The Cole Trilogy: The Physician, Shaman, and Matters of Choice (32 page)

That evening after supper he sought out Simon for his second lesson and discovered that the Jews owned books. St. Botolph’s school, which he had attended as a boy, had owned three books, a Canon of the Bible and a New Testament, both in Latin, and in English a menology, a list of holy feast days prescribed for general observance by the King of England. Every page was vellum, made by treating the skins of lambs, calves, or kids. Each letter had been transcribed by hand, a monumental task that caused books to be expensive and rare.

The Jews appeared to have a great number of books—later he found that there were seven—in a small chest of worked leather.

Simon selected one that was written in Parsi and they spent the lesson examining it, Rob searching out specific letters in the text as Simon called for them. He had learned the Parsi alphabet quickly and well. Simon praised him and read a passage of the book so Rob could hear the melodiousness of the language. He stopped after each word and had Rob repeat it.

“What is this book called?”

“It is the Qu’ran, their Bible,” Simon said, and he translated:

“Glory to God Most High, full of Grace and Mercy;

He created All, including Man.

To Man He gave a special place in His Creation.

He honored Man to be His Agent,

And to that end, imbued him with understanding,

Purified his affections, and gave him spiritual insight.

“I shall give you a list each day, ten Persian words and expressions,” Simon said. “You must commit them to your memory for the following day’s lesson.”

“Give me twenty-five words every day,” Rob said, for he knew he would have his teacher only as far as Constantinople.

Simon smiled. “Twenty-five, then.”

Next day Rob learned the words easily, for the road was still straight and smooth and Horse was able to plod with loose reins while his master sat in the driver’s seat and studied. But Rob saw a wasted opportunity, and after that day’s lesson he asked Meir ben Asher’s permission to carry the Persian book to his own wagon, so he might study it all through the empty day of travel.

Meir refused firmly. “The book must never leave our sight. You may read it only in our close company.”

“May not Simon ride in the wagon with me?”

He felt certain Meir was about to say no again, but Simon spoke up. “I could use the time to prove the account books,” he said.

Meir considered.

“This one is going to be a fierce scholar,” Simon said quietly. “There’s already in him a ravenous appetite for study.”

The Jews regarded Rob in a way that was somehow different than heretofore. Finally Meir nodded. “You may take the book to your wagon,” he said.

That night he fell asleep wishing it were the next day, and in the morning he awoke early and eager, with a sense of anticipation that was almost painful. The waiting was more difficult because he could witness every one of the Jews’ slow preparations for the day: Simon going into the woods to empty bladder and bowels, yawning Meir and Tuveh ambling to the brook to wash, all of them bobbing and muttering at morning prayer, Gershom and Judah serving up their bread and gruel.

No lover ever awaited maiden with more yearning impatience. “Come, come, you slow-foot, you Hebrew dawdler,” he muttered, going over his day’s lesson of Persian vocabulary one final time.

When finally Simon came he was laden with the Persian book, a heavy account ledger, and a peculiar wooden frame containing columns of beads strung on narrow wooden rods.

“What’s that?”

“An abacus. A counting device, useful when doing sums,” Simon said.

After the caravan got under way it was apparent that the new arrangement was workable. Despite the relative smoothness of the road, the wagon wheels rolled over stones and writing was impractical; but it was easy to read, and each of them settled into his work as they moved through mile after mile of countryside.

The Persian book made no sense at all to him, but Simon had told him to read the Parsi letters and words until he felt at ease with the pronunciations. Once he came upon a phrase Simon had given him on the list,
Koc-homedy,
“You come with good intent,” and he felt triumphant, as if he had scored a minor victory.

Sometimes he looked up and watched Mary Margaret Cullen’s back. Now she rode close to her father’s side, no doubt at his insistence, for Rob had noted Cullen glowering at Simon when he climbed onto the wagon. She rode with a very straight back and her head erect, as if she had balanced on a saddle all her life.

He learned his list of words and phrases by noon. “Twenty-five isn’t enough. You must give me more.”

Simon smiled and gave him another fifteen words to learn. The Jew spoke little, and Rob became accustomed to the
click-click-click
of the abacus beads flying under Simon’s fingers.

In the middle of the afternoon, Simon grunted and Rob knew he had discovered an error in one of the accounts. The ledger obviously contained the record of a great many transactions; it dawned on Rob that these men were bringing home to their family the profits of the mercantile caravan they had taken from Persia to Germany, which explained why they never left their campsite unguarded. In the line of march in front of him was Cullen, taking a considerable amount of cash to Anatolia in order to buy sheep. Behind him were these Jews, almost certainly carrying a greater sum. If bandits knew about rich plums such as these, he thought uneasily, they would raise an army of outlaws and even so large a caravan wouldn’t be safe from attack. But he wasn’t tempted to leave the caravan, for to travel alone was to ask for death. So he put all such fears from his mind and day after day sat on the wagon seat with the reins loose and his eyes fixed, as if eternally, on the Sacred Book of Islam.

There followed a special time. The weather held, with skies so autumnal that their blue depth minded him of Mary Cullen’s eyes, of which he saw little because she kept her distance. Doubtless she was so ordered by her father.

Simon finished checking the account book and had no excuse for coming to sit on his wagon seat each day, but their routine had been established and Meir had become relaxed about parting with the Persian book.

Simon trained him assiduously to become a merchant prince.

“What is the basic Persian unit of weight?”

“It is the
man,
Simon, about one-half of a European stone.”

“Tell me the other weights.”

