by Anne Perry
Perhaps the journey to Jerusalem was one of discovery more than anything else. What would she learn of this complicated man she loved, and perhaps knew far less of than she had thought? What would he learn of himself? Maybe that was an even greater question.
They had had little chance to speak to each other except when someone else was present. And even during the small part of the night when they had had privacy, they were both too tired to stay awake long and very aware of Haroun’s men, and a few women servants, in the corridors.
Perhaps most importantly, there had been no chance to ask Benedict where he thought they might meet whoever would have the final piece of the picture.
Was Narraway a man of faith after all? Or was it simply that there was nothing else left to cling to? There were no facts beyond the existence of the two papers, the goodness of Balthazar, his wisdom and his death, the Watcher following them and now unquestionably attacking them. Everything else was a feeling, an unbreakable will to do something because someone was determined to stop them.
There was no star in the astronomical sense; it was an inner vision, perhaps an imagined one created by people who felt compelled to see sense in things, a purpose, where none existed.
Haroun was riding ahead with Narraway now, but she could hear a little of their conversation. It was about power. She heard a snatch of it from Haroun, his voice carrying.
“It is only power if you can use it,” he argued. “What is this treasure you seek, what is this star leading you toward? Is it simply knowledge of some belief within yourself?”
Was he speaking of religion, or of politics? Is that what it was really about, underneath the talk of faith?
“Don’t insult me, Haroun,” Narraway replied. “You know as well as I do that no power is of value if you have not first learned to govern yourself. Power is also responsibility. The yielding of power to someone else can offer great relief, even freedom. You no longer have to excel—no burdens, no expectations. If there is no success, then there can also be no failure. That is the ultimate peace for some.”
Haroun laughed, a harsh sound. “I am insulting you? You are no more a man like that than I am. I can see it in your face, the lines, even around your eyes. You need to find whatever the star gives you, even at the cost of dragging your wife into discomfort and at times danger. She follows you because she has little choice, and perhaps she is accustomed to obedience.”
This time it was Narraway who laughed, a sudden sound of rich enjoyment against the wind and the soft thud of hooves in the sand.
Vespasia knew what he was thinking. On the rare occasion when he was disposed to give instructions, she obeyed because she loved him, never because she had not the strength or the courage to do otherwise. She hoped fervently that he would have more wisdom than to say so now. She did not want Haroun’s disapproval; even less did she wish his interest. The thought was peculiarly repellent.
“She knows her place,” Narraway replied. How very ambiguous that remark was! It could have meant anything. Perhaps Haroun had forgotten that England was ruled by a woman, as was a quarter of the world in the British Empire.
“We shall ride with you all the way to Jerusalem,” Haroun said. “We must make certain that you are safe. Perhaps even as far as your destination. It is an ancient city, crushed with people, especially at this time of the year. If this Watcher of yours is ahead of you now, then he may be waiting for you in the crowds as they pass along the streets. Or in the shadows of the narrow alleys, the archways, the steps between one passageway and another.”
Narraway did not reply.
“Does this faith of yours tell you that you are invulnerable? That you cannot be harmed?” Haroun persisted. “Are you a man chosen above all others by whatever god you believe in, so that the hands of lesser men cannot prevail against you?”
“Certainly not,” Narraway said without hesitation. “I think the mission is as much for me as for mankind. Certainly it is not for God.”
Vespasia listened to him with surprise, but at that moment she did not care about considering his beliefs. She was not thinking of the purpose of their journey, or even of Balthazar whom it had cost so much, but of Narraway and the danger he was in because he intended to see their errand through. It did not really matter whether his resolve was out of faith in the religious or spiritual sense, or only the determination to keep the promise Balthazar had asked of him. He must know the danger he was in. The Watcher had tried twice to kill them. Now Haroun’s hospitality had saved them, but she didn’t know why.
