by Sheri Holman
Truly, the East is full of Wonders, brothers. That an honest monk could leave home and become a liar, picklock, and handler of false relics seems wondrous enough to me. That he might, in a single day, have laid up such a huge store of new sins after being granted complete remission almost surpasses belief. Deceiver that he is, will he even be allowed to enter the Holiest Sepulchre, or will the hand of God strike him a blow across his mouth and stop him on the threshold? I suppose only time will tell.
The Saracen priest’s white beard bobs up the staircase, in no more of a hurry than the men drifting home to dinner. Two pilgrims left in line. The priest climbs onto the wooden platform just below the minaret’s roof and floats to the very edge.
“Allaaah ...”
“Felix, there you are.”
I close my eyes. He has really come.
Ser Niccolo strides across the courtyard, leaving his loaded white donkey tethered to a sheepish Peter Ber. The Mameluke looks uncomfortable out in public in his Christian clothes.
“Peter,” I call, “watch Ser Niccolo’s things for a moment. We’ll be right back.” I grab the translator’s hand. “John’s inside,” I explain. “I told him we’d come find him the minute you arrived.” As we sprint to the doors, the Saracens rise to shut it. I thrust my last ten ducats into a shriveled fist and push Niccolo in ahead of me.
“What’s the rush?” he asks.
“I just don’t want to make you late. You are doing us such an enormous favor.”
The pilgrims stray into the processional, but John is not among them.
“I told him not to wander off,” I lie. “This is very rude.”
“It’s fine.” Ser Niccolo smiles. “I’m sure it won’t take long.”
For several minutes, I honestly can’t find him. At last there he is, praying under a hanging lamp in the Lady Chapel, just beyond the Edicule.
“John.” I bend over and tap his shoulder. “Do you have the tongue?”
The Archdeacon looks up, startled by my question. When he sees who I brought, I expect him to slap me across the face.
“Don’t say anything,” I whisper. “I’ll explain later.”
I feign a transaction with my friend and produce the hollow book from my pocket. John grips my robe, but I shake him off.
“The Wonders of the East.” The translator turns it over and smiles. “She stole this too. It’s from my library.”
He carefully unlatches the book on Queen Zenobia’s tongue. Behind me, John catches his breath.
“‘Death and life are in the power of the tongue,’” the translator quotes.
“Proverbs Eighteen,” John says tersely. I quickly cut him off.
“We mustn’t detain Ser Niccolo any longer,” I say. “He has been kind enough to come so far out of his way.”
“I’ll see this reaches Cyprus safely.” Niccolo drops the little book into his pocket. “Now I must go, or I will miss my ride.”
“Certainly, certainly.” I keep pace as he starts toward the doors. Precessing toward us, the pilgrims cup their tapers against the drafts. One staggers under the weight of his self-sized candle like Christ beneath the cross.
“So good-bye, my friend; perhaps we’ll meet again.” Niccolo stretches out his hand.
I say good-bye in the vestibule, happy to get away before he tries the door.
While I wait for Ser Niccolo to discover he is locked in for the night, brothers, I want to interject a brief word here about resurrection, so that you might pardon the sin I committed this afternoon at the relic shop of the Jewish quarter.
In their benighted faith, the Saracens believe that at the End Times an angel called Adriel will slay all creatures, including the angels, and, having performed his macabre task, will turn his sword upon himself. When all are dead, Allah, as they call God, will raise up every creature, saving only Death. This they hold as a tenet of their faith, and this they believe to be true.
As you know, brothers, in reality the End Times are quite different. When the Day of Judgment comes, all the peoples of the earth will gather together in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, there to be tried for their sins. I know many simple countryfolk worry of nothing more than “How will I have a place to sit in the valley, if we are to share it with all other nations?” This is not a fear so foolish as it might seem, for the Valley of Jehoshaphat is barely large enough to contain all the Swabians who currently are, not to mention all that were or will ever be. Several countryfolk gave me money to set up a small pile of rocks in the valley and thus mark their place for the Last Judgment, which I shall do to humor them. All learned Christians understand that in the last days the world will be rent and the valley elongated, past the Mount of Olives, past the River Jordan, so there will be room for all to stand and hear the word of God.
