The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (54 page)

“Something the matter?” asked Paolo.

“Something troublesome?” asked Vittorio.

“Kick their circles!” the demon howled, dancing around them. “Please, brothers!”

“No,” said Vittorio.

“No,” agreed Paolo.

“Why?!” The demon jumped onto Paolo’s shoulder and howled in his ear, “They’ve done you as wrong as I!”

“Wrong.” Paolo stroked the fiend’s thorax before it hopped back down to the sand. “They have done you wrong, and these mounts
of ours, but what have they done to us?”

“What?” asked Vittorio, “save reprimand your folly? Many chances to spread the gift you have wasted, leading us here.”

“What?” asked Paolo, “save deliver us our freedom from your yoke? What have they done to
us
?”

“This!” Manfried shouted, hurling a dagger with expert precision. The long knife disappeared in the rotten robe, the handle
marking where Paolo’s heart lay. The barber’s son pitched onto his face, farting, belching, and smoking.

“And you!” Hegel’s pick spun through the air, the point sinking in Vittorio’s stomach. He was knocked to the ground, and several
more Grossbart-born missiles struck him before he could rise. A dagger once used by Captain Barousse to end his own life flew
from Hegel’s fingers and sunk into the Road Pope’s chest.

“Ain’t suffer no demons to live!” Manfried shouted at the pincushioned corpse.

“Witches neither!” Hegel hollered. “When yous get to Hell tell’em Saint Hegel put you there!”

The first demon shook with laughter, bouncing atop the corpses and chastising its fellows as they burst from their hosts’
buboes. These two were smaller but equally vile, and they at once skipped to the first, their sharp digits, pointy horns,
and hooked feet scratching at skin and plating that strained to contain the greasy fluids within. The first continued to reprimand
the others, easily evading them with its longer legs as the organ crowning its posterior fired spurt after chunky spurt of
rank discharge into the air.

Nothing stirred on the sands for leagues and leagues save the encircled men, all living things fleeing at the first whiff
of Heinrich’s rank retinue—even the maggots had abandoned their rotting hosts as the demons wreaked the full extent of their
evils upon the flesh of their human mounts. The demons sprang toward the Grossbarts, bringing their stinking miasma with them.
Even this could not penetrate their circles, and the Grossbarts heckled the demons and spat upon them until they realized
this pleased the creatures. As the darkness dwindled and light began to creep over the sands a strange transformation in attitude
took place, all three demons piling against each other and frantically bartering with the Grossbarts to leave their circles.

“I know where riches beyond counting lie,” the first demon squealed.

“I know where there are more,” the second countered, “and I’ll leave you intact as soon as we find another body for me!”

“Please,” the third whined, “if you break the circles of your fellows we shan’t touch you, and may part in peace!”

“Balls,” snorted Hegel. “Cockcrow’s at hand, so yous best set to prayin. To me.”

“It’s gonna hurt,” Manfried said excitedly, “ain’t it? It’s gonna hurt worse than I can imagine, bein sent back down!”

Rodrigo and Raphael were barely awake but dared not rest until the fiends departed for good. The last prisoner shifted from
foot to foot, ineffectively trying to banish the cramps that plagued him. Like the Grossbarts, he had drawn a narrow circle
that did not afford him enough room to safely sit within its boundary. The demons also hassled him, Raphael, and Rodrigo but
none would bargain.

The sunlight crested a dune and the demons groaned, clumsily hurling themselves away from the glow, too weak to move with
more than staggering bounces. Then they ceased their moaning and all turned toward the light. The Grossbarts perked up, for
all three snuffled the anteneae-ringed weeping sores they had in place of mouths and pushed themselves toward the rising sun.

Tears of pus dribbled as the sunlight descended upon them, two curling their legs underneath themselves and covering their
eyes with their skeletal paws, but the original demon forced itself forward. Then a beam touched its loathsome body mid-hop
and its exoskeleton shattered with a thousand fissures. The swirling miasma became a black cloud of smoke issuing forth as
it shriveled to nothing in the sand, only a scorch mark on the earth denoting its passing. Manfried felt the sunlight envelop
him and stepped out of the ring to better taunt the last two demons.

