by Tuvia Fogel
From the day after their arrival, Aillil started asking everyone if they had seen or heard of Arnald Arifat of Montréal. Being in the Templar section of the camp, he soon found a knight who knew his father had entered the order four months earlier, in Provence, and was attached to one of the platoons patrolling pilgrim routes in Syria. Aillil was disappointed, but soon the excitement of life in the camp, and the knowledge that Rav Yehezkel was headed to Jerusalem anyway, made him temporarily forget the reason he embarked for Outremer.
That dawn, the horses in the nearby stable tent woke Aillil before first light. He heard distant sounds of trumpets and sentinels calling out to each other as the camp slowly came alive. He jumped up from his pallet, shot a glance at a still snoring Rav Yehezkel, and ran out, without even washing his face, to meet the other boys at the usual place on the western edge of the camp.
He’d fallen in with Marco, a Venetian boy, and two other teenagers in the camp with the ease typical of their age. For the boys, war in the desert was a huge, fantastic game—while adults, despite endless oaths and songs in the weeks before landfall, soon lost their enthusiasm and became glum.
A different handful of boys—some squiring their fathers, most of them the sons of prostitutes—ran to the sea each dawn to bring back news of ship sightings. If the masts flew crosses, it meant reinforcements; if they flew Italian ensigns, it meant victuals—so the boys who’d learned to recognize pennants relished being the first to bring the good news to camp. Besides, splashing around in the warm Mediterranean was so irresistible that when their turn came, they didn’t walk the three leagues to the sea, they ran.
“I am lucky to find kids here,” thought Aillil as he ran. “Adults at war don’t look at me.”
They’d been running for half an hour, the heat still bearable as a delightful breeze blew through their shirts, when the sea appeared behind the crest of a dune. The sun was still low behind them, and the water wasn’t yet the sparkling, brilliant blue that Aillil loved, but it was smooth and transparent as glass, and the four boys ran into it, screaming in pure joy.
Around them, the day’s activities stirred. Since the Christian armies had arrived, palm trees had disappeared, both on the seashore and along the Nile near Damietta, to replace the siege engines destroyed by Greek fire from the city’s ramparts. This was why the riverbank seemed so bare to the newcomers who had witnessed the capture of the spies. Along that stretch of the Nile’s eastern branch, only papyrus reeds were left, just as sprawling bushes of prickly pear cactus were the only things growing on the shore where the boys were swimming.
When the boys tired of water games and had their fill of ripe prickly pears—in August they were the color of local sunsets and sweeter than honey—they gathered news of the morning’s arrivals, donned the cloth caps they’d brought against the sun, and ambled back to camp, the heat already too intense to even think of running.
When he wasn’t playing with new friends—which meant “borrowing” real weapons to stage mock tournaments—or speaking with soldiers willing to make an effort to understand him, Aillil divided his time between his mentors. The first, of course, was Rav Yehezkel, who spent the days in the tents of his patients, dividing his time, ointments, and herbs between nobles, knights, and squires, strictly in that order.
Most patients bore siege wounds—embedded arrowheads and Greek fire burns—but others suffered from desert fever, a wartime plague that caused red spots, bloody noses, diarrhea, and delirium, usually killing its victims in a couple of weeks. Yehezkel had a measure of success with this fever, bringing some knights back from the final stage by forcing them to constantly swallow big ladles of water.
Aillil’s second mentor—his preferred choice—was Galatea. He would wait for her to emerge from the “nunnery” and accompany her on rounds of the camp, the only escort she would accept to show compliance with the bishop’s advice. The abbess did, mostly, keep her distance from the soldiery, more from fear of their conversation than of lecherous attentions, and usually either followed Francesco and the friars or spent her time with the camp prostitutes, in the tent where they slept or took respite from their ordeals. There, too, Aillil would sit at her side, straining to hear what the prostitutes were confiding to her.
