by Tuvia Fogel
The Great Sea Monsters
BETWEEN AL-ADILIYAH AND FÄRISKÜR, 12TH SEPTEMBER 1219
A league into the crossing from safety to danger, the new company of five walked in a different formation from when they’d left camp. Francesco was now flanked by Yehezkel on one side and the squire with the downcast gaze on the other, while Brother Illuminato and Aillil chatted a few steps behind the trio.
The way from Damietta to Sharamsah was usually an ample, well-trodden path among irrigated fields, but in September—God being merciful—all branches of the delta burst their banks. The resulting swamp was life giving to the crops but made traveling on foot a slow, messy affair. Twenty-foot puddles dotted the muddy trail, which, a little farther on, disappeared altogether.
Yet the delta in that season was also a spectacle from some faraway magical land, for the Nile was covered in bright vermillion lotus flowers rising from big, round leaves floating on the water. As well as covering the river, colonies of the scarlet jewels were scattered over puddles and fields like spots of blood. As he looked at the big flocks of birds arriving in Egypt for the winter, Yehezkel mused that to them, the flowers must look as if the whole delta had developed a sudden rash.
Yehezkel was saying, “So I hope your friars aren’t destined to hunt heretics like Domingo’s preachers are doing. In a disputatio in Provence ten years ago, he swore to me that he would build an order of learned, polyglot monks, who would refute and convert not just Cathar heretics, but Jews and Mohammedans, too! I hope your friars never collaborate with his, Brother Francesco piccolo.”
“Domingo and I?” Francesco laughed. “No, Rabbi, that would be like crossing eagles with chickens! I’m wary of books, unlike him, and don’t enjoy debating God’s attributes. For me, everything there is to learn”—he waved his arm in a sweep that embraced the delta—“is written right here; no need to know how to read to understand it. Who needs tractates and summae? Life has few certainties: the sun that warms you, the rain that wets you, the wild fruit you pick. The rest is chatter, vanity . . . nothing!”
Yehezkel made a face. “No, my brother. This is like your disregard for your body. Worse, for study is more than a need of the mind. You’re wrong to see only vanity in it. Ignorance is dangerous. It favors man’s evil inclination, while rational thought is the divine attribute that separates man from animals.”
Francesco had encountered objections to his love of ignorance before but had never lost confidence. “You’re right, but when what you call ‘rational thought’ is applied to Scripture by theologians, it ends up choking faith! The prophets say that truth will be hidden from the wise and learned and revealed to little children. Why? To confound the vanity of scribes and philosophers! There is something pure and upright in man’s heart, Rabbi, which deserves more trust than any syllogism.”
“Oh, Brother Francesco piccolo,” interjected the abbess in chain mail, “you just said something I have known since my heartless tutor taught me what a syllogism is!”
“Don’t think I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Yehezkel, “or I wouldn’t have undertaken the path of Kabbalah, instead of following the precepts of the Law without asking questions on their purpose. But let me get back to Domingo for a moment. Did you ever meet him?”
“Once, at the council in Rome four years ago, and believe me, it would be hard to find two Christians with more different views on preaching the Gospel than Domingo and I.”
“That much I’ve seen for myself, Brother Francesco, but you say you’re sworn to obey the church in every way, which means that popes could use your friars in any way they see fit. Fighting heresy, for example, as they’re already doing with Domingo’s.”
After a moment, Francesco said, “That is one of my fears, Rabbi. But our communities, if I write their Rule, won’t lend themselves to ‘theological service.’ Domingo’s will be convents of academic excellence where wily teachers are trained. Not so our convents, where my friars will grow up in the modesty of a peasant family, deriving peaceful hearts and good cheer from that frugality and becoming living examples of Christian love, more convincing than the most sublime sermon!” He smiled. “Domingo’s friars won’t be able to live in similar poverty. Books are expensive. He calls his a ‘mendicant’ order, but his friars will never know a precarious tomorrow, or insufficient food, or threadbare habits. More, I foresee times when a proud display of learning will be the ruin of the church.”
Yehezkel mumbled, “Only fools despise wisdom and instruction, says the Book of Proverbs.”
