by Giles Milton
The answer lay in the identity of the author, who was linked directly to Sir John through a chain of related people. The chronicler's name was Thomas de Burton, who had been made abbot of Meaux on the orders of his overlord, the Duke of Gloucester. Gloucester had married into the de Bohun family and inherited the family estates when the elderly Humphrey de Bohun died. These estates were not the only
The Riddle and the Knight
thing that came into his possession: the old man's will clearly states that he was leaving his copy of Mandeville's Travels to Gloucester as well.
The link between all these people proved everything and nothing. The chronicler was a friend of the Duke of Gloucester. Gloucester had inherited The Travels from the de Bohuns. And the de Bohuns were the Mandeville's overlords. Since the chronicler was writing just a few years after Mandeville's death, he—if anyone—would have been in a position to find out the truth about Sir John.
There was even more conclusive evidence to suggest that Mande-ville had been telling the truth about himself. I found, bound together with a different set of archives, a little document under the title De Fundatione et Meritis Monasterii Sancti Albani. It was written by the chronicler Thomas Walsingham and dated from the 1370s:
Sir Johannes de Mandeville, Knight, wanderer over almost the whole earth, and tested in many wars against the adversaries of our faith, but never once worn out, he composed a book in French about the things he had seen. He was brought forth from his mother's womb in the town of St. Albans.
Since Sir John didn't return home until 1356—perhaps less than fourteen years before this was written—the case for believing his own version of events increases dramatically. For these were two independent witnesses—both of whom were alive during Sir John's lifetime, and one of whom even lived in St. Albans—concurring with everything Mandeville himself had written about the place of his birth.
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Mandeville wrote a book of his own Itinerary through Africa, the east and north part of Asia, containing a variety of wonders. Now though far travellers are suspected in their relations to wander from the truth, yet all things improbable are not impossible; and the reader's ignorance is sometimes all the writer's falsehood.
The History of the Worthies of England, Vol. 2, Dr. Thomas Fuller, 1840
/y^ yril wasn't sure how many languages he spoke. Russian, of I I course, was his mother tongue, so that didn't really count. ^iJ^ French didn't count either, for he had learned that from his parents. Obviously he spoke Hebrew, and was fluent in Arabic as well. That made four. Then there was English, German, Italian, and Spanish. These he brushed aside as though they didn't even count as languages. Latin and Greek he used for his work. Oh yes, he could read Syriac and Aramaic, the languages I had heard in Syria. He paused and scratched his head for a moment—did he speak Amharic? No . . . that was one he would like to learn. By the time he had finished, I had long run out of fingers.
"Well . . . how many have you got?"
"Twelve."
"Twelve," he repeated uncertainly. "Hmm, I think there might be one more . . ."
I had telephoned Cyril the day I arrived in Jerusalem. He was the brother of a friend in Paris, and as soon as I explained who I was, he invited me to stay. He had a spare room; I was welcome for as long as I wanted; it was important that I make myself feel at home.
Cyril had converted to Judaism when in his early teens, although
The Riddle and the Knight
he explained that it was not so much a conversion as a return to his roots since one side of his family—centuries before—had been Jews living in the former Soviet Union. Soon after he had adopted the faith of his forefathers, he left France and set up home in Israel. He had a job at the Hebrew University and had just been granted Israeli nationality. He hoped to stay for good.
His mastery of languages was a great help to me, for he translated numerous passages of complicated medieval Latin and Greek that I had brought from England. As we watched American soaps on television, Cyril would calmly render esoteric inscriptions into perfect English, a scene which went something like this:
"Cumque a mystagogo rogassem . . . hmm."
Screech of breaks, blast of the horn, and a loud smash.
". . . quid miraculi esset. . . ahah."
Three shots and a man falls to the ground.
". . . respondehar, obla ..."
"You bastard son-of-a-bitch. I'll get you for this."
"... latum illud olim ..."
A huge explosion and all three cars disappear in a fireball.
At this Cyril would look at the screen, clap his hands, then turn to me and ask how you would say cantiorum in English. Only when it came to closedown did he stop his translations, for he was a great fan of national anthems. No sooner had the Israeli anthem been sung than he would switch over to Syrian television for their anthem—a martial number played by the sort of old-fashioned brass band you might find in Eastbourne. When that was over, he would switch channels again in order to catch the Jordanian closedown. And then it was back to Syria's Channel Two for an even more rousing second anthem sung by schoolgirls dressed in military uniform.
