“Why did I do it?” Diaresso said. “Oh, why did I do it?”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Gontran said.
Gontran and Diaresso were riding their horses along the Satala road which led through the Zigana Pass between the Pontic Mountains. They had just lost sight of the southern watchtower, which marked the limit of Trebizond’s territory.
“You speak freely of whatever pleases you!” Diaresso said. “Your prattle would test the patience of the saintliest dervish ever to walk the land! I must listen to one tale after another about the various characters dwelling in Metz, a place I would never have heard of were it not for the likes of you!”
“Come on, I don’t talk about it that much.”
“Did you know,” Diaresso began, “that Lord Chlotar of Metz is an oppressive sort? Were you aware of all the cruel barbarities he has perpetrated upon your family? Or perhaps you would care to let me tell you of the idiosyncrasies of Sigibert the Oxherd, who too often allows his beasts to trample the commons, and once nearly had his head severed from his trunk and tossed into a bog because of it? Then there is Ursio the Knave, stabbing anyone who takes the Good Lord’s name in vain and always neglecting to pay the two-hundred solidi weregild fines he owes the families of the slain for their murders! And then Fredegund the Beauty, who never guarded her virginity, the most sacred thing a maiden possesses, and thus drove her family to ruin—”
“Alright, alright,” Gontran said.
“I know every inch of this godforsaken place you call your home. Sometimes I suspect I know it better than you do, since you speak of it even in your sleep!”
“Diaresso—”
“So do you think you might deign to listen to me as I lament the loss of the greatest woman in Asia, one who returned my passionate embraces with more than equal fervor?”
“We’ve gone over this. We both have families we need to return to.”
“Bah,” Diaresso said. “Of course I cannot abandon my family. What sort of man would I be if I did? But they are so far from here. It will take many months to see them again, perhaps even a year or more to cross these wastelands, and the green sea, and the salt routes of the Great Desert, all sterile and dead without the love of friends and family. And who can even say if they still yet live? The slave traders may have scattered them to the four winds like so many grains of sand.” His eyes were red with tears. “My wife, my sons and daughters, I should never have left you. Better to die together, to be enslaved together, than to be separated like this.”
That’s more like it, Gontran thought. I mean, I understand why he wants to stay with Tamar, even if only for a few more days. He’s earned it. But then I would have to wait for him. I can’t travel through Chaldía alone. That’s just asking for trouble.
Long ago the Romans had abandoned all but the coastline in this part of Romanía, fleeing before the Saracens. But as Diaresso and Gontran rode along the uneven zigzagging road on their trotting horses—overburdened with saddlebags which jingled with coins—they spotted caves honeycombing the cliffs, and even the occasional ruined monastery. Multiple stone bridges were built over the stream flowing along the valley, which sometimes grew narrower than a rock’s throw. Occasionally the mountains were so pockmarked with caves they looked like leprous faces, their maws and eye sockets gaping to the dark heavy rainclouds gathering in the sky.
People could still live here, Gontran thought. The only question is, who?
“I never should have left her,” Diaresso said.
Gontran rolled his eyes. “Her son, though, he was pretty annoying.”
“A problem all fathers must face,” Diaresso said. “As Allah right well knows, children cannot always be perfect.”
“Do you think Macaroni or whatever his name was actually cares about the uprising?”
“He cares only for the nether regions of Herakleia,” Diaresso said.
Gontran chuckled. “That’s true. They really don’t stand a chance, do they?”
“Her nether regions?”
Gontran shook his head and laughed harder. “No. The Trebizonders—what do you call them, the Trapezuntines.”
“I think it is death to stay there. To even walk upon this road is dangerous, for the Roman army will surely come this way. We must find another path southward soon, or we must beat them to Satala that we might continue onward to the southern port cities. But were I to return to Tarabizun—”
“Nobody asked about that.”
“—I would convince Tamar to come with me. We would return to Tomboutou together. I would reunite with my family. She would become my second wife.”
“Christians don’t usually go for that sort of thing.”
“I could convince her.”
