The Black Rood (25 page)

W
E SPENT WHAT
little remained of the day in the market square of the upper town. Under Padraig's ministrations, and mollified by the fact that our host was not a Jew after all, the haughty young lord allowed himself to be persuaded to partake of a meal without farther insult.

As a pale yellow moon rose above the surrounding hills, we found ourselves once more standing before the low door in the high wall at the end of the long uphill climb. There was an iron ring hanging from a chain beside the door. Padraig gave the ring a strong pull, and a bell chimed distantly from somewhere inside. We waited for a time, and nothing happened, so he pulled it again, and then once more for good measure. The monk was about to pull the bell yet again when the door flew open and a small brown man poked out his head. He spat a stream of invective which none of us could understand, and then slammed the door again.

“There! You see?” grumbled Roupen, only too ready to abandon what appeared to be an increasingly hopeless enterprise.

“Pull the bell chain,” I directed, refusing to give in.

Again the door flew open, and again the man glared and jabbered fiercely at us. This time, however, I reached in, took hold of his tunic and yanked him out into the street. He sputtered and cursed, and began kicking at us with his bony bare feet.

“Peace!” I said, holding him back. “We mean you no harm. Stop your fighting. We only want to talk to you.”

He loosed a blistering torrent of angry words at us, all the while kicking, and swinging his fists. I held him at arm's length—as much to keep him from hurting himself as any of us, and was considering what to do next when there appeared in the open doorway a very fat man in a loose-fitting robe. He looked at us with a large, languid unimpressed eye, and said, “Yes?”

I greeted him politely—still holding off the angry little man—and said, “Yordanus is pleased to receive us for dinner this evening.”

“So you say,” replied the man, wholly unmoved by my declaration. Reaching out, he tapped the squirming, spitting man squarely on top of the head. Instantly, he stopped fighting; I released him and he scurried away.

“Have you something for me?” asked the fat man when the little porter had gone.

Uncertain how to reply, I glanced at Padraig, who merely shrugged unhelpfully. “No,” I answered at last. “Should I have something for you?”

“That is for you to say.”

“I was given nothing for you,” I told him.

“Pity,” he replied. He rolled his eyes lazily from one to the other of us, then sighed and fell silent.

“Is Yordanus at home?” I wondered after an awkward moment.

The fat man yawned, then turned and beckoned us to follow. The three of us stepped through the doorway and crossed the deep-shadowed courtyard. We were led to the door of the villa. “Wait here,” the man instructed; he pushed open the door and vanished into the darkness within.

In a little while, the small wiry fellow returned. He saw us waiting before the door and instantly flew at us, shouting and waving his hands. He seemed determined to drive us from the house, and might have succeeded, save for the abrupt appearance of Yordanus' daughter. She wore a long white robe and carried a lash of braided leather with which she proceeded to whip the little man.

“Go to, Omer!” she cried, swinging the lash. “Go to!”

I was about to interpose myself in this attack, when I noticed that most, if not all, the whip strokes struck the earth. The desired effect was achieved, however, and the little mad fellow ran off gibbering.

“You must forgive Omer,” the lady said, recoiling the lash. “He is not often well.” Stepping to the door, she said, “Come this way, please.”

The house was in darkness, and we crept like thieves through one passage after another until coming to a room in one of the long wings of the extensive villa. The chamber was ablaze with candlelight and the windows were open to allow the soft evening breezes to waft in—setting candles fluttering on the large candletrees around the room. There were no chairs, but after the fashion of the East, we reclined on large cushions either side of the low table which had been spread with fine, ornately woven Damascus cloth.

While in the marketplace, Padraig and I had taken the opportunity to have our clothes brushed so as to present a slightly less disagreeable presence at the board. Upon entering the dining chamber, the lady offered a washbasin filled with scented water. Roupen, however, did himself a great dishonor by not only refusing the washbasin, but scowling at everyone and everything as if enduring humiliations to his dignity so intense as to be physically painful.

