The Saracen: Land of the Infidel

by Robert Shea

  XXXIX

  The hymn "O Salutaris Hostia," sung by over a thousand strong voicesabetted by several thousand more uncertain ones, echoed from thehillsides. The entire clergy of Orvieto, from the pope down to thelowliest subdeacon, had come out of the city, and so had most of the laypopulation. But Daoud's attention was drawn, not by the great processioncoming down the cliffside road, or by the crowd in the meadow aroundhim, but by the astonishing change that had come over the landscape.

  It was as if some devastating disease had struck all the growing thingsof the region, from the tallest trees to the very blades of grass. Theleafless groves raised black, skeletal arms up to the bright blue sky,like men praying. The vineyards on the slopes were gray clumps ofshrubbery. The meadow grass on which he stood was yellow and brittle; itbroke to bits underfoot.

  He had known, of course, that such changes came over the Europeanlandscape each winter. But to see such desolation with his own eyes wasmore amazing, even frightening, than he realized it would be. Soon theChristians would be celebrating the birth of Jesus the Messiah, whomthey believed was God. Seeing death in the landscape all around him,Daoud found it easier to understand why these idolators might feeldriven to worship a God who rose from the dead.

  He hoped it would help his mission that the wave of enthusiasm for themiracle at Bolsena had swept everyone in Orvieto from the pope on down.He hoped they would have neither time to think about the Tartars norinterest in dealing with them.

  But this miracle and all the talk about it made him uneasy. The frenzyin the Christian faces around him might be turned, he thought, in anydirection. It must be the same frenzy that had driven generations ofcrusaders to hurl themselves against the Dar al-Islam.

  Fra Tomasso was at the very center of the furor. It was he who had sentword from Bolsena that in his judgment the miracle was indeed authentic.Might this new preoccupation distract him from his efforts to preventthe alliance?

  And there was something else, something that revived a terror burieddeep in Daoud's soul. Jesus, the crucified God of the Christians,stirred in this miracle. As a boy growing up among Muslims, Daoud hadrenounced belief in the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus. Now hefelt again his father's ghostly hand on his shoulder, and the hairslifted on the back of his neck.

  "Look at the sick people and the cripples lining the road," saidLorenzo. "I would not have thought there could be that many infirmpeople in Orvieto." He and Daoud stood side by side, at a spot where theroad between Bolsena and Orvieto passed through a wide valley, theirhorses tethered in a nearby grove of poplar trees. They had moved back afew paces from the edge of the road to make room for a dozen men andwomen on stretchers, wrapped in blankets, who had been carried here byFranciscan friars from their hospital.

  All around Lorenzo and Daoud stood Cardinal Ugolini's men-at-arms,servants, and maids. Ugolini's entire household was here except for thefew of highest rank who would march with the cardinal, who marchedbehind the pope.

  Fearing that Scipio would go uncared for, Lorenzo had brought him along,holding him on a thick leather leash. The gray boarhound paced nervouslyand growled from time to time.

  In the meadow across the road the pope's servants had erected a pavilionwithout walls--just a roof of silk, gold and white, the papal colors,coming to three points held up by a dozen or more stout poles. TherePope Urban would say mass after receiving the sanctified cloth.

  Daoud glanced down the road to where Sophia stood. They had agreed thatin public it would be best for them to appear far apart from each other.She was dressed as any well-to-do Italian woman might be, her haircovered with a round, flat linen cap bound under her chin, amidnight-blue chemise with long, tight sleeves, and a sleeveless gown oflight blue silk over it. Beside Sophia stood a slighter figure in grayveil and gown. They had their heads close together, talking.

  "Who is that with Sophia?" Daoud asked Lorenzo.

  "Oh, Rachel, I think." Lorenzo studiously examined Scipio's head forfleas.

  "She appears in public with Rachel?" Daoud said angrily.

  Lorenzo shrugged. "No one knows who Rachel is." He slapped Scipio'srump. "Sit."

  "I did not like Sophia visiting Rachel," Daoud said. "Even less do Ilike their being seen together in public."

  Trumpets shrilled and drums sounded as the hymn came to an end. Daoudlooked toward Orvieto. The road that wound down past the gray-yellowfolds of tufa was filled with people.

  At the head of the procession walked the pope in gold and white, and thecardinals of the Sacred College in bright red. The middle of the longline was bright with the purples of archbishops and bishops and thevariegated raiment of the nobility. The rear was dark with the grays andbrowns of common folk.

  From this distance Daoud could not see Pope Urban's face, but there wasno mistaking the beehive-shaped mitre with its glittering triple crown.