In any event, wherever we are buried, on the Last Day we will stand bodily before our Lord. For this reason, grave-robbing, be it for scientific or artistic purposes, is anathema to most Christians. How if after death someone takes one of our legs? Shall we approach the throne a cripple? How if someone takes our eyes? Shall we approach blind? How if, even as we are growing cold, a surgeon or undertaker’s assistant takes our maidenhead? Shall we cry out to God for the return of our virginity?
So, you see, in both Saracen and Christian faiths, a person must preserve his body for the Day of Judgment. Had I stumbled upon a tongue of either faith, I could never have purchased it. I take it as a miracle that my bride steered us to one of Abdullah’s wretched race, neither Christian nor Saracen, reviled by both, a tongue that has no voice before our Lord in the first place.
“Open up! What’s wrong with this door?” It took even less time than I imagined for the pounding to begin.
“Why is this locked?”
“Ser Niccolo?” I take a deep breath and run back to him. “What’s wrong?”
“This door is locked, that’s what’s wrong. How am I supposed to get out?”
“What? Why would it be locked?”
“Let me out!” He shouts into the wood. “Somebody!”
“There must be some mistake,” I reassure him. “Let’s find the key.”
Of course, Father Guardian is unavailable, leading the procession. Any number of Heretical Christians mill about, relaxing at their own shrines, cooking their dinners behind heavy red altar curtains. The translator explains the situation to one scrawny Copt, who slowly shakes his head. There is no way. These guards won’t even accept bribes, he tells us, can you imagine? We quickly circle the whole church, searching for an alternate exit—a forgotten door, a low window. As I know from last night, the Saracens have walled up every opening so that no one may enter without paying the proper fee. The only way out is sealed until dawn.
“Ser Niccolo, this is all my fault. If only I had known!” I am on the verge of very real nervous tears. Perhaps my distress communicates itself to him.
“It’s not your fault, Friar. It is just unbelievably stupid.” The translator lets out a slow breath, looks around him as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “So this is how I finally see the famous Sepulchre?”
“If only the stone would be rolled away once more, to let you out! I am so sorry, Ser Niccolo.”
“There is nothing to be done,” he says tightly. “A caravan leaves next week. I’ve gotten so used to rushing, I forget there’s no longer any need.”
I relax a little. My urgency on his behalf was much greater than his own—but, after all, what was the rush with Arsinoë buried on the shore of Joppa? Then I remember.
“Peter,” I say.
“Peter.” Niccolo had forgotten. I feel his swift panic. The bones are with Peter.
What was I thinking? I’ve locked Niccolo inside but left her body in the hands of an erratic apostate. I can only pray he will protect them.
“Will he steal your things?” I can barely hear my voice through the throbbing in my head.
Niccolo is silent for a moment. “He knows I’ll always find him.”
I’m not sure if that’s meant as a reassurance, but I try to take it as one. After all, Peter has had the opportunity to steal them ever since they disappeared from Arsinoë’s cabin on Saint John’s Eve.
To take our minds off the Mameluke, I suggest we walk through the Holy Church. I want to resuscitate the reverence I felt last night, but all I see are despoiled mosaics, the Virgin Mary’s tiled limbs pried up for souvenirs, her Son’s face acned with graffiti. Most pilgrims don’t even bother with the procession tonight. They lounge around in knots of six and seven, gossiping over rice puddings and bottles of contraband Cretan wine.
“... Agincourt, when I was only thirteen . . .”
“My mother used to make it—just take day-old rice, a handful of raisins, sugar....”
“Back home there are no fleas in the churches. Back home the fleas stay on the dogs. . . . I wish we were home....”
