They saw the captain’s peacock feather hat in the distance, roaming among the idlers on the wharf. Business did not bow down to disease and he was busy recruiting his new crew. They called out their goodbyes and made their way slowly up the hill through the town, past the beautiful cathedral of St Nicolas, to the preceptory of the Knights of St John.
*
It seemed to take an age to reach, Andre needing to rest every few minutes to get his breath and stem the coughing that became worse as the night cooled the still air. By the time they came to the heavy gates, Christian had his arm under Andre’s holding him upright. He banged loudly and a priest hurried out, two others with him.
They carried him to the infirmary and laid him down on clean linen sheets, the priest seeing at once his affliction. His voice was gentle “Brother, I can see the flux has been upon you for some time. Is there pain?”
Andre tried to laugh but couldn’t, his head hurt too much and the fire in his bowels made tears come to his eyes. He was well used to pain but not agony such as this.
He looked around the familiar sand coloured walls, lit by lamps set into niches in the bare stone. He remembered monks singing here and flowers in great pots lining the walls. His order had been famous for its healing methods, tending to the soul as well as the body. All he could see now was a sorrowful Christ upon the cross over the mantle, head hanging limp on His shoulder, sunken eyes cast down.
The priest brought him cool water to drink and removed his habit, lifting it gently over his head. Christian stood solemnly by, his face crumpled with concern.
In truth Andre felt much better now that he was lying down. He gestured to Christian to sit beside him and smiled “Thankyou, my boy. I could not have walked here alone.” The priest came again with warm water and cloths and washed away the sweat of his fever. He made no protest but talked quietly as he accepted the gentle care.
“Tell me Brother, are there some of the Order of John of Jerusalem here?”
The kindly priest shook his head. “No my friend, they have long gone. I hear they are settled on the island of Rhodes now and have made it a fortress worthy of a fine army. I have heard that none dare dispute their sovereignty.”
Andre smiled and winced in pain. “Aye, my brethren were ever haughty landowners. Since the Knights of the Temple ended in disgrace, they have thought it their duty to fill their shoes. But there are many among them worthy of honour.”
” Yes, the townsfolk here tell many tales of their bravery and their skill in medicine.”
Christian sat, listening to the easy conversation between the two men. Relief washed over him, knowing there were others here to help, that they would not be alone. The priest finished his careful ministrations and left them to scavenge in the kitchens for Christian. His stomach having settled since they landed, he was famished.
Andre slept fitfully, the boy by his side. During the night he woke and called out, groping for him in the dim light. He pulled him closer and whispered, his soft voice echoing across the vaulted ceiling. ”Would I have been your blood father I could not have been more proud of you.”
Christian felt heavy tears on his cheeks “You have been more than that to me.”
Andre smiled but pain dimmed his eyes and he could see only an outline and shadow along the wall. “I have something to ask.”
Christian bent closer to hear “Do you remember the salve given by the woman in the forest?” He nodded “When I can speak no more…When I can speak no more, my son, I pray you.”
He felt a lump rise in his throat. He would have walked the length and breadth of the earth for him. He knelt beside Andre and took his hand as his eyes closed once again. He knew what the ointment was but not why he had asked for it. It was hen-belle, called henbane by the English and it was a powerful tool for pain, but it had other properties too and killed more often than it helped. Christian knew the risk he would expose him to. He looked for the small earthen jar among his remedies and tucked it into his tunic.
Andre slept all the next day and woke as the sun began to set. An orange glow filtered through the narrow window to lite on the mournful Christ, wreathing the twisted body in rays of gold. He lay still, watching the boy as he slept on the pallet beside him. He remembered the little frightened boy in the hide tanner’s cart and his studious expression as he laboured over his lessons. And he saw once again the power, coiled like a seed ready to grow into a mighty tree, in the visions he had seen.
