Solomon's Throne

by Jennings Wright

  “No, sir! No! Let me explain,” he said, and went on to lay out all that Anthony had said to him, including his own role as the secretary to Iraneaus. When he had finished, he clasped his hands tightly in front of him and said, “If you choose to do nothing with the letter, I will return it to my brother and say nothing. I have no desire to hurt the Church, nor you, your grace. It is to protect her that I have come to you with this.”

  Dionysius sat in a chair at his desk, deep in thought. “Please leave this with me. I will pray and reach a decision within a fortnight. I only ask that you fast and pray until you hear from me, that I might do the Lord’s will in this matter.” He nodded gravely at Camillus, who bowed and quickly left the room.

  When Camillus next appeared before the Bishop of Rome, he felt like a condemned man facing the scourge. He had been fasting and praying diligently for two months, having had no word from Dionysius in that time, and was quite sure that he would be punished for stirring up a hornet’s nest. The time had not been all bad, as Iraneaus had left, alone, for what he deemed “a necessary tour of the outlying regions”. In other words, he had gone to shore up support for his upcoming effort to depose the Pope.

  Dionysius was sitting at a small table in his simply appointed office. He had a meal spread out before him, and a place was set opposite. He waved Camillus to sit.

  “Good morning, young man. I trust you are well?” Dionysius said with a small smile.

  Detecting no anger in the man, Camillus nodded. “Yes, sir, thank you. And you?”

  Dionysius smiled wider. “I am quite well, thanks to you.” At Camillus’ confusion, he continued, “Two weeks ago, I sent an invitation to Bishop Iraneaus and his supporters to gather here for a meeting. At that meeting, I read to them your letter…” He watched Camillus closely. The priest leaned forward in his chair. He had not seen Iraneaus for over a month, and had not heard a whisper of gossip about this gathering. Dionysius smiled.

  “I presented the facts, as you presented them to me, and I made it known that I would make the letter public should they continue to undermine both the Church, and my duly appointed election to this office. I speculated that, should that happen, of course they would continue to be the fine Christian men that they are, but perhaps their… influence would wane. Perhaps, in fact, they would be forced to return to families where they had no inheritance or wealth. Made to support the children they have produced on, let us say, a farmer’s income. Of course, those children would be helpful in their fields and vineyards…” Dionysius stood up and clapped Camillus on the shoulder.

  “I think we will find that, when Bishop Iraneaus returns to Rome, he will be working much more diligently to further the Church, and perhaps somewhat less diligently to further himself. After all, I am not a young man, and he is the next in line, should the other bishops choose to elect him after I am gone. I think he will bide his time, and amass more wealth, until then. And in the meanwhile, we shall continue to pray that a true believer is appointed to follow me when the time comes.” He poured wine for both of them, and raised his glass. “I thank you, my son, for what you have done for the Church, for Rome, and for Almighty God.” He drank deeply, with satisfaction, and set the cup on the table.

  “Now, I am entrusting the letter back to you. Iraneaus will try to find and destroy it, of course, so we shall have to make that impossible. I would like for you to select a few young men such as yourself, and it will be your main duty to vouchsafe the letter, and thus the Church. You will be transferred from Iraneaus, of course. You will keep me abreast of your activities…?” he asked. Camillus, in shock at the turn his life had suddenly taken, merely nodded. “Good. Then we shall move forward.” He raised his cup again. “To the Church,” he said, and drank deeply.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Goa India

  June 1687

  Joao Xavier hurried down the narrow alley, keeping his dark cloak pulled around him, and his hat low. He had not been Father Eduardo for almost two years, but he was still not used to the fine clothes, the breeches and soft shirt, the wool cloak that didn’t feel scratchy against his skin. What he was used to by now were the strange dark eyed men who always showed up, no matter where he was or how long it had been since he’d seen them last. Other than the one who had confronted him all that time ago on the Lisbon waterfront, he had never spoken to them. His rooms had been searched several times, in several locales, but it had never again been destroyed as it had been in his little cell at the chapel.

