Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers

by Frances Vieta

  “This is what looks so interesting,” she said, showing him the tiny cross above the lioness’s nose. “There was a British traveler who said it was the rays of the sun, but I think he’s wrong. I think it’s a cross. And these,” she said, bringing his attention over to the rubbings she had done in Kaleb’s tomb. “See what I mean? But why a Christian symbol, such as the cross, on a pre-Christian tomb?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, these are the croce patté of the Knights Templar.”

  “The Knights Templar?”

  “I’m almost positive. But we can check. I have a book of Christian crosses. Don’t move,” Yifru said, going out the door.

  Ceseli did move over to her desk. She was sorting out some papers when he got back. Yifru took the seat in front of her and started to thumb through a small book. “Who were the Knights Templars?” she asked.

  Yifru hesitated for a minute, but when he answered it was clear he knew the subject well. “They started out as a pious group of French nobility who went to Jerusalem after the First Crusade in 1099. There were nine of them, I think. They all came from the same area of Champagne in France and they became known as the Order of Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. Their job was to protect pilgrims on the road between Jaffa, the Mediterranean port where the ships landed, and Jerusalem. They were warrior monks. For their services in protecting pilgrims, Pope Innocent II granted them forgiveness of their sins.”

  “How could nine monks protect all the pilgrims?”

  Yifru stopped and looked at her. “That, Miss Larson, was my first question, too.”

  “You need to call me Ceseli,” she smiled. “Are these the ones who grew so rich?”

  “Young men flocked to the order, but to join they had to give all their wealth and belongings to the order.”

  “That’s how they became wealthy?” Ceseli interrupted.

  “There were other ways. They owned their own ports and hospitals. As you know, the church, or maybe I should say the pope, forbade money lending with interest. That was called usury. But the Templars got around that because they became very powerful and very rich. They ended up being the bankers to the popes and to kings. That caused their downfall.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Here it is. In 1127, the Templars were recognized as a religious military order at Troyes by the court of the Count of Champagne. It was said to be founded in 1118, by Hugues de Payen, a nobleman of Champagne and a vassal of the count of Champagne. According to what we know Hugues and eight comrades, all noblemen from the same Champagne area presented themselves to King Baldwin I. Baldwin was the King of Jerusalem, whose brother, Godfroi de Bouillon, had captured the Holy City nineteen years earlier. They offered their services in the protection of pilgrims. The king was so thankful for their offer of help that he vacated a wing of the palace and gave it to their use.”

  Yifru smiled. “Notwithstanding their oath of poverty, the knights moved into this lavish headquarters that was built on top of the temple that Solomon had built. Hence the name. Am I going too fast?”

  “No.”

  “They wore distinctive white robes with a large red cross on it. Only the Templars could wear it. Moreover, they were ordered to fight to the death, they could not be ransomed, and they could not surrender unless the odds exceeded three to one.” Yifru paused. “Those are pretty stiff orders.”

  “This story is better than King Arthur.”

  Yifru chuckled as he ran his finger down the page.

  Ceseli looked at Yifru. “Why your interest in the Templars?”

  “When I was at Columbia I took a course in medieval history. What interested me was that one of our Ethiopian emperors had been in exile in Jerusalem from around 1160 AD when he would have been twenty years old, until 1185. He is best known for his given name, Lalibela, but his throne name was Gebre Meskal. He is famous for the eleven rock-hewn churches he had built in twenty-three years.”

  “Why was he in exile?”

  “To protect him.” Yifru said, drawing in his breath. “He was the son of the Emperor Jen Seyoum. When Lalibela was born, there was a swarm of bees on him in his cradle so his mother named him Lalibela. That means ‘the bees recognize his sovereignty.’ And bees are considered a royal sign so that people began talking about his future as an emperor.”

  Ceseli thought of other kings who used bees in their heraldic signs and came up with the Italian Barberini family that had sired two popes. Napoleon too had golden bees appliquéd on his purple robes. She refocused on Yifru.