He felt sad that this innocent, extraordinary young man must continue his journey alone. He truly loved him like a son. He stretched out his hand to ruffle his hair but an agonising bolt of pain made him cry out and Christian jumped up in alarm.
He couldn’t get his breath. Fire blinded his eyes and burned in his entrails. He thrashed wildly around in the sheets, straining to get up. He felt hands holding his wrists, others holding him down. Oh, what torture was this!
Then a gentle hand rubbing his chest…and darkness.
*
He was flying, soaring over a blood splashed desert, looking on as mounted knights fought hand to hand with Saracen warriors, their swords and scimitars flashing in the sun. He watched as a straight backed knight killed a man with a sword thrust through the throat and bowed his head for an instant before turning to the next. He heard the shock of contact as horses tangled together, armour and tasselled bells clashing, men screaming. And still the knight fought on, grim determination setting his jaw tight, lighting his blue eyes. He wore no visor, but a helmet with a strip of steel protecting his nose and the white cross of Amalfi blazing on his red surcoat. A thick plait of blond hair fell behind him as he manoeuvred his war horse into the fray.
Andre watched as he swung his blade and took a bright turbaned head from its shoulders, once again bowing his head in respect. There was youth but no pride; no over-weaning triumph marring his strong features.
Yet he knew this face. It was his own.
A caravan of pilgrims lay beyond the dunes. He could hear babies crying in their mothers arms.
The battle faded and he saw Yiola, her arms stretched out wide, the thin stuff of her dress billowing out in the wind as she wrapped herself around him.
And Gaspard, ever his friend, fighting back to back and laughing in the face of death and standing, his mighty sword between his legs, challenging those who would take up the lash against his brother.
Then, swelling his heart with joy, a man, wisdom and compassion shining in his eyes, holding a light more beautiful than the stars of eternity, smiling at him and lifting its golden beams high.
For all the world to see.
He heard the soft words of the priest, ‘Blessed is our God, always now and ever, and unto the ages of ages…’
And drifted into peace.
PRO FIDE, PRO UTILITATE HOMINUM
For faith, and in the service of humanity.
BOOK TWO
‘Methought a Being more than vast in size beyond all bounds called out my name and saith: What wouldst thou hear and see and what hast thou in mind to learn and know?’
Hermes Trismegistus
(Corpus Hermeticum)
Christian knew then what grief felt like. It sat like a cold stone in his belly, weighing him down. He felt numb and empty all at once, as if a hole had been ripped in his soul.
They buried Andre on the hill overlooking the ocean and before they made the place for him among his brethren, Christian took up his astrolabe and sighted it on the Quibla. He asked that his grave be directed toward it, to be with him in spirit on the next part of his journey.
It made him feel better this small token. He dwelt in heaven with his mother and father now.
He’d thrown the pot of henbane from the cliff, watching with satisfaction as it smashed on the jagged rocks below. He knew Andre’s death had been hastened by it. He was also sure he’d suffered agonies at the last and the unguent had eased that suffering. But to shorten the beating of that magnificent heart by even a moment seemed t
o him a terrible crime. ‘Primum non nocere?’ He was not even a physician and already he was disregarding the basic tenets of a healer…Hippocrates’ first principle…First, do no harm.
But brother Phillipe was a physician and he’d known by the smell what the ointment was. He’d whispered encouragement as Christian spread the foul concoction on Andre’s chest, then ordered him to wash it from his hands. Even from that small exposure, Christian’s heart had beaten loudly and he’d been overcome by the sensation that he’d risen from the floor and was hovering over them all, invisible.
Phillipe told him it was an effect of the nightshade, which was one of the bounties of nature to ease man’s suffering. It was little comfort. What Christian had done, he’d done out of love for Andre, but he knew now that a doctor would pay a price with his conscience for the service he gave to others and it would take much courage to make of it his life’s work.
