“Sanctuary!” Alexios shouted as loud as he could. “Sanctuary!”
It sounded ridiculous, but Alexios was desperate. With Rakhsh galloping beneath him, leaping over staked vines, thundering toward the monastery’s open gate, it was all Alexios could do. He wanted to cup his hands over his mouth and bellow for all he was worth, but if he released the reins, he would fall—he was certain—and tumble into the fields, every bone shattering in his flesh. Rakhsh’s hooves flung clods of wet soil into Alexios’s face.
The pursuers were getting closer. Their horses must have had more rest, maybe they were younger or had been better trained, maybe their riders were more skilled. Alexios’s farr was almost gone. Without it he was just some guy, only a mediocre fighter at best. These men chasing him knew nothing about the farr, practicing all their lives in its absence. This meant that decades of muscle, skill, and mind were chasing Alexios, their mounts soaring over the ground like giant birds rather than horses, and those decades were clad in shining metal that was strong enough to deflect anything except sharp swords stabbing straight into them.
Several ghazis carried composite bows. As the ghazis gripped their mounts with their legs, they nocked arrows, drew them back on their bowstrings, and aimed high into the air, leading their targets. Then—with loud buzzing twangs—they loosed the arrows at the travelers. The steel arrowheads glittered as the shafts screamed through the air, looking like dots to Alexios since they were coming straight at him. With more farr in his veins, Alexios could have batted them away with his sword, or he could have even caught them in his hands, but instead he kept his head down, hoping no arrow found its mark.
Arrows whistled past—one shaft brushed his hair—and thumped into the earth around Rakhsh, who wailed with fright and darted around them. The pursuers were targeting Alexios alone.
Bring down the man, they must have thought. Then it’s easier to take the woman and children.
“Go!” Alexios shouted to Isato, Basil, and Kassia. He waved his arm at the monastery. “I’ll hold them off!”
For once, there were no arguments. His family nodded and—with no sign of disagreement—continued to the monastery. Alexios moved away in an attempt to draw the enemy after him.
But the ruse was obvious. The ghazis—who were lightly armed, and ahead of most of the Christian knights, themselves weighed down by chainmail and steel armor—divided into two groups. The ghazi leader pointed at Alexios and shouted something, then pointed at Isato, Basil, and Kassia and shouted something else. He pursued Alexios, as did the lead Christian knight, who was kicking his spurs so deep into his horse that the beast’s thighs were soaked with blood.
Adarnase.
Alexios was tempted to draw Gedara and finish this once and for all, farr or no farr. But he had learned many times in his adventures that it was suicide to fight alone. His uncle Eugenios, all the way back in Leandros, had taught him.
Those who run, live. Those who fight, perish.
He imagined his family without him. What would happen to them? The monks would drive them out of the monastery, the knights and ghazis would enslave them. Kassia and Isato would become babymaking machines, mere means of production birthing capital for their male owners. Basil would be beaten and whipped and maybe experience worse tortures from his own owners, who thirsted always for young boys, until he admitted that they were right. They would force him to believe with all his heart and soul that he was inferior, that it was god’s will.
And so when Alexios saw that his ruse had failed, he turned back toward his family.
“Go, Rakhsh!” Alexios shouted.
The horse grunted and gasped, his legs pounding the earth hard enough to shake mountains to dust, everything around Alexios blurring, the colors stretching and mixing. Soon Rakhsh had caught up with the others just as they came within bowshot of the monastery gate. Adarnase, meanwhile, was so close to Alexios that he was swinging at him with his ringing scimitar, and even skinned the back of his neck with one lucky blow. As Alexios ducked, an arrow shot over his head and slammed into Isato.
“No!” Alexios shouted. “Faster, Rakhsh, faster!”
The horse roared with frustration, but had some strength left, kicking off the earth as though he meant to spring into the sky and never come back again. As soon as they hurtled through the monastery gate, a pair of big-bearded, black-cowled monks on the other side threw the heavy wooden doors shut and bolted them. Adarnase was so close, he was unable to stop in time; instead, he pulled his horse to the left and galloped along the walls, cursing, bashing sparks from the stone with his scimitar. As for the rest of the pursuers, they halted their horses before the gates and screamed swears and demands at the monastery.
