tense that it made the ache from the sunlight seem diminished by comparison. Then he went to the mule's off-side front foot and bent to trim it.
* * *
Text of a letter from Rustam Iniattir in Fustat to Rojire in Alexandria, carried by hired courier.
* * *
To the servant of the most worthy foreigner, Sanat Ji Mani, the greetings of Rustam Iniattir from his new home in Fustat, which now, I fear, must become my home for generations to come. Our house fronts a road that they say the Romans made more than a thousand years ago. It is a worthy place for so old a House as that of Iniattir.
Alas, that it should fall to me to send you such dreadful news, but I must tell you that I have just received a letter from my nephew, Zal Iniattir, who tells me that Delhi is no more, that for those who were not fortunate enough to escape, the soldiers of Timur-i delivered death to most of them, and slavery to the rest. I regret that I can provide no news of your master, which I fear we must receive as indicating misfortune, if not tragedy. My nephew has said that it was because of Sanat Ji Mani's aid that he was able to leave Delhi before it fell, and for that alone I would be enduringly grateful to him; well I know that the House of Iniattir would be a shambles were it not for Sanat Ji Mani. To that end, I pledge a third of my fortune to pay his ransom if it should ever be demanded, and I will ask my kinsmen to prepare like amounts to be used on his behalf and none other.
My nephew is now in the central-south of the land, and has made a place for himself there. He believes we can restore our House to its position of high regard within a few years. While I am not so optimistic, I think it is not impossible for us to maintain ourselves well enough, so that should you need our funds for ransom, you need not fret that it will be unavailable to you. I wish you to know that no matter how difficult our situation may be, we will not shirk our duty to Sanat Ji Mani. Those who follow the way of Zarathustra may not turn aside from their obligations simply because they are inconvenient.
I received your letter informing me that Avasa Dani has died of a fever. What a sad ending for such a fine woman. I have asked my family to remember her name with honor in our prayers. It must be
a blow to you, entrusted, as you were, with her safety and protection. I cannot imagine what dismay you must feel at this most lamentable occurrence. It is nothing when compared to the loss of your master, but it is still a shock. She had come so far. With her husband on his extended pilgrimage there is no way to inform him of her death, for even should he survive his journey, he will find a ruin when he comes again to Delhi. What a terrible predicament for you: she has no male relatives left to receive your report, and you cannot find your master to tell him of her demise, either. For a meritorious servant such as you are, this is an unenviable predicament. I cannot advise you, for I have never before encountered such a conundrum as this one with which you are presented.
You indicated that if you receive no word of your master in a few years, you will travel to Rome, to await him there. If you decide to leave Alexandria, I ask you to inform me, so that I may know when and where you are to be found in case I hear anything deserving of your attention. You say that your master has holdings near Rome, and that you wish to be in that city if he does not send you word to meet him in another place. I see the wisdom of this plan, but I urge you to leave staff at the house in Alexandria. If you cannot keep servants there, I will send those of mine that I can spare to maintain the house until such time as his death is confirmed. I trust this arrangement will be satisfactory to you. I do not intend to intrude upon you, but I wish to do my part in making it possible to discover what has become of your master. My son has been told to continue this arrangement should anything happen to me before your master's fate is known.
In your letter, you were kind enough to provide the name of a merchant at Tana on the Byzantine Sea. I will avail myself of the introduction you have provided, for, as you have said, Immuk Suza has markets as far away as Kiev in Lithuania and Gran in Hungary, which I am certain can be turned to our mutual advantage. For many years I have longed to find new markets and new trading-goods, and now, you provide me an opportunity that I had not thought to encounter in this life, and for which I most sincerely thank you. You may be certain I will not make light of this opportunity you have made possible, and I will pledge a third of my success to the use of your
master, who may yet have need of it, if he has survived. It is the least I can do; you may repose your confidence in my Word, as your master must have told you.
I await your response most eagerly, and I pray that we may both soon have the joy of welcoming your master into the land of Egypt in the Mameluke Empire. In the meantime, I hope you will be spared any greater grief than what you have already suffered.
Rustam Iniattir
Parsi merchant of Fustat
At the Vernal Equinox, from the house of Iniattir in the Street of the Old Highway
4
Night had fallen; the village of mud huts was silent under the wheeling stars and the sound of the river was muted as if it, too, slept. In the community barn, Sanat Ji Mani awoke gradually, hunger making him groggy, the scent of animals filling his nostrils. He sat up and brushed the straw from his hair as a nanny-goat turned to look at him in mild curiosity. His wallet was still on his belt and his sack of medicaments and supplies lay at his feet, the strap slightly frayed where the goats had nibbled on it. He got to his feet, trying to piece together the events of the day after their arrival in the village: Djerat had departed in the early afternoon in a state of outrage; he had retired to this stall in the barn while Tulsi busied herself making a pack she could carry on her back. This recollection brought him fully awake. "Tulsi?" he called out softly, half-anticipating silence for an answer.
In the stall opposite, something moved in the straw, and then she sat up and yawned. "Is it late?"
"Not particularly," he replied. "We have most of the night left to us." He looked around the barn, taking stock of their situation. "The gate is barred, I suppose."
"It is," she answered. "But there is a litch-gate on the far side of the village, away from the river. It is not barred. I checked it this afternoon, while you were resting."
"Did the villagers know you found it?" Sanat Ji Mani asked, attempting to assess the use of her discovery.
"No; I made a tour of all the streets, tumbling for them," she said, a hint of pride about her.
