MILES CHRISTI

Chapter Fifteen

If you have recently joined or are checking things out, start at MILES CHRISTI’s description below, then go to Chapter One. Thanks.

MILES CHRISTI

Chapter Fifteen

Tìbald at the tail of a twenty-man contingent: Robert Curthose and brother-in-law, Stephan de Blois, and other seigneurs summoned to the city for an audience with Alexius.

They approached the Golden Gate, haloed by morning light. How glorious this portal for victorious heroes returning from campaign and fit for any Caesar. Flanked by massive towers, it made one crane. On its pinnacle, bronze elephants pulled a chariot with a statue of the great Theodosius. Bronze Nikes guarded the tops of the tower walls. Above its central arch golden lettering in Latin – “Theodosius decorates this place after the death of the tyrant. He who builds the gate with gold rules the golden age.” Curthose et al in its vast shadow. What a siege it would be to take this city. Still on the bridge between crenelated walls, they crossed over the moat sixty-five feet wide and over thirty feet deep, the first of many fortifications. How could Tìbald’s heart not thump as he passed through the gilded bronze doors? It is easier for a camel to pass through an eye of a needle than a rich man to get into Heaven. Ten camels stacked one atop another could clear the entrance.   

And he thought – Castel des Bȃtons . . . And Aile . . . Her temper. Her impatience.

Impatience indeed, she was right in all she said. Though it be cruel. Though it be unfair. “Send a message to the duke,” she had demanded. “Ask that he receive you. Show him your value in his personal service.”

“But I am Odo’s---”

“Odo is dead.”

“But fealty . . .” Tìbald thrusted up his hand.

“He’s dead,” she said with consternation.

“Not the bishopric . . .” Him always announcing what she knew.

“Stop playing the dog . . .”

She turned away elbow atop the opposite wrist and her chin in her hand.

“We should settle here when it’s done,” her proclamation. “Give your sword to the Basileus. There are Franks in his service – the Northmen in his Guard . . .” She shook her head. “Our hopes rest here after the war. A small honour from Alexius is larger than Curthose’s grandest reward.”  

Tìbald with an incredulous humph. “That we be alive afterwards.”

“We must,” she declared – Deus volt! “I have dreamt of this place not knowing it and thought it a dream of Paradise. We’re meant to be here.” Death was meant for someone else.  One need not journey to the center of the world to die . . . “Look at the walls – how high and safe they are.”

"And what happens when you weary of it, don your armour?” he quipped to his instant regret.

Sharp eyes her answer and silence like a final breath. She’s cruel? She’s unfair? All these years and he did not know her? All his good intentions . . . ‘Tìbald this’. ‘Tìbald that’. She enabled him a life he could not afford. And him with his gluttony for bread, cheese, and bier . . . Where’s her bread, cheese, and bier? She deserved them. She deserved here. And, as always, he would benefit. In all she did, she made him a better man . . .

O’ how she was into his head. That he be into hers? She’d not allow it and knew the irony.

“I will have it.” ‘Martha’ in the kitchen. “Promise me.”

What could he promise? His promises were ash, the weakest part of him.

“Promise me, Tìbald.”

He did.

“We will not return to Sainte Cecilia,” her decree.

“We will not.” His words like raindrops, said too easily.

She considered him and frowned. “So, you say.”

Now that wounded silence of his. “We will not.”

“You will serve the Basileus at the war’s end,” she said as if commanding a villein.

“Yes,” his answer without thinking.

She frowned again. “Convince me.”

“I will send a message to Curthose.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“Send it now.”

His voice jittered, “I will.”

 “I’ll watch---”

“No, you will not” – his sudden turn which could be followed by a hit. “I will do it because I said I will do it, and that’s enough . . . I must call the priest.”

She backed down, but for a moment. “Fine, call him. You do for everything else.”  

