fair distance from the cabin to discourage predators. Then he went to wake Ragoczy Franciscus and to get some rest of his own.
Ragoczy Franciscus rose promptly and motioned his
Thank you
as soon as he got to his feet. He had benefited from the respite from the sun, and he was no longer weighed down with exhaustion. You
fed
. There was approval and a tinge of wistfulness in his demeanor.
“Yes. I caught a hare; thin and stringy, but still satisfactory,” said Rojeh.
Very good
. Looking down at the chest on which he had slept, he said without sound, “When this is gone, I will have to move only at night.”
“I’ve thought about that,” said Rojeh. “I believe there are ways to accommodate your problem. Think how we have managed before. What we did then—”
“My throat was not cut,” Ragoczy Franciscus breathed.
“No, but we can try some of the same methods, if we plan carefully.” He broke off, recalling what had happened the last time Ragoczy Franciscus had endured long hunger.
Good, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured, then left Rojeh to nap while he did his various chores. When Ragoczy Franciscus was done, he began to saddle the animals, beginning with the mules. He had time enough to balance the loads they carried, and to adjust and tighten the ropes, thongs, and nets that held their chests, crates, casks, and cases in place. Next, he saddled Rojeh’s spotted stallion, and last, he saddled his blue roan mare and gave each animal a small amount of grain to eat.
Rojeh came awake without prompting and went to check the buckles on his horse’s bridle. “I don’t know why I always do this.”
“Habit,” Ragoczy Franciscus said with his lips.
“Certainly; habit.” Rojeh untied the leads of his mule and then his horse.
Yes, said Ragoczy Franciscus, leading his horse and mule to the door.
“We should be able to ride until after sundown; there are no clouds in the sky, and the moon should be bright.” He was immediately behind Ragoczy Franciscus.
“We will not be the only creatures abroad tonight,” Ragoczy Franciscus warned, raising his voice to a soft mutter, then coughing from the strain of it.
“No, probably not,” said Rojeh as he put his foot in the iron foot-loop and swung up into the saddle.
Ragoczy Franciscus mounted and came up next to Rojeh. “I smelled smoke earlier,” he whispered.
“Not fire?” said Rojeh at once.
“Oh, fire, most certainly,” Ragoczy Franciscus murmured. “But not a wild one.”
“You mean there are others in this part of the forest, perhaps on the same trail,” said Rojeh.
“I cannot say,” Ragoczy Fanciscus whispered. “But be vigilant.”
“I am, my master.” Rojeh put his hand on the hilt of his shimtare.
I know
, Ragoczy Franciscus signed, and moved ahead, his dark-seeing eyes unhampered by the lengthening shadows.
Dusk had given way to night by the time they found the shepherd’s hut at the edge of the trail, a market sign painted in badly faded blue on the side of the building, indicating it was intended for those driving sheep to be sold. It had a good-sized fold behind the hut, and a water trough that was full to overflowing by a long flume from a spring up the hill. By the smell of it, it had been used fairly recently.
“It looks sound enough for a night,” said Rojeh as he rode up to the hut.
Not certain
, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured; he sat very still, listening intently.
Something,
he signaled.
Close
.
“Men or creatures?” Rojeh asked, paying close attention to the gathering night.
Both
, came the gestured response.
“All the more reason for us to be careful,” said Rojeh, raising his voice so it would carry to anything or anyone lurking nearby.
A loud rustling from the undergrowth suggested a night hunter—perhaps a fox or wild cat or a badger—had hurried away; the crackling of twigs marked its progress into the deeper forest.
More danger
, Ragoczy Franciscus indicated.
“You mean the woods are too quiet?” Rojeh listened.
“We are being followed,” Ragoczy Franciscus whispered.
“For how long?”
Forcing himself to speak as loudly as he could, Ragoczy Franciscus said, “Since we left the slavers’ cabin.”
“Are you sure?” Rojeh looked about in alarm.
Yes
.
Very.
He pointed off toward the hut. Trap.
Although Rojeh did not share Ragoczy Franciscus’ apprehension, he pulled his horse back a few steps. “Then let us go on. Night or no night, it is better to
stay
out of a trap than to have to get out of one.”
