We were on the road an hour before gray dawn.
The last evening had been a frantic matter of wolfing down a meal, taking a last bath—it might be a while before the next—and collecting my gear.
Father Ignacy came to my cell to wish me good-bye and Godspeed. He gave me a letter of introduction and a list of Franciscan monasteries where I could scrounge a meal if I really got hard up. He also gave me a letter to be delivered to a Count Lambert at Okoitz.
"It's right on your way, and it will be worth at least a meal and a night's lodging to you. I carried it up from Hungary, but now you must complete its journey. God be with you, and know, my son, that you are always welcome here." He smiled. "All will be well with you, Sir Conrad. I can smell it."
The kid was waiting in the hallway with the clothes he'd borrowed. They were washed and folded. Some of them looked as if they'd been beaten between two bricks, but I didn't mention it. He also had a carefully counted pouch of silver pennies.
"I thank you for the loan, Sir Conrad, and return your property."
"Thanks, kid. Look, why don't you keep the tennis shoes. They fit you."
"Again, thank you, but they wouldn't go well with my cassock. Have you heard the news of the prostitute Malenka?"
"No, what happened?"
"She has found a most permanent position with the innkeeper."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. They've posted banns in the church and are to be married within the month."
"I'll be damned!"
"Never that, Sir Conrad. With three pence in the right place, I believe you have saved a soul. Go with God." There was something in the way he looked at me. Envy? Admiration? But that was impossible.
I reported to Boris Novacek at the inn, where he was still drinking.
In the morning he surprised me by showing up in full armor himself. We ate a cold breakfast and left, taking with us two horses and a mule. I was on my red mare—I'd named her Anna after my lady of Zakopane—with my backpack serving as one saddlebag and a sack of food as the other. My shield rode on top. My spear fit between a socket at my right toe and a clip on the saddlebow.
Boris—we'd gotten on a first-name basis when in private, over last night's beer—rode a gray gelding, with a pair of small but very heavy saddlebags behind him. He led a mule loaded with more supplies, a leather bag of beer, and some "luxury" goods, sugar and pepper, each worth about one-fifth of an equivalent weight of silver. Both had been transported up from the Indies.
We followed a trail just north of the Vistula River, heading west. Anna was walking surefootedly on a track I could hardly see. She didn't shy at strange noises or blowing leaves. A fine animal. The plan was to follow the path until the river turned south and pick up another trail heading west again to the Odra River, then south into Moravia. With luck, and pushing it, we hoped to reach the Moravian Gate, a low pass between the Carpathian and Sudeten mountains, on the evening of the fourth day, December 26.
After that it was to be an easy trip in warmer weather into Hungary, where we would buy 144 barrels of wine for delivery to the Bishop of Cracow in the spring. The purchase was for use in the mass and had nothing to do with the bishop's fondness for red Hungarian wines, of course.
The sun was fully up when we passed the Benedictine abbey at Tyniec, high on the white rocks across the river, but we saw not a single person from the time we left Cracow until ten o'clock in the morning.
With the sun up, Boris trotted up and rode beside me for a little conversation. Talking in the dark had been difficult because we couldn't see each other to gesticulate. He wanted to know about Arabic numbers, and I complied.
Boris caught on to the salient points quickly. He was amused by the idea of zero ("A special character that signifies nothing! Hah!"), but he soon saw its usefulness. I drew the numbers in the air in front of me as though it were a blackboard, and he memorized their shapes without difficulty. He considered the idea of positional notation to be a brilliant creation. The decimal point was still giving him trouble when we heard a rider galloping up from behind. We pulled off with me to the left side of the trail and Boris to the right to let the fellow through.
The man stopped abruptly between us and turned to my boss. He acted as if I wasn't there.
"You are Boris Novacek?"
"I am."
"You are a thief! You run out on your debts!" he said with a thick German accent.
"Who are you and why do you call me a thief?"
"I call you thief because you do not pay the twenty-two thousand pence that you owe Schweiburger the cloth merchant! And I am the man he sold the debt to!"
"I do not owe you anything, for I do not know you. As for Schweiburger, my debt is not due until Christmas, and today is only December twenty-third!"
The argument got more and more heated, and I became apprehensive. I was unsure of the legalities of the case, but it was obviously my duty to defend Boris if it came to that.
The man must have forgotten about me because while shaking one fist at my employer, he reached behind his back to draw his dagger.
I didn't want to use my sword and kill him, so I grabbed him by the back of the neck and the belt and heaved him out of his saddle. My intention was to throw him over my head and onto the ground. Then I could take my lance and stop any real violence.
But he was much heavier than I had expected. He bumped my lance free while he was airborne, and I tried to catch it with my right foot. But my high saddlebow and cantle had given me a false sense of security; it was quite possible to fall out sideways, which I did. I never claimed to be a horseman.
