Come Twilight (47 page)

“What is it?” Rotiger asked, regarding Ragoczy Germainus with unsettled feelings; the expression he saw on his master’s face was haunted, and Rotiger knew the memories he had summoned up were ancient.

“It was before your time.” He looked up into the sky, studying the stars. “They change so little, even after centuries.”

Rotiger accepted this with a philosophical nod. “Egypt, I suppose.”

“Before Egypt. Judea.” Ragoczy Germainus finally lowered his head and met Rotiger’s eyes again. “You would not have known me then.”

As always, when Ragoczy Germainus recalled those long-departed times, Rotiger felt a qualm that could not be hidden; his shudder was strong enough to make the goose in his hands shake. “If you tell me so.”

Ragoczy Germainus laughed once, so sadly that Rotiger shuddered again. “I hardly know myself as I was then.” He took care to build up the fire, using this chore as an excuse to say nothing more.

“Are you going to stay awake all night?” Rotiger asked when he had finished his meal and tossed the bones far off into the darkness.

“I think it would be best,” said Ragoczy Germainus, his manner slightly remote. “I will look after the horses and mules. We do not want any misfortune befalling them.”

“If you mean Olutiz, no we would not,” said Rotiger, spreading out his Roman bedroll on the ground.

“Olutiz or any of the others.” Ragoczy Germainus dragged one of his chests of his native earth nearer the fire; it was an easy task for him, though ordinarily it would take two grown men to handle the heavy object. He sat on it, one of his stakes in his hand. “Go to sleep. You have nothing to fear.”

“If you say not,” Rotiger told Ragoczy Germainus, almost convinced of it himself.

Not long before dawn, Ragoczy Germainus awakened Rotiger; the fire was low and their animals were beginning to be restless. “There are men on horseback coming this way. If you listen you can hear them. We had better be prepared to meet them. Rise and arm yourself quickly.” He went to build up the fire and to saddle their mules and horses.

“Are you certain they are men?” Rotiger asked as he tended to his bedroll, securing it with braided thongs before tying it to the cantel of his saddle where it stood on its pommel-end for the night.

“No doubt whatever. They all have pulses and by the sound of their orders, they are Moors.” The self-possession he displayed was familiar to Rotiger, who shook his head.

“You have no apprehension about Moors?” He went to find his short sword and thrust it into its scabbard before buckling it onto his belt.

“Of course I do,” said Ragoczy Germainus. “But not as I have about vampires.” He was strapping his Byzantine long sword in its scabbard across his back, and he had taken his double-curve bow from its place in their packs and now strung it with an ease that would have shocked its Mongol maker. That done, he slung the quiver over the opposite shoulder to his sword, saying as he did, “I think I will leave the cross-bow packed. The Moors are not likely to think it a hunting weapon.”

The sound of the approaching horseman was louder, now, and their pace had picked up from a walk to a trot.

“They have seen the smoke of our fire,” said Ragoczy Germainus, and began to saddle their mules, starting with the jenny he had treated a few days ago. “Keep on with your tasks, old friend. Do not appear too ready to fight. That would encourage them.”

Rotiger’s dun whinnied suddenly and was answered by four of the approaching horses.

“If that is what you want,” said Rotiger as he picked up the long stakes Ragoczy Germainus had fashioned the night before. “What about these?”

“Put them into the pack with our weapons. We will not need them during the day.” He secured the breast-collar to the girth and began to buckle the girth. “Put the lightest packs and chests on this one. I’ll saddle the jack next.” He picked up the largest pack-saddle and its sheep-skin pad and went to the second mule—a strengthy mule whose neck and shoulders revealed his cart-horse dam—and put the pad in place on his back. The jack immediately inhaled and held his breath. “Very funny,” said Ragoczy Germainus and went on with putting the saddle in place, then the breast-collar, and then began to tighten the girth, leaving it slightly loose. He was saddling the third mule when a company of Moorish soldiers topped the rise of the ravine in which he and Rotiger were camped.

The leader of the troop shouted out a greeting that was also an order for immediate attention in a language that might have been Frankish, and was surprised to be answered in his own tongue.

“May Allah bring you good fortune and many sons,” said Ragoczy Germainus, offering the Moors the traditional salaam.