  Looking back, that had been a blessing, he thought. Without that fear, he wouldn’t have fled Portugal so quickly. He had never been on a ship until that fateful day, and he had rarely been out of Lisbon. Now he was a merchant trader, ready to travel the known world. He was no longer a priest. He was, in fact, no longer himself… He hadn’t found it difficult to leave Father Eduardo behind, in point of fact. He found that there was much more to the world than he had known, and that he was able to see the God he had worshipped all of his life everywhere he went. He didn’t miss his order, and he was vaguely ashamed to admit that he most certainly didn’t miss his vows of poverty and chastity.

  His face flushed as he thought about his vows. Unless he was terribly foolish, he would never again be poor. Sebastian de Gois had given him an incredible gift, even if that gift came with what he saw as a curse. The letter. He tried, always, to ignore the letter. Even now, he was a devout Catholic, and he knew the danger of the letter. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to destroy something written by the greatest apostle of all, Saint Paul. So he kept the letter, and the dangerous translation, in its leather pouch. He had had an ornate wooden chest made in Goa by a local craftsman. The chest had a false bottom, but it was perfectly weighted and proportioned, and completely invisible unless you knew the secret. The pouch had been in there, undisturbed, for a year now. Out of sight, if not always out of mind.

  Chastity, though. That had also been resolved when he had taken a wife. Isabel Medrado was the daughter of a Portuguese magistrate who had lived in Goa for ten years. Her mother had died shortly after arriving, and she had become indispensable to her father. Joao had met her at a garden party hosted by a fellow trader, and the two had instantly been attracted to each other. This was a new experience for Joao, who, at that time, was mere months from having been a Jesuit priest, and who had never been in the company of a woman alone. Isabel was funny and smart, and, as most women were in the colonies, a strong and confident woman. And she had decided, quite quickly, that becoming the wife of Joao Xavier was very much to her liking.

  There had been some moments of discomfort during their courtship, as her father was from a large and well known Lisbon family. It was difficult to come up with a credible reason why he did not know them—the traders all knew each other, and attended the Cathedral together, their children intermarrying. After a moment of panic, Joao had concocted a childhood in the country, attending to an ailing grandmother on an estate. With his obviously healthy purse and his ease with people, the Medrado family had been happy to take him on face value.

  After six months, Joao asked Signor Medrado for permission to marry Isabel. The match was approved, and they were wed this past March. Their wedding night was terrifying, exhilarating, shocking, and a joy beyond measure. Father Eduardo hadn’t known such passion existed; he felt more blessed by God than at any time in his life.

  Lost in thought, Joao almost missed the doorway. He quickly turned and entered, stopping just inside the door. The oil lanterns were lit, making the corners lost in shadow, but illuminating the large bearded man sitting at the rough table in the center.

  “Ah, Signor Xavier. I began to think you were not coming.”

  “Perdao, Senhor. I was detained by my wife’s excellent cooking.” The man laughed, picking up his pewter goblet and bringing it forward as a toast.

  “To all women, may God bless them for their many attributes!” He drank deeply. “So what can I do for you this time, senhor?”

  “I am rea
dy to return to Lisbon. I have found an operador local, a local tribesman, who can supply me with cargo. I need a ship, however, that will make the ports that I desire. I have promised to show my new wife the way that I traveled here, as she was but a lass when she arrived herself. I spent much time in several of the ports, and would like a ship that was rather more at my disposal than at the mercy of another’s schedule.”

  “But you do not wish to purchase a nau?”

  Joao laughed. “I am a fortunate man, senhor, but not that fortunate! I would like to… contraer… contract a ship and its crew. I will fill the hold with my own cargo, and pay the wages and provisions for the journey to Portugal. My only requirement is comfortable accommodation for myself and my wife, and that we make port in several posts that I wish to visit once again. Beyond that, I will make no demands on the captain or his crew, and I will pay a generous bonus should we arrive in Lisbon safe and sound, with our cargo intact.”

  The large man thought for a time. “I believe I know such a man. He is the captain of the Santo Antonio de Tanna, and he also happens to own a share of that ship. If he is able to make such an agreement on his own, I think that he will be willing.”