He dictated his letter, ten lines. It took all morning, with Père Marin’s help of course. And Curthose, to his surprise, summoned him. Aile was right . . . She was always right . . . but never completely.

Once before Curthose, Tìbald, without ceremony, fell to his knees and begged for the honour to be in the duke’s personal service. Curthose was moved, the request honest and blunt. “But I have your fealty already,” his reply.

“Not in your personal service, dómini,” said Tìbald, his eyes to the floor.

“And to be paid? . . .” Stingy bastard, as were all Normandy royals.

“For the honour, dómini.”

Ah. The bandy-legged duke deliberated and nodded. “So be it. But know you’ll be a landless mile in my court if we survive. And know this: I do not seek kingdoms in the East.”

“I gave up all when I took the cross, dómini.”

“Very well, Tìbald fils de Goselin. You will be part of my escort tomorrow before the emperor Alexius.”

And he was here.

A contingent of Greek cavalry waited just beyond the gate to escort them through the city, that, and heavily armed spearmen, skutatoi, in case things should get out-of-hand. But what should get out-of-hand? Robert Curthose was the most amiable of princes. The heavy guard was an honour in keeping with his rank. Before them a section of trumpeters to announce the Duke of Normandy was here.

Up the Via Egnatia they rode, through the suburbs with a country feel, not like Rome smelling of pigs. Amidst the walled county side were oil groves and vineyards, tilled land with sprouting wheat. Then a half-mile and a right on the great avenue, Mese, with its markets and stands – spices and botanicals: nutmeg, cumin, roasted peppers, grilled meats and fish in olive oil and garlic. Here – bins of crusty bread. There – wheels of cheese. Tìbald salivating. Dates. Figs. Apricots. Ruby wines. Strong caramel ales. Teas of clear copper while others black with the taste of sweet earth; qahwa the Arabs called it. Various vegetables in five tones of green. Seven of yellow. Purple. Crimson. Saffron. O’ to gorge himself – Aile so right . . . The Greeks bustled about without noticing. Their eyes never lingered. Yet, they saw. And knew so much and better . . . Was Aile Greek?

A community of hovels rose near a church, raggedy tents pitched helter-skelter along with wood shelters. A foul little city of smoking cook fires and debris, their owners lay drunk or sat in front and begged, holding up their infants for sympathy. Some without an arm or hand, a leg missing. Tìbald smirked, relieved – Constantinople no perfect city, though the Greeks cared for them with charitable establishments – ptocheia. But the squatters were foreigners like himself, come for whatever reason and this their fate . . . Yea, a fate already in existence due to trial, due to sin, fleeing the Turks gobbling up Christian lands . . .  and it dawned on him the Greeks were his brothers-in-Christ in name only, and Normans relative newcomers to the faith. The Greeks, or ‘Romans’ as they referred to themselves, had been Christians for over nine hundred years.

Were the Normans Christians? They professed to be. They could be pious but had no peace. An angry people, ready to use the sword. Never would they turn the cheek and would chop the one who slapped them . . . Such as the Greeks saw them, Tìbald thought. Much of it true. But not wholly true, and not wholly true was baser than a lie. So these People of the Coast, these elites – Tìbald’s prejudice . . .

We all have prejudice . . . I’ve insight into mine. I spout and spew virtue, acknowledge but dare not speak. O’ my crimes---(I fear you and your sword of words. Name me and I shall die. But way? I’m on your side).

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up---

It protects me---

The Greeks smiled when they looked at them. What could it illicit but a return smile. Why this smiling? A faint? Not a cool smile . . . though a hint. Fear? Yes. Guilt? Yes. Suspicion? That too. Trust not those who smile . . . A blank face was no more honest; Tìbald’s was like polished marble. What was the truth of him? He did not know himself.