The lady departed, leaving us to our ablutions. We were alone only a moment when she reappeared. If not for the fact that I had just seen her, I would not have known her as the same person. Having removed the white robe, she now wore a gown of the lightest, most delicate fabric I have ever seen. What is more, the thin stuff shimmered in the candlelight, glistening with a luster like that of moonbeams on water. It was blue as the midnight sky, and cut low over her bosom, to reveal the graceful swell of her breasts. A wide cloth belt of gold gathered the gown at her slender waist, emphasizing the curve of her hips. Her dark hair hung in loose curls over her bare shoulders.

Unexpectedly, the sight of her slender, shapely arms sent
a pang of longing through me of an intensity I had not experienced since my own dear Rhona held me to her heart. It was all I could do not to stare openly at her as she invited us to sit and make ourselves comfortable, saying, “My father has been informed of your arrival. He will join us when he is ready.”

“Your graciousness, my lady, is exceeded only by your loveliness,” I said, wishing I had something better to offer her than common flattery.

Still, she smiled at the compliment, and it came into my mind that despite her assured and forward manner, she was not as confident as she appeared. Truly, she lived in a madhouse and was likely unaccustomed to common courtesy. “My name is Sydoni,” she told me.

“I am Duncan of Caithness,” I replied, offering her my hand in greeting. She placed her hand in mine without hesitation and, lifting it, I lightly brushed it with my lips. I then introduced her to Padraig and Roupen; I was explaining who they were and how we came to be together, when Yordanus entered the room.

Grim and tight-lipped, he acknowledged us with chilly, if not hostile, indifference and the meal commenced. Our unhappy host reclined at the head of the table with the peevish and sour disposition of a man being bent into an unbecoming shape. Full of sighs and prickly noises, he fumed and fretted, giving every sign that he wished to be anywhere else in all the world but where he found himself just now. Shameful behavior in a host, to be sure, and it might have spoiled the evening save for the fact that I only had eyes for Sydoni, and she ignored her father's unpleasantness to the point of invisibility. Clearly, the evening was hers, and she was not about to allow anyone to ruin it.

Once we were all seated, Sydoni presented us with small bowls of peeled pears cooked in a sweet sauce, cooled, and seasoned with a spice I had never tasted before. Tangy, pungent, it gave a warm tingle to the mouth and tongue; when I asked what it was, Sydoni smiled and said, “It is called cinnamon.”

Roupen grunted at this, as if to say it was a commonplace too drearily familiar to mention. I thought it wonderful, however, and praised it loudly. I praised the next dish also: fish roe and curds of soft new cheese with cream and flavored with garlic and lemon, all mixed together to form a thick paste into which we dipped strips of flat bread. There was sweet wine, too, and several kinds of bread, and grapes.

When we had eaten our fill of these things, Sydoni brought out the next dish: roast quail stuffed with bread crumbs, pine nuts, and herbs. Glazed with honey, the succulent birds were done to such perfection, even Roupen begrudgingly commended the art of the cook. Before I knew it, I had eaten two of them and was reaching for a third when I saw Sydoni watching me. She smiled the proud, contented smile of a woman well satisfied with herself. It was a look I knew well; Rhona had often worn the same expression when serving me something she knew I enjoyed.

The food and wine worked their age-old magic, and gradually both Roupen and Yordanus began to grow more amiable. As the meal went on, the surly young lord became quite pleasant, and the sour old man grew sweet-tempered and convivial.

“Fill the cups!” he cried at one point, thrusting his beaker into the air. “I want to drink the health of my new friends.” Happy to oblige, I took up the jar and poured the good red wine. Yordanus then raised his cup high and said, “I drink to friendship, health, and peace—God's blessing on all his children.” We acclaimed this sentiment with cheers, whereupon our host said, “May the Lord of the Feast eternally bless us with good food, good wine, and dear friends around the board—forever and always! Amen!”

Roupen affirmed the benediction, but could not let the comment pass. “Lord of the Feast?” he said when everyone had drunk. “That is a title which belongs to Christ, I should have thought.”

Yordanus turned his head and regarded the young man quizzically. “Yes?”

“Strange words from the mouth of a Copt,” Roupen observed with wine-induced carelessness.

The old man stiffened; the smile hardened on his face and his eyes narrowed.

