Father Eser looks at me. I look away. His eyes are redder than I have ever seen them before.
When I return to our cell, my mother is sitting in candlelight—no daylight reaches this far underground—using small hammers like flattened sticks to coax music from her santur’s taut strings. Their music is her voice. She plays beautifully, but only down here. Father Eser doesn’t like music, or any beautiful thing. Beauty, he says, is meant for the next world, not for this one. But my mother believes beauty and love aren’t sins, that being interested in other people isn’t a sin. Love is a gift, she tells me. In the outside world, men and women live together and love each other. She finds evidence in the Holy Book. Adam and Eve, Boaz and Ruth, Joseph and Mary. Love is beautiful, she writes on my hand, but too dangerous for her and maybe for me, too.
‘Listen,’ she writes before, with her santur, playing the notes of my name.
Suzan.
Every note is a letter, like each shape she draws on my palm; this is how music is made. My name sounds young and simple, like a nursery rhyme. My mother passes the small hammers to me. I play my name myself. I’m not as quick as my mother but the music sounds much the same.
My mother gives me a slice of orange to eat. It is juicy and sweet, a rare treat. ‘Now play your name again.’
I play the letters. Suzan. The music sounds different—light and happy. Somehow, the aroma of orange floats through it!
I laugh. My mother takes the hammers back and plays my name again. Now the music sounds like laughter.
I’m mystified. ‘How do you do that?’
She puts the hammers down and reaches for my palm. ‘It’s not me, it’s the santur. If you play someone’s name, the tune’s tone matches the mood they’re in.’
I borrow the hammers and play my name again. This time it sounds awestruck and mystified. I play my mother’s name, Helena. The tune is warm. I’m pleased. I play Aysel and the santur takes on proud tones, like a trumpet. Next, I play the name Eser.
The notes are much shorter than usual,
chick chick chick
like a gecko on our rock-cell walls. On the last note the string quivers as if about to snap.
My mother grabs the instrument, putting it away before taking my hand to explain. ‘We won’t have this at all if Eser learns what it can do.’ She touches my face. ‘I’m glad others can’t see you as I see you.’
I close my eyes for a moment. I know I’m ugly. I’ve heard it, all my life.
‘I saw Eser’s other face. Can a person have two faces?’
Eyebrows raised in alarm, she grabs my hand and writes letter-shapes quickly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Eser was himself. Then candlelight struck him and he also looked…like a lizard. His skin was crusty. He had red eyes.’
‘I fear for you,’ my mother writes. ‘Because of your dreams.’ My mother opens her mouth and points at the scar tissue where her tongue should be before she continues writing. ‘This is something I’ve only had to go through once. You dream it often. I can’t protect you from your dreams, but if Eser ever comes for you, I’ll do what I can to help you run.’
CHAPTER 4
Twenty-seven moons
FROM TUSCANY TO THE ADRIATIC
Luca
In my chamber after matins, more than a moon since our visit to the monastery, Anna helps me lift my chainmail shirt—my hauberk—over my head. The metal rattles as it falls into place, its links seeming dense with responsibility. I’m fortunate to have this. Many men, including some of our tenant farmers, will face Saracen blades wearing nothing more than a quilted linen jack like the one I wear underneath. I pull my chainmail chausses up over my legs and shrug a thick leather jerkin over the top. This is the costume of my new role, the skin of my future self. My reflection in the window shows a red crusader cross, bright as blood.
I match Father’s solemn stride down to the stable. He won’t look at me. We carry our swords and shields. Father’s red shield bears the de Falconi crest—a large gold falcon with an olive branch in its beak. My shield, also red and gold, shows a smaller falcon, tethered like a demon to a falconer’s leather glove. Banners bearing these images will also fly from our spears.
The grooms have been busy in Orestes’ stall. My charger also wears a chainmail helmet and saddle. The beast’s breath is steamy. Anxious, he rakes a wet-grass smell from hay on the floor with his hoofs. The pitchfork demon who called me to have a fight with Narlo watches us from the corner. It falls onto all fours and moves like a horse. I watch it mime a broken back and the collapse of an exhausted beast. It looks up at me and grins through a mouth of grey and broken teeth. I pretend I don’t notice it, or the much larger demon, nearly as large as Tutivillus, who seems ready to walk beside us.