They’re weak (the Greeks), Tìbald thought, for all their wealth. Due to their wealth. For all their glory, they need us . . . They want us to go. They’re glad we’re here. ‘There are good men among them, but I dislike them as a people’. . . They smile . . . They smile . . . We divide ourselves up with hard lines and angles, mankind in boxes imposed by the Fall. God created not and we see no further than our nose. And Tìbald, a halfway man who lived off memory and suffered under memory . . . They smiled not knowing what to do. The Franks were the other . . .

Greeks are the other, Tìbald’s subconscious whisper.  

Come to Jerusalem, meet me there.

A voice in his head? A voice at all? Then a louder voice: ‘Promise me.’

I will.

Many promises . . .

Into the city’s heart – past the old walls of Constantine, then a number of twists and turns, newcomers found it hard to get their bearings – another reason for the Greeks to smile . . . Towering above the markets and buildings the cathedral, Hagia Sophia, the hallmark of the city and the largest church dome in the world. Light glinted off its tiles as it peeked down the streets, gigantic at the end of the lanes to suck one’s breath, for all avenues could not help but flow to it . . . So it seemed . . . And standing just as high at three hundred feet, the Column of Justinian. On its pinnacle, the emperor himself, a giant atop a striding mount, triumphal in the ‘dress of Achilles’. He pointed to the East . . . And the hippodrome where they raced chariots as they did in Caesar’s day – Rome alive here. Rome as it was continued. And the Greeks, a competitive citizenry, in their fine dress, a number on par with the Frankish princes. The world was here – Mongols, Nubians, traders from Caffey; Egyptians and Ethiopians, Arabs and Turks (were they others? They did not come with the sword) . . . Colours – garments, rugs, and silks; holy images everywhere . . .

And women . . . Streets filled with women veiled in silk finery with pearl skin and ocean eyes, their hair covered by turbans. They shopped while other women, uncovered, worked – shopkeepers, silk weavers, clothing makers, and sellers of fish and meats. The young of which all appeared beautiful. Prostitutes worked the streets – country girls with smooth complexions not ruddied by the sun. Fourteen. Fifteen. Them and the Theotokos (one who gives birth to God). Pornai and the Virgin. A contradiction . . . But Normandy had whores. All the West had whores, though they were thought of as a paradox. The Prophets called Jerusalem a whore; Hosea, himself, married to a harlot. So was ha Shem – to His people. As the old Gnostic hymn said:

            I am She who honours and disdains.

            I am the Saint and the prostitute.

            I am the virgin and the wife.

            I am knowledge and ignorance.

            I am strength and I am fear.

            I am Godless and I am the Greatness of God.

Sad, thought Tìbald, eying each girl in this, the great city, on the holy pilgrimage in penance for sin. Pray for them. Calabrese girls could not compare. He rode by a seller of oysters. When he ate oysters, they tasted like sodomy – to eat between her legs. His groin tingled. He shook himself. Always the Devil whispering on the wind, his conscience chided, and the Devil saying: “Look.”

Tìbald looked amidst the city bustle and the blare of horns, going to meet the basileus in order to free Christ’s tomb . . . He looked – there she was, a beautiful pornai with flaxen hair and olive skin, eyes the colour of mint – so pretty, so very pretty, and fresh – take her now before she’s wrecked . . .

                        Michael, Archangel

                        Of the King of Kings,

                        Give ear to my voice.

His better person praying to Michael the Archangel . . .

But soldiers and sex . . . Willing girls, some attractive, some not, playing on him. Machines of the hips. What do they see in their patrons? Money. Malákas.

She looked up and smiled.

                        I acknowledge thee to be the Prince of the citizens of heaven:

                        And at thy prayer God sends

                        His angels unto men,

 Her sensuous innocence. Did he smile back?

                        That the enemy with cunning craft shall not prevail

                        To do the hurt he craves

                        To weary men.

                        Yea, thou hast the dominion of perpetual Paradise,

                        And ever do the holy angels honour thee.

 An icon of Mary over a church door arch.

 Come to me, the pretty prostitute’s eyes said.

