The Codex Lacrimae (22 page)

Another youth entered the ward behind Jacob. The boy recognized Pellion.

“Ríg,” Pellion gasped, putting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “Oh, good, you're still here. You're really needed in Father Arcadian's chamber.”

“We'll be there shortly,” Ibn-Khaldun replied. “Tell them no more than a quarter hour.”

“Well...they've had me running all over. Arcadian's in his quarters and the rest of the knights are assembled. Brother Mercedier is starting to wake up, and Brother Perdieu is very upset that they're waiting for
his
squire to arrive. He didn't like it when I told him you were helping in surgery — I think his exact words were, ‘I don't want him using any blade but a sword, and I don't want him cutting anything except Saracen necks!' They all want to hear what news you've brought from the East, Master Khaldun.”

“Confound you Pellion, Son of Gaidon!” Ibn-Khaldun exclaimed, “What did I just say? Who do you fear more, Boy? Perdieu or me?”

Pellion paled, and Ríg looked curiously at the old man. “You sir — but you, I respect. I'm sorry.”

Ibn-Khaldun put a couple fingers to his forehead, then murmured. “No, Lad, I should apologize to you.” He took a deep breath. “Just go tell them, will you?”

“Yes, Master. I'll go tell them.” Pellion bowed quickly and turned to go, muttering as he passed Jacob, “You see how everybody yells at me? For
this
I want to be a monk? I can get this kind of treatment at a Templar house in Jerusalem if…” The rest of his words were lost as he dashed out the door and disappeared.

Jacob followed Ibn-Khaldun and Ríg through one of the doors at the end of the hall and into a clean chamber, well-lit from the sunlight streaming through a broad stone window.

Marcus lay abed, propped on pillows. Jacob judged the brown-haired adolescent boy to be somewhere between his own thirteen years and Ríg's eighteen.

Marcus's left arm was wrapped in a sling, and he was rolling bone dice onto a broad slat of wood resting on his lap. On top of the panel was another board, this one made of polished light rosewood with deeply inscribed lines in a double-cross array that Jacob immediately recognized as a
Gluckhaus
board

The boy was playing his own game, though, and not following any of the rules that Jacob knew backwards and forwards. In the first place, while one needed only two dice to play the game, Marcus kept throwing about ten dice onto the board, creating a loud clatter. For another, hundreds of
jettons
(leather-stamped tokens) were lying messily on the coverlet. None of the tokens were in the spaces that they were supposed to be when playing the game. Lastly, the injured youth was giggling as he kept scooping the dice into a large leather cup, and made strange throaty noises that expressed some kind of pleasure in the repetitive activity.

Marcus looked up at his visitors and found his words, shifting from the gurgling sounds he'd been making to language.

“Khajen-Père! Ori!” He exclaimed, and tried to get out of bed. “Khajen-Père! Ori!”

The two men rushed forward, both saying variations on “no,” “stay put,” and “please rest” in different languages.

But they were too late to prevent the board, jettons, and dice from getting cast in all directions around the room. As Marcus tried to rise, he was slowed, however, because his left leg was wrapped in bandages and gauze by the upper thigh. The boy grimaced and fell back onto the pillows, saying repeatedly, “Hurt, hurt, stop the hurt!”

“Marcus, please don't move!” Ibn-Khaldun said, expressing the urgency he felt by a firm hand on the boy's collarbone as he pushed him gently against the pillows. “It's good to see you, Son, but you can't get up right now. Maybe tomorrow, all right?”

“Easy, big fellow,” Ríg said, as he motioned to Jacob to help clean up the mess and restore the board and game pieces. “We came to see you, Marcus, so there's no need to get up.” His voice softened. “Look who's back, Marcus.”

“Father! Khajen-Père ibn-Khaldun!” Marcus cried, taking time on the last syllables to make them into an exclamation of joy so that it he made the name a drawn-out “Kal-doooon.”