One mustered its strength and flew at him, howling his name as it entered the sunlight and burst, rancid liquids staining
the sand at his feet. The last gave a final desperate push into the shadows and then was overtaken, belching pestilential
fumes as it deflated and spun in the sand. Then they were alone in the desert, the demons forced back into their pit to scheme
and moan and curse the Grossbart name.

Of Raphael and Rodrigo little more is recounted here, for the men parted ways with the Grossbarts after their battle with
the demons. Rodrigo sought to liberate Barousse’s bones from the Hospitallers’ cemetery on Rhodes, wishing that he might rest
in a holier place—a goal the Grossbarts heartily approved. Raphael wanted only to leave the miserable country that had shaken
his spirit and stolen his fist, and so he accompanied Rodrigo on the long, limping trek north to the Holy Land and beyond.
Mary willing, their fresh wounds did not fester and their path remained clear, but the Grossbarts did not know, for they turned
south as they always did.

The sole surviving prisoner, a hardened killer named Hassan, led them to Cairo, and while the sun scalded and the sand chafed
and Hegel’s three-fingered hand itched and Manfried’s punctured gut throbbed they at last stood on the dunes overlooking the
great tombs of Gyptland. They could not verbally communicate with Hassan, referring to him as Arab in Al-Gassur’s stead, yet
through pantomime and prayer he had brought them to their destination. No tears of joy or shouts of triumph passed through
their beards, only smug mutters of satisfaction.

They spent several days scouting the stone monoliths, choosy as nobles about their grapes. All the pyramids appeared too exposed
to still hold riches, but eventually they stumbled across a stone arch half-buried in the sand. They spent all night clearing
out the entrance and bickering.

“This Arab done us better than the last,” Hegel panted.

“Least he don’t talk all that rubbish. Be nice if he talked proper though, so we could explain why his share’ll be less than
ours.” Manfried dumped another helmet of sand out of their excavation.

“He’ll get the point in one fashion or another.” Hegel spit on his hands. “Think we’s bout ready.”

“Yeah.” Manfried removed his prybar. “Let’s crack it.”

“Wonder what befell our Arab. The other one, I mean.” Hegel jammed his tool into the slight seam in the stone.

“Sandy-eared fuck.” Manfried strained. “Told you. Got carried off long with that other monster. Seen it myself.”

“Yeah, I mean after that, though,” Hegel grunted.

“Well it was either demon or angel, so Heaven or Hell.”

“But which?”

“You’s the damn saint.” Manfried felt the block shift slightly. “Ask Mary.”

“It’s there!” said Hegel.

It actually took them the rest of the night to wedge it open enough to slip through. Before they entered they called Hassan
down from his sentry position on top of the dune to have a drink. While the three laughed and rubbed their hands in anticipation
light crept up the side of their dune, and the Grossbarts ate the last of the camel they had stolen from a Bedouin several
days before. The beast had struck Hegel as even more suspect than a horse.

“What you reckon’s inside?” asked Hegel.

“Witch’s gold,” Manfried belched. “If we’s lucky, regular gold if we ain’t.”

“Why’d I want some gold touched by a witch?” Hegel demanded.

“Cause then we’d never be able to spend it all.”

“But if a witch grubbed it up—”

“Then you bless it pure, thickhead, I swear, you’s…” Manfried trailed off, his eyes trained on the beams of sunlight brushing
the top of the arch.

“I’s what, bath-mouth?” Hegel asked. “Answer up, son, and lose your holy station.”

“Shut it.” Manfried dropped his meat and slowly stood, brushing the weathered stone. “Brother,” his voice shaking along with
his shoulders, “what you make a this?”

Hegel set down his wine but before he could reprimand Manfried he saw it too, and slumped back in the sand. “What the shit?”

“It’s it, ain’t it?!” Manfried turned away from the rough G chiseled in the stone, the symbol clearly fresher than the worn
bas-reliefs. “That’s our goddamn mark!”