Inside the cloister, Rakhsh was so exhausted that he threw Alexios to the ground. Alexios felt it coming, however, and rolled away to keep his bones from breaking—climbing to his feet like an acrobat and sprinting to Isato, who was slipping from her saddle. Alexios caught her before she fell. The arrow had impaled her arm. Before he could ask if she was alright, monks surrounded them and babbled in heavily accented Roman that they would take her to the infirmary. As Alexios, Basil, and Kassia stared, the monks carried Isato away. So many bearded cowled men held her that they ran to one of the monastery’s outbuildings, their legs flashing in and out of their habits.
Alexios followed, thinking he should tell them to be careful. If she transformed, if that unearthly moan howled once more from her throat, who knew if she would ever go back to being Isato?
Kassia and Basil joined him on his way to the infirmary. Rakhsh was exhausted enough to have fallen to the ground, the other three gasping horses steaming with sweat keeping near him in the courtyard. Stable boys were already tending to the mounts.
In the infirmary, the monks had placed Isato on a bed and cut away the clothing around the bleeding wound. Within seconds of Alexios’s arrival, the lead monk—a handsome man with long flowing white hair and a huge white beard—washed his hands, then dipped a pair of iron pliers into a bowl of wine. He nodded to the others. As they held Isato down, the lead monk gripped the arrow with the pliers and pulled it free from Isato’s flesh. She shrieked, and even started to roar, but Alexios seized her hand and told her to look at him.
“It’s going to be alright,” he told her. “Stay with me. He got it. It’s gone.”
Isato looked at him, then shut her eyes, and her head rolled back on her shoulders.
A novice washed her wound in wine, which made her tense up. Then came water, just before another monk bandaged it. The lead monk was examining the arrow in the light from the doorway, in the mean time, to ensure that he had extracted the whole thing—that there were no slivers or shards left inside her body.
“It appears to be in one piece,” he said in flawless Roman, turning to show the four travelers the bloody arrow.
The other monks bowed to him and crossed themselves. Some even congratulated him on doing such a good job, addressing him as “archimandrite,” which meant “abbot,” the monastery head.
“Is there any chance it was poisoned?” Alexios said.
“Doubtful,” the archimandrite said. “The warriors here consider poison dishonorable—a woman’s weapon, if you’ll forgive the term.” He bowed to Isato.
Gleaming with sweat, she was lying back and gasping at the ceiling. Another novice offered her a cup of wine for the pain. She nodded, then gulped down every drop. The novice gave her a refill, and Isato finished that, too. He raised his eyebrows, and whispered to himself that the lady was fond of wine.
“More,” she said.
The novice gave it to her.
Alexios turned to the archimandrite. “Thank you for your help. Should I address you as ‘father,’ or…?”
“I’m not an ordained priest.” The archimandrite smiled. “I am the abbot of this monastery, however. You can call me Archimandrite Arsen Methodios.”
Kind of a mouthful, Alexios thought. But Methodios was nothing if not methodical in extracting that arrow.
Alexios bowed. “Thank you, archimandrite. You’ve saved our lives.”
“Oh, it was the least I could do for wayward souls calling for sanctuary,” Methodios said. “Although it may have gotten us in trouble with the local lords. If you’ll come with me, perhaps we can settle this dispute of yours amicably?”
I doubt it.
Alexios asked Kassia and Basil to stay with Isato. They nodded—though the looked nervous—and he left the infirmary with Methodios, who handed the pliers and the bloody arrow to an assistant monk. Methodios then washed his hands, and walked with long fast strides up the stone stairs built into the inner wall to the tower overlooking the gate. Outside, dozens of mounted warriors were still yelling at the monastery, growling at one another, riding back and forth, and pounding their fists against the thick wooden doors. Several had arrows nocked on their bows, which meant that Alexios and Methodios needed to stay behind the merlons of ancient stone.
“Who has come bringing such violence to Alaverdi Monastery?” Methodios shouted at the sky, one hand cupped beside his mouth.
“I am Prince Adarnase of Tao,” came the response. “I have come to apprehend a band of criminals who are wanted for the murder of my cousin, the Kuropalates Duke David Bagrationi of Tao-Klarjeti.”