He stayed at the compound for a month, helping the brothers tend the sick. Then he took stock of his few possessions; his astrolabe, the light glass the minstrel had given him, the quills and parchment and his box of remedies. He had Andre’s medical book and instruments, his Rubaiyat and one gold sovereign from the Abbot’s endowment.
He also took stock of the myriad gifts he’d been given that had no earthly form.
He knew his letters and numbers, he’d learned Latin, Greek and Aramaic passingly well, good plain Italian and some English and Spanish. He could read some Arabic but not speak it, hearing only Gaspard’s curses and forbidden words that all soldiers learn in war. He might find employment as a clerk or scribe, anything to earn his passage to Jerusalem.
He was mannered, his health was good, if somewhat squeamish at sea. He’d never learnt to dance but he could play a lute and sing, at least until his voice had broken. He had some skill in physic. He was of noble birth for all the difference that made, all being equal in the eyes of the Lord.
On the other hand, he felt his looks were plain and his body awkward, although he attracted much attention from girls in the town, who made great sport of him as he walked along, stroking his hair and planting shy kisses on his cheek while their mothers were distracted by their shopping. He’d often have to scurry out of sight down an alley or behind a tree, to hide his red face and his bulging breeches.
He was virgin still. The abbot had told him something of the yearnings of men and the dangers of unbridled lust, so he tried hard not to think of those girls, tried not to imagine their small pink nipples and moist pouting mouths as he lay by the kitchen fireside after the brothers had retired. He longed to learn the secrets of the female anatomy, to breathe the smell of a woman’s skin, to explore warm, responsive openings. He’d felt equal measures of shame and elation during these forbidden reveries but was wise enough to know that God had given him these feelings and time would find a remedy.
He harboured no ill to anyone. He was of an enquiring mind. He had a dream and a plan.
It was time to be on his way.
*
He spent his mornings on the wharf, watching the galleys and sailing ships that docked in the harbour.
They’d brought luxury goods from the East, silks and spices and wonderfully woven carpets, transported overland in caravans or on donkeys, across snowbound steppes and mountain passes and loaded onto the ships at ports all along the African coastline. Even watching as the bundles were unloaded gave Christian a tingling in his spine.
He took the astrolabe once again from his pouch. This, of all things, made him feel closest to Andre, as if some part of his spirit attached to it. He’d never gotten round to asking him how he came to own such a thing. Now he would never know.
He sighted the instrument, the engraved circles denoting the azimuth and altitude, showing the celestial bodies above the horizon, meeting with the gradations on the rim of the mater. This particular device had two interchangeable tympans so when they’d set sail for Cyprus, Christian had changed them to reflect the latitudes of the
East.
He was still engrossed in his calculations when he heard a gruff voice behind him “Old Simeon the Jew would offer up ‘is soul and ‘is only daughter for such a pretty toy as that.” He turned around to see a young man about his own age and like himself, all knees and elbows and unruly hair. But where he was fair, this one was dark eyed and olive skinned and his stature was short where Christian’s was tall. Ragged clothes of no discernable colour hung from his thin frame and he leaned against the pylon with an affected, insolent slouch. “What I mean is, you an’ me could have a right old time at Madame P’s, where the girls is clean and nearly always virgin.” With this he smiled widely, showing broken, rotted teeth and hard, glittering eyes. “Then a puff of opium to send us off to ‘eaven. Wot about it? You look like you could do with a friend.”
Christian smiled warmly back “My name is Christian. And yours?”
The boy laughed and the sound was harsh and gravely “Call me anythin’ yer want, Shit, turd and whore’s beggar, that’s me.” He turned his head a spat thickly into the water, wiping his mouth on his frayed sleeve. “Well, let’s go then…mmm…I can taste them chops already.”
Christian placed the astrolabe carefully back in his pouch. He’d seen the craftiness in the boy’s movements, the sly expression on his face. He felt a surge of pity for the youth. Everything about him spoke of deprivation and rejection. “The astrolabe is not for sale. I have need of it to find my way to the Holy Land.”