Gontran looked back at Diaresso. “How?”
Diaresso smiled. “There are some arts of love you have never learned, nor could you even conceive of them, such is their power. They are beyond the imagination of Christian men. This is why Christian women join our harems.”
“They aren’t forced.”
“Some come willingly.”
Before Gontran could react, a raindrop spattered his face. He looked up to the dark sky, then hunted through his saddlebags. “Shit. Did they pack us cloaks?”
“I hope so.” Diaresso was also searching for something to cover himself. “And yet I hope not. For if we lack cloaks, we may need to return to Tarabizun.”
“Diaresso, if God himself told me to go back to Trebizond—”
“I understand. You’ve made up your mind to abandon your friends, and you do not wish to discuss the matter further because it torments your conscience.”
“Real friends wouldn’t ask me to kill myself for an idea,” Gontran said. “It’s a stupid idea, too.”
“That the workers should inherit the earth?”
“Yep.”
“But is that not what the prophet Jesus says?”
“He was speaking metaphorically.”
Diaresso snorted. “His words are metaphorical when they are inconvenient to you, and literal when they match your desires, is that not so?”
“That’s right. And Jesus said so much, there’s always a lot you can pick and choose from. Shit. I don’t think there’s any cloaks here.”
The rain was falling harder. Thunder rolled through the blackening clouds, and wind whirled in the pines. Gontran’s horse whinnied. It was amazing how quickly the storm descended.
“If we remain out here, we shall be blown away!” Diaresso shouted over the wind.
“I’m not going back to Trebizond!”
Gontran looked for somewhere to hide from the storm. Lightning branched across the sky, almost seeming to claw at him. He shut his eyes in fear, but the lightning was burned into his vision.
When he opened his eyes again, he spotted a cave close to the road, just above a rockslide which was so old that moss was growing on the fallen boulders.
Diaresso and Gontran dismounted and led their horses to the cave, slipping over the jagged rocks which shone in the lightning as curtains of rain lashed them. By the time the traders threw themselves inside the cave, they and their horses were sopping wet.
Though the cave extended into darkness and might have been home to bears or people or who knew what, neither Gontran nor Diaresso stopped advancing until the rain ceased soaking them. By the time they threw themselves against the cave walls and collapsed, everything around them was black. The cave mouth in the distance behind them was a flashing point of light. Yet when the thunder boomed and the lightning blazed, Gontran saw—as his eyes adjusted—that furs and even carpets (woven with Trapezuntine patterns) covered the cave floor. Beside a dark hearth was a stone statuette on an altar. Nearby bronze cups, bowls, and plates glittered in the lightning. Metal-tipped spears and arrows leaned against the opposite wall along with a pile of dry firewood.
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Gontran peered deeper into the dark cave. They weren’t alone.
“Diaresso,” he whispered.
The man from Tomboutou was still out of breath. “What? Why are you whispering? Have you lost your mind again?”
“Look!”
“Look at what?”
Diaresso opened his eyes. The mountain was rumbling from the thunder, and the lightning was flashing at the cave mouth, so that the cave was now almost as bright as day. His eyes widened at the signs of habitation.
“By Allah!” Diaresso cried.
Gontran told him to be quiet. Then he crept toward the hearth and blew on the ashes. Embers glowed orange inside.
Whoever they were, they might have left only a few minutes ago, Gontran thought. Maybe they even heard us coming.
Now he was scared. His heart beating in his ears was deafening him, and though he was exhausted from so many days of fighting and traveling, the blood rushing through his arteries forced new strength into his muscles. He stood and drew his pistol-sword—it was dripping wet—and peered into the darkness at the cave’s heart. How much deeper did it extend?
All the way to hell, he thought.
Following Gontran’s lead, Diaresso drew his scimitar. They peered into the flickering darkness, waiting for something to happen. Since they had first met in Palermo, people had been trying to kill them almost every day.
“Gontran,” Diaresso said. “What do we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps they are spending the night in another cave.”
“The storm caught them while they were visiting friends or something.”
