Beloved Pilgrim

by Christopher Hawthorne Moss

  The man moved away from the spot at the fore of the cog. Elias managed to relieve himself without anyone being the wiser.

  Back in his old spot, he nodded to Albrecht. “It worked.”

  “I had an idea about daytime,” he whispered as Elias pressed himself next to him.

  “I can try to wait,” he suggested.

  Albrecht glanced about to see if anyone was regarding them. He shoved something hard against his thigh. “Put this in your britches,” he rasped.

  “What?” Elias asked, feeling for whatever it was Albrecht was poking him with. It felt like a piece of leather or some other hide. It was about the length and width of his hand. He obediently slipped it under his tunic and shirt and then into his britches.

  “Roll it up,” Albrecht instructed.

  Elias’s eyebrows darted up. “Oh, I get it! Then I just piss through it.” He reached in to manipulate the improvised penis.

  A man next to him looked him up and down, disgusted. “Can’t you do that in private?” he complained as he turned his body so his back was to Elias.

  “I wasn’t…,” Elias began. He continued to grapple with the leather piece. He sighed deeply when he was done, then grinned. “There, all done and no accident.”

  Amazingly, the device did the trick. If he could avoid pissing in the daylight, he did, but inevitably, with the amount of water they all had to drink to survive in the constant sun, he would have to go to the beakhead at some time. He used the men’s own fear of being tagged as a sodomite against them, glaring and making crude remarks to anyone who seemed to be watching him when he reached into his britches to pull out the device. “See anything you like?” he sneered to one man, who blushed and turned away.

  He still got urine on his hose, but some of the men were pissing where they stood, so he smelled better than most.

  The voyage saw him and his companions constantly dashing to one side or another to make way for the crew as they grappled with lines, changing the orientation of the one sail to catch the wind, seemingly constantly in motion, constantly making adjustments to this and that. The result was that Elias and Albrecht found themselves in various parts of the vessel, and with new companions. He had a short opportunity to watch the man who hung onto the steering board to help direct their bearing. The rocking motion of the deck actually made standing for hours easier, as shifting to compensate used muscles in his legs and back that should otherwise have cramped.

  As the islands south of Greece slid by, Elias admired how the buildings stood so starkly white against the hills behind them. On one occasion, he pointed out the ruins of a temple on a summit. Alain, who had managed to worm his way near them, explained about the ancient Greeks and their gods.

  As long as they were following the coast, they put in to shore to camp for a night on the beach. Elias found his false penis so convenient, he even used it much of the time they were ashore.

  One night, dozens of villagers descended on their camp, bringing with them music and a syrupy wine. The young women were dressed gaily, if skimpily, and proceeded to dance among the campfires. One by one, they drew men from the crowd and made them dance with them. Elias was one of the first chosen, and he could tell the bright-eyed woman was hoping for more than the dance. He certainly would have liked to comply, but his luck with the whore in Bologna was unlikely to hold. Finally, the young woman danced away to find better prospects.

  Elias stood back to watch the merriment, sparing the wine so as not to make some embarrassing mistake. He was taken aback when one of the village men called him over to where a group of them stood with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders. They pressed him into the line, and then when the music started, they taught him a line dance with weaving steps. As he mastered them, the music and the dance grew rapid. He threw his head back and roared with laughter, reveling in the freedom of the dance. When it finally ended, he was breathless with exertion but elated to receive the backslaps of the men, not one of whom spared his heartiest blow.

  Albrecht grinned when he finally rejoined him at their campfire. “My lord, you could have had your pick of the girls. They have been ogling you since the first one picked you out!”

  “What about you? No one catch your eye?” he replied, taking a long draught of the weaker wine he offered his.

  “Not ready for that yet,” Albrecht replied. “Besides, I don’t want to get found out.”

  “Found out how?” came Black Beast’s voice as he slipped in beside Elias.