  Lucky for the pope the weather was cold, thought Daoud. Wearing thoseheavy vestments on a hot day would surely kill the old man. That todayhe chose to go on foot showed how much this miracle meant to him.

  Daoud turned and looked to the west. The marchers from Bolsena wereclose, and people were falling to their knees all over the meadow.

  _I will have to kneel, too, and seem to worship their idols. Forgive me,God._

  Daoud saw Sophia and Rachel drop to their knees.

  _Surely they think as little of this as I do._

  Coming toward Daoud from the west was a great banner that offended hisevery religious feeling. Painted on the red cloth were the head andshoulders of a bearded man, Jesus the Messiah, with huge, staring eyes.On his head was a plaited wreath of thorns, and behind it a disk ofgold. From the nail holes that pierced his upraised palms fell painteddrops of blood.

  An idol, such as the Koran forbade and the Prophet had come into thisworld to destroy.

  And then he thought of the great crucifix that hung in the chapel ofChateau Langmuir outside Ascalon, and his mother taking him by the handto pray before it.

  "Because _He_ lived and died here," he remembered her sweet voicesaying, "that is why we are here in this Holy Land."

  He felt momentarily dizzy. They, his mother and father and all thesepeople here, thought that the bearded man, with the wounds ofcrucifixion in his hands, was God. And he had believed it once, too.

  No, God was One. He could not be a Father who reigned in heaven and aSon who came down to earth. God was glorious and all-powerful; He couldnot be crucified. God was the Creator; He could not be part of Hiscreation.

  And yet--the cold hand still lay upon his shoulder. A gentle hand, butit frightened him.

  All around Daoud the infidels were throwing themselves on their knees,even on their faces, in the road before the advancing banner. A man in ablack robe was walking before the banner bearer. Despite his long graybeard there was something about his staring eyes and wide, downturnedmouth that reminded Daoud of a fish.

  The bearded priest, Father Kyril, was holding up by its corners a whitesquare of linen. That, thought Daoud, must be the altar cloth on whichthe drops of blood had fallen from the wafer of bread. As he walked heslowly, solemnly, turned from side to side to allow people on both sidesof the road to see the cloth.

  "_Kneel_, David, for God's sake!" Lorenzo ground out beside him.

  His curiosity had made him forget himself. He dropped to his knees,feeling dry grass prick his skin through his silk hose. Lorenzo kneltbeside him, gripping the dog's collar. The sick and crippled peoplelying beside the road were wailing and holding up their arms insupplication.

  Again Daoud asked God's forgiveness for his seeming idolatry.

  Father Kyril and the altar cloth were only a dozen paces away, and nowDaoud could see the brown bloodstains on the white cloth. Amazingly theyappeared to form the profile of a bearded man.

  As a cold wind against his spine, he felt his long-buried fear of thewrath of the Christian God.

  The big hound, right beside him, let out a thunderous bark. Daoudstarted with surprise. His h
eart pounded in his chest.

  Scipio barked and barked, so loudly Daoud put his hands over his ears.Father Kyril took a step backward. People who had been venerating thebloodstained cloth turned with angry shouts. The hands of themen-at-arms escorting Father Kyril twitched, groping for the weaponsthey were not carrying.

  "Scipio!" Lorenzo gave the hound a sharp slap on the side of the head.The dog kept up its barking. Father Kyril had stopped walking and lookedfrightened. He clutched the stained cloth to his breast. At a word fromhim, Daoud thought, the crowd would tear to pieces the dog, Lorenzo, andperhaps Daoud himself.

  Lorenzo grabbed Scipio's muzzle with both hands, forcing it shut. Scipiokept up a growling through his teeth. Lorenzo growled back, "Be still!"He wrestled the dog down until the lean gray head was pressed into thegrass.

  "Barking is the only way he knows to greet the Savior," said Lorenzowith an ingratiating grin, looking up at the people glaring at him.

  "There could be a devil in that dog," a brown-robed friar saidominously. But Scipio relaxed under Lorenzo's hands, and those aroundDaoud and Lorenzo turned back to the procession.

  Daoud was furious. Lorenzo's damned dog had been like a stone in hisshoe ever since they set out from Lucera. Lorenzo was a valuable man,but he insisted on attaching others to him who caused endless trouble.Like the dog. Like Rachel.

  A scream rose above the music, so shrill Daoud put his hands over hisears again.

