Tomislav grew more hesitant than was his wont. “I mayor I
may not. My wits don’t reach to understanding this thing at once.”
“Scarcely a surprise,” Petar snapped. “My son, I warned you it was a waste of time sending for. . . for one whose pastorate huddles afar in the woods. No offense, Tomislav. I hope you will agree this is a matter for learned doctors to study, for the Ban or perhaps the King’s own regents to decide about.”
“We’d not hear from them soon,” Ivan said. “Meanwhile, we’ve more than a hundred eldritch incomers to guard and feed. It strains us, keeping them, not to speak of the unease their pres-ence wakens in the commoners.”
“What have you learned from Shibenik?” Tomislav inquired.
Ivan shrugged. “What I told you, however briefly, when you
arrived yesterday. A foundering wreck of a foreign ship; dead bodies of this race, and of what appear to be Italians—likeliest Venetians-that must have fought them; that’s what the satnik’s men collected. Wisely, he’s taken steps to keep news from spread-ing. The corpses were buried in secret, the soldiers got strict orders to say nothing to anybody. Rumors are bound to spread regardless, but we can hope they’ll stay mere rumors and die out after a while.”
“Save here,” Petar muttered, and ran fingers through his blond beard. His other hand sent clicks along his rosary.
“Yes. Well, not much traffic goes in or out of Skradin,” Ivan said. “I’ve sent a request for help-food and reinforcements—but had no answer yet. Doubtless the satnik has a letter on its way to Ban Pavle, asking for instructions, and is wary of acting till he hears. This leaves me holding the entire burden, wherefore I seek what counsel I can get.”
“From anybody whatsoever?” Petar scoffed.
Tomislav bristled, gripped hard his staff, and growled back,
“What would your advice be?”
“Safest to slay them” Petar said. “They mayor may not be human, but Christian they surely are not-not Catholics of the Western rite, mauger that one of them knows Latin, nor of ours; not Orthodox schismatics, not even of the abominable Bogomil heresy, not even Jews or paynim.” His voice grew high; between the chill stone walls, he sweated. “Naked, shameless, seen freely copulating. . . why, the very heathen have some decency, some kind of marriage. . . . And nothing like a prayer, a sacrifice, any act of worship, nothing like that has been observed among them in their plight.”
“If this be true,” Tomislav said, turning mild, “why, the worst of sins would be to slaughter them, when we might instead lead them to God.”
“We cannot,” Petar insisted. “They are beasts, they have no souls, or they are something worse, something out of Hell itself.”
“That remains to be seen,” Ivan interrupted.
Petar clutched at the zhupan’s wrist. “Lord-my son-my son,
dare we risk damnation such as they could bring? The Holy Gla-
golitic Church is beleaguered already-by the Pope, who should
be our loving father, by the Orthodox of Serbia and the Empire,
by the Satan-inspired Bogomils—“
“Enough!” Ivan freed himself. “I bade Father Tomislav come
here and meet those beings for sound reasons. Must I repeat them
to you? I know him of old as a man wise in his fashion; he’s no
ignoramus either, he studied in Zadar and later served its bishop;
as for devilment or witchcraft, he lives where folk know more
about that than we do. He himself has been touched-“
There appeared that on Tomislav’s face which caused the war-rior to break off his speech and finish lamely; “Have you, then, discovered aught?”
The rustic priest stood a moment, fighting down his feelings, before he replied. Then it was with a trudging calmness. “I may have. Petar addressed their leader wrongly when he showed he commands a bit of Latin. That person is proud, he’s suffering from his wounds, he’s sick with fear on his people’s behalf. Shout at him like at a slave, rail at him about their ways, which have harmed no one unless maybe themselves. . . how do you expect he’ll behave? Naturally he turned his back. You did better for us, Zhupan, when you sent in your military chirurgeon to treat their hurts.”