  He forestalled the inquiry by making one of his own. “Now, what are you doing here, my lord? Why are you not off along the strand with some big-eyed, big-arsed wench?”

  The Beast puffed up his chest and answered, “Oh, I have been. Three times so far.”

  Elias and Albrecht did their best to look like they believed him.

  Chapter Eight

  Sublime Port

  WHATEVER WONDERS of man or God he had witnessed to this point in the pilgrimage, Elias was unprepared for his first sight of the golden city of Constantinople. As the ships grew nearer, having passed through the narrow strait called the Hellespont and into the Sea of Marmara, they began to see a massive city. As light dimmed, it became a bejeweled and sparkling eminence in the distance, with the utter blackness of the sea at its base. The hubbub on the ship became louder. Then the vessel seemed to drift to a halt.

  “There’s an imperial barge approaching,” Alain explained.

  From where he stood, Elias could see the colorful canopies on the barge, but little else. The pilgrim knights grew quiet, with only occasional speculative murmurs. At the fore of the ship, a grumbling began before the barge drew away. One could hear “What is it? What’s happening?” called in numerous languages from one section of the passengers to another and then another. The ship was underway, but in no time it was clearly sailing due east and not angling to the city.

  By the time the news made it to his spot on the deck, the stories Elias heard had metamorphosed into several versions of whatever the truth was. He and Alain listened and then turned to examine what they’d heard, sharing their analysis with Albrecht and Black Beast and others nearby.

  Alain said, “One thing for sure, we are not putting in to Constantinople. We are being redirected.”

  “Where?”

  “Why?”

  “What are they going to do with us?”

  Alain waved aside all the questions. “I’m not sure. Something happened, something with the Lombards, that has Emperor Alexios hopping mad.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising.” Elias sighed.

  Someone from a short distance away called to them, “Nicomedia!”

  Alain shook his head and cupped an ear with his hand. “Where?”

  “Nicomedia! It’s in the Gulf of Izmit.”

  Alain waved acknowledgement and thanks. “Never heard of it.”

  “It must be farther east,” someone observed. “Not too far, I hope.”

  “Getting a dry arse might be the least of our troubles.” Black Beast scowled.

  “I thought Alexios called for pilgrim knights to come to his aid against the Turks,” Elias said.

  “If the Lombards have not queered our welcome,” Alain put in. “In any case, I suppose we will find out soon. You might want to make sure your armor and weapons are in good order.”

  Jehan de Liège laughed. “What the salt sea won’t damage, the piss all over the deck will.”

  THEY SAILED steadily east with small boats full of armed men in the emperor’s livery on each side, ensuring they put in only where allowed. Elias watched with regret as the magnificent city grew smaller and smaller as they sailed away.

  A terrible stench reached his nostrils as they were guided at last into a port on the north shore of the Gulf of Izmit. The gangplank was hoisted into place, and he and his companions followed the rest of the passengers to and over it onto the quay. There, men in armor wielding cudgels directed them with shouts and curses in a company into the to
wn of Nicomedia, and thence to a fenced-in camp full of ragtag tents, lean-tos, and less identifiable shelters. The camp was crowded, and it became clear immediately that this was where the smell had come from. Elias looked at the camp’s people. They were peasants, mostly, a few unhealthy-looking priests, and one or two dozen men with partial armor but no weapons. He heard the Lombard dialect of Italian spoken.

  “Arrêtez!” The word was shouted in French, then repeated in what he took for Greek. It came from the left, along the stretch of fence that ended a matter of a rod’s length down that way.

  The pilgrims who had just arrived did not need to be told to stop. They had started to balk when they saw the camp gate opening. Shouts of “No!” and “What’s the meaning of this?” accompanied the start of a scuffle up ahead.

  The commander of the Byzantine guards shouted the same word Elias had heard, confirming that it was spoken in Greek, the language of the Byzantine empire. The tumult died down as a man in full European armor came toward them and approached the guard commander. They proceeded to talk and gesture volubly. Neither Elias nor his companions could make much of it.