He lived on one of the hilltops that ring Jerusalem, and from his flat there was a superb view across the roof of the Hyatt Regency Hotel towards the lozenge-shaped old city. A noisy dual carriageway, the main road to Ramallah, swooped down from his flat towards the congested junction near Damascus Gate. But although the gleaming roof of the Dome of the Rock was clearly visible from up here, you had to look hard to see the great walls of the medieval city, for—as with Damascus—they have been dwarfed by new buildings in recent years, and
Jerusalem
the ancient hodgepodge of souks, churches, and mosques are slowly being strangled by the settlements that ring old Jerusalem. Nowadays the obvious landmarks are all recent ones: in the west, the Sheraton Jerusalem Plaza Hotel rears its facade into the sky. In the east, the Hebrew University is sprawled across a hilltop, while the Mormons have recently built a university on the northern hills—a vast building occupying the most enviable site in Jerusalem.
I tried to make out the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but it was lost among the rooftops of the old city; only in the newer parts of town do the churches still stand out from the more recent developments. The huge domes of the Russian Cathedral are visible for miles, as is the brick tower of the YMCA.
As we stood with Jerusalem spread out before us like an Oriental carpet, Cyril gave me a word of warning: "All the tourists who come to Jerusalem visit the old city/' he said. "What they don't realize is that the old city has little to do with modern life in Jerusalem. If you want to understand Jerusalem, you should spend some time in the new town. That's where you'll find the Christians who have influence these days."
He handed me a map and suggested I pay a call on the Baptists at some point during my stay. "It might be easier to solve your knight's riddle if you think laterally," he said. "Imagine who Mandeville would have wanted to meet if he was arriving in Jerusalem today . . . and imagine what he might have written about them."
Father Baratto sat back in his creaking wooden chair and inhaled deeply on an unlit cigarette. "So you've come to Jerusalem on the trail of Sir John Mandeville," he mused.
"Have you heard of him?"
"Let me see now . . . John Mandeville . . . John Mandeville . . . John Mandeville . . ." He blew out an imaginary stream of smoke, scratched his head, then rested his cigarette in the ashtray. "The funny thing is, I have heard of Sir John Mandeville. You see, I used to work for the Franciscan printing press and spent many years publishing accounts of Jerusalem written by medieval pilgrims. So I have indeed come across your knight Mandeville."
I had telephoned Father Baratto some days earlier and arranged to
The Riddle and the Knight
meet him at his office in the Christian Information Centre—a voluntary organization which offers advice to visiting pilgrims. Several people I'd met suggested
I pay him a visit, telling me that if anyone in the city would know about Sir John it would be Father Baratto.
With his bald pate, glasses, and enigmatic smile, he bore a striking resemblance to the Dalai Lama. But w^hen he spoke, it w^as the voice of a schoolmaster that addressed me, and our conversation settled into a question-and-answer routine until Baratto knew what he wanted.
"Remind me," he said, "where he was from."
"St. Albans."
"Good. Good. Did he die in Jerusalem?"
"No, St. Albans."
"Does he say where he stayed when he came here?"
"No."
"No? A pity. A hig pity," he said as he settled back in his armchair.
While he pondered over what I had told him, I examined the collection of executive toys on his desk. They included a metal horse perched on a balance and a brainteaser cube which had been fiddled with, then left unresolved. They seemed singularly inappropriate for a monk, and I wondered if they had been presents from some distant nephew in Italy.
"Am I right in thinking he left England in 1322?" asked Father Baratto suddenly, knocking the desk with his leg and sending the horse into a gallop.
"Exactly," I said. "At least that's what he claims."
"Yes, yes, yes," he continued. "You see, this is very interesting, for I think .. . yes, I think the Franciscans were already living in the city by that time. And if Sir John really did come to Jerusalem, then he would almost certainly have been looked after by Franciscans. One of their most important roles, after all, was to look after the welfare of western pilgrims."
This much I knew, for I had read about the Franciscans in accounts written by chroniclers in the later Middle Ages. On landing at the port of Jaffa, the dazed and exhausted pilgrims were greeted with the familiar sight of Franciscan monks, who welcomed them to the Holy Land and accompanied them on the cross-country hike to Jerusalem. These Franciscans remained with them at all times, guiding them around the
Jerusalem
holy sites and giving them board and lodging. They handed out instructions on how to behave in front of Muslims, and warned against carving their names into monuments or taking statues home as souvenirs.
The pilgrims were also protected by Mameluke guards, but such guards offered little protection against the bands of jeering Muslims who hurled stones at them and tried to push them off their donkeys. Some pilgrims record how locals even attempted to snatch their clothes as their long train wound its way slowly inland to Jerusalem.
Father Baratto cleared his throat noisily and shuffled over to the bookshelves. "Now . . .," he said, "let me have a look . . ."