  “Is the ship here now, in Goa?” Joao asked.

  “She is not here yet, but she is expected any day. I will speak with him when she has returned, and ask him what you want to know. Fortunately for you, I can vouchsafe your ability to pay him for this undertaking.” He stared pointedly at Joao. This man had found buyers for the artifacts Joao had sold over the course of the first year, and he knew him as Father Eduardo, as well as Joao Xavier.

  Joao smiled. “Yes, I can pay.” He bowed. “We remain at the magistrate’s estate, living in the small quarters beyond the orchard in the back. You may send word after you have spoken with this captain. Of course there will be a comision for you, and a bonus if you can convince Senhor capitao to leave as soon as his crew has been rested and the ship made ready.”

  Toasting again, the man took a long draught. “If it can be done, I shall do it. Make ready your voyage, Father. And God speed.”

  Six weeks later, Joao and Isabel stood on the foredeck of the huge nau, the Santo Antonio de Tanna, and watched Goa fade into the horizon. Isabel was a little teary, as she knew it was unlikely that she would see her family again. But the clear blue sky, the vast expanse of sea before them, and her husband at her side all served to soothe her spirit. She hadn’t been outside of Goa since her arrival eleven years before, and Joao had told her so many fabulous tales of the ports in which they would stay that she felt like a young child again.

  She turned to him. “I am so happy to be here with you! And to see all those places you have told me about… Shall we explore as you did when you were there before? Are there friends that we will visit?”

  Joao smiled. There would be no visiting friends—he had been Father Eduardo when he had spent time at the outposts before. He was hoping, rather, that no one would recognize him, especially when they attended mass.

  “Sim, my dear. We will explore many amazing things. I do not know if we shall see any friends—I did not spend much time in society, as I was so taken with the wonderful surroundings. We shall see, though, and maybe we shall make new friends.” He squeezed her hand. Yes, we will do much exploring…

  The Santa Antonio de Tanna entered the Persian Gulf on a warm breeze. Having watched the strange scenery on either side for some time, Isabel turned to her husband. “It is a very dry country, is it not? It is strange to see all this water, and yet much that is brown.”

  “Yes, it is a desert country, except very near the rivers. We shall travel up one of the rivers to visit Ctesiphon. It was a very great kingdom, before the Romans and the Arabs came. They were Persians. It is said that the Garden of Eden was near these lands.”

  Isabel looked around in amazement. There was nothing in view that would lead one to suspect God’s perfect garden had flourished here. “How shall we get there, Joao? Will we take the ship?”

  He smiled. “No, but we shall be on a small boat for some of the return journey, back down the river. We will have to ride on camelo. Camels.”

  “Camels!” She gasped. “Meu Deus!”

  Joao laughed. “Sim, camels. It will be an adventure for you, my dear. It is very much like being on this ship, actually.”

  Isabel made a face at him, and turned back to the view in front of them. The small port town of Umm Qasr was getting larger as the big ship navigated the channel. The port had been friendly to Portugal from time to time over the last few decades, but the Ottomans were making themselves known about the whole region, so the ship was on alert. However, as they got closer it was apparent that no other vessels were moored by the tiny fishing village, and a general stand-down occurred throughout the crew.

  The nau, a large 42 gun frigate built in Goa, dropped anchor in front of the village. Captain Tiago Querido came alongside Joao. “And we have arrived, signor. You wish to go ashore today? We can lower the boat.”

  “Yes, thank you, capitao. We will stretch our legs on land for a bit, and I will try to find a guide for our trek inland to Ctesiphon. But as I recall there are no rooming houses here, so we will wish to stay aboard until we have made our arrangements.”

  “Very well. And how long shall we remain, sir?”

  “I should think we will be here at least five weeks. We will be exploring the ruins… It is a journey of some twelve to fourteen days with a small caravan, and not traveling to exhaustion. As Isabel will be making the journey, we will want to make sure not to tire her too greatly.”