  “Lalibela had an older, half-brother, named Harbay. He was the oldest son and thought he should be heir to the throne. Harbay felt threatened by these prophesies. So he tried to have the baby killed. That didn’t work. So later he tried to have him poisoned.”

  “And I take it that didn’t work either.”

  “No, but it is said that he was in a coma for three days and during that time, God told him not to be afraid of dying for he had foretold great things for him during his lifetime. Including that he would build magnificent churches. Anyhow, his mother thought he might be killed in some other way so she sent him to Jerusalem for protection. In 1185, he returned to Roha, which was then the capital of Ethiopia, and persuaded his half-brother, Harbay, to renounce the throne.”

  “Why would Harbay do that?”

  “Because it was foretold. You see, succession in Ethiopia is not directly to the eldest son.”

  “I know that,” Ceseli interrupted. “Rutherford explained. It is the most powerful who becomes emperor. Perhaps he knew that Lalibela had a bigger army.”

  “That’s possible too. And if he had employed the Knights Templar to return with him then your supposition would make good sense.”

  “Then what’s the connection with the crosses?” Ceseli asked, confused.

  “These are the same crosses. Those,” he said, pointing toward the rubbings, “carved into one of Lalibela’s churches.”

  “Are they signatures?”

  “I can’t answer that. Nobody has been able to explain how the crosses got there. The churches are excavated down out of the volcanic tuff rather than built above the ground.”

  “Like a cave?”

  “If each cave were vertical. He built, and I put that “built” in quotes, them in twenty-three years. Legend says with the help of angels. He needed a lot of help, that’s for sure. And the Templars were known as master builders and architects and they were living door-to-door for twenty years. Some friendship must have developed.”

  “So putting one and one together, you believe the Templars helped Lalibela?”

  “Their help as warriors is not to be scoffed at either. Getting his brother, Harbay to step down was not easy. Ethiopians are not ones to shrink from battle.”

  “How do you know so much about this?”

  “Why should an Ethiopian know so much about his own history?”

  “Did it sound like that? I’m sorry.” Ceseli felt mortified. The last person in the world she wanted to offend was Yifru.

  “My father is the foremost authority on Ethiopian history.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Still kicking, if that is the American euphemism.”

  “It gets the point across,” she smiled. “And you of course grew up with his knowledge.”

  “My father was the emperor’s tutor.”

  “Why did Lalibela build the churches?”

  “The Turks had reconquered Jerusalem. He built them here at his birthplace so that Ethiopian pilgrims would not need to travel to Jerusalem. He had lived in Jerusalem for twenty years and he recreated it in Roha. Even the River Jordan. Later the name was changed to Lalibela.”

  “But eleven churches in twenty-three years is a master undertaking. How did he get that done?”

  “The simple answer is, I don’t know.” Yifru smiled. “The local people will tell you that while he had crews working during the day, angels were working at night.”

  “He’d still need a
n army of angels, I think.”

  Yifru looked up as the cuckoo clock sprang into action. “I need to finish these papers. Let’s continue this when I catch up with the angels.”

  Ceseli smiled as he left. That seemed just as daunting a task as building eleven churches in twenty-three years.

  CHAPTER 18

  AT THE END OF June, the rains began, but nothing had prepared Ceseli for their intensity. In the early morning, when she arrived at the palace, the sky was penetratingly clear and blue. Looking out the window, she could see the Entoto hills above, the gorges below.

  Around midday, the clouds would start forming into gigantic thunderheads, followed two hours later by lightning, thunderbolts and torrential rain in such force that Ceseli could barely see the huge circular fountain just below her window. There was no reason now to water the roses and the fountain actually worked. Each day when the rain stopped, there was often a splendid sunset, with a rainbow its colors so strong that one might think of a huge prism used by a favoring god.