They rode east into the brightening morning, the sun now high enough to cast sharp shadows on the desert floor. Vespasia was certain that Haroun and his men were not only their escort against another attack from the Watcher, their guides to the gates of Jerusalem, and their easy and swift transport, but they were also their jailers. As long as they were mounted, and in the center of the group as they rode along the way east, it would be impossible to break free. His men rode swift horses; they were used to the desert; they were all armed with scimitars: long, curved, and razor sharp. There had been no threats. They would be completely unnecessary. It was all there in the silence: the grace, the ease in the saddle, the never-resting eyes.
Narraway and Haroun were talking again of faith and power. Haroun could not let it be. Perhaps he was testing Narraway.
“Knowledge,” he said thoughtfully, looking at Narraway. “You say it is some kind of knowledge? But knowledge is no use unless you can use it. You have no power if people do not know you have it. Power to do what?”
“I don’t know,” Narraway admitted.
Vespasia could not see his face because she was riding just behind him. She wished he would change the subject. Haroun was dangerous. Perhaps the whole quest was dangerous. They had begun it simply to keep a promise to a man they had admired. They had thought it little more than an errand.
No, that was not true. By the time Narraway had found the paper, he knew Balthazar had been murdered for its sake. He had looked at the strange writing, and he had believed it mattered. He had seen the inner star that he had spoken of to Haroun. Maybe now he was looking for an answer of his own, a faith in something he believed was there to be found, to be understood.
She was afraid for him, afraid that he would be hurt, perhaps even killed. And she was also afraid that when he arrived in Jerusalem he would find only an ancient city full of passion and complexity and the roots of three great faiths, but not any answers beyond the ones that each person brought with them anyway. Perhaps it was not in any sense a destination of the spirit. If that turned out to be true, would it cut to the heart?
But no matter what she thought, she must not interfere. Love does not bind others to its own need.
She looked across at Benedict and saw nothing in his face but patience.
They were climbing very slightly, and as they reached the top of an escarpment they turned and looked at a different view, invisible before. Spread out ahead of them lay the holy city of Jerusalem. Vespasia’s eyes searched hopefully for a view of the golden Dome of the Rock, or the ruins of the Temple of Solomon, but all was hidden behind the walls of the ancient city through which Christ had walked. At the end of the road ahead of them the crowds of people, traders, and beggars milled around the high walls and the huge, magnificent Jaffa Gate.
As one, the riders stopped, all struck with emotion as if they had never seen the gate before, although Haroun’s men must have seen it countless times.
No one spoke. It was as though they were the first to take in the spectacular view before them, as though no one else had ever sat here on horseback and viewed the city for the first time.
Vespasia looked at Benedict. What did he see? The City of David, and of Solomon? Or, older than that, the Mount where Abraham was willing to sacrifice Isaac to the will of God?
What did Narraway see? She looked at him and thought with the gravity in him that maybe it was Gethsemane, or Golgotha, and she was afraid for him. Bu
t she must not interfere, even if she could.
What did she see? All those things. And yet as she stared at the hillside, the rooftops, the trees, it was another garden she was looking for: the one in which Mary Magdalene was the first mortal to see the empty tomb and the risen Christ.
It must be in one of those spaces where there were trees. Did it matter which one? No, it did not matter in the slightest if she never saw it. She knew it was there.
She urged her horse forward a little, and at that very moment Haroun did the same. As one body, as if impelled by a single urge, they all began to descend the very slight incline and move toward the main road. No one spoke.
Vespasia wished she could have been alone with Narraway. They could have talked of what they felt, what they hoped for. But then, they had expected to arrive by train, in the new, modern way as befitted the turn of the century and the dawn of a new age.
This was the way they might have come since time immemorial. In fact, they would part from Haroun, one way or another, and in the end go on foot, in the oldest way of all.
But how could they escape Haroun and his men? That was now the most pressing question.
They continued in silence. The last thousand yards or so of the sand was level and easy, smoothed by uncountable feet coming this way over the millennia, all seeking, and perhaps each one finding, something different, or possibly nothing at all.