Sanat Ji Mani regarded her steadily, the dark no hindrance to his sight. "You are tired. You were busy for a long time today."
"Not so much as you might think. I lay down with the villagers for the heat of the day, and I retired at sunset. I will be able to go some distance before I am exhausted." She stretched and stood up. "I made the pack."
"Very good," he approved.
"I also bargained for two tanned hides and a knife. I thought we would need them, for clothing and shoes." She paused, as if uncertain how to go on. "I took another gold coin from your wallet."
"Very good," he repeated.
Tulsi sighed her relief. "With Djerat gone, I thought you would not mind."
"I would not mind had she been here," Sanat Ji Mani said gently.
"But she is gone," said Tulsi, a forlorn note in her words.
"As she said she would do," Sanat Ji Mani added.
"I know." Tulsi swallowed audibly.
"Do you miss her: of course you do," Sanat Ji Mani said. "How could you not."
"I suppose I do," she said reluctantly. "But I do not want to go back to Timur-i's army. Had you not asked me to stay with you, I would still not have gone back."
Sanat Ji Mani took a halting step toward her. "I hope one day you will tell me why."
"One day I will," she said, glancing toward the door of the barn. "We can get out without trouble. I checked that, too."
"Very good," Sanat Ji Mani said again.
One of the goats bleated; the others in the barn raised their heads from their low-set mangers, ears moving, alert to anything.
"Someone is coming," said Sanat Ji Mani, his keen hearing having caught the approaching tread. "One man, I think."
"Then we should be going," said Tulsi, leaving her stall and going toward the door. "I put the hides in the pack, and a small skin of water. You have your sack of medicaments, and your wallet. We need not linger."
"I regret I cannot run," said Sanat Ji Mani, doing his best to follow after her without making too much noise.
"So do I," said Tulsi, no hint of distress in her voice. "If Djerat had left the farrier's tools, you might have something to fight with."
"She has mules to care for," Sanat Ji Mani reminded her.
"Still, it would have been useful to have one of them." She was at the door, prepared to open it; she waited. "I will take him off-guard," she whispered.
"Good idea," Sanat Ji Mani approved as he limped toward the door, his sack slung over his shoulder.
She made a gesture of determination, and prepared to shove the door hard as soon as it was touched from the other side; she rested her pack against her leg so she would not be hampered in her movements by its weight, and readied herself to throw the man off-guard. The man on the other side of the door stood still, something jingling as he prepared to enter the barn; Tulsi took a deep breath and shoved the door outward with all of her strength. The man fell back, groaning a little as he landed.
Sanat Ji Mani moved as quickly as he could, going to the supine villager, prepared to knock him unconscious. "He is carrying chains," he whispered to Tulsi.
"So they are slavers or keep travelers for ransom," she said in an undervoice. "See that he cannot follow us."
"I will," said Sanat Ji Mani, and dragged the man a short way around the end of the barn, then secured him with his own chains. "Your friends will find you in the morning," he said softly to the man, who had begun to struggle against the chains. "It will be easier if you lie still." Then he reached down and pressed his fingers against the man's neck, holding them in place until the man fainted. Straightening up, Sanat Ji Mani returned to Tulsi. "Where is the litch-gate?"
"At the far end of the village. Follow me." She started off between two of the houses.
Sanat Ji Mani did his best to keep up with her, moving along as quickly as he could, trying not to drag his stapled foot. Neither of them spoke until they reached the narrow wooden gate. "What lies beyond?" he said in an undervoice.
"Fields and a narrow path. At the edge of the fields there is a road, leading to the south." She paused. "I do not know where it leads."
"Then we will find out," said Sanat Ji Mani, standing aside so Tulsi could pull the gate open. He waited while she slipped through, then went after her, tugging the gate closed behind him. "Clever. No one can get through there with any animal larger than a goat."
"No doubt they knew that," Tulsi said, still keeping her voice low. "They force their visitors to abandon their goods and teams to leave, or be taken prisoner." She set out at a moderate pace so that Sanat Ji Mani could keep pace with her. "Do you think they will follow us?"
"It is possible but unlikely. I doubt the fellow we caught at the barn will come to his senses until midnight, and by then we will have gone some distance: two leagues at least." This guess was optimistic and he knew it.
"However far a league is," said Tulsi.
"A bit more than a Chinese li over flat ground," said Sanat Ji Mani. "Two Roman leagues are about six thousand paces." He hitched the strap of his sack to a better-balanced place on his shoulder, then did his best to even out his walking; he was acutely aware that by morning his legs and back would ache from the effort he was making, but he kept up his genial demeanor. "Once we turn to the south we will quickly be well beyond Timur-i's reach: he is bound northward."
"So he is," Tulsi said, holding the front straps of her pack with both hands. "And why should he bother about either one of us?"
"Why indeed," Sanat Ji Mani said, staring off into the night; he could hear the cries of animals in the brush beyond the fields and he paid close attention to them.
"Is anything hunting us?" Tulsi asked, aware of what he was doing. "Are there animals tracking us?"
"I do not think so; not yet. We are too close to the village for any of the wild beasts to come after us." He wanted to pick up the pace
but knew it would only serve to exhaust him sooner. "If there is anything to fear, I will tell you."
"I am grateful," she said, and fell silent as they continued along the narrow track toward the road, which proved to be dry and deeply rutted. "I think farmers use this road," she said. "Cart wheels and many kinds of hooves." She pointed to the uneven surface.
"So it seems," Sanat Ji Mani agreed, worried what trying to drag Timur-i's stirrup over this puckered road would demand of him.