The leader of the Moors held up his hand to halt his men. “How does an Infidel dog know this?”

“I have spent some years among your people, when I was younger,” said Ragoczy Germainus, not mentioning that he had been a slave and had escaped from his owner thirty years before.

“And you follow the ways of the Franks?” The leader spat.

“Because it suits my purposes, yes, I do. I am not a Frank.” Ragoczy Germainus did his best to maintain a cordial manner, but his dark eyes were flinty.

“You do not follow the Prophet?” The leader’s bearded chin jutted forward.

“I have not learned enough of your faith to embrace it with understanding,” said Ragoczy Germainus in his most cordial tone.

The leader nodded and sat back in his saddle. “Then how is it you are on this road? You are not a merchant, by the look of you.”

“No, I have other business that occupies me.” Ragoczy Germainus pointed to his three mules. “A merchant would have more goods than I carry.”

“Tell me what your business is.” The leader drew his scimitar and held it at the ready.

“I am a messenger for the Comites Egnacius of Touloz”—he used the Moorish version of the name of the territory deliberately—“bound for Asturica at the Comites’ behest. He has ordered me to attend on the Dux of Asturica on his behalf.”

“And you have come by this road?” The leader looked doubtful as he moved his horse a little closer.

“The road in the north is blocked, by avalanches, we were told,” Ragoczy Germainus said. “We would have preferred to go that way, but it would have meant a long delay, perhaps into the summer, which the Comites would not approve for I must present myself to the Dux with all haste.”

“So you have come this way. Did you not think there would be fighting?” The leader held up his scimitar as if to underscore his remarks.

“From what we have been told, fighting is the least of what we have to fear,” said Ragoczy Germainus. “Everywhere we have heard tales of terrible attacks on the unwary. This region is said to be afflicted with demons.” He cocked his head as if considering the possibility.

“It is,” said the leader, his face revealing more than he intended, for as he glanced over his shoulder, his expression was tainted by fright.

“How can that be?” Ragoczy Germainus asked. “Have not holy men come here? Is the place not protected by prayers and amulets?”

“They are not enough,” said the leader uneasily. “Many have disappeared, and nothing found of them again. Not even bones.”

“Could not that be the work of bandits?” Ragoczy Germainus suggested. “If men disappear, it would seem to me that other men would be suspect.”

“Not in this region,” said the leader. “Scoff if you will, you will see for yourself if you continue through the mountains.”

“You have men in these mountains,” Ragoczy Germainus pointed out, indicating the remnants of logging that marked the slope. “You have had many men here, and not so long ago. Why should we fear to go where you have gone?”

“Our slaves were under guard, and even then, some of them vanished,” said the leader.

“They ran away,” Ragoczy Germainus countered. “Slaves will do that.”

“Not here,” said the leader. “Here they are glad to stay with their overseers and to work where they are ordered to go, so long as they are guarded day and night.” He leveled his lance in Ragoczy Germainus’ direction, saying forcefully, “If you do not go east to the coast, we will not protect you. You will be on your own against the demons that hunt here.”

“Why should we go away from Asturica rather than toward it?” Ragoczy Germainus asked, his smile as affable as if he spoke to a comrade. “It may be that there is danger in these mountains, but that does not mean that demons are the cause. I have a crucifix with me, blessed by the Pope, that no demon can withstand.” He pulled a small silver crucifix from his wallet and held it up. “For Christians, it is proof against all evil.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” said the leader, not quite concealing his sneer.

“So we think,” said Ragoczy Germainus as he made sure he was able to keep an eye on all the men in the troop.

“If you should discover otherwise, we will not be able to help you,” the leader warned, pointing toward the distant ridges where trees still grew. “And once you are in the forest you will be beyond all help.”

“No doubt,” said Ragoczy Germainus, salaaming again. “I thank you for telling me of the risks I may run. My manservant and I will be cautious in our choice of companions as we go.”

“If you think that will be enough,” the leader said, “so be it, and Allah witness what we have said.”

“Amen to that,” Ragoczy Germainus said, crossing himself and motioning to Rotiger to do the same. “You have nothing to worry about, good Moor. We are grateful to you for your coming to inform us of what lies ahead. Our crucifix will protect us, now that we know we must have it to hand.”

