The Black Rood (26 page)

He paused, during which time the fat man who had met us at the door appeared. “Gregior,” Yordanus ordered, “bring us more wine.” The sullen servant turned without a word and lumbered off. “And try not to drink it all before it reaches the table,” his master called after him.

“I do not believe in keeping slaves,” explained Yordanus. “But I make an exception for Gregior and Omer. They are hopeless, you must agree. If I turned them out they would soon starve, and I cannot, in good Christian conscience, allow that to happen. So, I keep them for their own good, as no one else would have them.” He smiled weakly and spread his hands. “I apologize for your sorry reception. Mind you, it would have been no different for anyone else. Be you caliph or king, beggar, leper, or thief, Omer would treat you exactly the same.”

“What language does he speak?” asked Padraig. “I could not make out a word of it.”

“So far as I know, it is no language at all,” answered our host, chuckling to himself. “Omer imagines he is speaking Latin, but so long as I have known him, I have never had so much as a single intelligible word out of him in any tongue whatsoever.” He shook his head wearily. “Hopeless.”

The wine arrived in a great silver jar, and Sydoni poured it into the cups which Yordanus offered to us once more, saying, “I drink to my friends, old and new! May the High Holy One keep you all in the hollow of his hand. Amen!”

We drank and our host, placing his cup firmly on the table, said, “Now then, to business. Tell me, why did our Templar friend de Bracineaux send you to old Yordanus?”

Y
ORDANUS LISTENED WITH
half-closed eyes while I made a brief account of the events which had led us to his door. He nodded and glanced at Padraig as I described how the priest and I had come to be on pilgrimage, and how we had met the Templars and young Lord Roupen in Rouen, and all that had flowed from that meeting—all, that is, save for Bohemond's plan to reclaim the Armenian stronghold at Anazarbus. I thought it best to keep that to myself.

When I finished at last, Yordanus frowned mildly and said, “A fascinating tale, to be sure. Yet, you have omitted one or two significant details, I think. No doubt you have your reasons, but if I am to help you…” He turned his palm up as if offering me a choice.

I hesitated, trying to decide whether to risk telling him more. He saw my reluctance and pressed me farther. “For example,” he continued, “you have not said why you were forced to flee from Antioch so quickly.” Lifting a hand to Roupen, he added, “Would I be wrong in thinking your troubles, whatever they may be, began and ended with your young friend here?”

“Not far wrong,” I replied cautiously. Roupen lowered his eyes, but said nothing.

“Come now, my friends, if I am to help you I must know everything about this affair. What have you done? Impugned the prince's virtue? Sullied the patriarch's good name? Stolen the Rood of Antioch?”

At mention of the Holy Cross, my heart clutched in my chest. “Forgive me, my lord,” I said quickly, “but I did not care to burden you with our troubles unnecessarily.”

He waved the feeble excuse aside. “Tell me.”

So, I told him of Prince Bohemond's intention to attack the Armenian stronghold, and how Padraig and I had—out of friendship for Roupen and at the strangely veiled behest of the Templar commander—determined to thwart the impetuous prince's ambition if we could.

“We went to him to ask him to repent of his plan,” I concluded. “Unfortunately, things got out of hand and de Bracineaux was taken prisoner in the citadel. Padraig, Roupen, and I were forced to flee before Bohemond could capture us as well. The good commander suggested we come to you.”

Yordanus plucked a red plum from a basket and bit off the end. He sucked the juice for a moment, and then observed, “It seems to me that your path has been prepared from the beginning.”

“Indeed?” I wondered. Padraig nodded, smiling as he regarded the old man with, as I thought, renewed respect and appreciation.

Pushing himself back from the table, the old man beamed expansively. “Rejoice, my friends!” he declared. “Yordanus Hippolytus is the one man in the whole world with both power and inclination to speed you to your purpose.” Glancing at the young lord who had yet to exchange his wary, haunted expression for a more mirthful countenance, the ageing trader leaned over and gave him a fatherly pat on the arm. “Be of good cheer! Your adversaries, though they be legion, have now to deal with me, eh?”