                        Thou with strong hands didst smite the cruel dragon,

                        And many souls didst rescue from his jaws.

                        Then was there a great silence in heaven,

                        And a thousand thousand saying “Glory to the Lord King.”

 That she may have food today.

 That he may not lose his soul today.

Hear us, Michael,

Greatest angel,

Come down a little

From thy high seat,

To bring us the strength of God,

And the lightening of His mercy.

He broke from the escort, the warhorse flattening its ears. The lovely pornai pursed her lips – got him – a frightful brute with scars on his face and hands, this western barbarian. Her façade delightful. He halted within arm’s reach, towering over her; the destrier would trample her into dust. She gestured to an alleyway filled with colourful doors. Tìbald reached into his purse and dropped two coins in her upraised hand. He then turned and returned to the column.

She stared at the solidus worn from much use and called after him. “Ο Θεός να σε σώσει,” she said, whatever she said, then spied for the next customer.

Charity or a deposit? His intentions could switch. Would she be there if he returned? But they were alms. He gave them as alms. Mary, the Theotokos, mounted over a church door, looked at him with mosaic eyes as if she was Aile. She knew him as did Aile; God spoke through Aile, though not the great revelations, but the nitty-gritty that could do you in. Man of two hearts, the greatest one fear. Did it do him much good? In the harlot’s case, it did. Good for himself, too. The Queen of Cities became like fluid thermals of heat and a carnival their procession – flashy, trashy, and loud . . . like Tìbald’s sins . . . affable sins, brassy sins, bumptious – ‘Here comes the dóminus, turn your faces . . .’ But it’s the hidden sins, the syncratic sins in harmony with self, that are more lethal. Reclamation of from those sins is a true act of God. And God does forgive, but not like a fool: Women, who is there to condemn you? Then neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.

When they dropped the stones, did she continue whoring?

Hear us, Michael,

Greatest angel,

Come down a little

From thy high seat,

To bring us the strength of God,

And the lightening of His mercy.

Sin. Sin. What’s all this talk of sin? An anchor ‘round the neck. Where the swords?

A turn to the left, a change in direction – past the Forum of the Ox and before the Forum of Theodosius. A right turn past the Church of Saint Polyeuktos heading north toward the Golden Horn up an avenue of churches: Saint Theophana, Christ Pantepoptes, Saint Isaiah, Saint Laurentius, Christ Euergetes – churches rising above the mansions and ghettos in the surrounding blocks. Was it north? They were completely turned ‘round. Another left to skirt along the seaside walls at the Golden Horn, going back to the Walls of Theodosius, but not the direction they came. On their left the Fifth Hill (like Rome, Constantinople was built upon seven hills) with a crown of churches; in Constantinople, Mary the God-bearer reigned supreme, and it was not so much a city as a monkish labyrinth. Tìbald succumbed to its turns (the whore seemed far away) winding his way in contemplation (the girl too beautiful for the likes of a pornai) going to its center. The sky was blue and seagulls wheeled overhead, silver gulls. They spied for garbage and laughed.

The streets narrowed, becoming more leisurely, forested parks and gardens all around, the environs of the city. Ahead the imperial campus of the Blachernae, away from the clamour of Great Palace, its loud neighborhoods, traffic, and court intrigue. Walled and gated, a town unto itself like Rome’s Vatican Hill. Here the place for more private meetings where Alexius could speak his mind, where he could plot. Besides, it had an abundance of sweet running water. It was close to the Church of the Theotokos which held a most sacred relic.

The imperial cohorts greeted them at the palace gate with salutes and fanfare. A company of Varangian Guards awaited them at the doors – Danes and Rus with two-handed axes and in scale armour. See, thought Tìbald, they need the West. The basileus puts his protection in the hands of Northmen.