  "My God! I can see!" A woman was standing, clasping her hands togetherand flinging them wide again and again. One of the Franciscans threw hisarms around her, whether to rejoice with her or restrain her, Daoudcould not tell. But she pushed him away and went stumbling after FatherKyril. From the way her hands pawed the air, Daoud suspected she couldnot see very well, but she shouted with joy all the same.

  She joined a crowd of people, many of them waving walking sticks andcrutches, others with bloodstained bandages trailing from their hands.One man, Daoud saw to his horror, was missing a foot and was limpingalong in the dirt road, without the aid of crutch or cane, on one wholeleg and one stump bound with a dirty cloth that ended at the ankle. Hisface was red, sweat-slick, and blindly ecstatic.

  Behind the rejoicing invalids walked rows of clergymen from Bolsena.Daoud recognized a familiar figure in the foreground, Fra Tomassod'Aquino, his cheeks crimson with cold and exertion, his black mantleblowing in the wind. He had spent the last two weeks, Daoud knew, inBolsena investigating the miracle and overseeing preparations for thealtar cloth to be brought to Pope Urban.

  What did he think now, Daoud ached to know. Would he still work as hardto defeat the Tartar alliance? Did this miracle mean Daoud had gainedground or lost ground?

  A sudden silence fell over the meadow. Pope Urban, with trembling handsupraised, approached Father Kyril, whose back was to Daoud.

  Father Kyril went down on his knees before the pope, holding up thewhite cloth over his head like a banner. Then the pope also knelt,somewhat shakily, with the assistance of two young priests in whitesurplices and black cassocks. Urban reached up for the cloth and pulledit down to his face and kissed it.

  _He is seeing that cloth for the first time, and yet he seems to have nodoubt that he is looking at the blood of his God that died._

  Daoud felt a chill that was colder than the December air.

  * * * * *

  Daoud pushed his way to the edge of the open pavilion, where the pope,assisted by Father Kyril and Fra Tomasso, was saying high mass. A bandof musicians blew on hautboys and clarions, sawed at vielles, strokedharps, and thumped on drums.

  The white cloth with its strange rust-colored stain was stretched on agilded frame above the altar. Daoud felt uneasy whenever he looked atit. Just when it seemed he had found the key to wrecking the union ofTartars and crusaders--a miracle. What did it portend?

  Memory showed him his mother and father celebrating Easter, standinghand in hand before the altar at Chateau Langmuir, receiving HolyCommunion--the Sacred Host--from their chaplain. When he was old enough,his mother had told him he, too, would be allowed to take Jesus into hisheart by swallowing the Communion wafer. What a strange belief! But atthe time it had seemed beautiful.

  _I bear witness that God is One, that Muhammad is the Messenger ofGod...._

  He glanced around the pavilion, and saw many faces he had come to knowin the last few months. There was Cardinal de Verceuil with his big noseand small mouth. There was Ugolini, the size of a child, dressed up as acardinal, blinking rapidly, looking rather bored. In the front row ofstanding worshipers were John and Philip, the Tartars, in silk robes.Beside them, Friar Mathieu, the Franciscan, cleverest of Daoud'sopponents. Daoud gauged him to be a genuinely holy man, if an infidelcould be called holy.

  And next to him was the pale young face of the Count de Gobignon.

  As Daoud looked at him, de Gobignon looked back, and his eyes widenedslightly.

  _One day, Count, you will die by my hand._

  The mass began, and even though there must have been five thousandpeople in the valley, there was complete silence. The quiet was eerie.At a Muslim religious celebration this large, the crowd would bechanting in unison, there would be music, dervishes singing and dancing;impromptu sermons would be delivered in various parts of the crowd bymullahs or by ordinary men moved to speak. Here all was focused on thecenter.

  Pope Urban rose to speak. He had removed his mitre to say mass. Hiswhite hair, his long beard, and his trailing mustache seemed much moresparse than they had been when Daoud had first seen the pope, lastsummer. His face was as pale as his hair, and his hands trembled.

  A few months ago Daoud had heard Urban's voice rise robustly from thecenter of his body. Today his voice was high and thin and seemed to comefrom his throat. He told the story of the miracle of Bolsena, andexplained that Father Kyril was a priest from Bohemia who had developeddoubts about whether Christ was really present in each and everyconsecrated Communion wafer. Could a small piece of bread really becomethe body of Jesus when a priest said a few words over it?

  _Where is the illness?_ Daoud's Sufi-trained eye told him it was deepwithin Pope Urban; it had sunk its claws into his chest.