Jacob looked in confusion at Ríg, but the young knight didn't seem to notice, moving to the other side of Marcus's bed and throwing the blanket over him. He leaned over and gave the patient a hug, and then tousled his hair.

“You're funny,” Ríg said affectionately.

“No, you're funny,” Marcus said with a laugh.

“No, you are,” Ríg replied. “I see that they've brought your
Gluckhaus
board and some dice — are you having fun?”

“Fun, yes,” Marcus said, his face beaming as he looked adoringly at Ríg. “
Bonjour
,
Ori!
Bonjour
,
Ori!
Bonjour
,
Ori!”

“
Bonjour
,
Marcus,” Ríg replied, “
bonjour
.
How are you feeling?”

“Hurt, hurt, stop the hurt!”

“I know you're hurt,” Ibn-Khaldun interrupted, a slight sternness in his voice, “but you wouldn't have been hurt if you'd stayed here in the scriptorium where you belonged.”

“Hurt, hurt, stop the hurt!”

“It
will
stop,” Ibn-Khaldun promised. “They tell me that you'd gotten bruised in the thigh by the same horse that fell on Robert. You also got a cut on your shoulder that got stitched. You need to thank Robert when he wakes up, okay?”

“Hurt, hurt,” Marcus repeated, fear entering his voice for the first time. “Poor Robert hurt!”

“Yes,” Ríg agreed, “Robert's hurt, but he just got fixed. He's going to be better now.”

“The horse fell. Robert and Marcus both hurt,” Marcus said, his voice quieting down as Ibn-Khaldun sat on the bed next to him and held the boy's free hand. “We fought with swords!”

“That's correct,” the scholar said, “and you're both getting better.” He leaned forward and gave a long hug to the youth. “It's good to see you, Marcus. I missed you.”

The boy returned the affectionate gaze and clasp of his adoptive father, then released the man's grip when Ríg returned the dice cup with all its contents restored. He smiled suddenly as he looked at both visitors. “Khajen-Père and Ori! Ori! Ori!”

“Yes, I'm here, and so is your father. Here you go, Marcus,” Ríg said as he put the Gluckhaus board back on the teen's lap.

Ibn-Khaldun looked at his son. “Marcus, listen to me: Khalil, Fatima, and Thaqib send their regards. They want you to know that they're well, and looking forward to the next time we visit.”

“Fatima, Fatima. Fatima and Khalil,” Marcus repeated.

“Yes, and Thaqib wanted to come with me when I said that I was coming here.” Ibn-Khaldun gently touched Marcus's forehead. “They all miss you.”

“I miss you,” Marcus said.

“No, you miss
them
,
” Ibn-Khaldun corrected. “You miss us all.”

“I miss
them
,
” Marcus mirrored. “I miss you all. Fatima and Khalil!”

“Now, Marcus, look.” Ríg turned slightly and motioned for Jacob to step forward.

“I want you to meet someone, his name's Jacob.”

Marcus glanced at Jacob, and said the boy's name when prompted by the two men. He then started paying exclusive attention to Ibn-Khaldun as the elderly man bent forward and said some quiet words to him.

Ríg put a hand on Jacob's shoulder and indicated that they should move to the corner of the room out of Marcus's direct line of sight.

“Ibn-Khaldun found Marcus after the Battle of Mecina, and he and his wife, Sara, adopted him shortly afterwards,” Ríg said in a low voice. “We think he was born this way, but it's possible that he could've been injured somehow during that siege. Whatever the source, he's made great gains during the last five years we've been working with him.”

“Oh, I see,” Jacob said, watching as Ibn-Khaldun arranged the
Gluckhaus
board properly.

The old man gave the boy two dice to put in the cup, and then placed jettons properly in the numbered squares. Jacob's eyebrows raised a bit at the speed with which each player made their moves. “Hey, he knows how to play the game. He's good.”

“You play?” Ríg asked, an idea forming in his mind as he looked from Jacob to his closest friend.