A court official stepped forward and bowed. He addressed the seigneurs in Latin and again in flawless Norman French. He acknowledged their greatness, proclaiming as if to Heaven the magnitude of their titles and lands. He praised God for moving their hearts to recover the lost cities and give them back to God and his imperial majesty. He then spoke for himself proclaiming the honour to escort such great Frankish lords into the presence of the Basileus, God Almighty’s Vice Regent on earth, supreme ruler of the Holy Roman Empire, emperor of all Christendom, the elect of Heaven and equal of the Apostles.  He bowed again and invited the seigneurs to follow him.

They did through the many hallways, catching their reflections in the polished porphyry floors. There were columns of Afyon Honey, alcoves of marble called Tiger Skin, statues so lifelike their sheer Carian robes seemed to rustle on the wind.

From pavilion to pavilion they paraded in pageantry, stopping at checkpoints to be handed off to administrators of ever higher rank. Each time the officials repeated the same litany, which, after a while, held hints of mockery. All this ceremony. A design to chasten them?

At the entrance of the imperial hall, trumpets sounded. The ever-present Guard attended as a Magister Officiorum hit his staff against the floor three times like hammer blows. Again, the litany in Greek and Latin. The seigneurs no longer cared. For before them at the end of the great hall the basileus himself, Alexius Commenus, king of kings, upon the magnificent throne of Solomon.

Gilded lions flanked the imperial dais, which appeared to rise on its own when approached, but the lions, though stone, so great their size and fearsome made one advance with care. For like everything else in this mechanical bastion, they might spring to life and tear one a part. Indeed, to the seigneurs’ surprise they did come to life: they snapped their jaws and roared. Behind the throne was a golden tree which formed a canopy above the chair. On its limbs polished brass birds with eyes of gems. They fluttered their wings and turned their heads, warbling. But Alexius himself was the greatest wonder. Encrusted in gold, he sat stock still, a bejewelled automaton awaiting animation. A delicate, beautiful man of fierce and aquiline features whose coal black hair cascaded beneath a diadem and offset by hanging strings of pearls.

A pair of eunuchs came up beside Curthose and Stephan de Blois and taking the lords’ hands, placed them on the eunuchs’ shoulders. Then with a steady pace, a reverential pace, led them into the hall’s center under the lions’ stare. The Magister ordered the lords to prostrate themselves – not once, not twice, but three times on their faces, their chests and bellies on the cold hard floor, no matter how beautiful, with the corruption of every footfall.

Their iron suits jingled. The lions roared louder. And the dais ascended until the basileus’ crown touched the branches. The birds sang, their litany like that of the Magister. Alexius came to life. He lifted his hands the way Jesu would in healing. “Oriri”, his sonorous command (“rise”).

They beheld Alexius radiant and towering over them like an angelic being. In truth, he had better be, for they did not debase themselves lightly. Yes, king of kings, we come to save you by the Chair of Saint Peter . . .

The dais lowered with a sigh.

And Alexius, to the seigneurs’ surprise, stepped down to take each lord by the hand. “Duke Robert, Our son, Almighty God’s blessings upon you.” “Count Stephan, Our Son---” “Our heart is moved by your love of God the Father and His Son, our Lord, Jesu Christi---”

He knew their names. “Tìbald fils de Goselin---”

Tìbald’s hand tingled. Here again – Jesu in disguise. But if so, a thin disguise. Alexius like an icon of Christ. So the pictures of Him in the paintings and mosaics on the throne room walls. A ‘Jesu’ if He was older . . .

“Come, sit with Us and share how the Paraclete has worked in you to join Our battle. But first, accept these tokens of Our affection.”

A parade of eunuchs laden with bolts of silk, boxes of jewels, sacks of gold laid them at the seigneurs’ feet – they who had mortgaged all they had, were now, in these few moments, wealthier than they could imagine.