I’ve never ridden Orestes any distance with both of us in mail. ‘Will my armour make me too heavy to ride?’ I ask Desi.
Desi will be riding one of our packhorses and leading others laden with blankets, rugs and tents for our journey. He shakes his head.
‘Your father is heavier and Potestas manages. But ride gently for a while.’
Soon afterwards, we all leave the stable and pace past the front of the villa. Anna, swollen like a ripe pomegranate, holds the arm of Cook, who is openly crying at the door. Anna is brave as she waves farewell to us, knowing we’re going through the countryside of her childhood, land that she still pines for. Gemma leans out of a high window, waving a scarf. Glad to see Narlo going, she’ll miss me. Our younger sisters stand with their nurse beneath an oak tree and wave. I love them all, I realise. I love Anna, who has been like a mother, and Gemma, who took my mother from me, and my mother, who sleeps peacefully in the chapel graveyard beneath a weeping poplar.
And so, red and gold de Falconi banners flying, Father, Narlo and I—along with fencing coaches, tutors, cooks, knights who serve Father and all manner of grotesque demons—finally leave the villa. We leave the wine and the grapes and the beehives. We leave the only home I have ever known.
‘God go with you!’ Gemma cries.
I turn and wave as widely as the chainmail hauberk and the surcoat will allow. ‘Goodbye! Goodbye, Anna! Goodbye, Gemma! Goodbye, children! I’ll see you all soon!’
Sir Bottiglio del Benino and Sir Vezio Lippi, vassal knights to Father, join us with their retinues at the gates to San Gimignano, adding to the throng. Demons greet each other with the joy of long-lost relatives. Their excitement makes it clear they have some purpose in this journey.
‘God wills it!’ chant the two knights.
‘God wills it!’ responds the crowd.
We’re cheered as our horses pace downhill, away from the city gates. Flags and banners flutter above us all like giant butterflies. This is it. We are leaving San Gimignano, with no real idea of when we’ll return.
‘God wills it!’ yells one knight and we soon pick up the refrain. ‘God wills it! God wills it!’ We are a great chanting body off to reclaim the City of God and to hasten the Kingdom of Heaven on earth.
For several days, Father, Narlo and I ride three-abreast, with the rest of our entourage following behind. We make very slow progress. Brother Bonaccorso on his packhorse is not the slowest of our group; some farmers are on foot. As we travel, we are joined by pilgrims from other Tuscan towns and cities. Stopping only for prayers mid-morning, noon and mid-afternoon, we travel all day. I watch out for the man in the iron-coloured cape. Each night, we set up a camp with saddlebags for pillows and cloaks for warmth, leaning painted shields against bannered spikes to identify the location of each family and noble house.
Sometimes it feels like travelling through the pages of an illuminated book. One day we pass orange and lemon groves, the next we reach broad cliffs and I have my first view of the ocean. Far below us, it rumbles and roars. We pass an immense mountain that growls and emits smoke. ‘Our pagan ancestors met there to worship Vulcan,’ Father tells me.
We pass hills of broken rocks that giants might have crushed underfoot, a
nd the sites of famous battles between princes now united and marching together. We are no longer Tuscans but pilgrims. Saracens are our enemies now, not other Latin-speakers.
On the road to Rome, we meet and become part of an immense army, a great snake of princes, lords, knights, ladies and peasants on horseback and on foot. Some, Saxons, Normans and Franks, have already travelled a long way. Soon, the name of their leader, Raymond of Toulouse, is as familiar to us as Matilda of Tuscany. All Christendom is travelling south, like birds in winter, along the ancient Via Trajana that has wound through the countryside since Emperor Trajan’s day.
‘Out of my way!’ Narlo orders abruptly one day, cracking his whip.
Nearby, a young couple has pulled over to the track’s verge.
‘My wife—’ the man begins. The woman bends over and lets out an almighty scream. A baby is about to be born beside the road.
‘God almighty!’ Narlo’s thin top lip lifts in disgust. ‘Get out of my way. The Lord might have been born outside a proper house, but there’s no reason to re-enact it.’
He whips his horse and moves on.