“That may be so.”
“If we’re lucky, they won’t come back until morning. We can leave before they figure out anyone was here.”
“If Allah so wills.”
Gontran tucked his pistol-sword back into his pocket. “In the mean time…”
He got down on his belly and blew on the ashes again, and the light swelled and faded with his breath. Diaresso sheathed his golden scimitar and grabbed some firewood and tossed it into the fire. Before long, flames were leaping up, and red and yellow light was glowing on the cave walls. Gontran, Diaresso, and their horses came close to the heat and light, warming their skins and bones, turning the rainwater that drenched them to steam.
“There must be a fairy tale about this.” Gontran found some dried meat and bread in his horse’s saddlebag, took out a skillet, and started roasting it over the flames with a little olive oil. “We’re going to get attacked by a cyclops or something.”
“Such tales never end well.” Diaresso eyed the cave entrance as he got the fodder ready for the horses.
“That reminds me,” Gontran said. “I—”
“I know what you are about to say. You do not trust me to watch over our camp.”
“After what happened on the Paralos—”
“It was but one mistake. It shall not occur again.”
“I’m taking the first watch,” Gontran said. “And if I find you asleep in the morning…”
“What? You cannot continue onward by yourself. Nor can you kill me.” He placed the fodder in the feed bags and wrapped these around the horse’s mouths. “What shall you do?”
“I’ll be disappointed. Besides, we’ll probably be dead anyway. All these caves out here look like they’re full of throat-cutters to me.”
“Perhaps.” Diaresso lifted a small statue from the stone altar near the fire. It was a crude sculpture of a winged man with enormous white eyes, and tiny black stones for irises. He stood atop a lion. “Though the ones in this place are idolaters for certain.”
He raised his arm as if to smash the figurine, but Gontran grabbed him.
“What are you doing?” Gontran yelled.
Diaresso threw him off. “Unhand me! It is the duty of all who adhere to the One True Faith to destroy idols wherever they may be found.”
“It’s not exactly polite.” Gontran picked himself up from the cave floor. “I mean, technically we’re the guests of whoever lives in this cave.”
“It is less polite to let them believe in superstitions.”
“Put it down. Please.”
Diaresso looked at the figurine. “Does it remind you of your precious idols from the land of the swine-eaters?”
Gontran sniffed, then glanced at the skillet over the fire. “Our dinner is burning. Will you please put the doll down and leave these poor people alone so we can eat?”
Diaresso regarded the figurine for a moment, then replaced it. “First you prevent me from re-entering the houri’s gates of paradise, then you stop me from fulfilling my sacred duty.”
“Now I’m serving you dinner.” With a knife, Gontran scraped half the cooked bread and meat from the skillet onto a plate, and handed this to Diaresso.
Diaresso sniffed the meat. “Is it pork?”
“You know I would never do that to you, not even as a joke.”
“If this is pork, you will need not wait for the cutthroats to return to this unholy lair.”
Gontran placed his hand over his heart. “By Christ’s wounds, I swear it isn’t pork.” He stabbed a hunk of meat and stuffed it into his mouth. “At least I don’t think it is.”
Just then, voices sounded from the cave entrance. People were shouting over the roaring rain.
Both traders stood and drew their weapons. As Gontran was trying to decide if—and how—he should douse the fire, a spear was dropped onto the cave floor, and a soaked man covered in furs tumbled after, babbling in an unknown language and gasping. A woman carrying a dead deer on her back followed, as did a boy and girl, both of marriageable age. The man was already on his back; the rest were almost too tired to stand.
The fire was so deep inside the cave that the newcomers only noticed it now. At once the man sprung to his feet, grabbed his spear, and brandished it at the two intruders. The woman threw the dead deer to the cave floor and drew a bloody knife. The girl was unsheathing a sword; the boy was nocking an arrow on a bow. This last sight frightened Gontran the most.
“Hold on!” He raised his arms. “We don’t mean you any harm! We were just caught out in the storm! We’ll leave if you want!”
