Jesse Bullington - The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

“Right,” said Manfried. “We’s finally fuckin gettin somewhere. You been consortin with shit-takers, which is fittin in light a your shitty nature. Could a said that in one word.”

“Now brother,” said Hegel, “no call in runnin down nightsoilmen, we wouldn’t a gotten out a Bucharest without that sound fellow lettin us hide in his cart.”

“Thanks for remindin me bout another one a your blessed schemes,” said Manfried. “Buried alive in devil-dirt ain’t exactly the fondest memory I got, and might not a been the only way out that situation. Now stow the reminiscences long enough to see if we got to kill us an Arab.”

As the Brothers had not switched to their private dialect, Al-Gassur wasted no time in relaying the rest of his information. “According to my friend, the most immediate defamation goes like this: a certain merchant of certain repute harbors certain wanted brigands who reputedly sacked a certain village to the north, the same village a certain mistress of a certain prominent official hails from. That both her parents burned to death in the ensuing fire is no less certain. Worse still, her only brother and several of his friends were found murdered in the river shortly after.”

This tale the nightsoilman had told gelled with the doge’s emissary paying a visit to Barousse several days before, only to leave red-faced and cursing a short time later. Further confirmation came at once from the Grossbarts, who grinned at each other.

“Called us certain brigands, did he?” said Manfried. “Tomorrow you’s puttin a stone out for your friend, then me and my brother can endeavor to impress on his certain ass the utility a usin proper language stead a slanderous terminology.”

“Not his words, I assure you, but the words of the rumor!” said Al-Gassur. “He also says a new wrinkle has been revealed, namely that the, ah, accused brigands are in fact the leaders of a certain heretical sect calling themselves the Road Popes, and these blasphemous bandits have stolen much coin and spilled much blood which might have otherwise gone to Venezia, prior to this most recent and heinous and by no means proven crime of arson and murder.”

The refutation of this rumor came to Al-Gassur in the form of a sound beating from the Brothers, who were more than happy to blame the messenger.

“Your life’s spared for bein honest,” said Manfried as he boxed the wailing Arab’s ear. “That skin a yours’ a different matter, phrasin them lies like we’s them fuckin popes!”

“Easy on,” said Hegel, jumping back rather than delivering the intended kick to the prostrate servant. “I just got me a touch a the chill.”

“Someone’s raisin a ruckus out front,” said Manfried, his uncropped ear cocked to the side. “You’s square enough for masonry now, Arab, make sure you keep yourself that way.”

A breathless Father Martyn argued through the gate with the guards until Rodrigo and the Grossbarts arrived simultaneously, admitting him and leading the nervous fellow inside moments before several of the doge’s guardsmen arrived. Barousse’s guards were equally surly to the pikemen, who left after issuing several oaths and proclamations for the neighbors’ benefit. To the observant Al-Gassur-who had slunk back to the barn to watch-trouble hovered over the Barousse household like the nightsoilman’s swarm of flies.

“Heretics,” Martyn panted as he sat down at Barousse’s table.

The captain, perpetually distracted of late, picked idly at a fish bone, but the Grossbarts took interest in Martyn’s return, his bruised face, and his vague proclamations regarding blasphemers of a yet-unnamed stripe.

“You ain’t talkin bout us again,” Manfried informed him.

“Or is you?” demanded Hegel.

“What?” Martyn rubbed his swollen cheeks. “No, no, no. Lord no. I mean the Church.”

“That’s better.” Hegel reclined in his chair.

“Which church?” Only Rodrigo appeared dismayed by this.

“ The Church.” Martyn sipped more wine. “The only Church. The worm of corruption has been unearthed but I cannot exorcise it alone. How long? How long! Back to Formosus, certainly, but farther still I fear. Longer than my order has professed to battle heresy, certainly, certainly. Who remains untouched? Aquinas? Augustine?”

“Those weren’t priests chasing you, they were guardsmen. Why?” Rodrigo pumped Martyn with all the subtlety of a burly child priming a spigot.

“Hounds, nothing more!” The priest swigged at their mention. “I bore their scorn before, for the name of God and man, but no more! Roquetaillade was right, rotting in prison for speaking the truth! End Times are upon us!”

“Calm yourself,” said Rodrigo.

“Cease thy blathering!” said Martyn. “Nothing can be done for it! The Antichrist strides among us, gentlemen, he breathes and stalks and spreads ruin! Prophecy which they called heresy! They must have known, but feared martyring him lest he too rise. Saint Roquetaillade!”

Seeing his brother’s confusion, Manfried clarified. “To get sainted you gotta die someways awful. Catch the wisdom?”

“Evil clever.” Hegel nodded. “Didn’t reckon the clergy might be so underhanded-like.”

“That’s just it,” said Martyn, unswallowed wine spilling from his mouth. “Always, always! I offered to bring you before them to validate my tale but they would have none of it! Accused me of harboring a demon, me! Meanwhile the Great Mortality has not returned over spring nor summer in any part of the continent! Any! We smote it from the Earth, and yet we are deemed wicked, we are deemed guilty of blasphemy! We who put our lot with the lowly and craven, we who suffer alongside serf and cow, through winters without turnips and summers without wheat!”

Manfried scowled. “Seein how we’s not yet royalty, I’s a touch curious as to your choice a phrasin it we we we .”

“They would not let me see him! I thought this Gomorrah ’s ill relations with our Mother Church would facilitate my immediate departure but alas, they are again close as brothers! I meant to stay only a night before journeying weeks, all to sit patiently for months seeking an audience in Avignon while hordes rally at our gates, that old Serpent never absent, our second fall!” Martyn babbled, then calmed, a rain-drunk creek of words. “I have not left the city since I left you, Grossbarts, seasons have passed and I have abided, imprisoned and tortured like the last Cathar to wither and die! That’s what they did to the surviving Albigensians, you know, not a quick death for them! They sent for an inquisitor to bring me to the Holy Office, I heard them! Escaped in time, through His Will! Delivered back to you despite pursuit! His Will!”

“What’s he on bout?” Hegel asked his brother.

“Parrently implicatin our good name in some fresh shit.” Manfried was on his feet. “What in Hell’s wrong with you?!”

“Demonslayers, are you not? What worthier devil than the Archfiend, our nemesis! Of course I brought the title Grossbart into the field! Humble though you now seem, I know of your greatness, and would be remiss not to draw you into my company, lying as you do somewhere between laity and clergy. Even Saint Roquetaillade and Saint Roch quail before your sanctity! I have dreams, Grossbarts, and in them He has commanded me to do what is just! I thought that meant informing his so-called Holiness of the situation we endured, only to be undone! Not even exiled but imprisoned under his orders; his orders that the inquisitor pry the truth from my lips like some recalcitrant Judas!”

“You’s mixin up tales, you drunken sod.” Manfried shook his head, abandoning his efforts to decipher the ravings.