Come Twilight (39 page)

Many of the people in that part of the mountains cannot easily reach a church or monastery in which to worship, and these cups are signs of their worship in the absence of priests. I do not suppose you would hold these people in contempt if they prayed to Allah at the rising sun; so I beseech you not to stop them from making their offerings. These are humble people, esteemed Moor, most of them villagers, shepherds, and woodsmen; their religion is simple but powerful. If you succeed in putting an end to the leaving of these cups, you will not bring the people to your faith, you will only drive them to greater and more secret devotions, and perhaps fuel a rebellion that would not benefit anyone, Moor or Christian, in any way

You are in a position to honor what these people have done, and I beg you in the name of the God Whom we both revere, to spare the people from any act that would lessen their opportunity to venerate that sacred blood that was spilled for them. Do not impose restrictions on their demonstrations of fidelity to their religion, for that would do your own beliefs a disservice, as well as working against the just laws you have given to our people. If you truly intend to show a regard for the people of the Book, I ask you not to curtail this most conscientious of exercises. It is of the first importance for Christians that the blood of the Savior be honored. It is one of the central purposes of the Mass, so that Communion is achieved. To this end, we offer wine and bread as the blood and body of Christ. You must see that the people in the mountains are creating their own offering in their search for Communion.

As I have said, it is my belief that they do this in remembrance of the tale that says that after the crucifixion, the Apostle Sanct’ Iago carried the cup of the Last Meal to the Iberian Peninsula, away from the strife in the Holy Land, and entrusted it to a company of warrior-monks, who have guarded it ever since. By leaving these cups of blood in sacred places, the people recall the story that has made them privy to the great mystery of Christians—transubstantiation. You cannot comprehend what power this gives to devout Christians, or the promise it secures them. These people of the mountains show us the depths of their faith in this way, for their homage makes them one with the warrior-monks, and gives them some hope of Heaven. You may force them to cease their humble celebration, but you will not silence the tale, for it is known that Sanct’ Iago came to Hispania to preserve the Christian teachings and the way of Christ, and that he protects us even now.

Whether or not the tale of the warrior-monks is true, we of the old Roman provinces of Hispania know that there is much to gain from venerating the story as a means of preserving the faith which we, as Christians, know to be true. More than a tale recounted in every chapel and convent, church and monastery, it is recorded in our sacred chronicles that Sanct’ Iago did indeed come here, with his treasures and his calendar—the one we use to this day. Our faith has survived thus far. I ask—out of respect for a great tradition—that you not deprive the mountain people of their offerings.

I pray that my accounts herein have moved you to show regard for our religion and opened your heart to the cause of the mountain folk, who have left cups of blood in tribute to Our Lord. Their simple demonstration of the promise of the Resurrection and the Life that is to Come is humbling to us all. May Our God bring understanding and compassion to your heart and move you to be merciful to the people of the region in question. It is important that you let it be known that you will not intrude in any way in this holy work, for otherwise my fellow Christians might well lose heart and, in the erroneous conviction that you would punish them for their piety, cease entirely their devotional offerings. They will gladly pay their double taxes for the surety that their religion will be allowed to continue unhindered.

May God open your heart. May you always know wisdom in your ruling. May God bestow high regard upon you, and bring you to grace. May your family always be thankful for you. May your children do you credit. May they speak of you from age to age as a worthy and compassionate judge.

With my personal approbation, and my prayers for your well-being in this life and the life that is to come,

Blaziuz Gagin

Primos, Sancta Cruce

At Usca, on the 16
^th
day of June in the 722
^nd
year of man’s Salvation
in the calendar of Sanct’ Iago.

Two Moors remained of the stragglers captured in the last nine days. One of them was weak and disoriented, ready to leave the pains of the world for the houris of Paradise. The other had resisted and was now locked in a contest of wills with Chimenae.

“It is most entertaining,” she told her clan when they gathered at her stone house. “And Sanct’ Germain has been useful.” This concession was as much praise as she was prepared to offer.

Overhead the sky was dense with clouds, and from time to time, thunder muttered in the higher peaks, heralded by sprinks of lightning. The air was close, heavy as a winter mantel, and still as an ambush. The clan was restless, wanting to be about their night’s hunting before the rain came and immobilized them. The distant thunder provided an accompaniment to their gathering.