By this time, Aillil had visited his musk-scented Circassian whore twice, the first time with Marco, the second by himself. The second time, she’d refused his coins with a smile that made him giddy. He was nearly fourteen and grew up listening to troubadours sing about the true love of their lives, but only after encountering the mystery of a woman’s body did he understand all the talk of love he’d heard most of his life. That morning, a Venetian woman about the same age as the abbess was saying to her, “I survive on next to nothing, Mother, just so I can say ‘no’ to the men who don’t stir something in my chest. You’re a nun, so you probably don’t know what I speak of . . .”
“On the contrary,” said Galatea with a smile. “I’m a nun, but not an oblate. I was a widow when I took my vows, and I know exactly what you mean. Men may all have been created in God’s image, but there’s no denying that some of them, well . . . came out better!”
The prostitute made a face. “All men created in God’s image? Don’t make me laugh, Mother! There are men here who can’t get it up if they don’t smell fear, and it must be real fear, not faked! Are those in God’s image, too?”
Galatea thought of Lupo and said nothing. Aillil looked puzzled. Later, he would think that the words of that prostitute explained why women everywhere were so often violated, but when he heard them in that tent, they made no sense to him.
On arriving in the Templar camp, Aillil had the pleasant surprise of finding Iňigo Sanchez and André de Rosson among the knights at the siege. After hearing how they’d survived the mamluk raid of the last day in July, the boy finally found, in the subject of women, something to talk about with the Spanish knight besides arms and blood. The next time they met, he asked, his delivery even more halting than usual, “What . . . what is the difference between doing it with a prostitute and doing it with one’s true love?”
Iňigo laughed. “I always knew you were a smart one, Aillil! This business of women is strange indeed. Even if you’ve had hundreds, one comes along, gets into your gut, and there’s no way to get her out!”
Aillil looked a little worried at the prospect. “So . . . so what can one do?”
“Mmhh . . .” Iňigo pretended to mull it over. “Die, I think. Yes, that’s it. I’m pretty sure that if you die, your love pains just go away!” he guffawed.
Aillil looked at his friend and somehow knew that, though said in jest, the answer was the truth. “Do you have a woman at home?”
“One? I’m chased by a pack of bitches the moment I set foot in Castille, my boy!”
“What about André?” asked Aillil. “Is he married?”
“Who, Brother André? The man couldn’t fornicate if you locked him up in a barrel with three sluts! Sometimes I wonder if he is . . . you know, of the other kind! But you won’t repeat that, will you, boy?”
Aillil’s third and most recent mentor was Francesco of Assisi. The little friar kept his promise not to preach to the soldiers. Instead, the friars made themselves useful tending the wounded. His quirky, polyglot way of raising a footman’s morale soon endeared him to the whole camp. The friars, whose shabby tunics and talk of love reminded Aillil of every Cathar perfectus he met as a child, moved around the camp looking for the losers, those who for one reason or another had fallen through the web of wartime solidarity that, coupled with discipline, holds an army together.
One day, Aillil saw Francesco patiently listen to the story of an Italian squire who had lost everything. Like many, he’d gone through the money from home in a few weeks and slowly abandoned all scruples to survive. He borrowed money he couldn’t return and moved to another section of the camp; he even sold sick horses meant for butchering as healthy mounts.
Francesco sensed that the young man was
no thief and tried to correct his downward spiral. “You must seek service with a knight who will pay for your keep,” he said. “But the important thing, Jacopo, is to turn your heart around and stop ruining your good name. Do your utmost to repay those you swindled. Once you have sincerely repented, the Almighty will help you.”
“But what will I do until the Almighty decides to help me?” whined Jacopo.
Francesco smiled. “He will also help you to wait until He helps you.”
Desperate as he was, Jacopo couldn’t help laughing.
OUTSIDE DAMIETTA, 20TH OF AUGUST
Occasionally, in that scorching August in the delta, Aillil’s three mentors would spend time together. One day they were all standing on a rickety pier jutting out over the Nile when Francesco asked Yehezkel to teach him the blessing Mother Galatea told him about, the one with which he’d chased away the demons on the tareta taking them to Cyprus.
“I’ll gladly teach you the verses, Brother Francesco,” said Yehezkel. “They come from what you call the Book of Numbers and were the words with which Aaron the high priest blessed the Israelites in the Sinai desert. Not that far from here, come to think of it.” Francesco laughed.