  Marco is certainly right about the pace of life in Addis, she thought. After work, there was almost nothing to do except use one’s initiative. Reading, of course, was number one and thankfully there were lots of books in the library. She played the piano, despite its imperfect tuning and also spent some evenings cataloguing her photos and making notes in her bible. Jigsaw puzzles were started, but rarely finished because Hilina often moved the pieces around so that she could dust.

  On the Fourth of July, Rutherford gave a barbeque inviting all the Americans in Addis as well as the members of the British Embassy, two Canadians and Marco, who telephoned from the hospital to ask if he could bring Zeri.

  They dug an open pit in the garden near the Eucalyptus trees where they could roast a whole steer. There were several long tables set up with blue, red, and white bunting draped from them. They were laden with homegrown watermelons, pickles, chocolate cake, and potato salad. The smell of the roasting flesh and the smoke as the fat dripped into the pit was almost nauseous, but the meat was very good indeed. They also served corn on the cob grown from seeds imported from the U.S.

  “Guess who?”

  Ceseli was helping to serve potato salad, when someone covered her eyes from behind.

  “You’re not supposed to speak, or you give yourself away,” she admonished.

  “Just wanted to tell you I’m here,” Marco smiled, taking some of the potato salad. “Um, this is delicious. You made this; confess!”

  “I gave our chef the recipe. It’s about the only thing I can cook. Except French toast. That’s a warning.”

  “Warning received. What’s French toast?”

  “Bread soaked in beaten eggs and sautéed in a skillet. It was my father’s favorite breakfast. Oh, I forgot you smear on jam or maple syrup.”

  “Maple syrup?”

  “The sap from Maple trees. It’s very sweet. I don’t know if Maples grow in Italy, but in late winter the sap is collected. Maybe we should ask Zeri to do an article on the sap from Eucalyptus trees,” she joked. “I mean, if there is sap.”

  “You don’t seem to like him, but he’s a very decent chap.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Ceseli saw Warren Rutherford not far away and waved for him to come to her. “Warren, I want to introduce you to Marco Antinori. He’s a doctor at the Italian hospital.”

  “Very glad to meet you Doctor Antinori. I’m happy you could join us,” the minister said shaking hands. “The Fourth of July is the day we celebrate our independence, but Ceseli has probably told you that.”

  “No, actually she hasn’t, but she has said that you are her godfather.”

  “And her Uncle Warren, although we have dropped the uncle part of that,” he smiled hugging Ceseli warmly. “Now let me greet the other guests,” he said, walking off to join the British ambassador.

  The harmonica music from Ol’ Man River interrupted them. His harmonica playing made him an instant success. His name was Bill and he was a Negro from Kansas. “If one name is good enough for the Ethiopians, it’s plenty good enough for me,” he joked.

  Ceseli had met him at the palace to which he delivered six chocolate brown Kansas mules and one pure white one. They were the gifts of the Negro community in Harlem and meant to show solidarity with the emperor. Bill’s knowledge of mule breeding could make him a wealthy man, he explained. He liked the place and was determined to stay on.

  She liked Bill immediately. He was a very big man, with a jovial smile and a kindly way with his mules, but she couldn’t help wondering, if something more modern would not be more efficient on a battlefield.

  Marco and Zeri were captivated by the way he played his harmonica. “You’re amazingly good. Where’d you learn?” Zeri asked him.

  “Doin’ is all. Just listnin’ and tryin’ to imitate. You play?”

  “Not very well. But mine is quite different. It has ten holes above and ten below.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of those. Mine is not so elaborate.”

  “But you’re a genius playing it.”

  “Just passion,” Bill laughed as he put the harmonica back in his mouth.

  “I didn’t know you could play,” Marco asked of Zeri.

  “Experimenting. Something to keep me busy. Trying to write a little music. My mother plays the piano and she gave me lessons. I liked the guitar better, but it’s too big to carry around. The harmonica can be a lot of fun. And our friend here sure knows how to play. I’m still at the very beginning.”