The hoots of laughter, the audacious snores. I see a cluster of nobles kneeling and snickering together by the Stone of Christ’s Anointing. When I look closer, I notice one is chipping his initials into the rock. Unheeded by them, a battle is brewing over whose turn it is to say mass on that spot. Pilgrim priests swear at one another and tear at the surplice, pulling it in five directions at once, slapping each other like girls. I blush to see them carry on so, each determined to say mass at Christ’s tomb so he may boast of it back home.
Yet, how am I any better, inviting a murderer and a thief into His temple? Mary of Egypt, even in her days of debauched prostitution, still trembled and went limp before the doors of this holy place. A depraved whore showed more reverence than I, one who has consecrated his life to God.
“You look ill, Friar. Would you like to rest?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you for a while and make the round of holy sites. I feel I should repent the sin of presumption that made a fool of me and stranded you here.”
“I understand,” Niccolo says. “I’ll take a look around myself.”
I make my circuit, praying halfheartedly at each shrine. All I want is to sit in the dark, but I can’t bear returning to Saint Helena’s Chapel, where this disgraceful plan was hatched. No matter where I pray, John the Archdeacon kneels pointedly in my line of vision, obviously waiting for me to explain myself. I know he is furious, but having him upbraid me is equally unbearable right now. Instead, I walk to Calvary, where the Crucifixion stone juts up like a shrugged shoulder, drop to my knees, and bury my arms and head in the empty socket as far as they will go.
It is dark in here. And sweet. I smell the myrrh from where Christ’s True Cross once filled this hole, even as my own breath bounces off the rock, hot and melony. If I never emerge, I could start a whole new order of Reverse Stylites—monks who burrow in the postholes of pillars rather that perching atop them. Men who direct their asses toward Heaven while they bury their brains.
A little lamplight filters in through my armpits. Inside, the socket is a flickering topographical map of shields and crosses, names and dates. I run my fingers over the trenches. Here, Christ died for me: Johann Niebur, Frisia, 1413. Here, Christ died for me: Guy de Lorraine, 1101. Here, Christ died for me: Julia Maximilla. My name lives now where Christ died, so that all may know He died, not for humanity, but for me, and me, and me. As I’m backing out, I notice, in hasty red chalk, Christ also died for Ursus Tucher, Swabia, 1483.
Lord Tucher’s confession must have stirred his conscience, for he, unlike most, is sunk in prayer, bent low against the Edicule. Ursus, I don’t immediately see, until I notice another red autograph on the Center of the World. He’s talking to Ser Niccolo.
“Friar!” Ursus shouts when he sees me. “Tell Ser Niccolo what you told us when we were locked in last night. About all the other places where there’s no shadow at noon.”
Ser Niccolo’s face is absolutely unreadable. Involuntarily, I begin to tremble, brothers.
“Our friar is the smartest monk alive, Ser Niccolo,” says Ursus. “He knows all about Germany and Italy, Jerusalem and Egypt. He wants to cross the desert, but Father won’t let him.”
“Is that so, Friar Felix?”
“Is what so? That I want to cross the desert, or that I’m the smartest monk alive?”
“Obviously you’re not the latter. Why do you want so badly to cross the desert?”
“To save Saint Katherine.” I feel my chin tremble. I am not afraid.
“She needs saving?” The translator’s eyes are pinpricks.
“Ursus, will you excuse Ser Niccolo and myself? We need to have a grown-up talk.”
He looks between us, confused. “What did I do?”
“And give me the chalk.” I hold out my hand. Reluctantly, he deposits it and sidles away.
“Now suppose you tell me why you trapped me here?” Ser Niccolo says through clenched teeth.
We step into the Prison Where Christ Was Confined Before the Crucifixion, a darksome cell, having no windows and only one small altar. Four thin new candles have been stuck in the sand, wedged in between hundreds of melted stubs.
“I won’t let you kidnap her.”
“Who?”
“Don’t pretend. I know everything: the kidnapping, the lies, the murders. I didn’t believe it at first, but now I know.”
