Chapter Text
29 July 1583, Friday. Late afternoon.
They came to him in the taproom of a noisome inn near Rheims.
Immediately upon their entering, he knew they were there for him; three Moontouched of the Eastern Orthodoxy did not travel into Catholic France -- into its former capital, of all things, and a true stronghold of the Faith -- without great need. Of course, great need was what they all claimed when they came to him. It wasn't usually true, but he pretended it was until they showed him the money they were willing to pay for their 'great need'. The ones who only had great want usually paid more.
He, in turn, was not difficult to find; a single Moor (or so they assumed from the turban on his head and the ebon tint of his skin) alone in Christendom is a murder victim waiting to happen, and in fact he'd been dragged into an alley and murdered earlier that week. As usual, death didn't take; the money in the purses of the well-paid cutthroats were funding his drink even now, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to pay a visit to the thugs' benefactor.
"You are Mohammed of Kush?"
He looked up at the older, brawny Moontouched leaning on his table in a manner which he could, if he chose, decide was threatening, then at his cross-armed companion -- another posture, strength attempting to impose itself upon weakness. When will they learn? he wondered to himself, then pulled in a deep sniff and considered the scents.
"Let the kyrión sit down," he said in French, his voice mild, his accent strange. "I speak with employers, not bodyguards."
The one pressing his fists into the table bared his teeth at him and growled, then yelped as 'Mohammed of Kush' gave his cheek a trio of stripes from his fingernails. The lightning backhand was slow in returning to his cup, the black man keeping his gaze upon the cross-armed one. "I said, I speak with employers. Let him sit."
For a moment it looked like it would turn to further violence, which would have been a pity; he would have had to kill the two polemistés, Moontouched or not, because their stupid pride would have muddled their brains and made them try to kill him. Maybe they would have even succeeded ... but death at their hands would have taken as well as from the cutthroats'.
"Lightly, Kristos," the third person's soft, high tenor said, speaking Greek. "We are here for his help, not his harming."
The cross-armed guardian moved aside at a touch, and the third one -- Moontouched and of the Génos, that segment of the population that had the few aggressive warriors, the even fewer breeding creators, the more populous secondary helpers, who were almost normal humans (or normal Moontouched, he supposed) -- moved to sit on the bench across from him, pulling his hood back from his face. He was, little to Mohammed's surprise, beautiful; a stirring at his groin, the exuding of his own polemistís pheromones, recognized the draw of the youth. Greek, yes, as his bodyguards were; the subtle indicators of the Moontouched in his face were celebrations, not threats.
"Please forgive Kristos," the youth said in French good enough to make him acceptable as an ambassador. "He was bonded to my dam, and has sworn to deal with her killer. I am Alexios Vatatzes."
Mohammad took a slow sip of the sour beer, watching the youth settle down, cataloging items of interest. His clothing was durable and well-made, showing the wear of the sea and road from the Balkan Peninsula, but the thread keeping it together was doubled, the stitches closer together, an indicator of a better category of tailors than ordinary folk used. A few small trinkets he wore -- lead, undoubtedly -- were indicators of pilgrimages, more than a peasant might manage. "You are not from around here," he lightly teased the youth, who smiled.
"No, indeed I am not. However, I have traveled many miles to find the Nubian guard of the High Priest of Israel, and here you sit."
"Hmm. I thought that tale long dead."
"The immortal polemistís? As dead as you are."