Alexius returned to his throne and upon its seat he was again transformed. “It is Our gracious will that you are gifted with these tokens and given any assistance you require. As Scripture has it: ‘Would a father give his son a stone if he asked for bread? Or a serpent if he asked for fish? How much more will Thy Father in Heaven give good things to those who ask Him?’ . . . But as with our Father in Heaven you must pledge your souls and your lives, so too the same with Christ’s Co-Regent on Earth. For it is Ourselves who is the right and lawful commander of this Holy War. Only errant children take gifts without obedience. Come, my sons, as good and obedient children, swear to Us your fealty as your noble vow demands.”

From out of the assembly the Magister came, bearing documents with each of their names. “Noble Kelts,” he said with authority. “Sign and swear the oath of fealty to the Basileus, Alexios Komnenos, Elect of Heaven. Equal of the Apostles, Emperor of all Christians and Christos’ Co-Regent on Earth. Swear that he is your true and only sovereign, and that all lands delivered into your hands by diplomacy or by force of arms from the heathen, be they Turk, Saracen, or Arab, or any other fallen race, be the rightful property of the Basileus of all Christendom and therefore delivered back into the Hands of God.”

Alexius, an icon on the golden throne, waited for their answer.

A silence like the nothing. Beyond words. Still, they knew well what would be demanded.

Robert Curthose dropped to his knees and bowed his head. The rest followed. He placed his hand on the document.

“I, Robert,” his voice reserved (he would not sound mournful), “Duke of Normandy,” a spark in his tone, “Count of Maine, swear to all that is written here before God Almighty, Our Lord, Jesu Christi, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“Amen,” the seigneurs repeated.

Robert with a slow Sign of the Cross left to right – filioque – a message to all.

Alexius came down once again. A cohort of eunuchs and a company of Guards encircled them. Alexius embraced each seigneur. He touched their feet . . .

Tìbald quivered at its meaning, Alexius’ celestial perfume in his nose. A sensation, like rising water, climbed over his head. It would drown him. An Alexius a beautiful king at the height of his power. Iesus dissimulato? His muddled brain could not think; it was warm – the emersion. Am I changed? He looked down at the suzerain at his feet wearing the precious crown. Where La Forêt? . . . The beggar and beasts? . . . Penance . . . What will be left of me? What should be left at all? Do nothing, Marin would say and quote Augustine . . .

“Come now,” Alexius said. “Tour the palace grounds and see the glory of Christendom. Constantinople is a chest filled with sacred objects – relics of grace. One’s not the same beholding them. Let us begin with the Church of the Theotokos – the protector of the city.”

They toured, awed by great wonders, and humbled. A cult of relics per excellence – drops of Jesu’s blood, a piece from His tunic, swaddling clothes from the manger, a piece of the true cross, the lancehead that pierced the Lord’s side, two of the nails used to crucify Him, the sponge to give Him drugged wine as He died to save sinners, the crown of thorns. The bodies of Sainte Andrew and Timothy, the right arm of Sainte Stephen, the right arm of John the Baptist. Indeed, his very skull and a lock of his hair. The robe of the Virgin Mary. And heads, so many noble heads – of Sainte James, Sainte Thomas, Sainte Thaddeus. Bits of apostles Peter and Paul, Simon, Philip, and Barnabas . . . So many they could not recall. Thin the veil between this world and Heaven. Thin too between Purgatory and Hell. Angels and devils all round them, and though invisible, thick. It was all right and true and overwhelmed them. How could this pilgrimage not be God’s will? The heathen would destroy the sacred relics and would quash the gospel with their fallacious doctrine . . . Destroy them first. Deus volt!

They returned to the Hall of Nineteen Couches to recline at a classic Roman feast. Food cascaded off their plates – that they had plates at all, being used to trenchers. Tìbald piled his with cheese, sautéed goat, seabass in a sauce called Sabouri, skewers of prawn, fried cuttlefish. Oysters sprinkled with lemon . . . The pornai, he thought . . . He washed it down with a Retsina that knocked his head.

