Both the eastern and northern walls of Poranache had been torn down, the thick double ranks of logs left strewn about the wild fields that spread out from the ruined walls like skirts; at the back of the village, a wide, shallow stream ran amid birches and sycamores. Beyond the stockade, pens and pastures were empty, and the grasses had been indiscriminately hacked down, emphasizing the hunger behind the ruin that had been visited upon Poranache no more than a week before; a lingering odor of decay soured the night air, and the last of the scavengers were at work among the corpses of the defenders of the village. As they approached Poranache shortly after midnight, Rojeh stared ahead into the night, his skin cold with anticipation of trouble.
“The town isn’t deserted,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “There are many people in the far part of it.”
“You hear them,” said Rojeh, knowing how keenly Ragoczy Franciscus’ senses were attuned.
“I also see the lights they have left from burning lamps,” Ragoczy Franciscus said, pointing to the jumbled center of the town. A dozen little sparks of brightness wavered deep within the part of the village that was still standing; a clumsy barricade of hewn logs had been set up across the exposed streets, and some of the buildings now served as guard posts. “Not everyone was killed, or taken.”
Rojeh sighed. “Do you think they will admit travelers?”
“They must realize we are here, so we may as well discover if they will let us in,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and rode his horse nearer to the improvised wall. “Hello to Poranache,” he called out in Byzantine Greek; his voice was still somewhat rough; he repeated the cry, then waited while a light in the nearest window flickered more brightly, casting sharp, irregular shadows on the face that peered out.
“Who are you?” The question came in a deep bass, resonant and meant to impress.
“I am Ragoczy Franciscus, merchant, returning to my homeland with my companion, Rojeh, and our animals,” he answered patiently.
“Where is your homeland?” The demand boomed across the night.
“At the far side of the Black Sea, beyond the Dniester—you may know that river by another name.” Ragoczy Franciscus listened to hurried whispers.
“Where is your caravan, if you are a merchant?” the big voice challenged.
“Most of our goods have been lost on our journey, along with the animals that carried them.”
“Through misfortune or bad business?” The voice made this question seem more a test than a simple inquiry.
“By the look of your village, you know something of our losses.” It was a risk to mention the destruction around them, but Ragoczy Franciscus dared it.
“The band of marauders came from far away,” said the voice. “We have done what we could, and we will continue our fight.”
“You present a fine example to others,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
“And may you have an opportunity to help in that good fight, as you are bound in that direction.” This was clearly intended to determine his loyalty to his homeland. “You must do all you can to preserve your people.”
“If I reach my homeland, I will: like you, I am pledged to defend my native earth.” He did not add that his people had been gone from their mountains for twenty-five centuries, and that he was the only one of them left.
“A worthy sentiment,” the voice approved, and was caught up in another round of eerie whispering. “You say there are only two men, and three horses?”
“Two horses and a mule,” Ragoczy Franciscus corrected gently.
“Two horses and a mule,” the voice confirmed. “You are not scouting for a band of warriors, and you do not bring a miasma with you, to overwhelm us with sickness?”
Ragoczy Franciscus coughed, then went on, “If I were planning to do you ill, I would not tell you. We have been traveling for more than two years, and we have no sickness.”
“You are either very clever or you are very correct. If you are honest, you do your people honor.”
“Dulce et decorum est
,” said Ragoczy Franciscus:
It is sweet and
fitting
; he did not add the last of the Latin aphorism—
to die for one’s country.
“The language of Roma,” the voice announced. “You are conversant with that tongue?”
“Yes,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, continuing in slightly old-fashioned Latin. “I have spent some time in Roma, in my travels.” He had not been in the city for more than two centuries—then he had stopped Diocletianus’ agents from seizing his estates, creating a Deed of Succession to protect his property. How important that had seemed then, and how insignificant he thought it now.
Another buzz of whispers, and one or two hushed outbursts, then there was a long silence. Then the voice spoke again. “You must dismount and lead your horses and mules. We will draw back the logs next to the church, and you may enter. Be aware that six armed men will be waiting for you, and they will not hesitate to use their weapons if you do anything untoward. They are instructed to aim for the chests of your animals and then for your guts.”
“I understand. We will comply,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and signaled to Rojeh,
Do it.
Rojeh dismounted at once and took the leads of his stallion and the mule and came up behind Ragoczy Franciscus just as he stepped out of the saddle. “Is this wise?” Rojeh asked in Chinese.
“They should have information of what lies ahead, and we need that,” Ragoczy Franciscus said in the same language. “Also, if we do not stop after asking for entry, we risk a spear or an arrow in the back, or in our horses, for they would then be convinced that their worst suspicions are true.”
“It would be best for us both to sleep indoors,” said Rojeh purposefully.
“You have the right of it: I will have to be out of the sunlight come dawn.” Ragoczy Franciscus motioned Rojeh to silence as the first of the logs was pulled back, the sound deafening.
“There is some grass left, too; the horses and mule can graze.”
Ragoczy Franciscus swore testily. Almost at once, he added, “I’m sorry, old friend. I have become irascible again.”
“You’re famished. No wonder you’re short-tempered,” said Rojeh, who had dined on a goose the night before.
When the fourth log had been moved, another voice——also male, but clearly much younger than the impressive bass—shouted, “You may come in. Single file. At a walk. Unarmed.”
“That we will,” Ragoczy Franciscus replied. “I have a dagger in my boot, and another next to the mace buckled to my saddle.” He did not mention the slim-bladed knife lying under his belt along his back.
