Toledo, al-Andalus (Spain)
The approach to the city had made it plain to Salazar that this was an old city, very old. Islamic architecture lay in a veneer across the Gothic work of his ancestors, which itself lay on top of Roman buildings. All in all, a very different place to what he was used to. This difference was heavily reinforced by the ululating call to prayer that sounded from the minarets which towered over him as he walked under the massive archway, through the gate, and into the city. Toledo was clearly far greater even than Narbonne, where he had spent some time, and Salazar stood and looked up and around him in wonder, ignoring the crowds which surged on either side of him. As he did so, the hood of his cloak slipped and fell back, revealing the distinctive tonsure which marked him out as a Christian cleric. In the northern mountains, where Christian kings still ruled, it guaranteed safe conduct as much as anything could, but here it only attracted attention. Under more than one puzzled gaze, Salazar pulled his hood back on his head and hurried on.
Eventually, Salazar found the entrance to the Wizarding quarter of the city, concealed in the market behind a rather shabby looking bath-house. Once through this final gate, he sighed with relief, and walked through an aromatic haze to a stall which sold vividly coloured spices.
“Excuse me,” he said to the merchant. “Where might I find the house of…” The end of the sentence trailed away. The man clearly couldn’t understand a word he was saying. He tried again using Greek, hoping he might be understood.
“Where might I find the house of Ibrahim the Healer?”
“On the Street of the Doctors. Third house down.” The man’s accent was thicker than mud, but at least they could comprehend each other. Salazar thanked him and moved on, edging his way through the crowds. Eventually, after stopping a further two times to ask where the Street of the Doctors was, Salazar found the house. Or rather he found a gateway, cut into a thick, high wall. The gate itself was of some hard, dark wood, old and solid. He knocked twice and waited several minutes before the gate swung open.
A boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen looked him up and down, taking in his gaunt face, dusty robes and tonsure (the hood had slipped again) before beckoning him inside. The inner courtyard, around which the house of Ibrahim the Healer had been built was a revelation, an oasis of calm compared to the bustling street outside. Green plants filled the space, in the middle of which was a fountain. The smell of vegetation was heavy in the cool, damp air, and reminded Salazar of the forests to the north. He was shown to a cloister that ran around the outside of the courtyard “ cool grey stone behind long, slim pillars which supported elegantly pointed arches “ and invited him to sit on a stone bench. The boy left and Salazar relaxed, enjoying the little courtyard garden immensely.
Eventually, he realised that he was being watched. Again, a watchful pair of eyes took him in, but these, Salazar saw, had far more behind them than the servant boy. A powerful man. But one who none the less inclined his head politely.
“Salaam aleikum. What ails you?” Although the first words were the traditional Arabic greeting, the rest of the softly-spoken sentence was Latin, albeit with a faint lisping accent. Salazar started.
“I…er…there is a plague in the villages where I come from.” Ibrahim gave him a calm, measured look.
“And how far away are these villages?”
“I travelled a week to get here. From the Frankish marches, near Barcelona.”
“And yet you seem to have no symptoms..?”
“No, no, no… I don’t have this plague. It kills almost immediately, usually during the night, and leaves no marks on the bodies.”
“That does not sound like any plague of which I have ever heard.” There was silence in the garden, broken only by the fountain, as Ibrahim sat and thought. “I will need to consult my library. In the meantime, I will have someone take you to somewhere where you can lodge. I do not think this will be a short process.”
And so it proved to be. Salazar stayed in a hostel in the city for three days, going to Ibrahim’s house every day to ask for news, and each time being told: Nothing yet. Finally, on the fourth day, he was invited to take a seat on the stone bench in the garden as Ibrahim said that he had news.
“So?” Salazar was excited.
“The news… is that there is no news.”
“What do you mean..?”
“I mean that I have been unable to find anything that could tell me more about the plague which you describe. The only thing which I could uncover was a few sentences in an old book which talks about something similar to the east, near Constantinople. If that is the case, then a colleague of mine, practicing as a physician in Alexandria will probably have heard of it.”
The Bishop’s Palace, Narbonne, Languedoc
“Heresy, you say..?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I have spent many long hours in the cells, conversing with the wretch, and it seems that he has been following the practices of Arianism since birth.”
“Arians! Here?”
“Yes, Your Grace. It seems that there are elements in the town who are so thoroughly misguided as to…”
“So it seems. Don’t remind me.” A moment of silence. “What is to be done?”