“We have fought the heathens all Our life,” Alexius said, washing his fingers in a lacquer bowl, “and they do not conduct war as Latins do. Heed Our advice for it will protect you against their vast horde. Place yourselves neither in the van nor the rear guard of your column. It is there they attack with javelins and arrows. Their strike is like lightening and many are fallen before you can regroup. Rarely do they stand man-to-man unless it is to their advantage. Nor do they receive a charge if they can help it. And if your forces prevail against them, do not pursue. It is their favourite trick to draw an enemy into a chase, string out his lines and lure him into a trap of archers.”

“A knavish way to do battle,” said Robert de Granismel, a high-ranking seigneur. “When the four Christian armies combine, we’ll be over 100,000 strong.”

Alexius nodded. “The Sultan of Roum, Kilij Arslan, who holds the holy city of Nicaea, has 60,000 mounted soldiers at his bidding. He has many more on foot. And he is by no means the most powerful of the heathen rulers. The Seljukid is born to the saddle and have a tradition of wandering from place to place. The last generations developed a taste for cities, and they are relatively new to the Mohammedan faith. Though civilized, they are not Egyptians, or Arabians for that matter. They are skilled warriors and immensely cruel. They war among themselves constantly. They may not even notice you . . . at first. The Arabians don’t like them. Though Egyptians don’t like Arabians. Yet both would unite with you to remove them.”

The seigneurs blinked.

“They slaughtered your People’s army,” he said of the Seljukids. The seigneurs knew this. “Slaughtered them to the last woman and child. They took no prisoners as they’re in want to do. We warned your prophet, encouraged him to wait until the princes had come. He informed Us he had no need. God went before them to fight their battles. Your peasant warriors could not tell Christian from heathen and began killing all in their path. Our Christian subjects could not appeal to Us for safety. Your peasant mob blocked their way.”

“Not ‘our mob’,” Curthose said pointedly.

“Be it as it may, Our Christians sought protection from the Sultan of Roum – them and the Mohammedans and the various sects of Jews. The slaughter was a blessing. We are informed Kilij Arslan has withdrawn his army to the east to contend with Danishmendid enemies.”

The seigneurs searched his face bemused.

“Ah,” said Alexius with two fingers aloft to incur a blessing. “Different Turks.” And he smiled. “The Turks are a fractured race as is all Islam; they are constantly quarrelling over territory and doctrine – Seljukids in the west fight Danishmendids in the east, who in turn fight Persians. The Sunnis in Bagdad are at odds with the Shiia in Cairo. They all hate the Kurds. If we could only let them be so they could destroy each other . . . The world is convulsed by war centering on Jerusalem . . . The Parousia must be imminent.”

“Amen.”

Tìbald, on the very last couch, pushed food down his gullet unthinking. What need did he have to know all this? He will fight and follow whatever the command . . . The Parousia imminent . . . It must be, noted by the relics he’d beheld that day.

One had seized him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Come and see. What Tìbald said.

Constantinople was now an open city but limited to a thousand pilgrim visitors per day.

Aile wore her gown, veil, and circlet, as she was a proper lady and wife of a seigneur. Having ridden through the illustrious streets with Tìbald and the hired guide, they arrived at the Church of the Theotokos shortly before Sext.

She thrilled, the same as with love’s first arrow, at the birth of a most-wanted child, at the touch of God’s finger hot upon your head after the Eucharist which drills down to the core of you. Constantinople. Here. Here. Nothing thought but felt. An injustice to say it. It’s been said enough already – the markets, the architecture, the portraits of the saints. These were but surface treasures . . . Did she see or were her eyes veiled? Her heart? Her mind? For even the base had an ether and something of value. Or was this flight of fancy? She played with utopias like toys – lovers – her style of adultery – each the ultimate, full of promise till she got bored or failed, and it became useless work, then discarded it and off to find another. But here, the treasure trove of Christ drawing all things in.