Methodios turned to Alexios. “Did you do this?”
“It’s complicated,” Alexios said.
“Simple from the perspective of the victim,” Methodios said. “Complicated from the perspective of the perpetrator.”
“There is something else you ought to know,” Adarnase added. “You are not just sheltering traitors and murderers, but also infidels.”
Methodios narrowed his brow. “I mean no offense, but you ride in the company of Sarakenoi, do you not?”
“Your new friends are a different sort of infidel,” Adarnase said. “They are sorcerers from Trebizond, and believe in neither gods nor masters.”
Methodios looked at Alexios. Before the abbot could speak, Alexios shrugged.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“He’s got me there,” Alexios said.
Methodios turned back to the knights and ghazis. “It is not a crime if one does not believe in one’s heart. People ought to be led to Christ through reason and love and by setting a good example, not by force.”
“I did not come here to argue theology,” Adarnase said. “Release the criminals to me now, that justice may be done upon them!”
“There are at least two sides to every conflict,” Methodios said. “We have yet to really hear the other.”
“You would trust the word of an unbeliever over that of a Christian noble?” Adarnase said.
“There can be no justice without investigation,” Methodios said. “Without the search for fact. I should not need to explain this to a Christian knight. It will take time for us to decide on the proper course of action. We will let you know when we have done so—if only you could tell me where I might find you, in several days?”
“Within several days they will have ensorcelled you,” Adarnase said. “Even the most faithful monks in this monastery will be sacrificing children to Satan by then.”
“It is interesting that you yourself speak of child sacrifice,” Methodios said, “when your men were loosing arrows at the two children who fled here begging for our help?”
“They were not our targets,” Adarnase said. “Yet they are more dangerous than they seem. My cousin hosted them with open arms, just as you do now, and they betrayed and murdered him without cause.”
“That seems difficult to believe,” Methodios said.
“You will see,” Adarnase said. “You are the one who has willingly let these vipers into your home, heedless of our warnings. We will be back in one day’s time, monk. And when we return, these gates will open, one way or the other.”
“I warn you, sir, they have never been breached,” Methodios said. “Centuries ago they were blessed by the Assyrian Father Yoseb, and cannot be undone by the hands of mortal men.”
“We shall see.” Adarnase nodded to his companions, and they all galloped away.
Methodios looked at Alexios. “I thought the most exciting event of today was going to be allowing the brothers an extra cup of wine at supper. It seems I was mistaken. How often does the Spirit surprise us, when we feel most comfortable?”
“Thank you again, archimandrite.” Alexios knelt and lowered his head. “We would be dead without your help.”
Methodios nodded and winced as if to say that it was nothing. Slowly he stood and peered over the merlon. Alexios did the same. The knights and ghazis were riding away along the farm paths—westward, toward whatever remained of Tiflis, where the rolling mountains and winding rivers met, the city of cliffside castles and churches.
“We can leave tonight,” Alexios said. “We don’t want to endanger anyone—”
“Nonsense, you are our guests,” Methodios said. “They will also be watching and listening, even at night. You will be dead within minutes of leaving our walls.”
“Then what should we do?” Alexios said. “I mean, we don’t want to abuse your hospitality—”
“I don’t know.” Methodios placed his hand on Alexios’s back and led him back down to the courtyard. “But with the guidance of the Spirit, we will think of something.”
They checked Isato, who had fallen asleep. Alexios explained to Methodios that he and his friends were exhausted from riding all night. Methodios was shocked, and said he couldn’t believe it.
“Fortunately for you,” he added, “our monastery is somewhat isolated, as you may have noticed. You’ll have the guest dormitory to yourselves. We do need to keep the infirmary as clean and empty as possible, however…”
“Oh, yes.” Alexios nodded, then looked to Isato. “Should we move her, or…?”
“She is wounded,” Methodios said. “She can stay in the infirmary for now, and we’ll keep her under observation, especially in case of infection—or, as you mentioned, poison, God forbid. You and the children, however, should rest. If first you need something to eat, I can bring you to the refectory, and see what we can find.”
Alexios looked to Kassia and Basil—who nodded—then looked back to Methodios. “That would be great.”