  _I do not think this pope has long to live._

  Ugolini had told Daoud that Urban wanted desperately, before he himselfdied, to strike a death blow against the Hohenstaufen family. He wantedCount Charles d'Anjou, brother of the King of France, to wrest the crownof Sicily from Manfred, but King Louis had thus far forbidden hisbrother to make war on Manfred.

  King Louis wanted a different war, a joint war of Christians and Tartarsagainst Islam. Thus far, the pope had withheld his approval of anyChristian monarch's allying himself with the Tartars.

  As Urban heard the approaching wings of the Angel of Death, might he bemore inclined to grant Louis what he wanted?

  The crowd was no longer silent. Daoud heard waves of murmuring runthrough it as people relayed the pope's words to those who were too faraway to hear him. He noticed now the hawklike profile of the Contessa diMonaldeschi. She was seated in a chair in front of the worshipers on theside of the pavilion opposite Daoud. A plump young boy in red velvetstood beside her.

  Seeing her, Daoud looked for Marco di Filippeschi. He could not be sure,but the back of a dark head on this side of the pavilion looked likethat of the Filippeschi chieftain. Those organizing this ceremony would,of course, be careful to separate the leaders of the two feudingfamilies.

  Pope Urban continued: Father Kyril, realizing that he was doomed toeternal damnation if he did not overcome his doubts, had set out on apilgrimage to Rome. But Rome had fallen on evil days, its streets turnedinto battlefields by the Ghibellini followers of the vile Hohenstaufens,and Father Kyril found no peace there. He decided to ask the prayers ofthe pope himself at Orvieto. That decision was rewarded before he evenreached here. Two months ago, while saying mass at Bolsena, on his wayto Orvieto, and praying that his doubts be resolved, Father Kyril raisedthe Sacred Host over his
head after the Consecration, and hundreds ofwitnesses saw drops of blood fall from it to the cloth spread on thealtar.

  And now--Pope Urban gestured to the cloth spread above the altar--we canbehold with our own eyes the blood of Christ Himself and see thisproof--which, having faith, we should not need to see--that Jesus livesin the Blessed Sacrament.

  "We propose to offer triple thanks to God for His generosity in grantingus this miracle," said Pope Urban. "First, let the day on which FatherKyril saw the Host bleed be celebrated henceforward as the feast of theBody of Christ, Corpus Christi. Let this be proclaimed throughoutChristendom.

  "Second, to house and display this most sacred relic, the blood of OurSavior Himself, let a great and beautiful new cathedral be built here atOrvieto, which will forever be the center for the veneration of the bodyof Christ."

  Daoud sighed inwardly at the thought of still another great buildingdedicated to idolatry.

  Yet the chapel at Chateau Langmuir had been such a lovely and quietplace.

  As the pontiff's words were repeated, the murmuring grew louder.Someone near Daoud said, "But the miracle happened in Bolsena." Someoneelse hushed the person who protested.

  _I should not wonder if these cities went to war with each other oversuch a relic_, thought Daoud.

  "Finally," said Pope Urban, oblivious of the discontent his previousproclamation had caused among the citizens of Bolsena, "we command thatall priests of Holy Church shall read a special office on the feast ofCorpus Christi of each year, commemorating this miracle. God has willedthat there should be dwelling with us here at Orvieto the most giftedscholar and writer of this age, Fra Tomasso d'Aquino."

  Daoud saw that Fra Tomasso's face was almost as bright a red as acardinal's hat.

  "And we charge our beloved and most gloriously gifted son, Fra Tomasso,with the duty of writing this office."

  D'Aquino rose heavily from a bench on the right side of the altar.Puffing, sweating despite the chill of the day, he bowed to the popewith hands clasped before him.

  _A great honor, that must be_, Daoud thought. Fra Tomasso was silent forthe moment, but he would write words that would be repeated by thousandsof priests all over the world as long as Christians celebrated thisfeast. D'Aquino was more than ever indebted to the pope. If the popewere to want d'Aquino's help in persuading the French to go to waragainst Manfred, he would collect that debt.

  Looking at Fra Tomasso as he sat listening to Pope Urban talk on abouthis plans for the feast, for the cathedral, for the office, Daoud saw aglow on those rounded features that made him uneasy. Daoud had felt thatwith Cardinal Ugolini and Fra Tomasso stirring up opposition to thealliance throughout Christendom, he had but to wait for the plan to dieof old age.

  He could no longer be sure of that. Fra Tomasso's opposition to thealliance had a fragile basis at best, and this miracle might haveshattered it.

  The blood of the Messiah had power to change the course of events. Daoudfelt himself trembling.