“In this respect you’re like Christian theologians, Rabbi. You cite Scripture all day, only instead of the Gospels, you quote the prophets. If I’d put myself to it, I could probably have learned enough Bible to do the same. Instead, if I could, I would hide all commentaries to Scripture, because I find that when a man knows too many things, his wisdom is always greater than his compassion. And you know what? Studying the revealed Truth is a virtuous thing, but sometimes it is also a means to subjugate those who haven’t studied and don’t know the words to ask for justice.”
“Mmph . . . we’ll have to agree to disagree on this one, Brother Francesco. There’s no such thing as a Jew who can’t read or write, so you see how vast is the chasm between our visions.”
Francesco said, “Perhaps Mother Church needs both learned monks like Domingo,” and with a quirky smile, “and crazy fools like me!” He seemed lost in thought for a minute and then said, “But will agreeing to disagree suffice to compel you, Rabbi, to translate faithfully what I say to the sultan . . . even if you should disagree with it? Will you swear to do that?”
“I’m not allowed to swear, Brother Francesco, but I can assure you, and let the abbess be my witness, that lies and dissimulation are alien to my . . . conduct.”
“I’ve no need for Mother Galatea’s testimony, much as I trust her judgment. Your pledge to truthfully convey the words of my sermon is more than enough for me,” said Francesco.
Brother Illuminato suddenly caught up with them, grabbed Francesco’s arm, and ran ahead with him in a kind of inspired frenzy.
An hour later, halfway between the camps, the friars still walked two hundred feet before the others when the monster emerged from the river, straightened the stubby paws that supported its scaly trunk and almost comically ran into the center of the path not a hundred feet in front of them.
Nile crocodiles are the biggest and most dangerous lizards in creation. The one that faced the friars that day, thought Yehezkel later, must have weighed over a ton and been more than twenty feet long—of which at least the front five were jaws. It squatted in the middle of the trail, waiting for its prey to make a move.
Everyone froze on the spot. Yehezkel, who’d grown up on the Nile and seen such beasts before, was the first to recover his wits and immediately began breathing the folded breath. He remembered fishermen catching crocodiles by putting chunks of meat on metal hooks and tying the beast’s jaws shut as soon as it fell for the bait. He shouted to the friars not to move a muscle and frantically looked around for something, anything, to act as a hook and a bait.
Galatea was transfixed by the monster. Even from that distance, the size of its teeth was terrifying. The scales covering its body were like black tiles, ending in a crested tail at least as long as she was tall. She thought the dip halfway along the profile of its jaw made it look like it was grinning, which added to the overall impression of a lizard from hell. Aillil said to himself that if Egypt was a land of monsters like the birds on the battlefield and this wingless dragon, then Rav Yehezkel could not leave for Jerusalem one minute too soon. Galatea also mused, absurdly, that if Brother Francesco was going to be martyred not at the hands of infidels but by the jaws of a wild beast, like the first Christian martyrs in the Circus Maximus, this had to have some deep, important meaning.
Then, under everyone’s incredulous gaze, Francesco walked toward the crocodile, talking to it in his Umbrian dialect. The beast didn’t move but open
ed its jaws wide and made a strange gurgling sound, as if to warn the holy man of his impending, gory dismemberment.
Yehezkel caught up with Illuminato and heard Francesco say to Fratel Crocodillo that it should let them through, because the sultan was waiting to receive the Light of Christ. The monster thrashed its huge tail twice, ludicrously evoking the image of a playful puppy. Then, with Francesco less than ten feet from it and everyone ready, breaths held, for the coming horror, it blinked both green eyes, turned its snout away from the friar, and slowly trotted back toward the Nile.
Francesco turned to his audience, an ecstatic smile on his face. “Brother Crocodile didn’t really mean to hinder our progress. He just came out to say hello!”
Brother Illuminato had just witnessed his founder perform yet another miracle. He fell on his knees and praised the Lord. The squire, little taken as she was with genuflection, did the same.
Yehezkel was as relieved and grateful to the Almighty as the others yet found the time to reflect on how the words of his biblical namesake were constantly relevant in that journey, whether at the climax of a storm at sea or facing an Egyptian crocodile. He recited the verses under his breath, “Human one, sing a lament for Pharaoh, king of Egypt. Say to him: You consider yourself a young lion among nations, but you’re like the sea monster! You thrash about in your rivers, roil the waters with your feet, muddy your rivers. But I will put hooks in your jaws!”
