At the end of Giradin's third day of training, Father Hewlett invited him to join his fellows in the cellar, giving only the vaguest of indications of what they would be doing down there.

When Giradin descended the stairs into the cellar, Father Hewlett leading the way, he saw four men sitting upon barrels with bottles of mead, ale, wine, and beer in their hands.

One man had curly, black hair, a long beard, and wore a tiny cap on the crown of his head. One look and Giradin was sure this man was a Jew.

Another man had long, blonde hair pulled back in a braid and a bushy mustache hanging over his lips. When he raised his bottle of ale to his lips, the bottle's neck parted the mustache hairs to reach its destination. He tilted his head back and took a long swig.

The third was a moor, with a head shaved bald and scars across his face which appeared to be from the claws of some terrible beast. The moor raised his bottle of mead to Giradin and Father Hewlett as they entered and gave them a friendly smile, showing his snow-white teeth.

The fourth man also had a shaved head, but also a long beard without a mustache. His eyes remained on a spot on the floor when Giradin and Father Hewlett entered the cellar.

Father Hewlett nodded to them all, and the blonde man handed him a bottle of wine. "Thank you," said Father Hewlett. He turned back to Giradin and pointed to the blonde man. "Giradin, this is Sir Bertran. Before joining us he was a knight hospitaller."

Sir Bertran, the blonde man, chuckled. "With the crusades over, had to find something to do with my life, aye?"

"Umm... aye..." said Giradin.

Father Hewlett gestured to the Jew. "This is Shlomo. He's been helpful in coming up with ways to clean patients."

Shlomo, the Jew, nodded his head to Giradin and held out a bottle of beer to him. Giradin reluctantly took the bottle. "Eat, drink, and be merry," said Shlomo. "For tomorrow we may all be in the grave."

Shlomo's words sounded oddly familiar to Giradin, and he was about to ask him about them before Father Hewlett placed a hand on his shoulder and directed his attention to the moor. "This is Mujahid Ibn Hisham," said the priest.

The moor grinned at Giradin. "Just call me Mu. Everyone else here does."

Giradin shrugged, "I... I imagine Mujahid Ibn... that your full name is hard to remember."

"Not where I'm from," said Mu, the moor, "but in these lands, yes."

Father Hewlett's hand on Giradin's shoulder steered his attention to the man with a bald head and short beard without a mustache. "Finally, this is Fulk. He's... well, he's from Beltin."

Fulk shook his bald head, still not looking up at either men. "You can say it, Father. I'm a murderer here to make some form of penance for my sins."

Giradin caught his breath at Fulk's words, and every instinct within him screamed that he should put as much distance between himself and Fulk as possible.

"These days, we're all murderers," said Shlomo with a shrug. "We take life, often innocent life, to protect the people. Kill one man, one woman, save thousands."

"Millions," said Sir Bertran, "Or have you already forgotten St. Ida's prophecy?"

To Giradin the numbers seemed absurd. He'd never seen a thousand of anything, let alone a million.

Shlomo looked up at Giradin. "How did you get recruited into this?"

"I..." Giradin hesitated. "I was conscripted."

Shlomo chuckled. "Yes, most of us were conscripted. I'm asking why you were conscripted."

"I don't know," said Giradin, thinking back to that day. "Because I was helpful, I guess?"

"Oh, the joys of being virtuous!" Shlomo raised his bottle of beer. "For I was envious at the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. For they have no pangs until death; their bodies are fat and sleek."

Giradin gave the Jew a confused look. "Umm... something like that."

Father Hewlett took a seat on one of the barrels in the cellar and drank from his wine bottle. Giradin watched as the priest finished off half the bottle at once before finally stopping to take a breath. "Ah! Nothing sweeter!"

Giradin shook his head. "Pardon me, Father, but it's... strange to see a priest drink so much."

Shlomo snorted. "You'll see far stranger things than that soon enough, shegetz."

"Celebrate how you can when you can," said Father Hewlett. "This is a thankless profession. Everywhere we go we will be hated and feared, and we see far more death than most men."

Sir Bertran nodded. "I think I've seen more death since I've been a plague doctor than I ever did in the crusades. Heavens! If someone had told me when I was a young lad that one day I'd both fight beside and drink with a moor I'd have boxed his ears! Ha ha!"

Mu drank from his bottle of honey mead. "No. No you wouldn't. You've far too gentle a soul for that, and you know it! Sometimes I wonder if such a good man can really be a Christian."

Sir Bertran started to his feet and raised his fists. His brow was furrowed in rage and his nostrils flared over his bushy mustache. "Say it again, Mohammedan! Or I'll show you how gentle this Christian truly is!"

Giradin backed away from the two men, fearful of getting caught up in their fight.

Mu slowly rose to his feet and took another drink from his bottle of mead. "Sometimes... I wonder... if such a good man... can really be..." Mu whispered the final words, "a Christian."

Sir Bertran pointed at Giradin. "You! New recruit! Throttle this Godless heathen!"

Giradin glanced between the knight and the moor, his whole body trembling with fear. "Why... umm... why can't you do it?"

Sir Bertran pointed at the moor again. "You heard me! Don't let this blasphemer live!"

"I... I... I..." Giradin stammered, his mind racing for some manner of excuse not to get involved in their fight.

Shlomo shook his head. "Stop torturing the poor lad."

A painful silence followed Shlomo's words, and finally both Sir Bertran and Mujahid broke into laughter.

Sir Bertran gave Giradin a firm smack on the chest. "You should have seen your face!"

Mujahid nodded. "We're jesting, boy. In the crusades we might have been enemies, but all peoples are equal in the sight of the plague, for it kills Christian and 'Heathen' alike."

Giradin groaned, shook his head, and drank the beer Shlomo had given him. He'd never had beer before, and the instant the alcohol touched his tongue he knew he hated it. But the other men in the room seemed to enjoy it, so he hid his disgust the best he could.

"Strong drink--" Fulk began, his eyes still cast down at the floor, "--makes the ghosts quiet."

Giradin felt a chill at the self-professed murderer's words. There was something in his flat tone and the distant stare in his eyes that told Giradin this man lived in shame. When Giradin peered around the room at the others, he saw that they laughed and joked together as they drank, but when he looked at their eyes rather than their smiles he saw a deep pain within them. These men hated themselves and their lot in life, and they drank and celebrated life together to fight off the pain of seeing so much death.

And soon enough, Giradin knew he'd be just like them.

Fulk looked up at Giradin. When their eyes met, Giradin felt he knew this man's life story. This was a man in Hell, who had given up hope of seeing Heaven one day. Both men raised their bottles to their lips and savored the bitterness within, which was still far sweeter than their lot in life would prove to be.