“What do you think you know, Friar?” He towers over me, and my left leg shakes uncontrollably. I put my weight on it, but the shiver leaps to my voice.
“That you are a liar. You said they were cow bones, but they are not! You are holding Saint Katherine hostage.”
He shoves me into the candles, and I slide to the floor.
“Goddamn it!” Niccolo slams his fist hard against the hewn wall, pounds it like a mortal foe. I tense my knees, ready to kick when he turns that rage on me. A female pilgrim sticks her head into the chapel, sees one man sprawled on the floor, another in tears, and abruptly leaves. My shoulder aches from the fall. Oblivious, Niccolo turns.
“I don’t know why you’d believe that of me, Friar. Have I shown myself to be a fanatic in any way? Have I seen visions, heard voices? I am a scholar, Friar. I’m no bone merchant.”
I see the resemblance between brother and sister now that he stands accused. Arsinoë’s wide flashing eyes, her shallow breath, her strong, dewy forehead.
He regrets his eruption. “Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head.
He takes up the narrow yellow taper that fell at my feet and replaces it in its tray. I watch it sag and melt into the other stubs.
“I lied to you, Friar,” Niccolo says. “I don’t know what those bones are. The men and women who brought them believed they were real; they certainly paid enough for them. My sister believed they were real. As for myself, I just don’t know. How many believers does it take?”
This chapel is so small, I feel like I’m sitting in an upended coffin. The guards used to give prisoners who waited here for execution a special cup of wine. It was unmixed, to get them drunk so they wouldn’t mind Death so much when it came.
“It doesn’t work that way, Ser Niccolo,” I say at last. “A body is either a saint’s or it is not.”
“You forget, I rescue saints’ lives, Friar.” He shakes his head. “I translate their stories where I find them. How many times have I read of holy greed: two towns claiming possession of the same saint’s body? They scream, they argue, they write false histories; one says the saint was born in his town; the other claims he died in his. They are ready to tear the coveted body to shreds when lo! the saint, not to disappoint either town, provides a second body! Which is then real? Does Saint Nobody now have two right hands and twenty toes? Or did some clever monk sneak into the local graveyard, unearth his uncle who died of the pox, and put him in the saint’s coffin? Does it matter? Does God not work miracles around both bodies? Are both towns not happy?”
“This is not about happiness, Ser Niccolo,” I cry. “This is about Truth. If, as you say, a common man might falsely become a saint, does it follow by the same reasonin
g that my bride, one of the most powerful saints in Christendom, will become a cow? Relics are not abstractions to be played with by sophists. They are the living splinters of Heaven. They have shape and heft and presence in the physical world. They are true or false; not true because we say so, or false because we deny them.”
“Who found Saint Katherine’s body, Friar?” Ser Niccolo asks me.
“What are you talking about?”
“Who found it and how?”
“You know as well as I do,” I chide. “A desert hermit had a dream that led him to climb Mount Sinai. There he found the body of a young woman floating in a pool of oil, and God said to him, ‘Behold. The first Katherine.’ And God revealed to him the story of her martyrdom.”
“And he was one man?”
“Yes,” I snap.
“And his proof of her identity was his dream?”
“What are you getting at?” I ask.
“Only that it is possible for a single clever man to take up an alphabet of bones and translate Heaven. This lone hermit, while other monks were busy supplicating the known crowd, climbed a mountain, found a skeleton, and put a skin on it. His dream alone gave us Katherine’s wheel, her milk, her Defeat of the Fifty Philosophers. Once he provided her history, his job was done; he walked back into the desert from which he came, secure that no matter how her body was broken up, each limb would be called Katherine, the name he gave her, knowing that should each limb be smashed to dust, every particle would still have once been strapped to his wheel, beheaded by his sword, and translated to his mountain.”
Ser Niccolo’s eyes glow in the candlelight.
“There must be nothing in the world so exciting as finding a blank saint.” He sighs.
“Your sister told me you were jealous,” I counter. “That you couldn’t bear not having Heaven speak directly to you.”