“It is nearly mid-summer,” called out Achona. “We have not long to hunt.”

Wembo seconded her. “And rain is coming.”

“I will not hold you long,” said Chimenae. “Which village supplies the next two-legged goat?” She knew the answer but wanted to be told as a reminder to the rest.

“Mont Calcius. Tomorrow. Possibly the night after.” Aulutiz frowned in annoyance. “Is there anything we need to know about the Moors?”

“Then all of you will have what you want, and I will use the Moors a little longer.” Chimenae could not conceal a quick, satisfied smile.

“Have you learned enough from them to make it worthwhile to keep them both alive another night? It is dangerous to let them live when they have seen so much, is it not?” Edic asked, a hint of criticism in his voice. “Would it not be better to finish them both and be done with it?”

Chimenae considered her answer. “I have found out a little—not enough yet. I know now there are parties of soldiers and slaves and slaves cutting down trees to the east and south of us.”

“We knew that,” scoffed Achona, encouraging others to share her scorn.

“They are coming higher into the mountains,” said Chimenae. “They may eventually reach our region. Whether it is their intention, they are driving game higher into the mountains, and they will bring in their goats and sheep to graze after they have taken our trees to make ships.”

“Still nothing new,” said Edic with some concern.

Chimenae pointed to Edic. “Do you doubt me? Do you question what I have learned? Say if you do.”

“I do not doubt you,” Edic responded at once.

“Good.” She singled out Dorioz. “You will bring the goat tomorrow, or the next night. Mont Calcius has yet to choose whom it will be; they may have to waylay a traveler or shepherd—no matter. And you may partake of him first.” Then she swung around and looked directly at Wembo. “You will not share in the goat. Nor will you.” This was to Achona. “You are treading near the edge, my girl. Do not press me.”

If Achona was afraid, she showed no trace of it as she faced Chimenae. “Or you will make me a goat for the Moors?” A faintly derogatory smile curled her lips.

“Achona. Don’t,” Aulutiz said urgently.

“Very good, my son,” Chimenae approved. “Now, all of you, listen to me. If rain comes, go at once to your resting places and secure them. We do not want the villagers to assume they can neglect their offerings. The storm will pass quickly and it may be that you may hunt still before dawn. If not, tomorrow night, or the night after, there is the two-legged goat and hunting to sustain us. I will have more to tell you when we meet then.” She raised her arms and stood in that posture until all her tribe had gone and only San-Ragoz remained. “Come. I need you to speak with Yamut for me.”

“Do you expect he will say anything more? He is very stubborn.” San-Ragoz did not want to be part of the questioning; he was convinced that Yamut ibn Rabi could tell no more of the Moorish plans because he knew no more.

“All the more reason to persist,” said Chimenae, and went into her stone house, holding the door for him to come inside.

Two oil lamps burned in the cave-like interior, lending their little flags of light and the smell of burning tallow to the place. High up on each wall there was a single, narrow window with a plank shutter; all four of them were open, but admitted little more than the oppressive night air; the flames of the oil lamps burned without wavering. There was a high table with two couches flanking it; the Moors lay on the nearer couch, kept in place with wide belts of braided leather and foot restraints of hinged wood. One of the Moors was pale and inert, his eyes beginning to turn upward in his head; his breathing was shallow and listless and his flesh had acquired a waxy texture. This was Marid ibn Ali, and he was dying. The other Moor was alert and angry, his body straining against his bonds, his face flushed with his emotion, his presence dangerous.

“Tell him I greet him,” said Chimenae to San-Ragoz.

“She greets you, Yamut ibn Rabi,” said San-Ragoz, his speech flawless but slightly accented.

“She should die. Allah must will it. She is a shameless woman and an unclean thing.” Yamut ibn Rabi said through clenched teeth. “Jackals will eat her private parts and scorpions will nest in her hair.”

“Tell him not to curse me,” said Chimenae, correctly interpreting Yamut ibn Rabi’s tone of voice.

“You should not displease her,” San-Ragoz recommended. “She is a sharp-tempered woman.”