“I did not know we had so many enemies,” Roupen replied, struggling to rise to the occasion.

“For a fact, you do,” Yordanus told him. “There are many in this part of the world who would love nothing more than to see the Armenian House obliterated by the swiftest means possible. Unsavory, perhaps, but it is the truth.”

Turning to Padraig and me, he asked, “Now then, who else knows about your errand?”

“De Bracineaux, of course,” I replied.

“And Bohemond probably, too, by now,” added Padraig.

“No one else?”

“Apart from you and your daughter,” I glanced at Sydoni, who was leaning on her palm and gazing at me, “no one.”

“Have you spoken to anyone along the way?”

“Not a soul,” I said. Padraig shook his head. Roupen looked glumly ahead.

“Well and good.” Yordanus rose stiffly from his cushion, his mind made up. “We must work quickly. The necessary arrangements must be made. We begin tonight.”

It was late and I was exhausted; traipsing through the hills all day had taken their toll. “Tonight?”

“Forgive me. You are tired from your travails. Leave everything to me. Take your rest, and in the morning, God willing, we will be ready to depart.”

He rang the bell and summoned Gregior to lead us to the guest rooms. We bade good-night to our hosts and went to bed in far better spirits than we had enjoyed for many days. Padraig stayed up a little longer saying his prayers, but I lay down and slipped at once into a deep and dreamless sleep—only to be roused some time later by the whispered hush of urgent voices in the courtyard. I listened for a while, but was too sleepy to make anything of it, and soon drifted off again.

The next thing I knew, someone's hands were on me, shaking me awake. I sat up with a start.

“Peace,” said Sydoni, crouching beside me. “All is well, but it is time to leave.” She rose. “Gregior has brought you a basin of water. I will leave you to wash and dress. Join us in the great hall as soon as you are ready.”

She left and, as I scraped my scattered thoughts together, I heard her in the next room, waking the young lord with an explanation of our purpose. I stumbled to the steaming basin and washed, praising the Gifting Giver for the luxury of soap. I then dried myself quickly on the linen cloth provided, dressed, and lumbered out the door and down the long, cloistered corridor of the villa to the great hall. The sky was dark, and daybreak still somewhat distant, by my estimation.

Yawning, I joined Yordanus, Sydoni and the others already gathered inside the door of the great hall. Gregior was ambling here and there, lethargically lighting candles and throwing dark glances at his master, who scurried around the enormous room, beckoning us to follow. We caught up with him, pawing through a pile of old maps stacked high on one of the many tables in the room. “Here! See here—this,” he pointed to a black spot in the center of the map, “this is Antioch. The port of Saint Symeon is here, and—” he moved his finger a fair way up a wavy line representing the coast and brought it to rest on a brown spot just below a tiered stretch of jagged sawtooth mountains, “—Anazarbus there.”

Frowning, Roupen bent down and examined the crude representation of his home.

“See here,” Yordanus continued, tracing the route to Antioch with his finger. “Bohemond must go overland because he has no ships to carry so many men and horses and supplies.”

“Two roundships were still in the harbor at Saint Symeon when we left,” Padraig pointed out.

“It makes no difference,” asserted Yordanus with conviction. He had assumed the aspect of a man very much younger than he had shown himself to be. He became decisive and earnest, and I realized I was seeing a glimpse of the man he had once been. “Two, you say? Two ships would not even carry enough fodder for the horses. He would need twenty, at least.

“So,” he continued, resuming his reckoning, “Bohemond's army must go on foot. But it is far faster by way of Marionis on the coast, here.” He placed a long finger on a small spot on the coast north of Antioch. “From there, Mamistra is easily reached on the river. See it there?” He indicated another black wavy line which was the river to another brown smudge north and a little west of the port. “From Mamistra, it is horseback the rest of the way. With good luck and God's speed, Anazarbus is but ten days' ride from the river. Even if Prince Bohemond marshaled his troops and marched the same day you fled Antioch, you will
reach the city at least four or five days ahead of the prince and his army.”