“Well, thanks be to God, I think I have persuaded this one of his error.”
“Praise God. You think he is saved?”
“I’m as sure as I can be of anything, Your Grace.” He paused. “I am also sure that as he comprehends more fully the magnitude of his folly, he will show enough remorse to reveal to us the others.”
“To save the rest, if we can, would be a miracle indeed. Well, take as long as you have to. We need to do the job thoroughly, after all.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Tuscany, Italy
And in this year, a man came from the north, bearing relics of Ambrosinus
The words, flat and black on the smooth parchment in front of her stared back up. Rowena sighed. The monastery’s chronicle was dull, with flat, laconic entries designed to use up as little of the precious, expensive vellum as possible.
Who, she wondered, was Ambrosinus? There was Saint Ambrose, once Bishop of Milan, and one of the Fathers of the Church. But why would Milan give up any of his relics? Relics, of course, were very valuable, because of the pilgrims they drew, and furta sacrum, or sacred theft was by no means uncommon. But neither was it unknown for monks to lie, or at least bend the truth. Rowena had spoken to a deacon in a church in Gaul about a charter that had been copied into the front of the Bible there, had looked deep into the man’s eyes and knew he was lying, that it was a forgery. She had almost seen the act with her own eyes, almost heard the careful scratching of the quill.
She shook her head to clear it of the memory. It had been incidents like that, a trail of them through southern Britain, which had led her father to bring her south. He had hoped that in the sun-lit Mediterranean would remain enough Ancient Greek and Roman teaching and skill to keep his daughter’s almost wildly blossoming power sufficiently under control for her to survive. Instead, he had found a fever, which had eventually worn him away after two long weeks in the monastery infirmary, and now he lay among the monks in the monastery graveyard. The Abbot had done what he could to help, to fulfil the dieing man’s gasped last wish, but Rowena had quickly exhausted the books of magic he had shown her; he had more, but informed her they were not seemly for a young aristocratic lady to study. Rowena had declined to push the point, not wishing to risk being evicted. That thought, as usual, made her smile bitterly.
This must be the self-control I’m always being told about.
The tolling of a bell startled her out of her self-contemplation. It was time for prayer, as demanded by the Rule of St. Benedict. Carefully closing the volume, Rowena left the library and scriptorium, heading towards the church, and the tolling bell. A line of monks in black robes, cowls covering their heads moved slowly through the doors in ceremonial procession. Rowena joined the back of the line, and took her place in the choir. As she cast her eyes down to the page in the missal in front of her, the monks began to chant the service.
The church had been built in the Roman style, long and thin, with the monks lined up along either side, amongst the rows of columns which held up the roof. As the chant rose and fell, mixing with the echoes from the hard stone walls and floors, and as the sound mingled with the clouds of incense, shot through with beams of light from the small windows up above, Rowena thought, as she so often had before, that she was in paradise. The feeling didn’t last nearly long enough of course, but it almost made living under the benevolent dictatorship of the Abbot bearable.
As the chant died away, Rowena’s mind flickered back to the chronicle. The Rule had specified that time should be spent at work or at prayer, and she was to use her powers to check and reinforce the protective spells on the codices in the library. It was deathly dull, and Rowena shuddered at the thought. But then she remembered the mysterious footnote “ who was Ambrosinus? It had been niggling at her ever since she saw it; the name had connected with some memory from long ago, and she couldn’t work out what it was. Something about her father telling her stories by the fireside one winter, many years back. But why would her father’s old tales..?
Merlin. That was it. Merlin Ambrosinus! Of course! But why would anyone be transporting relics of Merlin? Relics were objects of power “ where had Merlin’s power lain? He certainly hadn’t been a saint in the usual sense, not if even half the stories about him were true. For that matter, had he even left a body behind? No, Merlin’s power was in his skill as a leader, someone who could inspire to great deeds, and in his magic. So, perhaps the wand of Merlin had passed through? Or did use Merlin use a staff? Either way… If not that, perhaps a codex, a manuscript. Merlin had done great things “ perhaps she could hold the key to them in her hands. The very thought made her light-headed. She could rise above the pettifogging rules “ it was a sign. She would go on a pilgrimage, a quest!
Founders Four by sudreyjar
Chapter Notes: As usual, many thanks to my patient Beta Molly (Cakeordeath). The names Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin are the property of J.K. Rowling, and not, alas, mine.
Chapter Endnotes: Arianism was the name for a form of Christianity which denied the divinity of Christ, and was declared a heresy in the fourth century.