“Any traveler must have something to protect himself,” said the young voice; an oil-lamp was held up to help show the entrance more clearly. “Come ahead.”
Ragoczy Franciscus made a quick signal,
Careful
, to Rojeh, then led his mare through the opening in the logs. Immediately three young men surrounded him, spears in hand, warily inspecting him. All three were thin, and they had the skittish demeanor of those who had recently endured a deadly attack.
A big man in filthy priest’s vestments approached on crutches; his thick profuse hair stood out around his face like a lion’s mane, and his beard lay on his chest like a wolf’s ruff. His pectoral crucifix was silver and gold hanging from a silver chain, and he wore a ring with a simple cross cut into its stone. The priest came closer and Ragoczy Franciscus could see he had only one leg. “So,” the voice resounded, “a pair of travelers returning from the distant East with little to show for it, and arriving late at night.”
“Yes. Sometimes night travel is safer than day,” Ragoczy Franciscus said steadily.
“You have the right of that,” the priest said, and called out, “Admit the other, and the animals.”
Another trio of young men took up their positions and lifted their spears. “Ready,” one of them said.
Rojeh came in at a deliberate walk, his horse and mule behind him. “So you will not be troubled when you find them, I have a shimtare fastened to the saddle, a dagger in my belt, and another in a sheath along my arm.” He, also, did not include the dagger he carried in a sheath down his back, wanting to be sure he had reserved some extra measure of protection for himself.
The priest pegged forward and stood contemplating the two newcomers. Finally he said, “Two men and three animals, as you said. I am Irkovoyto, the priest here in Poranache, and by default, I am the leader of what villagers are left. I am the one who will determine if you must be guarded or kept apart from these good Christians.” His Byzantine Greek was very good, and his manner suggested a superior education and a comfortable life in childhood.
“I am Ragoczy Franciscus of Transylvania, and this is Rojeh of Gades,” he said, regarding the armed youths with the semblance of aplomb. “We have come a very long way.”
“So I surmise,” said Irkovoyto, shifting his stance for better balance. He summoned the young men to him with an imperious single syllable, then stood with them, conversing in whispers. Finally he moved toward Ragoczy Franciscus. “Our church—the Church of the Armenian Martyrs—was looted by the raiders and it has not yet been reconsecrated. We will put you into it, with your animals, for the night. In the morning, we will make a final decision regarding you.”
Ragoczy Franciscus did not know which title to use when addressing Irkovoyto, so he simply said, “Good Priest, we thank you for a place to spend the night, and we ask that you permit us to sleep well into the day; it is very late at night now, and we still have many leagues to go before we reach our destination, and neither of us is young.”
“This may be acceptable. We have to observe the Lord’s Day tomorrow, and most of us will remain within doors until sunset. Only the guards and the watch will be about the village until after our Mass at midday.” Irkovoyto took a firmer hold on his crutches. “My wives will prepare a meal at noon tomorrow, if you would make a donation to our work of rebuilding, you would be welcome to join us.”
“We thank you, but we will look to our own nourishment,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, “although we will contribute to your work.”
This announcement startled Irkovoyto, who regarded Ragoczy Franciscus narrowly. “Why would any merchant part with money for no gain?”
“Ah, but there is gain in having a town to return to on our next journey, particularly where good-will has been established,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, reverencing the priest. “Only a very shortsighted merchant would fail to see the advantage.”
After a moment’s reflection, Irkovoyto touched his pectoral crucifix. “You have a clever tongue and you seek advantage in time to come, as good Christians must. Tomorrow we will talk further, and with God’s Grace, we will learn much that will benefit us.”
“May it be so,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “If your young men will show us where your church is, we will settle in for the night.”
“To sleep the sleep of the just,” said Irkovoyto, and pointed to three of the young men. “Mopuoli, Heovo, Otsija, accompany these men and their beasts to the church and see them into it. You may light up to three of the oil-lamps for their use.” Without waiting to be obeyed, he swung away from the opening in the wall, calling out, “Eloka, you see to putting the logs back.”
“Yes; we will,” one of the youngsters answered for all.
None of the young men had an accomplished command of Byzantine Greek, but they did their best. The tallest of the three given the task of escorting Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh with their animals to the church identified himself. “Heovo. I will walk ahead; Otsija will walk between you; and Mopuoli will bring up the rear. Anything you do, one of us will see.” He pointed down a narrow street. “That way.”
“If you lead, we will follow,” Ragoczy Franciscus assured him, and prepared to accompany him down the street.
“Then we go now,” said Heovo, striking out through the darkness. The church was not any great distance, and as they reached the square in front of it, Heovo ordered a halt. “I will go open the door and strike oil-lamps alight until there is enough brightness for you to see. Then you may come behind.”
Ragoczy Franciscus stood quite still, his full attention on the church; it was three times as long as it was wide, with stubby cross-arms two-thirds down its length; the walls were made of heavy planking with a squat dome on top surmounted by a simple Roman crucifix. There were twelve windows set high in the side walls, hardly large enough to admit any more light than a beam the size of a plate. “We can rest here,” he said to Rojeh in Byzantine Greek so that they would not be suspected of subterfuge.
“And rest is much needed,” said Rojeh. “We have been riding too long, and our horses are in need of a day’s rest before they can journey farther.”
“So they are tired, and so are we,” Ragoczy Franciscus said, and made a point of stretching. Then he asked Otsija, “How can we get water to our animals?”
“I will have buckets carried to you,” said Otsija.