“The little Italian monk,” said Yehezkel to himself, “didn’t even need hooks.”
Once they thanked the Lord for his mercy, Yehezkel quoted the prophet to them. Brother Illuminato immediately said that al-Malik al-Kamil was clearly the Pharaoh, king of Egypt, of Scripture, and the miraculous taming of the monster a “figure” of the sultan’s imminent conversion. Galatea, struck by the allegory, prayed for the young friar to be right.
IN SIGHT OF THE SULTAN’S CAMP AT FÄRISKÜR, 12TH SEPTEMBER 1219
A rumor in the Christian camp claimed that the sultan promised a gold bezant to anyone who brought him the head of an infidel. The edict, if true, would have made it hard for Francesco to survive his first encounter with the Saracens, but when he’d heard of it he confidently quoted a psalm, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.”
Now, as he walked ahead with Brother Illuminato, the sultan’s camp less than a league away, he tried to prepare his partner for the possibility that the encounter with Brother Crocodile had not been a symbol of how their mission would end.
“If we win martyrdom for witnessing Christ, Illuminato, you must not be afraid of dying. Dying is just being born again. Your mother’s womb prepared you for life, and your life prepared you for death. You’ll find yourself on the other side, tout simplement, like you found yourself in this world the day you were born. Drop worldly weights, my brother. The lighter your soul, the higher you’ll rise in His presence.”
Perhaps through the sentinels’ overconfidence two weeks after a victory, they weren’t challenged by anyone until, as they crested a rise in the trail, they sighted the Saracen encampment in the distance. Their first reaction was to duck behind a dune and cautiously poke their heads out. The camp was smaller than the Christian one, but white cylindrical tents were arrayed as far as the eye could see. The first thing they noticed were the birds circling an area between them and the camp, occasionally diving down to feed on the corpses of mamluks evidently not important enough for anyone, even long after the battle, to have removed from where they’d fallen.
Then they saw them. Inside a whitish halo of dust lit by the sun’s glare, the swords and shields of a group of guards glinted menacingly. Again, Yehezkel began to breathe in long, draining exhalations.
Suddenly, in the still air of the September morning, Francesco jumped up from behind the dune and ran toward the guards, immediately followed by Brother Illuminato, who only paused for the time it took him to cross himself. Yehezkel sort of expected Francesco to do something like that. He raised his sarbel with a disgusted grunt and gave chase, closely followed by Aillil and Galatea.
By the time the two ragged Italians came close, the mamluks had already realized they presented no threat. Two infidel monks, by the look of them—unarmed and clearly crazed by the sun. But wait, more infidels were running behind them, and one of them had a sword! The guards thought, gleefully, that even scouring the edges of the infidel camp, they would never find an easier reward.
Francesco threw himself at the feet of the first mamluk, raising a cloud of dust. The guard smiled down at him. He wore a sleeveless, green padded overcoat with a dagger in his waist and carried a lance and a round shield that shone like silver. Francesco shouted, “Soldan! Soldan! Take me to your soldan!”
The mamluk kicked him in the shoulder, both for the pleasure of humiliating a kafir, and in case he might be faking submission and hiding a weapon. Francesco fell on his back in the sand, still screaming “Soldan! Soldan!” A hundred feet away, Yehezkel saw Francesco on the ground and went into action.
“Take your hands off the rahib!*47 He is an emissary to the sultan from the Frankish kings!”
Yehezkel shouted the words in court Arabic, the language in which mamluks serving the Ayubbid sultan were given their orders. As well as using the power of the maskil to throw his voice at them, he’d imbued it with an arrogance that identified him as a member of that court.
The first mamluk was so worried about who the onrushing Jew might be that he leaned down to help Francesco get up. Yehezkel’s intervention made it obvious that Francesco’s theatrical surrender as a way of reaching al-Kamil’s tent had been unnecessary—little more, in fact, than a search for humiliation by the mamluks. The friar looked embarrassed.
