Fiction | Short Story

Medieval Memories

Snippets of memories from people long gone.

The Hunter

“Father, can we stop to rest?” Arsaces asked.

Draga smiled at his boy and was going to reply, but an Ibex crested the hill ahead. Draga knocked an arrow, quicker than words, and aimed for the heart.

SLICK-

Draga’s face tightened. He hadn’t shot yet.

A warm wetness seeped through his jerkin, and his belly was being twisted from the inside. He looked down. An arrow shaft stuck out from his gut.

Draga’s face hit the ground as he crumpled, and colors whirled, and dust clogged his flaring nostrils, and his feet kicked, trying to run away from a boy’s screams.

***

Pus and Lanterns

Raja was a brave dog. He didn’t whimper as the medicus moved his rotten, blackened paw.

But Sayyid frowned at the pus, the color of ripe Indian mangoes.

“Yes, we need to cut it off,” the medicus said.

“How much?”

“Up to here,” the medicus pointed.

“No, Master, I meant how much will it cost me?”

The old man scratched his beard, and some pus mangled into his hairs.

“Two hundred rupaya,” he said.

It was hard to breath, but Sayyid nodded.

That was exactly the amount Sayyid had saved to buy another shanty for his In-Laws. They were also moving to Agra.

The medicus said something else, but Sayyid didn’t hear. He watched orbs of light dance in the Jumna river. They belonged to lanterns, hung about the fattest and cleanest shelter in Agra. The Taj Mahal gaped at him with many mouths, and many eyes. It spilled moonlight everywhere.

“Alright,” Sayyid said, looking down at Kinu. His dog was trying to lick his hand. “I’ll bring the money.”

***

Sour Tea

Imad frowned; the tea was sour. He smelled it and grimaced. How old was the milk?

“But you don’t like my generosity with the Franks,” Saladin was saying. “I can see it on your face. Speak your mind.”

“If you let the Franks leave, they’ll take their wealth with them.”

“Most have paid their ransom in full,” Saladin said. His knuckles were white on the wooden table. He leaned forward, eyes challenging. Many warlords had withered under that gaze. He was stubborn. Unrelenting. God had shown mercy on the world by giving Saladin a conscience. The ransom was easy to pay for the poorest of Jerusalem.

“A measly amount,” Imad said, dabbing his lips with his handkerchief. He folded the cloth and placed it beside a ceremonial dagger. Imad wore that blade often, but had never used the thing. God had shown mercy on Imad in making him a man of letters. Pain was terrifying.

Imad moved the cloth over the dagger.

“Are you afraid of death, son of Ayyub?,” Imad asked.

“Don’t change the subject, old man.”

Imad took another sip of the tea. He frowned again.

“And quit making faces,” Saladin said. “Speak your mind.”

“Apologies. The tea is sour.”

“Of course it is.”

“It’s true.”

“Then why are you still drinking? You took another sip.”

“Why are you still fighting? You’re getting old too.”

Saladin’s mouth curved slightly.

“Do I amuse you, Lord?” Imad asked. It was one of Imad’s hidden goals to make Saladin laugh. This was the closest he had ever gotten.

“I expect a full report by Jummah of your counsel on this matter.”

With that, Saladin left the room. His servant boy followed, shooting Imad a mean look.

***

Balian

Imad’s tent was over-crowded with Balian standing in the center; a hulking mass of metal and tattered robes. Immobile. Quiet.

“Balian of Ibelin,” Imad said. “Strong name.”

Balian leaned on his sword. His black eyes darted from Imad to Imad’s bodyguards.

“My guards will not hurt you,” Imad said, trying to comfort the brute. “Saladin would not allow it.”

Where was Saladin? Imad thought. He should be here by now.

“Would you like some tea?” Imad said.

Balian blinked.

“Indian tea. Would you like some?”

A servant offered Balian a cup, but the man kept his hands on the hilt of his bastard.

“Where is Saladin?” he finally said.

“I was just thinking the same. Great minds think alike!” Imad covered his grin with a sip from his cup.

“Fools seldom differ,” Balian replied.

Imad paused, and peered over his cup. Balian’s hair cast shadows on his face, but Imad caught the glint of his black eyes.

“You are… familiar with that saying?”

“Why wouldn’t I be, Imad al Din Isfahani?”

The guards shifted, but the clinking of their blades didn’t distract Balian’s gaze.

Imad cleared his throat, and shot a glance at the tent flaps.

***

Ordination

The voice of the prayers vibrated Adrian’s flesh. He shivered and closed his eyes. Light still came to him, in different colors, from the sunlight shining through the tinted windows around the entrance hall. When he opened his eyes after a moment. The world was brighter. Sparkling dust floated quietly about him.

“Father Adrian?” a man said. It was Ferro. He seemed out of place in Hagia Sophia. Cossack coat dragging the floor, ruffled hair, holding hands together like a street merchant.

“Welcome, brother. Here for the Communion? Prayers are in-”

“My name is Ferro, Father. Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you,” Adrian replied, then hesitated at the smile that broke across the man’s face. He was a historian clerk for the Church of St. Irene.

“Congratulations on your ordination. A deacon already!” Ferro said.

“You will address me as Father when you speak.”

“Yes, sorry, Father. Your chiton robe is wonderful. Red and shining gold. Very bright.”

Adrian rolled his shoulder to adjust the robe, and flourished his hand to drive the cuff upward. It was a little loose.

“Through the doors, please. The litany is in process by Father Justin.”

“I like to admire this hall before I join the crowd,” Ferro said. He smiled again, and looked up at Virgin Mary’s mosaic. In the illustration, Justinian and Constantine were offering her the city.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ferro said.

“Indeed. It reminds us that this temple is a blessing from the Virgin. We, who are both worthy and unworthy.”

“I thought it was ten thousand men who built this building.”

“Yes, but through the Virgin’s sustenance.”

“If by sustenance you mean General Belisarius’ war booty,” Ferro said.

“Your tone is disrespectful, brother,” Adrian said. He rolled his shoulder, pulling the robe upward.

“Not at all, Father. I am just a man of details.”

“I must leave you now.”

“For example, you are Adrian Balsamon. Descendant of Patriarch Balsamon. I have some questions about him, if you have time.”

“Not right now, brother Ferro. Good day.”