  At last the commander of the guards threw his hands up and, shouting an order, stalked away. The guards stayed where they were, penning in the large group of newly arrived pilgrims. The man who had argued with the commander turned to them. A number of the higher-ranking pilgrims moved to encircle him. Between shouted questions, answers, oaths, and lamentations, little appeared to be resolved.

  Glancing to his left, Elias noticed Sebastiano, the Italian mercenary, striding to where his companions lolled on the sidelines. Beckoning Albrecht, he made a beeline for the mercenary band.

  “Why, if it isn’t our old friend Elias von Something,” Ranulf called to him. “And his pet man.”

  “What did you find out, Sebastiano?” Elias insisted, ignoring Ranulf.

  The Italian looked at Ranulf, who nodded. “They wanted to take us into that camp, but the officer up there told them we won’t go in until we hear from one of our leaders. And the two Stephens, Odo, and Conrad have gone to Constantinople to get an explanation.”

  “Who are these people?” Elias demanded. He knew they were the Lombards, but wanted both affirmation and amplification.

  Scratching his dark, bushy beard, Sebastiano looked back at the camp, where inmates now stood pressed against the fence, shouting a combination of insults, pleas, catcalls, and questions to the newly arrived. “They are the Lombards, the pilgrims who came with the Archbishop Anselm.”

  “Why are they imprisoned?” Ranulf asked.

  “Well, from what I got, they arrived by land a couple months ago, basically stripping the land all along the way to the city. Alexios forced them into a camp near the city walls. They broke out and got into the city and ravaged the place.”

  “Oh God,” Elias moaned.

  “It gets worse,” said Leif as he returned from the same errand as Sebastiano. “They stormed the palace and killed one of the emperor’s lions. They are here and under guard because of that. But what do you expect from a rabble?”

  “So Anselm did nothing to prevent it?” Albrecht asked, earning a snort of derision from three of the mercenaries and a derisive shake of the head from Thomas.

  “Anyway, the big fellow there says we are not to be housed with the Lombards,” Sebastiano added. “The high-ups are off to get us allowed to enter Constantinople. We are to be escorted there when they get back.”

  Ranulf put in acerbically, “If they get back.”

  THE COMMANDERS did come back. They had the Byzantine guards help arrange billets for the mass of the army, shiploads of which continued to arrive. They chose a good-sized company of pilgrim knights to return to Constantinople with them. Elias and Albrecht, as well as Black Beast, Alain, Gerhardt, and their squires were included. The mercenaries were not.

  It was too far to walk back to the great city; it would have taken far too long even on horseback. The small groups of knights and squires and a few churchmen were escorted to small rowed boats that made better speed.

  It was the month of May, but not the May they knew in France or Germany. If it was spring here, it was no spring they recognized. It seemed bone-dry and all but lifeless in the intense heat, which reflected off the water into their eyes, blinding them.

  As they came closer to the magnificent city of Constantinople, they began to pass villas with luxurious gardens, exhaling scents and the sound of fountains, refreshing their souls. They were better disposed to goggle at the great marble walls of the Byzantine metropolis as they loomed ever higher before them. The stones glowed golden in the summer sunlight, the battlements so high they could not distinguish features on the faces of the patrolling guards there. They made landing at an opulent quay, then followed their escort to the imposing fortress.

  The foot of the walls was lush all about with food gardens. The common people who bent to their toil stood, stretched their backs, and stared at the walking officers, who returned their gazes.

  For Elias, the journey so far had been quite the adventure, his mind always on learning how to behave convincingly like a man, honing his fighting skills, simply taking care of each part of the trip. Now, with the walls before him, walls like no city or town or fortress he had ever seen, his mind turned abruptly back to the purpose of this quest. He glanced at Albrecht, who walked alongside him, carrying his shield and lance. In his eyes he recognized the same realization.