As they grew closer to the Jaffa Gate itself, Vespasia and Narraway saw that the city’s walls and the vast tower looming above them, built of desert-colored pale stone hewn out of rocks so long ago it did not seem man-made, was even more massive than it had seemed from a distance. High on the wall were narrow slits—not windows, but ports for the defenders to shoot arrows from—and giant gates within that would be closed at night.
The crowds around the outside seemed oblivious of it, like ants moving purposefully. Most clothing looked practical, dust- and rock-colored, with occasional black or dark brown. Now and then there was a flash of some brighter color, red or blue, glinting under the sunlight.
Old men had long beards and stood philosophizing, arguing, bargaining. Women sold food and water. Children played, held fruit or sweetmeats, laughed and cried. Dogs looked hopefully for scraps. Camels waited with occasional impatient complaining sounds too clear to be misread.
Haroun and his men dismounted. Narraway, Benedict, and Vespasia did the same. Half of the men took the horses to care for them, see them rubbed down, watered, and fed. A desert man cares for his beast before himself. It is not altruism, but survival. Without his horse he is dead, and he has known that since childhood.
Haroun looked at Narraway, briefly including Vespasia. He inclined his head toward the vast archway of the gate rising into the air like a castle beyond the milling, noisy crowd outside. It was clearly an invitation.
Would Narraway agree? Was it all over without even a struggle?
Vespasia turned to look at a woman who was selling bright silks set out on a flimsy stall. She took a step toward it.
One of Haroun’s men took a step in the same direction, his eyes on her.
She stared back angrily, as if he had touched her.
He did not move. That in itself was a statement.
Benedict backed away as if frightened and collided with a woman carrying a bale of cloth. She lost her balance and dropped the bale onto the ground, then turned angrily to berate him for causing it to be soiled with dust.
Someone laughed. A quarrel broke out and a dog seized its chance to steal a piece of fried meat. The quarrel became more heated and other people joined in. The woman whose meat had been taken shouted at the dog’s owner and several other dogs joined in the general mêlée.
Vespasia felt Narraway’s hand on her arm, impelling her forward. It was the only chance they were likely to have. They plunged ahead and then turned quickly, so as not to run in a predictable straight line.
Every route seemed to be blocked. They twisted and turned, trying to find their way back toward the gate, and avoid being herded against the wall, where there was no escape. They passed through close-packed crowds and then open spaces. They saw men who could have been Haroun’s. Most men looked alike in their soft, earth-colored robes with flashes now and again of white. Some wore turbans, and others were bareheaded.
Vespasia was breathless, her heart pounding. She was almost at the great shadowed end of the gate when she saw a boy, perhaps ten or eleven, standing wide-eyed and filled with fear. He was staring straight at her as if begging her for help, knowing it would not come.
Then a hard-faced man seized him from behind and gave him a stiff blow around the head. The boy’s eyes filled with tears of pain.
Without giving it a thought, Vespasia strode forward and snatched a stick from an old man nearby. She swung it as hard as she could at the man who had hit the boy, knocking him off balance. Narraway lunged forward to take her arm and pull her away, but she was too angry to yield. She gave the stick back to its owner, then she opened her purse and shook out all the money she had. She threw it to the ground in front of the violent man, who was now climbing to his feet again. He looked across at the coins on the ground, then at her.
Narraway sized up the situation and acted out his part. He grasped the boy by the hand and pulled him forward. Surprisingly the boy came without any protest.
There was no time for argument now, or for Narraway to tell her what he thought of her action. Together, and closely followed by the boy, they ran for the gate and into the shadow.
At the far side they emerged, Benedict beside them, puzzled, but his face shining with victory. They were in Jerusalem.
“Hurry,” Narraway said briskly. “They won’t be far behind us.” He turned to the boy. He had no idea what language even to try. Narraway had no Arabic at all, or Hebrew. The boy was thin, olive-skinned, and had huge dark eyes. He could have been of any Middle Eastern race, or even from the south of Spain.