A poor knight, wearing dilapidated chainmail and with no protection at all for his elderly horse, dismounts clumsily at the couple’s side. ‘Can I help?’
I spur Orestes to a small group of women who travel behind our cohort, some on horseback and others walking. Drucia, a maid who nursed Anna in the past, agrees to help.
We return to find the labouring woman lying down, supported by pillows of long grass. The poor knight stands between her and the passing pilgrims, holding his patched cape as a screen.
‘Is something wrong?’ I hear the anxious husband ask.
‘Nothing at all,’ Drucia soothes. ‘This is how it goes. Hard, the first time. I understand labour. I trained with Trotula of Salerno.’
I’ve heard of Trotula. Serafina would like to train with the famous woman doctor and author. For now, I leave Drucia with the young couple and help the knight give them privacy. The great river of pilgrims continues flowing downhill along the Via Trajana.
He nods at me. ‘I’m Mattiolas,’ he says.
‘You did a good thing.’
His eyes, a light brown, are round with sincerity. ‘Someone had to help.’
Far ahead of us now, Narlo turns on his charger and gives a sweeping, ironic bow.
‘Do you know him?’ Mattiolas asks.
‘He’s my cousin.’
‘You look a bit alike.’
My cheeks grow hot. ‘Thanks for noticing.’
Behind us, the woman cries again.
‘You’re almost there,’ Drucia soothes.
My mother went through this to have me. This is how she died, delivering Gemma…
Mattiolas, too, falls into silence. Below us, pilgrims pass slowly, on foot and on horseback, their steps a peaceful rhythm eventually severed by one raucous cry and a smaller, weaker wail.
Both Mattiolas and I turn in time to see Drucia pass the tiny infant wrapped in a length of soft cloth to his wide-eyed mother.
‘You need to find a litter for them to ride in, boys,’ she says to us, as if we’re stablehands. I don’t mind. ‘Mother here will take a while to feel like walking again.’
We find a litter harnessed to a reliable mule, and I offer enough coins to borrow it for the next sevennight. When the new mother and her baby are settled into the litter, the new father tries to pay us for our trouble. Mattiolas frowns when I wave his hand away.
‘Drucia might like something for her help,’ I add.
The people are poor but the woman presses a length of red ribbon on Drucia as payment. Drucia ties it jauntily around her throat.
We rejoin the march. ‘You’re rich,’ Mattiolas observes, noticing how fine Orestes is, and the newness of my weapons.
‘Father is generous,’ I say. ‘He’s the Conte de Falconi. We have land in Tuscany.’
‘My uncle is the Duke of Piacenza. You’ve heard of him?’
I shake my head.
‘But you must know Piacenza,’ Mattiolas insists. ‘It’s the sixth-richest city in the world. My uncle is the Duke. No fortune for me in it though. You’re the oldest son?’
‘I am.’
Mattiolas stares into the distance. We’re nearing the ruins of a bleached stone town populated only by statues dedicated to the Roman gods. Maleventum, someone reads from a scroll.
‘The world has already looked after you, even if you won’t be a duke,’ Mattiolas remarks.
‘I’m content being heir to a conte,’ I say, stiffly.
‘Don’t take offence! I have no title at all. I’m off to seek my fortune.’ He indicates his rather shabby chainmail, rusty in places. ‘I understand if you thought I was already rich.’
Trying not to laugh, I notice the stone bridge we’re all crossing. Its wide arc over the Ofanto River is evidence of ancient pagan ingenuity and strength. We pause on the other side to refill our waterskins in water that already flows more slowly, with the approach of summer.
‘Father doesn’t believe in riches from the Holy Land,’ I tell Mattiolas. ‘He says the rewards will be in Heaven.’
‘He’s wrong. For generations, Saracens have been plundering Christian wealth. This is our chance to win it back.’
‘And everlasting reward?’
‘Well, I want that too,’ Mattiolas says. ‘Have you met Raymond of Toulouse?’
‘I know who he is.’
‘He’s too powerful for anyone to be honest about how ugly he is. For a start he has only one eye. That’s why he’s called Monoculus. It’s Latin, you know.’
‘I know Latin.’