“There is the
ratel,
the sixth part of a
man.
The
dirham,
the fiftieth part of a
ratel.
The
mescal,
half a
dirham.
The
dung,
the sixth part of a
mescal.
And the
barleycorn,
which is one-fourth of a
dung.”

“Very good. Good, indeed!”

When he wasn’t being quizzed, Rob couldn’t refrain from eternal questions.

“Simon, please. What is the word for money?”

“Ras.”

“Simon, if you would be so kind … what is this term in the book,
Sonab a caret?”

“Merit for the next life, that is to say, in Paradise.”

“Simon—”

Simon groaned and Rob knew he was becoming a nuisance, whereupon he held back the questions until the need to ask another popped into his head.

Twice a week they saw patients, Simon interpreting for him and watching and listening. When Rob examined and treated he was the expert and Simon became the one who asked questions.

A foolishly grinning Frankish drover came to see the barber-surgeon and complained about tenderness and pain behind his knees, where there were hard lumps. Rob gave him a salve of soothing herbs in sheep’s fat and told him to come back again in a fortnight, but within a week the drover was back in line. This time he reported the same kind of lumps in both armpits. Rob gave him two bottles of the Universal Specific and sent him away.

When everyone else had gone, Simon turned to him. “What is the matter with the big Frank?”

“Perhaps the lumps will go away. But I think they won’t, I think he’ll get more lumps because he has the bubo. If that is so, soon he’s going to die.”

Simon blinked. “Is there nothing you can do?”

He shook his head. “I’m an ignorant barber-surgeon. Perhaps somewhere there is a great physician who could help him.”

“I wouldn’t do what you do,” Simon said slowly, “unless I could learn everything there is to know.”

Rob looked at him but said nothing. It shocked him that the Jew could see at once and so clearly what it had taken him such a long time to realize.

That night he was awakened roughly by Cullen. “Hurry, man, for Christ’s sake,” the Scot said. A woman was screaming.

“Mary?”

“No, no. Come with me.”

It was a black night, no moon. Just past the Jews’ camp somebody had lighted pitch torches and in the flickering illumination Rob saw that a man lay dying.

He was Raybeau, the cadaverous Frenchman who occupied the position three places behind Rob in the line of march. In his throat was an open, grinning rictus and next to him on the ground was a dark and glistening puddle, his escaped life.

“He was our sentry tonight,” Simon said.

Mary Cullen was with the shrieking female, Raybeau’s ponderous wife with whom he had constantly quarreled. Her husband’s slit throat was slippery under Rob’s wet fingers. There was a liquid rattling and Raybeau strained for a moment toward the sound of her anguished calling before he twisted and died.

In a moment they started at the sound of galloping. “It’s only mounted pickets sent out by Fritta,” Meir said quietly from the shadows.

The entire caravan was aroused and armed, but soon Fritta’s riders returned with word that there had been no large raiding party. Perhaps the murderer had been a lone thief, or a scout for the bandits; in either case, the cutthroat was gone.

For the remainder of the night they slept little. In the morning Gaspar Raybeau was buried hard by the Roman road. Kerl Fritta intoned the Service of Interment in hurried German, and then people left the grave and nervously prepared to resume their journey. The Jews loaded their pack mules so their burdens wouldn’t tear loose if the animals had to be galloped. Rob saw that among the things packed on each mule was a narrow leather bag that appeared to be heavy; he thought he could guess the contents of the bags. Simon didn’t come to the wagon but rode his horse next to Meir, ready to fight or flee if either was necessary.

The following day they came to Novi Sad, a bustling Danube River town where they learned that a group of seven Frankish monks traveling to the Holy Land had been set upon by bandits three days before and robbed, sodomized, and killed.

For the next three days they traveled as if attack were imminent, but
they followed the wide, sparkling river to Belgrade without incident and took on provision in the farmers’ market there, including small sour red plums of exceptional flavor and little green olives that Rob ate with relish. He had his supper at a tavern but found it not to his liking, being a mixture of many greasy meats chopped together and tasting of rancid fats.

A number of persons had left the caravan at Novi Sad and more at Belgrade, and others joined it, so that the Cullens, Rob, and the party of Jews moved forward in the line of march and no longer were part of the vulnerable rear.

Soon after they left Belgrade they entered foothills that quickly became meaner mountains than any they hitherto had crossed, the steep slopes studded with boulders like bared teeth. In the higher elevations, sharper air brought winter suddenly into their minds. These mountains would be hell in the snow.

Now he couldn’t drive with slack reins. Going up inclines he had to urge Horse with gentle little flicks of the leather and going downhill he helped by holding her back. When his arms ached and his spirits were raw he reminded himself that the Romans had moved their
tormenta
over this range of brooding peaks, but the Romans had had hordes of expendable slaves and Rob J. had one tired mare who required the most skillful driving. At night, dull with weariness, he dragged himself to the Jews’ camp and sometimes there was a lesson of sorts. But Simon didn’t ride in the wagon again and some days Rob did not succeed in learning ten Persian words.

28

THE BALKANS

Now Kerl Fritta came into his own and for the first time Rob looked at him with admiration, for the caravan leader seemed to be everywhere, helping with wagon breakdowns, urging and exhorting people the way a good drover encourages dumb beasts. The way was stony. On October first they lost half a day while men of the caravan were impressed to remove rocks that had fallen across the trail. Accidents happened frequently now and Rob set two broken arms in the space of a week. A Norman merchant’s horse bolted and his wagon overturned on him, smashing his leg. He had to be carried on a litter slung between two horses until they came to a farmhouse whose occupants agreed to nurse him. They left the injured man there, Rob devoutly hoping that the farmer didn’t murder him for his belongings as soon as the caravan was out of sight.