Galatea thought, “If Brother Francesco pronounced that blessing, it would probably bring peace to the entire world!”
Yehezkel smiled. “Jewish Law actually prohibits you—and even me—from pronouncing this blessing, for we are not Cohanim, priests, but so be it. First, you’ll have to learn the proper position to assume.”
Francesco suddenly looked serious. “Position?”
“Your head should be covered by a prayer shawl, but the point is that none should look at your hands while you are pronouncing the blessing, so any cloth will do just fine.”
In one of his prankish impulses, Francesco wrenched the blue shawl from Yehezkel’s shoulders and covered his head and arms with it, but not his hands. Yehezkel smiled and continued, “Now raise both arms and keep them stretched out before you, covered by the shawl. Split the fingers of both hands in the middle, so there is a V separating two pairs of fingers.” He helped him assume the pose. Arms raised, the shawl over them, Francesco stumbled to his right and faced Galatea.
All of a sudden, she realized she was looking at her vision in Torcello, before the hermit’s prophecy, and everything fell into place. She had glimpsed Brother Francesco reciting the Priestly Blessing on the Nile bank, but the blue had been that of Christ’s mantle. Francesco was the returning Christ! Her hand flew to her mouth, overwhelmed by the revelation, but Yehezkel was already going on.
“Now repeat after me. I’ll say the Latin meaning, too, but you just try to pronounce the Hebrew. Yevaréchecha Ha-Shem Ve-Yishmerécha, which means May the Lord bless you and safeguard you.”
The ease with which Francesco pronounced the Hebrew words surprised everyone.
“Ya’er Ha-Shem Panav Elecha, Ve-Yichunéka,” continued Yehezkel, “which means May the Lord shine his countenance on you and be gracious to you.”
Francesco’s emotion grew as he repeated the Hebrew phrase.
“Yisah Ha-Shem Panav Elecha, Ve-Yasem Lechà Shalòm—May the Lord turn his countenance toward you and give you peace!” concluded Yehezkel.
Francesco pronounced the end of the blessing and then took off the shawl and repeated the last three words in a tone of shock and awe. “Ve-Yasem Lechà Shalòm means ‘and give you peace’? I can’t believe it! God once whispered those very words in my head and told me they were to be our future greeting, and now I find they’re a blessing in the Old Testament! I love my ignorance dearly, Master Ezekiel, but sometimes I can imagine what a sublime pleasure it must be to truly understand the role of words in God’s plan.”
Galatea blurted out, “Oh, Brother Francesco, if only you knew! Master Ezekiel has been teaching me a little Kabbalah . . . the light that shines from the twenty-two Hebrew letters is . . . it’s the light of my visions!”
At once, she realized she’d spoken like a hapless victim of the Jew’s assaults on her faith. Francesco smiled and said, never looking her in the eyes, “Don’t worry, Mother Galatea. I don’t know what Kabbalah is, but if it is akin to what Sufis practice, I’m all for learning from heretics and infidels. D’ailleurs, I had my own Sufi teacher, as I told you.”
Galatea was first relieved and then emboldened. She turned to Yehezkel. “Master Ezekiel, won’t you show Brother Francesco piccolo two Hebrew words with truths in them, like the ones you showed me on the tareta? And please, choose two jewels that I have yet to see.”
Yehezkel lowered his head and caressed his beard for a while as he thought of the right examples. “You should know, Brother Francesco,” he finally began, “that all Hebrew words are built from a root of three consonants. I won’t go into details—Mother Galatea already understands some of the principles—but here is an example that I trust will convince you that Hebrew is not like any other language: the word for charity is tzedakah, and its three-letter root is tzedek, which means . . . justice!”
Francesco looked up at the rabbi with childish glee, a smile spreading on his weathered face.
Yehezkel said, “If the root of charity is justice, the Holy Tongue is saying that when we give to the poor, we are in fact redressing an injustice. The very word tells us that the money isn’t really our own.”