All together the family shouted back at him in their incomprehensible language.
“I do not think they understand,” Diaresso said.
“Or maybe they understand too well,” Gontran said.
“Look!” He replaced his pistol-sword in his pocket. “See? We don’t want to fight.” Without turning to Diaresso, he told him to lower his scimitar.
“Do you wish to invite death upon us both?” Diaresso said.
“I don’t think we have much of a choice.”
“As you say.” Diaresso sheathed his weapon. But the family continued yelling. They were coming closer, and soon the father would have a decent chance of hitting them with his spear.
“We must fight them or they shall kill us!” Diaresso said.
“What do you want me to do? We invaded their home! We’re the bad guys, here!”
Diaresso looked away from the approaching family for a moment and spotted his lute tucked among the bags hanging from his horse. Seizing the instrument, he played a folk tune from Tomboutou, singing words which sounded like “diara dinké.” The family stopped and stared at him, as did Gontran. Shrugging, Diaresso continued to play. Soon the family lowered their weapons. Smiling, Diaresso stopped playing. Then the family raised their weapons again and said something that sounded threatening. And so Diaresso kept playing, and the family relaxed once more. The mother—if that’s who she was—brought the deer to the fire, cut it up, and began cooking the meat using Gontran’s skillet, adding mushrooms from her pocket and herbs stored in nearby jars. The rest of the family sat around the fire, almost entranced by Diaresso’s playing.
It pays to have a bard around, Gontran thought.
“Sorry about that,” Gontran said to the father. “We didn’t mean to—”
The father grumbled at Gontran, who raised his eyebrows.
Don’t get between a man and his tunes.
Diaresso had moved on to another song, this one repeating the words “Assidou Dondoma.” This song required Diaresso to strum the thicker lower-pitched strings as a droning accompaniment to playing the thinner higher-pitched strings, so that it sounded like he was a two-man band. Gontran wanted to ask what the words meant, but interrupting Diaresso was dangerous. The family had started eating the cooked meat, and they were bobbing their heads and humming along, even as Diaresso improvised.
If I crack a joke about music being the universal language, they’re going to stab me.
In Diaresso’s next song, Gontran was unable to pick out a single word.
“I require a drummer for this song,” Diaresso said, as he continued playing.
“I’m not a drummer and I don’t know where a drum is,” Gontran said.
“It matters not! Find something to drum and just drum a cycle of three beats!”
Gontran looked around, but he was afraid to stand or touch anything which belonged to the family. He was forced to drum hard and loud on his own legs, following Diaresso’s directions until his beats matched the song. This being accomplished, Diaresso shook his head, closed his eyes, and improvised. Once he had finished this and returned to the melody, he looked at the family and told them to sing along.
“Sing with me, you fools!” Diaresso said. “This particular song is better with a chorus by far!”
The family members looked at each other, confused.
Diaresso sang the refrain, then raised his eyebrows, widened his eyes, and nodded to the family. They missed their chance, forcing Diaresso to sing along with himself. However, he tried to instruct the family once more, and this time the mother understood. She sung something which sounded like the word Diaresso had uttered—“Kombocallia.” The rest of the family soon joined. Their bard called and they responded several times before he improvised once more, then wound up the song. The family clapped with Gontran.
“That’s good!” Diaresso said. “We should start a band!”
“We can call ourselves ‘The Cavemen,’” Gontran said.
By now the family was in a better mood. With somewhat more politeness, they urged Diaresso to keep playing. He obliged them with a song called “Doya,” and then another with an almost Seran sound with lyrics that went “Karanda Bala Bozo.” Gontran continued drumming while the family sang the chorus. The son, who had been a little shy, even pulled out a flute and played along. They all drank wine from the flasks hanging off the horses—Gontran breaking the vow he had made that morning to never touch a drop of wine again—and soon their eyes were fluttering with sleepiness. The father urged Gontran to join him at the cave mouth, and together they blocked it with rocks and boulders. Then they returned to the bonfire’s warm embers and fell asleep on the furs with the others.