“When you’re feeling rested this evening or tomorrow morning,” Methodios added, as he led them back into the courtyard, “we can decide what to do.”
Alexios introduced his children to Methodios. Then the travelers checked their horses in the stables. Rakhsh and the others were sitting under blankets in the hay, drowsing, recovering from their charge across the fields. Alexios grabbed the saddlebags of money where the stable boys had left them hanging on hooks on the walls, doing his best to keep the coins inside from ringing.
Methodios led them to the refectory. This was a rectangular dining hall with a curving ceiling of gray brick that rose from a clean wooden floor. One shorter side of the rectangle featured a doorway leading to the courtyard; the other side led to the kitchen, pantry, and cellar. A plain long wooden table stretched along the refectory’s length, flanked on both sides by long wooden benches. No one else was here. The brothers were already working at their daily chores—sweeping, scrubbing, doing laundry, even venturing outside the walls to farm, with several monks vigilant on the walls, watching for riders.
Something so post-apocalyptic about this place, Alexios thought. Even though they’re actually waiting for the apocalypse. The rest of the world could end, and this place could keep going, at least until the monks got too old to care for themselves. A self-sufficient commune, in some ways not so different to what we’re trying to do in Trebizond. Here, though, the monks are united in faith—and sexual suppression.
Once Alexios, Kassia, and Basil had sat down in the refectory, Methodios left for the kitchen, returning a moment later with two novices—younger men nonetheless in possession of black caps and cowls plus enormous beards—who carried large platters of food. They set down a steaming loaf of bread, a hunk of fresh cheese, three bowls of soup, plus a large bowl of salad with olives, cucumbers, and vinegar dressing. After pouring three cups of wine and leaving the pitcher on the table, the novices bowed and withdrew, even as their guests showered them with thanks. Alexios in particular was ravenous, and tore into the bread and cheese, groaning with delight.
“It’s everything I could have dreamed of,” he said with a full mouth, “and so much more!”
Basil and Kassia exchanged glances and laughed.
“I apologize for his behavior,” Basil said to Methodios. “Alexios has spent a lot of time around barbarians, and he’s taken on one too many of their uncouth ways, if you know what I mean.”
Kassia elbowed him.
“Ow!” Basil said.
“Will you eat with us, archimandrite?” Kassia said.
“What fine manners in one so young,” Methodios said. “But no thank you, my dear, I have already broken bread with the brothers and had my fill.” He turned to Basil. “Now forgive me, but did you address your father by name?”
“He isn’t my father,” Basil said. “Not my real father. He’s kind of like my stepfather…at best.”
Alexios rolled his eyes. “Thanks, I appreciate that. I’ve always wanted to be somebody’s stepdad.”
“No problem.” Basil turned to Methodios. “Alexios sort of took over after my real dad died when we were running away to Trebizond. We used to be slaves.”
“Is it true, then,” Methodios said, “that you come from Trebizond?”
Alexios nodded. He had wanted to keep this a secret, but Adarnase had left him no choice. “It’s true.”
“We hear much about this place these days,” Methodios said.
“Only good things, I’m sure,” Alexios said.
Methodios frowned. “Unfortunately, no. Travelers tell us that Trebizond despises the faithful, and that all the holy churches there have been converted into either stables or brothels. We hear you exhume the corpses of priests, monks, and nuns in order to put them on trial before hurling their remains into the rivers and the sea. The criminals who run the place—forgive me, but that’s what everyone calls them—they kill all Christians on sight.”
“We’d be pretty busy if that’s what we were up to,” Alexios said.
“We don’t kill Christians,” Kassia said. “But they kill us.”
“What a horrible thing to hear,” Methodios said. “But there are many Christians these days who believe that it is enough to profess belief in Christ in order to guarantee one’s place among the divine choirs of heaven, and that no further good works need be done—that one can even spend an entire life treating one’s fellow creatures terribly, and still expect to be rewarded with paradise, all in the name of the Glory of God.” He crossed himself. “It is a heretical belief, one with no basis in scripture or in the examples of Christ or his apostles or even the Church Fathers—all of whom labored to leave the world created by God better than they found it, to repair the world that has been so grievously wounded by sin. Why send the Son of God to Earth at all, if not to illuminate with the Love of Light and Life this fallen abode of ignorance?”