“Will you be all right?” Narraway used English. Since it was at least the most common tongue in the world, it was a place to begin.
The boy nodded gravely. He looked at Vespasia and smiled, a slow, sweet expression of great gentleness. “Thank you, lady,” he said. His voice was husky, perhaps on the edge of breaking into manhood.
“You are welcome,” she said equally seriously.
“We must move,” Narraway warned them. “We are still too near the gate. Haroun will find us here.”
The boy still looked at Vespasia. “I have something for you,” he said. “It is…precious.”
Vespasia shook her head. “You don’t need to give me anything.”
He took no notice of her. He pulled out of his meager clothing a piece of parchment rolled up and flattened, and passed it to her, watching her face.
She took it and opened it up, her fingers trembling. She knew what it was the moment she saw it. It was the final piece of the treasure they were looking for, and with a glance she knew this was in Latin. With time, they would be able to decipher it, even though the writing was hasty and distorted by emotion. She met his eyes, solemn and filled with warning.
“Thank you,” she answered him, folding it up again and putting it inside the front of her dress. “What is your name?”
“Jeshua,” he replied. “Please be careful.”
“I will. Are you coming with us?”
“Yes.” It was just one word, and yet it held intense meaning. He said it with certainty and the shadow of a smile.
She took his arm and they walked together a step or two behind Narraway and Benedict as they followed the other pilgrims. It was Christmas Eve, and the Via Dolorosa was the destination of many.
They stayed together as closely as they could, but it was a long walk and they were jostled and pushed. Everyone was excited. Some were weeping as if close to hysteria. Others were angry. There was an electricity in the air that Vespasia found disturbing. The emotion was out of control. There seemed to be fierce, loyal, and intensely bigote
d people pressing forward, ready to fight anyone who challenged their views. Some had faces distorted by anger. Others were made beautiful by piety. They were all ages, all races, both men and women.
Vespasia clung on to Narraway, afraid of losing him in the press. Jeshua walked beside her. Benedict pushed the way open before them.
She looked for any sign of a bakery. The street was narrow and winding. There were steep stairs in the passages between one house and another, and archways across so that people could go from one side to the other without touching the street, unseen by those below.
There were shops, houses, alleyways that led off to courtyards. People stood in the shelter of doorways, watching. All humanity seemed to be here, searching and expecting.
Then suddenly it was there, a narrow door with the sign reading that bread was for sale. Was that it? The House of Bread? Beit Lechem!
No one else seemed to be taking any notice of it. They were pressing on with their journeys, eager to have walked the whole distance, expectant of some crowning emotion at the end.
Narraway saw the sign also and pulled her into the doorway. It was Benedict, a step ahead of them, who pushed on the worn, wooden door and felt it yield under his hand.
Inside was a small shop with a single counter and behind it an ancient man with a white beard covering most of his wizened face. He smiled at them and nodded, looking carefully at Benedict, a man with such an innocent, unmarked face, and the foreigners. Lastly he looked at the boy, and his smile widened until it was radiant.
“Upstairs,” he said clearly, in English. He pointed to another, rather battered, door. “No one is here yet, but you are welcome.”
“Thank you,” Narraway replied, and led the way up a steep, winding stair. It was past midday already.
At the top was a room with a large wooden table and many chairs. They went in and closed the door. Narraway looked, but there was no lock on it. Nor was there any other way of entering or leaving.
Vespasia knew he was wondering if they dared take out their pieces of parchment and look at them. And yet if they did not, what was the purpose of having accomplished their journey? They had risked so much to keep them safe and bring them here. Why did they have them? What would it tell them, now that it was purportedly the end of the journey? If they passed them to someone else without looking at them themselves, they would never know what the secret was, the knowledge for which Balthazar had given his life, and for which the Watcher had followed him from…where?