One of the guards saw Galatea’s eyes and gasped but still demanded that she hand over her sword. Then they discussed among themselves whether to tie the prisoners’ hands, decided not to, and marched them toward the tents.
They walked for another hour, first through unimpressive defense positions, then amid hundreds of white, round tents with vertical sides and conical roofs. At last, they came to a vast clearing at the center of the camp, where the sultan’s tent was pitched. This was an oversized Bedouin tent, a hundred feet across, made of wide, colorful bands of fabric stitched side by side. Six mamluks of the sultan’s personal guard stood outside wearing pointed helmets with a band of animal fur at their base and bearing ceremonial axes with elongated double points, the blades decorated with religious etchings.
The traffic of emirs and notables constantly arriving to see al-Kamil made the cardinal’s tent look like the headquarters of a provincial war, but Pelagius after all, thought the rabbi, was only running a military campaign, while al-Kamil had to keep administering an empire that stretched to Yemen in the south, to Mount Ararat in the north, and to the African coast in front of Sicily in the west.
They waited to be summoned and then entered escorted by the mamluks. A wide entrance with raised flaps led into a main hall and several trapeze-shaped spaces under the same roof. Al-Kamil’s throne was in the middle of the tent, and the guards forced them to their knees as soon as they were before it. The three-step platform was simple, but the cedar chair on it was a wonder to behold. Its tall back was pierced with elaborate open-work carvings, and its armrests were roaring lions. Above it was a silk baldachin, red folds falling on all sides. More guards, as heavily armed as the ones outside, stood on either side of the platform.
Al-Kamil—his full name, al-Malik al-Kamil Naser al-Din Abu al-Ma’ali Muhammed—was a portly man of about Yehezkel’s age, with a black beard and dark and kindly but penetrating eyes. His flowing red and green robes were of rich fabrics and fashion, but quite somber.
He was still intrigued by the friars, when Yehezkel spoke in Arabic without having been addressed. “Salaam Aleikum, most honored king, Prince of All Believers and Cornerstone of Islam!” Then he pronounced the traditional Jewish blessing upon seeing a monarch. “Blesse
d be the Lord, who imparted from His wisdom and from His honor to a mortal!”
Al-Kamil peered at him and said, “I recognize you! You’re the childhood friend of Fakhr’s son, Ahmad, the pupil of Musa ibn Maimun, my uncle’s and my father’s tabib.*48 What was your name again? And anyway, what on earth are you doing in the company of these rahibeen?”
“My name is Yehezkel ben Yoseph, Commander of the Faithful, and I’m honored that you remember my face. I was born in Fustat and am your faithful subject, but I was forcefully conscripted by the Franks while practicing medicine in Cyprus. I offered my services as an interpreter to the smaller one of these monks, who came here to speak with you, and whose name is Francesco of Assisi.”
Francesco heard Yehezkel’s name and then his own and understood that Master Ezekiel had made the necessary introductions. Not knowing how the rabbi described the purpose of his visit, he was silent, waiting for the sultan to speak. Al-Kamil gestured for all of them to stand up.
“So pray tell, Messer Francesco,” he began, flaunting one of a few Italian words he learned from Venetian merchants in al-Kahira, “are you a messenger from the Frankish nobles who have invaded my kingdom, or have you instead come—as many others before you—to accept Islam and swear allegiance to Allah and his Prophet Muhammad?”
Yehezkel immediately translated the sultan’s words into Latin. The friar—whose face had already lit up in a smile on hearing ‘Messer Francesco’ in Italian—answered confidently, “Yes, we are messengers indeed, sire, but not from Frankish nobles, from God!”
Again Yehezkel translated, and al-Kamil leaned back in his chair, hiding disappointment behind a smile. He had hoped that this might be an eccentric embassy from the enemy, maybe even a low-profile acceptance of his latest offer. He turned to Yehezkel, “If they come from God, why did you tell the guards they were coming from the Frankish kings?”
Yehezkel held the sultan’s gaze. “Because if I hadn’t, Commander of the Faithful, the mamluks would have killed them.” Al-Kamil looked startled but then smiled. “Well, yes . . . now that you mention it, they probably would have.”