“I used to play
Gluckhaus
and chess all the time in the yards by our stall,” Jacob said.

“Look, would you like to play a game or two with Marcus?” Ríg wondered. “Usually someone's willing to play with him, but with everyone at the battle-ready for the siege, he's going to be hard put in finding an opponent....”

After his experience in the hospital, Jacob looked forward to any chance to relax, so nodded vigorously. “I'll do it, gladly. I haven't played in over a year, though.”

“
Très bon
,
” Ríg said, grinning broadly, a relief he'd kept hidden breaking to the surface. “Thanks, Jacob. It'll be fun for both of you. If he's too quiet, try talking about birds, trees, squirrels — they're all sure to get a good laugh from him and make him start talking about different things.”

“Does he always repeat himself?” Jacob asked.

“Yes, and we're not quite sure why. He's very intelligent, but the repeated words seem to…center him. At any rate, it seems to make him comfortable and keeps him in a good mood.”

“Are you going to that meeting with the Hospitallers?”

“Yes,” Ríg said, “obviously we'll leave now as soon as they're done with their game.” He paused and gave a brief look at Jacob's sword. “You might want to slip that under Marcus's bed. He's quite the swordsman, and if he gets a peep at that fine blade, he'll want to fence.”

“Really? He's good with a sword?” Jacob asked, surprised.

“
Very
good,” Ríg affirmed, “and it's the one thing where he surpasses many of the knights in the castle who are twice his age.”

Jacob politely said nothing, not quite able to bring himself to believe that the strange boy in his curious condition could be
that
good with a blade. He unhooked his scabbard and handed the sword surreptitiously to Ríg, who promptly slid it under Marcus's bed.

“One other thing, Ríg,” Jacob said. “Why does Marcus call you Ori?”

“Oh, that. Ríg's my nickname, but when we first met at Mecina I used my full name, ‘Oriabiaus.' Marcus could never get his tongue around that, so he settled for ‘Ori,' even when we tried to switch him to calling me Ríg.”

“Ah,” Jacob said. “Oriabiaus, eh? What background is that?”

“Old Frankish,” Ríg said dismissively, and then changed the subject as he observed that the game was ending. “He beat you again, did he, Khajen?”

“Even after being gone six months,” Ibn-Khaldun murmured, “he's just got a wondrous way with rolling those dice....”

“Play again?” Marcus asked, his voice eager as he started placing the jettons back in their spaces.

“No, Son, not right now,” Ibn-Khaldun replied, rising slowly and achingly to his feet. “I've got to go to a meeting, but I'll be back later this evening.”

“I'd like to play a game,” Jacob offered as he stepped forward. “Will you play with me?”

Marcus ducked his head shyly and looked away from Jacob; all three visitors noticed, however, that a slight smile appeared on the patient's face and he was looking side-eyed at Jacob.

“Go on,” Ríg whispered, “sit next to him and roll the dice. Once the game starts, it'll all go normally.”

Jacob needed no further prompting. He grabbed the cup and rolled the dice with a vigorous shake. When the bone cubes clattered onto the board, Marcus's head snapped fully in Jacob's direction, reading the pips to see what the boy's numbers were.

“My turn,” Marcus said, reaching for the cup as Jacob dropped the dice back inside it.

“You've got to beat seven,” Jacob said.

“Watch this,” Marcus said, and rolled. A five and a four was cast onto the cherry wood surface.

“Hey!” Jacob exclaimed.

Ibn-Khaldun and Ríg left the room, looking backwards only once before softly closing the door as the boys both started to laugh at something.

Ríg clasped a hand on the old man's shoulder. “It looks as if Marcus has found a new friend.”

“I think we all have,” Ibn-Khaldun replied. “He's a good boy.”

“He is, indeed,” Ríg agreed. “Come, let's take the back stair — it's quicker.”

“Now, Boy,” Ibn-Khaldun said as they walked, “do you want me to ask?”