  “Well, keep up the practice. You can’t get any worse.”

  “No. You’re right. I can’t get worse.” Zeri smiled.

  CHAPTER 19

  MARCO STOOD ON THE steps of the ospedale Italiano waiting for Ceseli. It wasn’t a beautiful building, but it was functional and because of its proximity to the center of town, it was handy. The Emperor Menelik II had built his own hospital in Addis in 1906 and that was where the Ethiopians went. Marco had been to it often never failing to wonder at the number of the family members of patients who were camping out in the hospital grounds.

  Marco thought about his father’s letter of two days before and took it from his pocket to reread. “Keep a low profile, Marco, and be careful of what you say and to whom you say it. War is coming and you don’t want to get accused of not being an ardent Fascist. You know,” he had continued, “every time I look out the window I see new trains coming from the north bringing the young conscripts. They’re so eager and happy to be going to Naples and then Eritrea. They want this war. They’re willing to die for Il Duce, and many will. If they only knew.”

  From an early age, Marco had known the importance of the Antinori name, of the land that went with that name and that he would inherit someday. Instead of being just landed gentry, his father had chosen to hire a manager for the vineyards while he studied and then practiced medicine. Marco couldn’t pinpoint the moment he decided he wanted to be a doctor or why his special interest in malaria. Perhaps it was because his father believed that clearing malaria from the Pontine Marshes was the only thing Mussolini could be credited with.

  He had kidded Ceseli about the number of girlfriends. Really he was a very shy teenager with his nose stuck in his schoolbooks. He wanted to be the best in his class and being the only Italian, that meant first learning English and then studying very hard. He had done so willingly. Recently, Marco had written his father asking him what he thought about using chloroquine as a substitute for quinine. “It’s like the search for the Holy Grail,” his father had written and that made Marco smile. It really is, he thought.

  While he waited, he thought of Ceseli and wondered how he could convince her to leave while it was still safe to do so. “So you’ve finally made it here,” he joked, helping her out of the mission’s car and leading her to his laboratory.

  “I would have come earlier if you’d invited me,” she said as she followed him up the stairs. She took off her sunhat letting loose her hair and smoothed her blue cotton ski
rt. She had seriously considered wearing something more flirtatious, but the reality of it was, she really didn’t have anything appropriate. That realization forced her to find a seamstress at the market and she had ordered several other skirts and some blouses.

  “It’s nice here,” she said. “I can see where you get your inspiration.”

  “Not much inspiration, I’m afraid. Mostly just drudgery, but that’s sort of what research is. Long hours of trying to track down matches and answers. Do you know anything about malaria?” he asked.

  “Only that Daisy Miller caught it wandering around Rome’s coliseum.”

  “That’s because mosquitos come out at night,” Marco said. “The name comes from the medieval Italian word for mal and aria literally meaning bad air. It’s also been called ague or marsh fever because it was commonly found near swamps or marshland. Unlike most African countries, Ethiopia has a long written history and it is full of documented famines and epidemics. And there have been many, many Italians who have travelled here. So there’s no shortage of information.”

  Marco walked over to a shelf and while he was searching for a book, Ceseli looked around. The laboratory was small, but it had a large window looking out toward Mt. Entoto that provided a lot of light and a feeling of spaciousness. On the wall next to the window was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Facing the bookcase were several steel glass fronted cabinets all of which looked to be heavily stocked with scientific equipment. Next to it was Marco’s desk with a few file covers on it and a calendar. On the wall over his desk was a map of Ethiopia with little red, green and blue dots on it and a series of circles.

  “What are the colored dots?” Ceseli asked, studying the map.

  “The blues are typhus, the reds are smallpox, green are cholera. The circles are famine.”

  “Gosh, there’s so many of them!”

  “So many it’s hard to tell when one stops and the next begins. That big one was the Great Famine of 1888 to 1892.”