‘They say he lost the other one in Jerusalem years ago. In a brawl. In the Holy Sepulchre Church. Jesus can’t be impressed. I think that’s why Monoculus is coming. All the way to Jerusalem to get his eye back. He must think it’s waiting in a gutter somewhere. I’ll help him. Then I’ll ask him to help me.’
After vespers, we set up camp for the night and Mattiolas shows me the relic his uncle asked him to carry. It’s the cracked and yellowing arm bone of Saint Catherine. I do my best to ignore the vicious-looking demon tethered to it.
Although not yet summer, this far south the days are already hot and the evenings warm. We walk to a nearby stream and cool our toes.
Mattiolas passes his wineskin to me. A small demon bobs below it. Round, with a snout like a whiskery pig and long bat ears, it grins with satisfaction as I take a mouthful, and splutter.
Mattiolas laughs.
‘It isn’t watered at all!’ I say.
‘Not a drop. Water is for washing.’ Mattiolas dips his fingertips into the river. ‘I don’t want to drink it.’
I’ve never known wine drunk unwatered. Often, there is wine in our water just to keep it fresh. But on its own, it tastes good.
Mattiolas leaps up and pulls out his sword, coming at me with a laugh. ‘Care to fence?’
I stand, unsheathing my own sword, and face him.
Mattiolas grins and parries, twisting his sword as he lunges. He is well trained. With a surprise thrust, he knocks me onto my back.
I raise my hands, and wipe mud from my hair. ‘You’re much better than my normal training partner.’
Mattiolas tickles my throat with his sword. ‘You’re not ready to practise dying?’
He leans over to help me to my feet.
‘Not by sword, axe or knife. I want you with me when we meet Saracens.’
Mattiolas drains his wineskin and leans forwards to rinse it in the running water.
‘What waits for you at home?’ I ask.
Mattiolas sighs. ‘The church,’ he says. ‘Can you see me as a priest?’
‘I’ve seen a lot of drunk priests.’
‘Ah. The demon liquor.’ Mattiolas laughs.
I pause. ‘Have you ever seen a demon?’
‘I don’t mean literal demons. It’s just an expression.’
Mattiolas and I become riding companions, then frie
nds, as several sevennights pass crossing Apulia. One afternoon, we approach the seaside town of Brindisi in the principality of Taranto. Its hillside buildings, constructed from the whitest stone I’ve ever seen, cluster above the harbour like ants’ nests. Our group of pilgrims will meet the famed Prince Bohemond and still more groups of pilgrims here.
After riding since matins, I’m dirty and tired. Everything I wear is so heavy—the metal mail of my hauberk and chausses, the bow and arrows, my sword, spear and shield. My waterskins, and satchels containing food items and fresh apparel, are attached to my saddle.
I reach into a saddlebag, hoping for a cleaner tunic to wear. My fingers brush against something too firm to be clothing, wrapped in a layer of linen.
It feels like a book.
Instinctively, I look up. Father gazes straight ahead as he rides Potestas.
My fingers dip further into the bag. This isn’t anything Father asked me to carry for him. This feels, in shape and size, like the book he showed me in the cellar beneath our stable. I dreamed that Narlo took it. But wasn’t that only a dream? Did he pack it? Why would he do that?
I hear laughter. It’s the large demon that runs alongside Orestes, sniggering. I realise it is Tutivillus. It stares and smirks and waves enormous wings. Its scales look even more coin-like in sunshine.
‘That’s quite a wind blowing up,’ Father says, beside me. ‘Guard your eyes against a dust-storm.’
The demon paces between Father’s horse and mine.
‘Luca.’ Its voice sounds like distant thunder. Horror pulses through me, but I’m also oddly drawn to the creature. I feel myself leaning to one side, as though I’m…
As though I’m what? Waiting for an order? It knows my name.
‘Tutivillus,’ I say, and straighten.
The demon doesn’t stop. We have matched each other, parry for parry, in a spiritual sword fight I don’t really understand. What is the next move?
Now at the outskirts of Brindisi, we pass a collection of white stone buildings clustered in a green field around a small church. Brother Bonaccorso and other monks from his order will be staying in the monastery here while the rest of us go into the seaside town. Father pauses beneath an olive tree.
The Book of Whispers Page 5