  Isabel began to protest and then remembered… She would be riding on a camel! She shook her head in disbelief. Perhaps it was best that her father had not accompanied them back to Lisbon after all.

  The journey to Ctesiphon had, in fact, been completed in eleven days. The Bedouin guides had spent a week provisioning the caravan, making sure there were comfortable accommodations for the Xaviers in the form of a flowing tent that would be assembled each evening. The floor was lined with carpets, and a small brazier by the bed roll kept them warm during the chilly nights. Joao sat astride his camel during the long days, swaying side to side and also with a strange front to back motion. He had made this journey before, but had conveniently forgotten how sore his hind parts were for the first several days. A litter of sorts had been made for Isabel, much to her relief, but the long days of lounging on the platform against rolled up carpets made her bones ache.

  At noon on the eleventh day the caravan came in sight of the ruins of Ctesiphon. They had tracked up the Tigris River for much of the journey, except when it veered too far to the east, and had crossed it to the south of the ruined city. The days were monotonous, as the scenery did not vary from sand, stunted shrubs and trees, and more sand. Heading northeast, they could see the great arch in the distance. Joao turned back to Isabel and pointed.

  “There it is! We’re almost there!” Isabel smiled with relief. They would stay on the banks of the Tigris, near the ruins, for a week, exploring and enjoying the hospitality of the locals. Joao had camped within the ruins themselves on his previous visit, leaving it to the guides to procure provisions in the village as needed, so he did not think that he would be recognized.

  In a short while they were in front of the colossal structure. The enormous arch, the Taq-i Kisra, rose dozens of feet above them, with the wings of the palace on either side. Made of baked bricks, it rose out of the desolate landscape, quiet and lonely.

  “What happened to it?” Isabel asked in a hushed voice, sitting up on her litter atop the camel.

  “The Taq-i Kisra and the Shahigan-i Sepid…” The guide pointed to a mound of rubble that could only nominally be recognized as a former structure, “…were burned when the last of the great kings was overthrown by the Ottomans, a thousand years ago. They burned the library, the palaces… but the people were not harmed. The Arabs stayed for a time, but there were stories of the ghosts of our Persian ancestors, of t
he great kings who searched for their palaces. Slowly they moved up river, or to Bagdad. There is no one left now.”

  Isabel shuddered a bit, but looking at the Taq-i Kisra with its magnificent arch, and the enormous blue sky, she felt nothing but peace. She settled back against the rugs as the caravan moved on, past the site.

  Later that afternoon they arrived in the village of Hasuyn as Salih. The guide and his servants erected their tent on a hill overlooking the Tigris, and set about establishing a cooking area and the other necessities of camp. Village women arrived with dates and other fruits, as well as a flat fresh breads and cured olives. There was a fresh breeze from the river, and the air was cooling, as it always did in the evening. Isabel went to the tent to refresh herself before the evening meal, and Joao sought out their guide.

  “Meu senhor, have you arranged the meeting that I asked for?”

  “Ah yes, sir, yes! The anciao will come for you in the morning. I am happy to be spending the day with my sister here in the village, and the men will get rest, yes?”

  “Obrigado, senhor. I will be very happy to explore the ruins again, and to show them more carefully to my bride.”

  The guide bowed, and went back to his men, who were now relaxing with a hot beverage. He said something to them and they all laughed. He thinks I’m a bit eccentric, thought Joao. He smiled. If he only knew!

  The next morning, after hot, bitter coffee and a mixture of sweet rice and bits of dried fruit, the Xaviers made their way back to the ruins of the Taq-i Kisra with the elder of the village, Aqa Rahimi. The elderly Rahimi was the only local man who knew all about the history of the Persians, about the ruins of the palaces, and about the various carvings and inscriptions that could be found on the walls and remaining columns of the structure. He had learned from his father, and he from his father, and on and on through the generations, in a strong tradition of oral history, and he would be their eyes to the past. And for Joao, a prophet of the future. Alongside him was his cousin Khadem, who had worked for the Portuguese during their brief occupation of the area and would serve as translator.