“We’ve met plenty of people who are pretty bad Christians,” Basil said. “Latin crusaders. Romans. They kill quite a bit for people who expect to go to heaven.”
“I hate crusaders,” Kassia said.
“Shut up,” Basil said. “Everything you say is so simplistic—”
Alexios pointed at Basil. “Don’t tell her to shut up. Let her speak. Let her say what she wants. Can we get through a single meal without you two bickering?”
Basil groaned, then continued slurping his soup.
“She’s saved my life, you know,” Alexios said to Methodios. “And even if she hadn’t, she’d still have a right to speak her mind.”
“It’s been some time since we’ve had any families as guests here,” Methodios said. “Especially families with adopted children.”
“As it turns out, the world’s full of people like us,” Alexios said. “Sad to say, but there are plenty of orphans out there. You’ll find them in Trebizond, too. Along with Christians, Muslims, Jews, even some Zoroastrians. One of my closer friends is a Mandaean, if you know what that is.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Methodios said.
“They’re gnostics,” Alexios said. “They love Saint John. And baptism.”
“Who doesn’t?” Methodios said.
“I wish Miriai were here,” Kassia said. “I miss her.”
Alexios squeezed Kassia’s hand. “We’ll see her again.”
“She would have made short work of those knights back there,” Basil said. “All she’d have to do is shut her eyes, hold up her arms, mumble something about the divine river, and boom! That’s it! They’re all gone!”
“What’s he talking about?” Methodios said to Alexios.
“How can I explain?” Alexios said. “Our friend Miriai has some unique qualities, let’s say. She’s kind of like a walking superweapon. Her abilities have come in handy.”
“Armies should carry rowboats onto the battlefield when they have to face her,” Basil said.
“They always underestimate her, too,” Alexios said. “They always think that just because she’s this cute little old lady, she can’t do anything, she can’t hurt them.”
“It’s the last mistake a bunch of people ever made,” Basil said.
“She was like my grandmother,” Kassia said.
“Not sure why you’re using the past tense,” Alexios said. “She’s still out there. Still terrifying knights and warriors who haven’t been scared of anything since they were little kids.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” Methodios said.
“Maybe it’s not something you can understand,” Basil said. “Not unless you see it.”
“Then perhaps I will, some day,” Methodios said.
“You’d better hope not,” Basil said.
Alexios by then had started drinking his wine. He’d never been much of a drinker—much less a day drinker—but he felt safe behind these thick walls, and wanted to take advantage of that fact. It was too dangerous to drink out in the country, or even in taverns when all kinds of nasty people could surprise you at any time.
But with these monks, you might as well enjoy yourself, he thought, as the kids kept speaking with Methodios.
The stress of the day also pushed Alexios to drink. Unconsciously he felt the back of his neck, where Adarnase had sliced him. The cut had already hardened into a scab.
So odd that a guy I’d never heard of just a few days ago is now dominating almost every waking thought. Sometimes you don’t see the big changes until they’re already on top of you.
When the travelers had finished stuffing themselves, they were swaying with sleepiness, and their eyelids were fluttering. It was now early afternoon, and they had been riding since the previous sunset. Their host brought them across the courtyard to the guest dormitory, which was kept separate from the other buildings, yet still within the high walls. Inside, they found a room similar to the refectory, except lined with mats on the wood floor. Each mat came with a blanket and a hard pillow.
I’ll take what I can get, Alexios thought.
With Methodios’s blessing, the travelers lay down on the mats and bundled themselves up in blankets. Basil and Kassia were soon asleep. The last thought in Alexios’s mind was the suspicion that Methodios and the other monks were a little too kind and helpful.
What’s in it for them? he wondered. Taking such a huge risk like this? Adarnase could come back with an entire army tomorrow! Is it possible that the monks here are just decent human beings, when everyone else we’ve met out here has been trying to kill us? But why would they risk their lives, their entire monastery, just to help a bunch of strangers?
Too tired to care—too tired to think that maybe someone should stay up to keep watch—Alexios’s stinging eyelids closed by themselves. Moments later, he was snoring, and so deep asleep that he almost fell out of existence entirely.