It drew her succinctly. Its ether – she breathed it in. Gobbled it as Tìbald would a roast pheasant, quaffed it as Tìbald would a flagon of frothy bier. The transforming ether (no need to describe it), and she the insatiate in want to be secure. Not in want of greed. Nor from selfishness. For once sated, she’d be unfettered. Her heart would explode. Charity. Generosity. Good will. The person she always was.

They dismounted before the church steps. City folks gathered – merchants and craftsmen, priests and nuns, aristocrats. People from surrounding towns. Travelers. Rural Bulgarians (the ‘less-thans’ whom no one trusted, slice your throat without reason, the young ones animals), all cut wide of them. What are they doing in this district? But it was Sext on Friday at the Church of the Theotokos – at Sainte Marie de Blachernae . . .  

For all the windows, it was dark. A cloud of incense, thick and swirling, stung the nostrils. One could not help but cough. Great light beams cut the fog but could spread no farther than its own sharp edge; the light itself was a prisoner.

Where are we going, she had asked. Tìbald’s response – come and see. She normally had no patience for his vagaries, but here, in Constantinople, the church and all, and the throng of devotees . . . What could it be? The veneration of Mary? Sainte Marie de Blachernae houses the most wonderful of reliquaries, Tìbald had said. The maphorion (our Lady’s head covering)? No, greater than that. What could be greater? In the Hall of Relics was a vile of Christ’s blood. What could be more astounding?

A wave of chanting on the fog, low and sonorous, not harmonic like the Western clergy, more of a cry than a song. A single voice at times entreating, aching. Sing for me. It heated the blood and beat on the skin. It tugged. Aile’s head spun with heaviness. The incense, was it drugged? The light changing, the shafts like arrows against the floor’s pavers. She took Tìbald’s hand before they knelt and crossed themselves.

“A miracle is coming,” Tìbald whispered.

Before them the iconostasis (altar screen) with icons of the saints and prophets. Before it a large elaborate box with an icon of Mary on the facing, her hands orant and her eyes looking up. About them the devotees, next to Aile a leather-faced Bulgarian. How far had he come for this? Aile came partway ‘round the world with more to go. Yet the way the Bulgar clasped his hands, a straining unlike the pious extension of fingers touching in prayer, his head bowed against the knuckles and his shoulders rounded, his silence a shattering prayer. Whatever he came for, he would be going home. That the miracle Tìbald spoke of do him good.

The priest and the servers came. Mass began, a Mass unlike Aile had ever seen, the music, the prayers, the strange Latin, but she knew it. It was the Mass with Confiteor and readings, an offering, the receiving of elements, the washing of hands.

The sun descended. The beams of light narrowed, the church growing darker, more shadowy. The chants resonated off the stone pillars as if the columns themselves were singing. The chants were inside her. She closed her eyes. What is here? What is here?

The priest and servers now behind the screen, its door closed, to perform the mystery of bread and wine. The light was almost gone and the candles around the box of the Theotokos blazed. Something peeked over its rim. Tìbald nudged Aile to open her eyes. It rose, a cloth, wider than a yard, by itself. Aile squinted. It rose and rose. Tan and golden in the candlelight. A face. A torso. Arms and legs. An image of a naked man, or rather his shadow, like a ghost. On the cloth? In the cloth? Sleeping? Dead? A beleaguered, tortured figure with spots of red at the wrists and feet. A start from the congregants as it hovered, the linen sindon (the Shroud), upright on its own.

A swelling in her breast. The face of Jesu, she thought. But in truth, she could not think at all. She began to tear.

******************

They waited on the docks to board the ferry to cross the Bosphorus. The East just a mile away. Ten months since Sainte Cecilia – fourteen hundred miles on foot. They itched for their purpose and would, at last, see the devils who were gobbling up the world. To spill their blood and to be at one’s trade . . . And wash the Holy Land clean . . .

Out will come the swords.