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said. "After dinner, then." Saladin left. But for an hour or more,
he could not world himself of the feeling that he had already said too
much to the old man.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The beginning of the end was, of all things, an act of kindness.
Saladin had been at the castle for several weeks. October was cold,
and it promised to be a bad winter. The sea was savage, and already a
few dry flumes of snow had blown through the inner bailey of the
courtyard at Camelot.
Each day for weeks Saladin had ridden to the docks to await the arrival
of the Roman vessel which would take him away from this forlorn island;
each day he returned, frozen and disappointed. By the first week of
November, he knew in his heart that the ship would not come.
His only consolation in those days were his lessons in the native
language and the attendant company of Merlin. The two men, he learned,
had much in common. They were both well traveled, although naturally
Saladin had visited more distant places; both were scholars by
inclination; and, most surprisingly, they were both physicians.
Merlin's knowledge of medicine was not modern. During the course of
their lessons, the old man had sometimes spoken of the "Old Religion,"
the pagan worship which had dominated Britannia until the Roman
occupation, when the druid priests had been driven off or executed.
The Romans' own polytheism had never taken root here among the ordinary
people, and had been recently replaced by Christianity, whose
missionaries were as strictly against the old ways as the Romans had
been. Yet still, the Old Religion was practiced in secret. Shrines
set up long ago to gods so ancient that their names were no longer
remembered were nevertheless tended with care by passersby. The stone
bowls were filled with clean water, and often small sacrifices of food
were left at the shrines to appease the Old Ones, the mystical deities
who had watched over the land since the beginning of time. The priests
of this ancient cult, the druids, still performed their rituals in
secret places deep in the woods, as they had for centuries since the
old ways were outlawed.
Merlin was one of these.
Not that he attempted to bring the Old Religion to the court at
Camelot; indeed, he lived among the crosses and other accoutrements of
the new foreign religion with as little notice as he had taken of the
Roman statues during his childhood. "Christianity," he told Saladin
matter-of-factly, "is the way of the future. Arthur must maintain a
Christian court, at least nominally, if he's ever to unite all the
warring tribes of the island." "I should think you'd be offended,"
Saladin said archly. "Or frightened. The Christians apparently wish
to eradicate your religion completely." The old man smiled. "So did
the Romans. And for four hundred years, they thought they'd succeeded.
As far as the Christians know, the druids have been gone for
centuries." "But what about you? You're here to prove them wrong."
"I am just an eccentric old man favored by a king who is well beloved,"
he said. "And so they call me not a druid, but a wizard."
He laughed.
"And they attribute my long life to magical immortality." It was with
the druids that he had learned the arts of medicine. And truly,
Saladin felt, no mortal man could know more about the properties of
herbs and minerals than Merlin. The two of them spent long hours in
the parlor by candlelight, their respective unguents and plants spread
about on the floor between them, discussing various ailments and their
cures. Despite his long life of secrecy, Saladin found himself
enjoying the exchange of medical information. When he told Merlin of
his technique in treating heart-attack victims, the old man had
listened, fascinated. "No medicine is used?" he asked. "None at
all?" "Not during the initial attack. Only physical movements are
required to stimulate the heart to beat again." Saladin showed him the
movements, strong, almost rough, applied directly to the chest. "You
must replace the hart's rhythm artificially until it has revived.
Naturally, this does not always succeed. Your best chance is with a
young man, but even this often fails." The two men discussed the
procedure for hours. In the end, they determined that the physical
manipulation, combined with the essence of foxglove, a plant found in
the region containing highly stimulative properties, would be a
worthwhile experiment. Through Merlin, Saladin learned how to prepare
many new medicines. He bundled himself up in a fur cloak and the two
walked the fields outside the castle together for long hours, searching
for plants that had not already been killed by the early frosts.
Afterward, Saladin always complained of the cold, but he never passed
up Merlin's invitations. "Truly, Saladin, I can scarcely believe you
to be only twenty-five years old," Merlin said as they were trudging
through the shallow caves of the area looking for pyrite, which Saladin
claimed could be packed into infected wounds from tooth extraction.
Saladin pulled his cloak higher around his neck. "Sometimes it feels
more like twenty-five centuries," he said.
Merlin smiled. He touched the younger man's back lightly, and they
moved on. "They say the hills are hollow here,'' he said. "It's
because of all the small caves cut into the land. Some parts of
Britain are honeycombed with them. In the old days, when the Romans
were establishing rule here, many people fled the legions by living in
these caves. Some of my ancestors were among them." He picked up a
rock, studied it, then cast it away. "Actually, they're not bad places
to live. When the court travels north, I often stay in one myself,
near the border of Dumnonia. It's every bit as comfortable as the
drafty castle where Arthur and the others stay, and there's far less
noise." "I am acquainted with the merits of cave dwelling," Saladin
said.
Merlin stopped suddenly. "Why, that's where you learned your medicine,
isn't it? In a cave." Saladin stared at him. Then the old man could
read his mind. He felt a mixture of panic and anger rise up inside
him. "No, no, please don't bolt. It's a small gift, I assure you,"
Merlin stammered. "The fact is, I'm not sure it's a gift at all.
I don't really read thoughts. Just a random image now and again.
Sometimes it's nothing more than a feeling. It confuses me, more than
anything." Saladin relaxed a little. "But I would like to ask you .
. ." His gaze wandered down to the velvet pouch hanging from Saladin's
belt. Unconsciously, Saladin's fingers wrapped around it.
"I see that quite often when I'm talking with you. It's a ball of some
kind, a metal ball. Am I right?" Saladin was silent for a long
moment. The old man seemed to be exhibiting nothing more than
curiosity. "It's a talisman I carry for luck. A charm," he said
finally. Merlin frowned.
"May I look at it?" "No." He walked ahead. * * The incident occurred
in one of the small caves. ! dark there, nor particularly deep, and
the two men walked about without much caution, gathering rocks by feel.
"Do you dislike darkness?" Merlin asked.
Saladin took a moment to answer. "No," he said finally. "I far prefer
it to rooms filled with smoking candles." "I quite understand," the
old man said. "Darkness is often solitary.
There's much to be said for being alone . . ." He broke off as
Saladin uttered a hoarse cry, and Merlin heard the sound of falling
rock. "Saladin!" he called, rushing toward the noise.
There was no doubt about what had occurred. Even in the hazy darkness,
Merlin could see the cloud of dust that had risen from the rockfall.
He cast about frantically, trying to discern where Saladin might be in
the rubble.
Working as fast as he could, he lifted stones and hurled them aside.
If he could uncover a part of the man, he reasoned, he would be able to
approximate where his head was and possibly save him from suffocation.
"Hold on!" he shouted, ignoring the pains which had already begun [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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