They came upon a hill-bound village of scattered huts and even a few grand log houses, with great central halls, the moss and decay of which spoke hauntingly of lost glory. Cautiously, they made their way to a central square and arrayed themselves around a stone-faced well, to be unavoidable and yet demonstrate they meant no harm. For a time, the inhabitants kept their distance, perhaps remembering the Varangians who had once harried their towns—but need finally drove them in.
They were a picturesque lot, with broad, flat faces not unlike the Mongols themselves, though wearing long black robes with gray-and-silver embroidery over gray loose pants, and broad-brimmed fur hats. The women wore white-and-gray and dun skirts, long and full, and their blouses were adorned with luxurious sable—thick, well cured, and neatly sewn. Some were bold enough to display, as they drew water from the well in wooden buckets, ornate gold torques and other jewelry that Raphael recognized as Greek in craftsmanship but Scythian in design.
Working in concert with Cnán, who knew how to make herself understood (for the Khazar language was yet another Turkoman dialect), Raphael began attempting to strike up conversations with old men whom he guessed were rabbis, showing by various gestures of respect that he knew a little of these people, their history, and their religion and that he’d had friendly dealings with some of their long-lost cousins in the Diaspora. At first, he received very little response, which was to be expected, but on the third night of their sojourn, he was at last invited into the well-kept home of a rabbi of some importance, who had traveled to Jerusalem and Baghdad and who could speak Hebrew and Arabic. Raphael spoke a few words of the former and was reasonably fluent in the latter, and so it was now possible to have something like an actual conversation. The great bulk of this was given over to pleasantries and chitchat, but at the end, Raphael was able to make some allusion as to their errand: they sought assistance in traveling far into the East, preferably as quickly as could be managed.
The rabbi seemed to find this interesting but had little to say about it. Which was to be expected, and which Raphael considered to be excellent progress for one evening. More importantly, they were now offered hospitality, and some social presence, for this rabbi presided over the synagogue and invited them to make themselves comfortable in an old disused house. Some great family had abandoned it centuries ago and moved to Antioch or Jerusalem, and the locals had been using it as a barn. After their many nights under the sweeping starry sky, having a log-and-wattle roof over their heads—even though knocked through with holes and packed with starlings, who peppered them with droppings—seemed like luxury.
The next day, Finn and R?dwulf and Eleázar caught up with them and reported that they had seen Vera to the river and observed her journey to its opposite side in a fisherman’s boat. A prearranged smoke signal proved that she had reconnected with the other Shield-Maidens. They had retraced their steps up into the hills with care, leaving Finn behind in places of concealment to look for any persons who might be tracking them. Finn had seen nothing.
That evening, a longer discussion took place, with Raphael now serving as an interpreter between Feronantus and the rabbi—whose name was Aaron. Again, much time was expended on pleasantries, and Raphael had to bridle his impatience by reminding himself that if they could strike some sort of deal that would get them into a Silk Road caravan, it would save them many weeks of aimless travel in bitter country. They crept infinitesimally closer to explaining what it was that they really wanted. But it was plain from the look on Aaron’s face and the nature of his questions that he was baffled by these Franks and their inexplicable desire to range far into the East.
The next day was spent as they always spent rest days, in mending their equipment, looking after their horses, and obtaining the necessaries for the next leg of the journey. Rabbi Aaron had gone on a journey of his own—since rabbis were scarce, he had to range across a fair territory—and so they dined in their house on food purchased from local hunters and went to bed early.
The following day, Aaron came back to town in the company of a relatively prosperous-looking Khazar merchant and let it be known that they would continue the discussion that evening.
The affluent merchant—it was too much of a stretch to describe him as rich—seemed to be just what they were looking for in the way of someone who knew his way around the caravan business. Little happened during their first encounter, the purpose of which, evidently, was to give this man—whose name was Benjamin—an opportunity to size up the mysterious Franks. But it was clearly a propitious sign that the rabbi had bothered to summon such a person, and so they bided their time and redoubled their preparations the next day.
That turned out to be the Sabbath, and so nothing at all happened, but on the morrow, Rabbi Aaron and Benjamin turned up at their house in the middle of the day, seemingly eager to continue the discussion.
And that discussion went quite well for about an hour. At which point Vera, covered with blood and bandages, staggered through the open door, lurched into their midst, and collapsed on the floor.
Once they had recovered from their astonishment, all rushed toward her to see what was the matter. On her shoulder and arms and one leg, she was swathed in mud-spattered and bloody bandages. She waved them away, though, and insisted they go outside first and tend to Alena.
Alena was sitting on an exhausted Mongol pony, hunched over, shivering uncontrollably, though the afternoon was warm. Percival and Eleázar carried her down as gently as they could, then brought her inside and laid her on a pallet so that Raphael could get a look at her. She too had been wounded in several places, and the wounds crudely bandaged. Raphael was disturbed by one in particular, a deep puncture of the arm, obviously made by an arrow, which had suppurated. Alena’s skin was marked by three distinct red lines that originated at the wound and ran up toward her armpit. Raphael had seen such marks before. They did not bode well.