“Yeah.” Hegel felt sick. “Damn if it ain’t.”

“What in Hell!?” Manfried kicked the sand and threw his prybar down. “Lousy old fucker! All the goddamn tombs in Gyptland!”

Hassan stood and gestured to the engraving, shrugging his shoulders. Manfried sucker punched him and when the man fell he
booted him again. For several minutes Manfried raged and swore and Hegel drank.

“Our grandad,” Hegel explained to the contorted guide. “Truth finally be laid bare, I’d kind a doubted he ever made it.”

“Pack it up,” Manfried said. “Let’s get movin to the next one.”

“Hold a tic.” Hegel held up his hand.

“Why? Why the fuck—”

“Cause I said so!” Hegel jumped up. “You know that feelin I get when somethin don’t wash, or we’s liable to get some ill our
way?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I ain’t got it.” Hegel scratched his beard. “Anythin, I feel, I dunno, good bout this here crypt.”

“Eh?”

“Yeah!” Hegel picked up the prybar and offered it to his brother. “I mean, he might a carved it fore he went in, and dropped
dead at the sight a all the loot. Or he couldn’t carry it all, meant to come back for it but didn’t want our cunty da slip-pin
in fore he could get back.”

“Suppose the possibility exists.” Manfried stroked the end of his beard to remind his brother that with half of Hegel’s in
a monster’s gullet, there could be no denying the superiority of Manfried’s silver bush.

“Can’t hurt nuthin.” Hegel stood up. “Get with it, Arab.”

Hefting their gear, Hegel lit an oil lamp taken from the same unfortunate traveler whose camel they had killed and squirmed
inside. Manfried followed with Hassan close behind, only his fear of the saint preventing him from knifing Manfried in the
back. Stone stairs led down into midnight, and with each step Hegel felt more confident. Then the stair underfoot gave a soft
click as he put his weight on it, and even without the goosepimples exploding on his neck he would have known to run for it.
A thunderous crashing echoed after them, and reaching an opening Hegel ducked around the corner followed by Manfried. As they
looked back for Hassan an explosion of dust and rock shards exited the stairwell, snuffing out their lamp.

“Feel
good
bout it?!” Manfried punched at his brother but in the black vault he only hurt his hand on the wall. “Mecky fuckin asshole!”

“Stow it,” said Hegel, “I’s relightin the lamp so’s we can find a way out.”

When Hegel finally got it lit they saw the entire stairway was choked with fallen blocks from the ceiling. They stood in a
massive stone chamber far exceeding any sepulcher they had previously pilfered. Amidst grumblings they agreed there must be
another stairway or exit somewhere in the vault. They were wrong.

There lived Grossbarts before Hegel and Manfried, and, unfortunately for this happy world, there have lived Grossbarts since.
A complete chronicle of that benighted clan would fill more volumes than every holy text of every people of every land, and
so rejoice that there is little more recorded here. The Brothers Grossbart received exactly what they deserved down in that
hallowed desert tomb, and it is easy to assume they lived only as long as their water and air held out. Thus, their end may
have been more merciful to humanity than the tragedy that was their birth.

Before their eradication, preachers of the Grossbart Heresy alleged that Saint Hegel gave his own life a second time to save
his brother, but the tales of madmen and heretics are just that. Far, far to the east, however, there lies a chain of islands
with curious beliefs. The people of that land have long held that eating the flesh of a sea maiden grants immortality; perhaps,
then, the Brothers Grossbart still dwell in that lightless tomb long buried in sand, tugging their beards for all time.

Only through scholarship is the writer capable of realistically rendering the historical world. Some of the books below were
consulted prior to beginning this work in order to inspire and inform, others were read after its completion to check specific
details. Most were extremely useful, and all offered something, even if their tokens wound up excised with cruel snips of
the drafting process. This lamentably brief—to some, doubtlessly overlong to others—bibliography reflects of course only the
specific books consulted immediately before, during, or after the drafting of the novel; many more titles I can no longer
recall laid the groundwork for my understanding of the era and its beliefs.