Zacharias dared not weep. “You will find me a good student, my lord. I will not fail you.”
“We shall see.” Marcus fanned his hand before his face. “You must clean up. I cannot bear your stench. Brother Lupus?”
Wolfhere’s lips were pressed as tight as those of a man determined not to swallow the bitter brew now on his tongue. “Do you intend to go ahead with this?”
“We are few, and our enemies are many.” Marcus had a cherub’s grin that made Zacharias nervous. The cleric’s riotous black curls gave his round, rather bland face an angelic appearance, almost innocent.
Almost.
“If this man can and will serve us, then why should I cast him away? We can all serve God in one manner or another. This is the lesson I learned from the one who leads us.”
“So you did,” said Wolfhere sardonically. “Very well. Are you satisfied, Zacharias? Will you do as Brother Marcus says?”
Such a thrill of hope coursed through Zacharias that he forgot his nausea, and his pain. “You will teach me?”
“I will teach you everything that I can,” agreed Marcus with an ironic smile, “as long as you will serve me as a student must serve his master. Do as I say. Be obedient. Do not question.”
“I can do that!”
Did Wolfhere whisper, again, “You sorry fool!”? It was only the creak of the ship rolling in the waves. It was only memory, mocking him.
“Let it be done,” said Marcus, who had heard nothing untoward. “I will teach you the secrets of the heavens, Brother Zacharias. I admit you into our holy fellowship.”
“Then I am yours,” cried Zacharias, beginning to weep. After so long, he had found what he sought. “I am yours.”
4
“BRING the slaves.”
Sanglant indicated the thirteen men who knelt in front of the cell where Blessing was confined. Sergeant Cobbo herded them over. These were not foolish men, although they were barbarians and infidels. They recognized him for what he was, even if they seemed to have offered their allegiance to his young daughter. They knelt before him, a ragged but defiant looking crew, half naked, sweating profusely in the heat, but unbowed by his appraisal.
Six were Quman, stripped down to loincloths. Despite the dirt streaking their bodies, they had made an effort to keep their hair neat, tying it back into loose braids with strips of cloth. They had pleasant, almost docile expressions. They looked like the kind of young soldiers who are happiest singing a song around the fire, good-natured, easy to please, and unlikely to fight among themselves. The seventh of their number bore tattoos all over his torso, twisted animals amid scenes of battle and carnage, griffins eating deer, lions rending hapless men, and a belled rider mounted on an eight-legged horse riding over corpses.
Of the other six, four might have been any manner of heathen —Salavii, Polenie, Starviki, or otherwise—with matted dark hair, wiry arms, and thick shoulders, and stolid expressions that did not conceal a rebellious spark in their gaze although their ankles and wrists bore the oozing scars of shackles.
“Are any of these men Daisanites?” asked Sanglant.
Breschius knew an amazing store of languages, and he spoke several now, getting responses from all four of the men.
“They are all heathens, my lord prince. Sold into slavery by raiders. This Salavii man says it was Wendish bandits who took him prisoner and sold him to an Arethousan merchant. He wishes to return to his home. The other three say they will gladly enter the service of your daughter if they will be allowed a servant’s portion, a meal every day, and her promise as their lord never to abandon them.”
“Let the Salavii go, then. I want no slaves in my army.”
Breschius spoke in a guttural tongue. The Salavii man rose nervously looking as though he expected a whip to descend.
“It is a long road to Salavii lands,” remarked Captain Fulk. “If he can make it home safely, then he’s both strong and clever.”
“Give him bread, ale, and a tunic,” said Sanglant. “I’ll not have it said I turned him out naked.”
Even as Breschius began to speak, the man bolted for the gate, ready for a spear thrust to take him in the back. Fulk whistled, a piercing signal, and the guards leaped back so the man could sprint out of the fort unobstructed. The remaining three heathens shifted fearfully, but Breschius calmed them with a few words.
“He had no reason to trust us,” said Sanglant, “but I doubt me he’ll get far.” He turned his attention to the last two slaves. They were much darker and wore torn robes and ragged pointy felt caps over cropped hair. Sanglant frowned as he studied them. These two kept their heads bowed, their gazes lowered, although they also looked to be young, strong men.
“These two are Jinna, are they not?” he asked Breschius. “Are they believers?”
“Do you see the brand on their cheeks?”
“Is that their slave mark?”