Hans.
Hans picked up the pitcher and poured a libation into a cup as Andreas walked past the tree and the sleeping child nestled in its roots. “Welcome, Knight of the Rose,” the boy said in his oddly accented Latin.
Andreas tossed the second apple to the boy who had brought him and accepted the cup from Hans. He inhaled the aroma of the freshly poured ale. Sage and thyme, he noted. “Thank you,” he said after he tasted it. “Your hospitality is most gracious.”
“This is our…” Hans tried to think of the correct word. He put his hands together in a ring and held it over his heart. “Our protection. Our sanctuary.”
Hans smiled, and his expression was so guileless-filled with such innocence and hopeful naivete-that Andreas was filled with an intense desire to crush this boy in an embrace as if he were a long-lost son. In a flash, he knew what his father felt every time he came back from the sea and was bowled over by a young Andreas. He knew why his father had hugged him so tightly.
He surprised himself by giving in to this desire. He swept Hans up in a crushing bear hug. The boy fought him for a second, squawking unintelligibly. He relaxed quickly enough and let Andreas hold him, and somewhat tentatively, his own arms stretched around the big man’s frame.
“This is the best ale I’ve tasted in a long time,” Andreas offered as an excuse when they released each other. “I had thought to never taste such nectar again, and…” With a shrug, he drank the rest of the cup and held it out for more.
“Ernust-my uncle-makes it,” Hans said as he filled Andreas’s cup. His hesitation and stress on the word uncle made it clear that the relationship was one of convenience and not blood.
“Your uncle Ernust has been blessed with a God-given talent,” Andreas said. “Does he produce such elixir with an eye toward the marketplace in this growing city?”
“He does.”
“And I would assume there are a number of alehouses which seek to acquire his spectacular libations.”
Hans scratched the side of his nose and looked askance at Andreas for a moment and then nodded. He offered Andreas a third cup, which the knight considered refusing, but then relented.
“In addition to inquiring how I might acquire a barrel or two of this fine ale for my brothers, I also seek more immediate assistance from you, my young master.” Andreas smiled. “There is a man I need to find, and I think you know him-either by sight or by reputation.” When Hans nodded, Andreas swallowed half the contents of his cup before continuing. “I would like to see more of this city, and I do not wish to be distracted or befuddled by its confusing array of unmarked streets and chaotic marketplaces. Would you be my guide?”
Hans bowed. “I would, Sir Rose Knight.”
Andreas laughed. “Please,” he said, laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Call me Andreas. Brother Andreas, if you must. Let there be no more talk of titles.”
“Very well,” Hans agreed. He hefted the pitcher. “Would you?”
“No, thank you.” Andreas took one last sip from the cup and poured the meager remains out among the roots of the tree, careful to not splash the sleeping boy. In memoriam, he prayed. It was an old ritual, one rooted in a time before the Shield-Brethren founded Petraathen. Much of the world had changed-both outside the walls of the ancient citadel and within-but the intent of the gesture still had truth and meaning. The chain of brotherhood remained unbroken. With a lingering glance at the twisted branches of the tree, he followed Hans out of the hidden garden.
As they walked, Hans described the geography of Hunern. There were two landmarks that pulled at the inhabitants-like lodestones, Andreas pointed out, and Hans only shrugged, unfamiliar with the word. The arena, he pointed, and the church. The Mongol camps lay closer to the arena, the heavy tents peeking over the mud-brick walls like shy clusters of mushrooms; the tents, shanties, fortified compounds, and half-raised walls of the assembled Christian encampments were a circular labyrinth with the leaning spire of the church in the center. Roads and paths became narrower and more infrequent as one got closer to the church; in their zeal to be close to the beacon of Heaven, desperate pilgrims claimed nearly every inch of open ground.
The arena was not at the center of the new city, Hans explained as they approached an open commons. Wooden scaffolds and a jumbled mass of crates and sloppily connected pieces of wood made for a crude parody of the more refined construction of the arena, visible on their left. Stakes and ropes marked off three areas, and while they were currently empty, their function was clear. A pole stood beside each fighting ground, a pair of rings and posts jutting from either side. A wooden triskelion separated the arenas from each other, and each leg of the platform was a honeycomb of narrow slots.
“It’s called First Field,” Hans said. “This is where they start.” He pointed at the platform in the center. “They bring their flags and place them there.”
Andreas nodded, understanding how the system worked. Each fighter entered in the competition by putting his flag in one of the open slots. When all the holes in a leg of the triskelion were filled with standards, the fights would begin. A pair of standards would be moved to one of the circles, and their owners would enter the roped-off arena and compete. It was a system not unlike the one used by knights throughout Christendom in their tournaments of arms.
“Win here; go there,” Hans said, pointing at the arena.
“How often are the fights?”
“Every three days.” Hans shrugged. “But no one goes to the arena anymore, and so they don’t fight as much.”
Andreas nodded. The Mongolian champion whom Haakon had fought had gone crazy when the young Shield-Brother had spared his life, and a number of Mongolian guards had died in the ensuing riot. Onghwe Khan had closed the arena, and there hadn’t been any word when-or if-he was going to start the fights again.
The temporary residents of Hunern were waiting, and after a few weeks, they were starting to lose their patience. Andreas assumed the same was true for the Mongolian army. How long would they simply sit and wait for their Khan to regain his interest in the competition? How long before tempers frayed to the breaking point?
The situation was not unlike a siege, and Andreas had seen the way madness crept in men’s minds when they thought they were trapped.
“The Mongol camps are there.” Hans waved his hand. With the arena on his left and the church on his right, Andreas guessed the general direction of Hans’s wave was to the south and east of First Field. Hans pointed to the west. “Knights there, and Christians.” His hand moved to indicate the church and the area to the north and west of it. “Hunern, before…” Hans trailed off with a shrug. “Some call it that now too.”
“And where we came from?”
“Rat,” Hans said. “That’s where the rats live.” There was a hint of pride in his voice.
“Rat,” Andreas echoed. “Do you have names for the other quarters as well?”
Hans indicated each section again as he listed their names. “Wolf, lion, and eagle.”
Andreas liked the simplicity and the descriptive names the boy had given the areas of the city. He doubted a reasonably accurate map could be made of Hunern, but Hans’s basic divisions against the two perpetually visible landmarks made it easy to know where one stood in the sprawling maze. If you were closer to the arena than the church, you were closer to the enemy; safety meant putting the church between you and the Mongols-a rule any good Christian could remember.
“The Livonians are in the Lion Quarter, then?” Andreas asked.
“Mostly,” Hans answered. He brought his hand up to his mouth, and Andreas realized he was miming a specific action. “The Heermeister likes to drink,” the boy said.