“A tongue that teaches ethics . . . that’s nothing less than a miracle!” mumbled Francesco. “I beg you, Master Ezekiel, show me the second jewel.”
Yehezkel glowed with pride as he sought out the best word for his other jewel and then said, “Latin expresses the concept of responsibility by fusing the words ‘response’ and ‘ability.’ Clearly, for the fathers of the Latin tongue, responsibility is the capacity to answer for what we say or do. Fair enough, but in Hebrew, responsibilty is achraiyut, whose three-letter root is acher, which means ‘other.’ So for the Father of the Hebrew tongue, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, responsibilty is in effect ‘other-ability,’ the capacity to stand in the other person’s shoes.”
Francesco breathed deeply, eyes closed, and said, “Master Ezekiel, your knowledge of letters, words, and tongues is . . . let me ask you a brash question: if God overcomes the cardinal’s hostility to my mission, would you agree to accompany me to the sultan’s tent and translate my words?”
Galatea sucked in a breath. Yehezkel silently thanked the powers above and said, “I’d be honored, Brother Francesco piccolo. Simply honored. As for the cardinal’s hostility, I’ve given it some thought, and I may have come up with a way to . . . help God overcome it.”
“Oh, please share your thoughts,” said Francesco eagerly.
“Well, as your interpreter, I would get to speak to Saracen officials in the sultan’s camp. I could find out things that Pelagius is dying to know, like what reinforcements the sultan can count on, and when.”
Francesco’s hands shot out as if to reject what he was hearing. Then, incredulous, he whispered, “You, a Jew, would spy on the Saracens and report back to a Christian cardinal?”
“No, no, Brother Francesco piccolo!” laughed Yehezkel. “That’s just what I would say to Pelagius to convince him to let us go! And so he won’t react like you just did, I’ll ask, in exchange, for an honorable discharge from my duties here.” He paused. “But I wouldn’t be coming back. I was thinking that if you do . . . return, you could tell Pelagius I was held back by the sultan. After all, the Saracens need physicians as much as the Christians do, and being born in Egypt makes me his subject.”
“Brilliant, simply brilliant!” exclaimed Francesco. “I knew that if you’d ‘given it some thought,’ Master Ezekiel, a solution could not be far.”
“Maybe,” smiled Yehezkel, “but don’t underestimate the cardinal’s, ehm . . . disesteem for both of us.”
Later that day, the new company waited outside the cardinal’s tent as Yehezkel’s pessimism was confirmed, and he failed to obtain a mandate to spy on the sultan.
Six months earlier, after losin
g his first encampment, al-Kamil offered to return Jerusalem and the coastal strip to the Christians if they removed their infidel presence from Egypt, but Pelagius refused.
True, the sultan had razed Jerusalem’s walls before making the offer, yet many in the Christian camp—the king of Jerusalem, understandably, more than others—seethed over the cardinal’s rejection of what was, after all, the campaign’s main objective.
All this made the information Yehezkel was offering to procure even more important to the Christian leader, but Pelagius was sure Damietta was on the point of falling—which was why he was reluctant to attack the sultan’s camp—just as he was sure that what Francesco of Assisi really sought was martyrdom. So he heard out the rabbi, said he would think about it, and dismissed him. When Yehezkel emerged from the tent, the company immediately knew from his expression that Pelagius hadn’t budged.
In the following days, Francesco became wrapped in gloom. Pietro told Galatea in worried tones that he talked of leaving the camp at night, alone, and walking south until Saracen sentinels apprehended him. To the rabbi, Francesco said the only thing he could do was fast and entreat God to let some light into the cardinal’s heart.
OUTSIDE DAMIETTA, 28TH OF AUGUST
It was noon, and Francesco had been weeping for a day, a night, and half a day.
Tears silently flooded his face as he sat on the hard-packed sand in a corner of Jacques de Vitry’s tent. His brothers had seen him like this before and knew that only prayer could give him the strength to repel the demons darkening his mind. He hadn’t eaten or drunk in two days and ignored all attempts by friars and bishop to grab a corner of his soul and heave him out of this melancholia.