Ragoczy Franciscus gave the sign of agreement and managed to say, “It is dangerous here.”
“Then we’ll press on,” said Rojeh, and held his horse back so Ragoczy Franciscus could take the lead.
Ragoczy Franciscus got his horse and mule moving again. For the next two leagues the night continued to be unnaturally quiet; once an owl had flown over them, hooting softly, and once they heard the yipping cry of a fox, but other than that the night might as well have been deserted, a constant reminder that the two travelers were not alone on the trail. Finally Ragoczy Franciscus signaled a halt, saying, “The road divides ahead.”
“Are both branches well-used?” Rojeh asked.
“They appear so.” His voice was no louder than a purr, and he had to repeat himself twice before Rojeh heard everything he said.
“South could lead to Pityus and the Caucasus Mountains. Continuing west should bring us to the Sea of Azov,” said Rojeh.
Yes. Which way?
The movements were exaggerated to allow Rojeh to see them plainly.
“The mountains near Pityus are said to be full of robbers and brigands,” Rojeh said slowly, following his own thoughts. “But if the weather improves, we might be able to take a ship—” He stopped as Ragoczy Franciscus held up his hand and pointed to his chest of native earth. “Oh. Yes, that is a problem if we travel by water.” He nodded to the right-hand branch. “Then I suppose we should go on to the Don and overland from there,” he said as they moved on.
About midnight, Ragoczy Franciscus drew rein and gestured in the direction of a wood-stockaded compound; in the pale wash of moonlight, Rojeh could hardly distinguish it from the trees surrounding it; only the dome of the central church was identifiable as a structure apart from the trees. “Is it occupied?”
“By monks,” Ragoczy Franciscus said quietly. “There is incense on the air, and someone is chanting one of Saint Ambrose’s.”
“Do you think it is safe to go there?” Rojeh glanced back over his shoulder as if expecting to see hordes of outlaws descending on them with drawn weapons at the ready. “If they are chanting, I reckon they must be cenobites.”
A chain with a pull on the end of it hung down next to the small gateway into the stockade; Ragoczy Franciscus tugged on it and was rewarded with an unmusical clunk from a pot-metal bell. There was no immediate response, so he rang a second time and heard the chanting falter, and a short while later, a wizened face appeared in a crude slide-back window, and the monk stared out.
Rojeh decided to speak up; choosing Byzantine Greek as the most likely language for mutual understanding, he reverenced the monk and began, “I am Rojeh of Gades, and I and my companion, Ragoczy Franciscus, merchant, are traveling west. We have need of a place to stop for the night, to rest our horses and mules, and to see they are given water, and feed, if that is possible.”
“I am Brother Dorus,” he answered. “And this is the Monastery of the Ascendant Christ.”
“Undoubtedly a protected place, and one where travelers may rest without fear,” said Rojeh.
Brother Dorus hesitated. “I must warn you that we have Lice Fever here. May God spare us from His Wrath.”
“Amen,” said Rojeh.
When Ragoczy Franciscus remained quiet, Brother Dorus stared at him. “He does not say ‘amen’?”
By now, Rojeh had an answer. “We have had a most difficult journey, and because of the many losses we have had, he will not speak until he is safely at the home of his fathers.”
“A pious act,” said Brother Dorus, “if he has remained faithful to it.”
“It is as if his throat had been cut,” said Rojeh with a quick glance at Ragoczy Franciscus, his face revealing nothing, as Ragoczy Franciscus reverenced the monk.
“Do you have weapons?” Brother Dorus asked.
“Only those any prudent travelers would carry,” said Rojeh.
“You must surrender them as you enter, or we may not receive you,” said Brother Dorus.
“We will not serve you ill,” Rojeh said.
“We will give you a place to sleep and provide food and drink for your creatures, in the Name of Christ,” said Brother Dorus, at last opening the gate. “You may give your weapons to Brother Acacius as you enter.” He nodded toward another monk, whose face was obscured by the massive cloud of his beard. “You will be given them back when you leave.”