The boy snorted “The Holy land? Holy, my arse…I hear the sailors talk in the tavern, about how them Arabs ‘ave harems full of beautiful wimmen but only want to get their ‘ands on good Christian boy’s cocks.”
He spat again and Christian felt his gorge rise. He’d had enough of crude language and bad habits. “I have nothing to sell that will get you what you want my friend.” He instinctively held his pouch closer. “But if you would like to come with me, I will fetch you a meal. Also, I have been trained to draw teeth. I would be happy to ease your pain.”
“Oh, yes? Ease my pain? Well, a bit of tit and a smoke will ease all of my pains. What else have you got in that bag?” His eyes narrowed into slits when Christian didn’t respond. “I said, what’s in that bag?”
Christian watched the boy’s hand creeping into the folds of his sleeve. He saw the thin wrists, the premature stoop in the shoulders and dry, flaking skin on his cheeks and hands. He readied himself.
Quicker that he thought possible, the boy lunged forward and pinned him against the pylon, a sharp blade pushed against his throat. He smelt unwashed cloth and sickness as the leering face came close to his “Give me that bag…or I’ll gut you like a fish.” But he had decided that only death was going to part him from Andre’s precious gift. He brought his knee up hard between the scrawny legs and as the boy jerked back in shock, grabbed the arm that held the knife, snapping the bone with a sharp twist.
There was a howl of pain and the knife clattered onto the wooden planks. Christian kicked it into the water, still holding him by his broken arm. “I am truly sorry. But you cannot take what is not freely given. Please, let me help you some other way.”
He let him go and stepped away and the boy stared at him with shrewd, hostile eyes “Ow, my arm, you’ve broken my arm. By Satan’s arse, I’ll be starving in the streets like a beggar.”
Christian thought if it were he, he would rather starve like a beggar than swing from a rope as a thief but he felt bad that he had caused such an injury to anyone. “Come with me, I will set the bone and get you some food.” He wondered at the ease with which he had broken the arm. Rickets was a common problem in these hard times. If so, he knew that the softened bone would heal awkwardly and slow. Perhaps the brothers could assist him to find employment, if he could refrain from cursing and thievery.
Had Christian been worldly in the ways of men he would have realised that he was, to use Andre’s expression ‘Battling for the moon on the water.’ After setting his arm, during which the boy scr
eamed like a girl in childbirth, and filling him up with good meat and bread, he returned with wine from the kitchens to find the pouch that held his astrolabe lying on the floor…and the room empty.
His heart leapt into his mouth. He ran to the open doorway but saw no-one. He fought to keep the tears from his eyes. He called to brother Phillipe who came running, his face full of concern. He sat Christian down, poured him some wine and pointed out that Cyprus was an island and unless the boy tried to swim his way across the Mediterranean, he would be found soon enough. He sent the brothers down to the harbour, to ask the shipmen there to look out for the rogue and his ill gotten gains.
And then Christian mentioned a Jew named Simeon.
*
He’d never been in the Jewish quarter, but he relished the smells and noises of the marketplace, the laughter of children and the good natured banter of the shopkeepers ringing through the streets, familiar and comforting. The stares of passers-by seemed curious and not unfriendly, seeing the tall lad with the noble bearing and the short, rather portly monk with no tonsure, his bald head shining bluely, like an ostrich egg.
Phillipe had been there before and at last they came to Simeon’s house, a low stone dwelling with a fine arched portico. They knocked on the brass studded door and it was opened immediately by an enormous dark skinned slave, who bobbed his head frantically as a pretty girl of about fifteen entered the vestibule and addressed them with downcast eyes, her thick lashes resting on her cheeks like obedient caterpillars. “Please sirs, enter you and welcome. My father will be with you shortly.”
Her voice was gentle and flowing, like warm honey and Christian caught the scent of jasmine as she led them to a brightly lit anteroom. The slave walked quietly behind, watching them closely.
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