I was sliding off the right side of the saddle, but my hands were full of creditor so that I couldn't grab the pommel. My right foot was out of the stirrup, stopping my lance from falling. Trying desperately to find the stirrup, I let the lance go. Then there was nothing left to do but think, Oh shit, why Me? I hit the ground in a tangle of arms, legs, and instruments of violence.
The horses scattered, and we were untangled in an instant. He was on his feet and drawing his sword before I got up. Fortunately, his first blow was to my left, because I parried it before my sword was fully out of the sheath.
I got my sword out in time to parry a vicious chop at my head. "Hey! Stop! I don't have an argument with you!" I shouted as I blocked a blow at my right side.
"Bastard!" he yelled as he tried to bash my skull three more times.
"I'm not your enemy!" I parried a cut at my left leg. "I was only trying to stop you from committing a murder!"
Keeping him from hitting me required no great skill. A parry almost always requires less motion than an attack and so is inherently faster. Also, my opponent had little skill and no ability at subterfuge. He telegraphed every blow long before it landed.
"You ride with thieves, you!" He sent two more whacks at my right leg.
What the guy did have was a heavy sword and an ungodly amount of stamina and persistence.
"Look, I don't want to hurt you!" He was bashing at my head again. I was once the best man on campus with a saber, but I hadn't worked out in six years. Even then, I had been used to parrying a fencing saber, which weighs less than a tenth of what this guy was swinging.
"You are Polack thief and liar like everybody you know!" He kept on swinging.
"Can't we stop and talk about this? Don't you ever get tired?" My right arm was getting numb.
"Bastard!" he yelled, and started chopping faster. Had it been the twentieth century. I would have known that he was on some kind of dope.
Finally he got one by me, hitting my right shoulder. It broke neither skin nor bone, but it hurt. I knew that the defensive game could not go on forever. I had to disable him.
When next I got an opening, I beat his blade to the left. He overcompensated, and I doubled under his sword. Then, arm out, head and body vertical and in perfect fencing form, I thrust my blade into him.
In fencing, things happen too quickly to be controlled by rational thought. You practice for years so that the reflexes of your arms and legs do the right thing at the right time. That is how you score points.
That is also how I put my sword through the man's neck, severing his trachea and at least two arteries. He was probably dead before he hit the ground, but he continued bleeding. Oh, God, how he bled!
I stared at him, unable to believe what I had done.
"Well fought, Sir Conrad! But was that really necessary?"
"Huh?" I had never killed a man before.
"Why did you throw him out of the saddle?" Boris gathered up the horses and dismounted.
"You didn't see?" I said after a time. "He drew a knife behind his back. He meant to kill you."
"And here is the knife on the ground! My apologies, Sir Conrad. You have saved my life! I am in your debt, sir." He bent over the body and was searching it.
"Just earning my pay, and I am in your debt some three thousand pence." I was a murderer.
"Not anymore, Sir Conrad. Look here." He showed me a pouch he had removed from the body. It must have contained a kilo of gold.
"That amounts to eight thousand pence or I'm no judge. And look here! The man wears armor under his clothes! Had your sword struck elsewhere, it might have been stuck on his rings, and then he would have had your head!" Boris quickly stripped the body while I stood dumbly by. When he was done, the corpse was completely naked. "Haul that a long way off the road, will you? They get unsightly when they rot, and we wouldn't want to offend some good lady."
In his thirteenth-century way, he was telling me that one should not litter. I dragged it off. When I got back, a bundle was heaped on the stranger's horse. Boris was mounted.
"Sir Conrad, I estimate that I could sell this chance-found horse and equipment for four thousand pence. The gold is worth eight, for a total of twelve. We were together at the finding. You did the important work, but you were in my employ at the time. Therefore, I think that an even split would be equitable. Do you agree?"
"Whatever you say." Jesus Christ. I had just killed a man. Killed him and hid the body. Now I was joining in on robbing the dead.
Boris saw my expression. "Well, we can hardly leave this on the road for some thief to find! Now then, your half of twelve is six, but you owe me three, so here is your three thousand pence."
I put the money into my pouch. Added to the fifty I already had, it amounted to quite a bit. Two years' pay for killing a man.
"In addition, Sir Conrad, you saved my life. Please accept this thousand as a bonus."
I put it in my pouch and mounted up.
"One more thing," he said as we rode down the trail. "That man, whoever he was, did not have a deed of transfer on his person, and I think it probable that he was only an extortionist. But if he really bought the debt from Schweiburger and if he has no heirs, I would be forgiven the debt, saving twenty-two thousand. If these unlikely events transpire, you shall have earned an additional eleven thousand pence."
I was silent for a while. Then I said, "What is all this about your running out on your debts?"
"Well, I wasn't exactly running out on them, but it proved to be very convenient to . . . shall we say defer payment for a few months. You see, last summer I located some excellent Russian furs in Cracow. I knew a family in Pest that would be most interested in them. However, since I had already overinvested in amber, I could not afford to purchase the lot of furs and pay their way to Pest.