The leader shifted in his saddle, making a sign to his men. “We ride on,” he announced. “There is nothing more for us here.” He wheeled his horse, then swung it back toward Ragoczy Germainus. “When you reach the wood, be on guard: there are patrols that may kill you before they know you are nothing to fear.”

“Thank you again; I am twice in your debt,” called Ragoczy Germainus, and stood, watching the Moors ride on, their horses leaving a cloud of dust hanging in the air to mark their departure.

“Do you think they accepted what you told them?” Rotiger asked when the Moors were far enough from their camp that the dust of their passing was settling once again.

“I think they were disgusted enough to decide not to question us any further. We have nothing they want, and that makes it easier for them to leave us to our fates.” He did his best to smile, but his eyes were bleak. “If they should change their minds, we may find the going rather harder than before.”

“How do you mean?” Rotiger paused in his work of breaking camp.

“I mean they could waylay us up the road and detain us.” He shook his head. “Once in their prisons, we would be hard-pressed to conceal our true natures, for they are inclined to look for vampires and ghouls in these times, and in this place. They would be done with us quickly.” He went and tugged the girths on the jack-mule’s tight, smiling briefly as the mule huffed indignantly.

Rotiger looked appalled. “Surely not. You and I have been in prisons before and nothing happened worse than torture and hunger.”

“Ah, but then our captors assumed we were living men. That would not be the case now.” Ragoczy Germainus lifted the largest of their chests—one filled with his native earth—onto the pack-saddle on the jack-mule—saying as he did, “Now they would be watching us closely, and we cannot find ways to hide our . . . appetites.” He began to strap the chest in place before reaching for the second, working with an ease that belied the weight of the chests.

“Then perhaps we should find another road, or make our own,” Rotiger suggested. “They will not want to pursue us into the forest.”

“They might not want to, but they would.” Ragoczy Germainus shook his head. “If we deviate from the road we declared we were following now, they might come after us because of it. Having professed myself unconvinced of the presence of . . . eh . . . demons . . . I cannot now behave as if I believed in them. No,” he said, setting his second chest of earth on the other side of the pack-saddle. “I must continue as I have begun with them.”

“Do you think they will bother with us?” Rotiger asked, puzzled by Ragoczy Germainus’ apprehension, “They left readily enough.”

“Perhaps too readily,” said Ragoczy Germainus as he lifted the third chest—his red-lacquer one—onto the other two and began to secure it in place with the broad, buckled leather straps that held the load and kept it from shifting; it was Ragoczy Germainus’ own design, developed over centuries, combining elements of Roman, Scythian, Hunnic, and Mongol pack-saddles, made on a flexible, partly Roman, partly Moorish tree that adapted to almost every load.

“Then you are not satisfied that they accepted what you told them.” Rotiger drowned the last of the fire with a pail of water and finished strapping bed-rolls and sacks of food to the second jenny’s saddle, then went back to brush down his horse.

“No. That is why I have not removed my weapons,” said Ragoczy Germainus. “I recommend you do not remove yours, either.” He put their case of weapons on the larger jenny’s pack-saddle, adding, “Keep her close to you. We may have to fight.”

“You are expecting trouble,” said Rotiger as he removed the hobbles from his dun’s legs.

“I think it is possible,” Ragoczy Germainus countered. “I hope the Moors will find more to occupy them than two foreigners traveling alone. Had we come with an escort we might as well be at a clash of arms now.” He took his bridle from where it hung over the cantel of his up-ended saddle and put it on his horse, taking care to be sure the bit lay properly in the grey’s mouth.

“You are going to fight these Moors, aren’t you?” Rotiger demanded, his patience worn thin.

“Only if I must,” said Ragoczy Germainus, and went on tacking his horse.

By mid-day they were in a deep valley cut by a stream. Along the distant ridge they could see gangs of men working to cut down the few remaining trees. Although they were many thousands of paces away, the sound of their labors came back to them.

While they watered their horses and mules in the stream, Rotiger looked about. “We are not far from Mont Calcius,” he said, using the old version of the village’s name.