He glanced up to make certain that we all understood. “You are frowning again, my friends. Now what is the matter?”

“We have some money with us,” I explained, “but not enough to buy horses.”

“But I have money enough for anything,” said Yordanus, rubbing his hands enthusiastically, “and I am going with you. Gregior, run and fetch my box.” The old trader's sudden industry was amazing; it was as if he had shed not only the dull languor and melancholy which had gripped him so tightly, but entire decades of years as well.

The sluggish servant returned with a small chest made of a dark, heavy wood. Yordanus opened the box and withdrew three leather bags, then bethought himself and took three more. “Here,” he said, thrusting three of the bags at me, “a man on a journey can never have enough money.”

Thanking my host for his thoughtfulness and generosity, I tied one of the purses to my belt, and gave the other two to Padraig to carry in his monk's satchel. “With your help, we shall travel like kings,” I told him.

“Ragged kings, at best,” Yordanus said, indicating our clothes. “Fortunately, I have something for you.” He crossed to a large chest and threw open the lid. Delving into the chest, he began tossing lengths of cloth and various garments onto the floor around him. “Ah, here! Here!” he said at last, and brought out a long flowing garment like an overlong tunic.

Made of fine, lightweight cloth, it was the color of the northern sea as night sweeps in from the east. There were trousers of the same cloth and color, and new boots of soft leather, the sides of which were stitched with colored thread in a plumed emblem. The tunic's sleeves were long and wide, but close around the wrists. The trousers were secured around the waist with a long cloth belt of woven purple strips to which hundreds of tiny bronze discs had been attached.

In all, it was the raiment of an eastern prince, and although I was impressed, I could not imagine myself wearing such a garment. “People will think I am pretending to be an Arab,” I said. “I will feel foolish. It would be better to stay as I am.”

“Nonsense,” said Yordanus, ignoring my objections, “your clothes are unsuitable for the rigors of the journey ahead. Not only that, they mark you out as a stranger and an outsider. If you wish to travel swiftly without arousing unwanted interest in your affairs, you must not fly the banner of the ignorant foreigner.”

Sydoni agreed with him, and after my initial skepticism, I allowed myself to be convinced. Despite his protests that he was a monk dyed in the wool of his monastery, Padraig, too, came in for the same treatment. In the end, we changed our clothes and marveled at the difference; I felt cooler and more comfortable instantly, and bade farewell to my tattered homespun in favor of the lighter Eastern stuff.

Only when both Padraig and I were suitably attired did Sydoni allow us to leave the house. “I will see you as far as the harbor,” she told us.

Leaving the villa, we crossed the darkened courtyard and waited while Gregior unlocked the door, then slipped out onto the deserted road. We hurried down the hill through the new town, and continued on to old Famagusta and the quiet harbor as crimson sunrise broke in the east.

“I will speak to the harbormaster directly,” Yordanus told us as we came onto the quay. “He will know which sailors are available for hire and, of those, who can be trusted.”

“As it happens,” volunteered Padraig, “we know our way around a ship. Count us among the sailors.”

“Splendid,” said the trader. “The fewer who know our business, the better.”

Among the vessels riding peacefully at anchor on the tranquil crescent of blue water, there were the usual fishing boats plus a few more substantial craft used by the island traders. There were also four large ships, which I took to be of Venetian or Genoan origin. I was wrong.

Upon arriving at the wharf, Yordanus pointed to the four
large ships and said, “My beauties. Which one do you like the best?”

“The smallest,” I replied, thinking how much work it would be raising sail.

“The fastest,” suggested Padraig. The canny priest was, as usual, closer to the mark.

“That would be
Persephone
,” the old man said, indicating the long, low vessel at the end of the line. Although painted in the Greek style—with a green hull, a slender red mast, and a rail and keel of bright yellow—the ship owed more to the ancient Roman design which had held sway in that part of the world for a thousand years or more. “Not the smallest, but she fairly flies before the lightest breeze. With God's help and a good wind, we will be in Anazarbus before Bohemond makes the Syrian Gates.”