Roupen, seeing he had offended his host, looked to me for help. But I remained silent and left him to face the consequence of his intolerance. “I meant nothing more than that,” he offered weakly. “Why does everyone look at me so?”

“You think Copts unworthy of salvation?” asked Yordanus, quietly bristling.

Roupen red-faced now, raised a hand in defense of his blunder. “I meant no disresp—”

“You think because I am a Copt, I am less a Christian than you?” Yordanus challenged, growing rigid with indignation.

I made to intercede for the young man, but Padraig prevented me. “Let him squirm,” the priest whispered. “It will teach him a lesson.”

Yordanus stared with dull anger at the impudent young lord. “Once,” he said, his voice growing cold, “I would not have suffered an insult beneath the roof of my own house. But,” he lifted his bony shoulders in a shrug of heavy resignation, “I am not the man I used to be.” He extended a long finger toward Roupen. “It is lucky for you that I am not.”

“Father,
please
—” said Sydoni, reaching across to tug his sleeve.

The old man raised his hands. “That is all I will say.” Rising to his feet, he threw down his empty cup. “You must excuse me. I am tired. I am going to bed.”

Roupen, stricken and guilty, stammered, “Please, sir, I am the one who should leave. And I will do so.” He jumped up from his place. “Before I go, I will beg your pardon and ask your forgiveness for the offense I have caused. Please accept my deepest apologies.”

He spoke with such contrition that Yordanus, urged by the silent entreaty of his daughter, grudgingly relented. “Oh, very well,” the old man said. “Sit down, young man. Sit down. There is no harm done.” He sighed, and forced a sad smile. Flapping a hand at the young lord, he said, “Come, sit
down. We will put this unfortunate misunderstanding behind us.”

Reluctantly, Roupen lowered himself to his place once more. Yordanus gazed at him for a moment. “For more than thirty generations,” the old man said, thrusting his finger skyward, “the House of Hippolytus has been a Christian house—before Byzantium, before Rome, before the Gospel of Christ was proclaimed in the streets of Athens,
we
were Christians.”

“An ancestry to glory in,” Padraig remarked. “If every family could claim such long obedience, this world would not labor under so great a weight of faithlessness and falsehood.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Yordanus proudly. “When the followers of The Way were thrown out of the High Temple at Jerusalem where they were meeting in those days, my ancestors were there. On the day that the Blessed Stephen was put to death, my ancestors carried his poor, battered corpse to the tomb. When the persecution began, the infant church scattered—north, south, east, west—wherever they hoped to escape the terrible oppression of the mob, and the tyranny of the temple leaders.”

Yordanus raised his cup, and Sydoni emptied the last of the jar into it. He drained the cup and said, “But all that was a very long time ago. No one wants to hear it now.”

Roupen, duly chastised and anxious to make whatever amends he might, quickly said, “If you please, sir, I would hear it.”

Certainly, that was the right thing to say, for the old man's eyes rekindled with a spark of his former gladness.

“Well, perhaps I will just say this one thing more—so to improve your understanding,” Yordanus conceded, swiftly overcoming his reluctance. Taking up a small bronze bell from the table, he rang it vigorously several times, and then said, “Jerusalem became too dangerous, so my people fled south. Since the time of the great patriarch, Abraham, whenever trouble threatened in Palestine, the Jews took refuge in Egypt. This my people did, and in Egypt they stayed. In time, we became Egyptians, and those of us who remained
staunch in the faith became known as Copts. My ancestors prospered greatly; they became traders—some with fleets, and some with camels, some with important stalls in the principal markets of the great cities.

“This is the life that was handed down to me. I became a trader, after my own fashion, and my son likewise.” At these words, a shadow passed over the old man's face; his voice faltered. “My son…” he paused, cleared his throat, and finished, saying, “Once the extent of my interests stretched from the banks of the Nile to the tops of the Tarsus mountains. Now all that is gone…gone and finished and dead—like my son. The last hope of my illustrious line.”

Yordanus raised his eyes and smiled sadly. “I am sorry,” he said, sinking once more into himself, “my grief is a burden I did not intend forcing upon you. Forgive an old man.”