"Therefore, I left the amber with a German wool merchant of my acquaintance, and he lent me twenty-two thousand pence.
"My trading went well, and I returned to Poland with copper and samples of wine purchased near Pest."
"Wait a minute, Boris. You say you brought copper into Poland?" In the twentieth century, Poland is one of the world's largest copper exporters. Apparently, the mines near Legnica had yet to be discovered.
"Of course. There's a fair profit in copper, though nothing outstanding. You understand that I'm not wealthy enough to get involved in the really big commodities like cloth, so the best I can do is to connect individuals with diverse needs who are not aware of one another.
"This I did with a certain red Hungarian wine. It is not highly regarded in Hungary and is therefore inexpensive, but the Bishop of Cracow was quite taken with it. He ordered a huge amount at a price that will leave me well compensated for my services.
"The difficulty is that the amber market is now poor, and had I repaid Schweiburger, I would not be able to deliver the bishop's order. Discreet inquiries indicated that my lender was in no immediate need of cash, so I thought it best to delay paying him until spring. It was the profitable thing to do, even though I shall have to pay him damages."
"You mean extra interest on his money?"
"Interest? How can you say such a thing, Sir Conrad? Don't you know that the charging of interest is usury, a crime against the Church?"
"Oh. Then what did Schweiburger get for lending you the money in the first place?"
"Why, nothing. Of course, he was concerned about the safety of his money and insisted that some of his men carry it over to me. I had to agree to pay them for this work. These carrying charges amounted to twelve hundred pence, but the loan of the money was free."
"And you'll pay him no interest, but damages or other carrying charges when you pay him late."
"To the tune of one thousand to fifteen hundred pence, depending on just how late I am. It's the way things are done."
We rode in silence until noon, and then he said, "Sir Conrad, that blow you took to the shoulder, it isn't serious, is it?"
"No. I'll probably have a bruise as big as my face, but the arm works all right."
"Then why so glum? Two days in my employ and already you are a prosperous man."
"I hate killing."
"You are in a strange business to entertain that attitude."
"I seem to be good at it."
"Indeed you are! That blow you struck was remarkable. Your blade was suddenly on the other side of his sword. Then you didn't really strike him at all! You straightened your arm and sort of pushed into him, and your blade came out of the back of his neck!"
"That is called a beat with a double. You tap his sword, and as he moves to knock your blade away, you drop your blade under his and come up on the other side. Then I lunged, which uses the leg instead of the wrist. Much stronger." He wanted me to recap the fight the way he recapped his haggling sessions. I was surprised that he didn't order an ale.
"Next time we're afoot, you must show me how that's done. We've lost time, and we must pass through the Moravian Gate while the weather holds. Sext already. Sext and not a drink all morning!" He unslung his leather beer sack and drank deeply. He threw the sack at me, and I found that I needed it.
"The horses were resting during the fight, Sir Conrad. What say we eat in the saddle and push on?"
"You're the boss."
We trotted on. When you're in a hurry on horseback, you don't gallop all the time unless you want to kill your mount. You gallop for a while, walk for a while, trot for a while, gallop again. Just then we were trotting.
We passed the castle town of Oswiecim when it was still light.
"We could ford the river and spend the night there, Sir Conrad, but I fear the weather. If we get snowed in before we pass the gate, the good bishop will be late in getting his wine."
"Whatever you say, Boris, though the weather has been fair all day." I was not used to riding, and I was getting sore. My mount was excellent, but ten hours in the saddle is a lot.
"Right, and the ground is hard enough for good riding. All the same, it feels wrong and I worry."
So we pushed on until dark, fed and rested the horses, and rode on again with moonrise.
Three hours later, all the horses except Anna were stumbling, and it was time to stop. I pitched camp and got some dried venison and barley stew boiling while Boris tethered and unloaded the horses.
After we were both crammed into my dome tent, he said, "That arithmetic of the Arabs, it's interesting, and I can see that once you're used to it, it would be a lot simpler than the old Roman system. But it retains one of the disadvantages of the old system."
"Eh?" God, I was tired.
"It still goes by tens and hundreds. Most of what I buy and sell goes by dozens and grosses, and a dozen is a good number. I can split a dozen into two parts, or three, or four, or even six. With ten, you can split two ways, or five, but that's all."
"There's no reason why you couldn't develop an Arabic number system to the base twelve," I said. "Just add two more symbols for ten and eleven. You'd have to memorize new multiplication tables and so on, but you haven't learned the old ones yet. I'll show you in the morning."
That was probably one of the more useful things I did in my life. It was also one of the more painful.
"As you like. Oh, you did something sensible with your newfound wealth, didn't you?"
"Yes. I tied it to my ankle." I was in the thirteenth century now, surrounded by cutthroats and thieves. I knew, because I had become one of them.