  “Are you thinking about, um, you know?” he asked, taking care not to use his brother’s name, now ostensibly his.

  He could see from how Albrecht dropped his eyes that he was, in fact, thinking of Elias, his lover. “Yes, and how much he wanted to come here, see this city, then go on to see Jerusalem.”

  Elias put one hand on his shoulder. “It all just came over me now, the same.”

  Albrecht nodded and swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. Elias squeezed his shoulder.

  “But,” he suggested, “don’t you feel him with us? Walking with us and smiling that gleeful smile of his as he tries to see everything at once?”

  His squire glanced sideways at him, his face wondering. “You know, I do. It’s not just me? I long for something more tangible, but I do feel he is glad we are come here.”

  “Sometimes I think I hear him speak.”

  Albrecht’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and he had to put his arm to his mouth to keep from sobbing aloud. He shook his head, managing to say in a whisper, “I do too. It almost kills me.”

  Elias looked at him, concerned. “Would you rather not hear it?”

  “No!” he protested vehemently. “No!”

  “You two!” Gerhardt’s voice came from behind. “That’s right, you have never been here before. It does that to a lot of people.”

  Elias turned to look at him, walking backward for several paces. “The city? Did you… weep?”

  “Mayhap. Mayhap not. I’m not going to tell.” The German knight gave him a wry smile.

  Alain trotted up to join them. “That means he did. Weep at the first sight of Constantinople, I mean.” He slapped Albrecht on the back. “I am not ashamed to admit it. I expect my first sight of Jerusalem will have me weeping like a babe in arms.”

  “Now, so long as you are in arms, no one will know.” Black Beast had come up behind him.

  Even those who had visited the city before grew silent as they approached the massive gate set into the wall, almost as tall as the wall itself. More even than that, the fact that it was shining gold overwhelmed even the most jaded. Not gold colored, but actual gold. It was magnificent, awesome, and very intimidating.

  At the massive gate, the leaders spoke with the captain of the guards posted there. The man looked down the line of knights coming toward him on foot. He seemed to make a sardonic remark, causing Stephen of Blois to redden. Conrad quickly leaned toward the captain and spoke to him, then answered the man’s worried questions. When the two Stephens and Odo moved through the gate, Conra
d stayed in place.

  “What’s the problem, my lord?” Black Beast asked as he came up to the constable.

  “Nothing much, my friend. They just wanted to make sure you were all part of our party. Go on in. I assume they will have made some provision for our housing. And it had better be fit for our ranks.”

  The passage through the gate seemed to stop and start, impeding the steady flow of the knights. When he and his friends reached the portal, Elias discovered why. He stopped suddenly himself, awestruck by what he saw. They were at the start of a broad avenue, broad enough to march three dozen men across. It was finely cobbled, with smooth stones. On either side were buildings of a richness he had never seen even singly, no less one after another.

  “Do even the poor live in palaces?” he breathed.

  Alain chuckled. “Non, mon ami. If you stray far off this avenue, you will see slums that defy reason. But it is best not to say anything about them.”

  The walking knights, with their squires, followed the leaders and their train of servants and men-at-arms up the length of the avenue. Ahead, on the steady rise, stood a massive building. It seemed almost as wide as the rooftops of the city visible to the pilgrim knights as they marched.

  Alain answered Elias’s unspoken query. “The Blachernae Palace. Where the basileus reigns.”

  “The basileus?” Elias was puzzled.

  “The Emperor Alexios II Komnenos. That is his title. It’s the title of the emperor or empress, whichever is supreme.”

  Elias looked pointedly at him. “Women can rule here?”

  “You have never heard of Irene? Theodora? Zoë? Theodosia?”

  “How do you know so much, Alain?” Elias said, shaking his head. He almost commented, “Mayhap our fathers do not want women to know about those who have attained power,” but caught himself.

  “I listen. I learn. I read. I ask discreet questions.” Alain smiled. “It looks like at least our leaders will be given an audience.”