“I do not need you to tell me,” said Yamut ibn Rabi. “I have proof of it lying beside me.” He angled his jaw toward Marid ibn Ali. “She has done unholy things to him, and he will die of them, may Allah send him a kind death.” He set his face as if prepared to face the forces of Shaitan.

“What a fine, refractory heart is his,” Chimenae approved sarcastically. “How worthwhile his obstinacy.”

“He will not obey you,” San-Ragoz told Chimenae while he scrutinized Yamut ibn Rabi’s infuriated visage. “It is probably useless to try.”

“I do not like being cursed,” she said with false cordiality, inclining her head in Yamut ibn Rabi’s direction. “I will make him pay for all his maledictions.”

San-Ragoz faced Chimenae. “What do you want to know from him? I do not think he will tell you much, but I will ask.”

“You keep telling me he will say nothing, but I hear many words,” Chimenae said, her mouth pursing with annoyance. “You will not amuse yourself at my expense.”

“No one is amused,” San-Ragoz assured her before he once again spoke to Yamut ibn Rabi. “If you know anything about the military plans of your forces, it would be wisest for you to reveal them.”

“Do you think so?” Yamut ibn Rabi glared at him. “Tell that she-devil that I know nothing, and if I did, I would never tell her.” He spat to make his point.

San-Ragoz translated his outburst and waited while Chimenae prowled about the stone house. “Do you want me to repeat your questions?”

“No,” she said, stopping still. “Tell him that if he will say what he knows, I will kill him quickly and cleanly, with a single stroke. He will not have to endure the agony his comrade is experiencing.” Her smile was broad and insincere.

“That may be suitable,” San-Ragoz said uncertainly.

“Tell him,” she ordered, her smile vanished and her voice harsh.

Sam-Ragoz did as he was told, adding, “She may keep her word, or she may not.”

“The offspring of a basilisk and swine!” Yamut ibn Rabi exclaimed. “She is made up of curses and infernal things.”

Chimenae came closer. “Tell him,” she said dulcetly as she reached out to run her fingers along his brow, “that if he will not earn himself a clean death, I will make him my lover and my slave before allowing him to die. What he sees in Marid is nothing compared to what I will compel him to do. He will be grateful to lick my foot.”

“Do you think she can do such a thing?” Yamut ibn Rabi shouted out when San-Ragoz had finished his translating, his fear underneath revealed in the high pitch of his words.

“Yes; I do,” said San-Ragoz as bluntly as he could. “I think she would enjoy doing it. You would be a fool to attempt to best her. Better to answer her questions than to put her will to the test.” He did not like admitting so much, but he was appalled by the possibility of Yamut ibn Rabi becoming Chimenae’s abject idolater.

“I would die first,” Yamut ibn Rabi vowed.

“You would not have that opportunity,” said San-Ragoz sadly.

“She is only a woman. How can she undo me? I have not been badly wounded, as Marid ibn Ali has been. I have more purpose than many others have.” He bared his teeth. “She is a demon, and you are her servant.”

“I am worse than a demon,” said Chimenae when San-Ragoz repeated Yamut ibn Rabi’s accusation. “A demon is a fable for children. I am as real as the blood in your veins.” She came and leaned over the two Moors while San-Ragoz translated for Yamut ibn Rabi. When San-Ragoz stopped speaking, she bent down and kissed Yamut’s mouth, maintaining the contact while Yamut tried to twist away from her.

“Stop it,” San-Ragoz insisted as Chimenae took hold of Yamut ibn Rabi’s shoulders. “Do not do this to him. It does nothing but make him resist you.”

Chimenae lifted her head. “I know that,” she said with a smirk. “That is why I enjoy it.”

Yamut ibn Rabi was spitting epithets at her, condemning her in every way he could; there was fright in the back of his eyes now, as if he finally believed that she was capable of hurting him in precisely the way she promised she would. “You threaten me with death, but you do nothing. End this. Kill me and be done with it,” he howled as she began to chuckle.

Beside Yamut ibn Rabi, Marid ibn Ali turned glazed eyes on Chimenae and whispered endearments to her, his breath fading even as he strove to speak her name.