While he sorted through his books, I peered out of the small square window. His room overlooked Jaffa Gate, one of the eight surviving gateways that lead into the old city. Although it was chilly and dark inside his room, the outside world was passing by in a glare of warm spring sunlight. Taxis blared their horns as they careered through the gate; a group of pilgrims (all in orange tracksuits and matching baseball caps) chatted excitedly among themselves; and a young man dressed as Jesus rested his crucifix for a moment, wiped his brow, and picked his nose. If Sir John had arrived in the Holy Land by sea, he would almost certainly have entered the city through Jaffa Gate.
Baratto took a book down from the shelf and brought it back to his desk. " can't promise to help, but I think we should look into the Franciscans' presence here. You see, the 1320s were not an easy time for a westerner to visit Jerusalem, and Mandeville is much more likely to have stayed if they were already established in the city. What we need to find out is when, exactly, they set themselves up in the Holy Land."
He lit his Gauloise cigarette for a third time, but still it didn't catch. Without thinking, he placed it in the ashtray and carried on looking through the book. Outside, the pilgrims were ready to begin their tour. The group leader attached an orange flag to a stick, gathered them around him, and led them into the alleys of the old city, where they were swallowed up by the stone. Jesus, too, was moving on. He adjusted his tunic, spat out his rollie, and picked up his cross once more.
"Ah," said Father Baratto at long last. "Here we go . . . this is what we need." He cleared his throat and read a passage from the book: " 'On August 9th 1328, a bull from Pope John XXII granted permission
The Riddle and the Knight
to the Provincial Minister, then resident in Cyprus, to send two of his friars to the holy places every year ... in doing this, the Pope was formalising a phenomenon which, in reality, was far more widespread than would or could be declared in official documents.' "
He skipped a few passages, murmured something to himself, then began reading again in a louder voice. "Ah, this is it . . .," he said. "Listen to this. There is historical evidence that proves the presence of Franciscans at the Holy Sepulchre during the period 1322 to 1327.' "
He put down the book and smiled. "Just as I thought. The Franciscans were here at that time. That's important evidence in Sir John's favour," he said, "and we might find more clues if we look at their history."
In fact, the Franciscans had taken the decision to settle in the Holy Land more than a century before Sir John arrived, and Father Baratto had soon unearthed sheaves of information about how his spiritual forefathers had first come to Jerusalem.
"At their General Chapter meeting in 1217, the Franciscans took a momentous decision/' he told me. "Instead of being centred in Assisi, they decided that from that point on they would attempt to extend the testimony of their way of life to the entire world. This was not some woolly notion or impossible ideal. St. Francis himself pondered over how to achieve it. Sitting down with a map in front of him, he divided the world into Franciscan Provinces and directed his followers to travel to the four corners of the globe."
One of these areas became the Province of the Holy Land and, as the land where Christ was born and died, was considered to be the most important of all. St. Francis himself came here in 1220, settled some of his friars, and determined that they would remain against all the odds.
Father Baratto stopped for a second and looked up at me. "Are you still following me?" he asked. I nodded, worried that he might put me in detention.
"Good, because now we must get down to the details, and I suggest you take some notes. In 1291 Acre—the last town still in the hands of the crusaders—fell to the Muslim forces and the Franciscans were kicked out of the country. But not for long. Remember, these were determined men who would give up their lives to return to Jerusalem.
I e r u s a 1 e m
Within a few years, they had settled here permanently, and Robert of Anjou, ruler of Naples, bought from the Sultan the buildings on Mount Sion, as well as securing the right to perpetual occupation in the Holy Sepulchre. From that point on, the Franciscans really did have a foothold in the city, and, well, they have been here ever since."
Father Baratto, then, was a continuation of this tradition: he formed an unbroken link back to the monks who had made Jerusalem their home in Sir John's day, and he, like his forefathers, still helped visiting pilgrims and still looked after the holy places. Apart from the spectacles, Baratto—his cassock tied around his waist with rope—was even wearing exactly the same garments as the monks that St. Francis sent to settle here.
"So there you have it," he said with a smile. "It's certainly possible that Sir John could have visited the city at the time he says he did. And the fact that there were monks living here at that time greatly increases the likelihood that he really did come."
But when I asked him the chances of finding any definite evidence in Mandeville's favour, his smile turned to a frown.
"That won't be so easy," he said. "You could spend years in Ubraries sifting through old documents and never find a thing. Personally, I would be extremely surprised if Sir John didn't come. Many pilgrims visited Jerusalem at that time, and when I worked for the Franciscan printing press, I was involved in publishing their accounts of their trips. If you want my advice, I'd read wha
t they had to say. In particular, look at a book by a man named Simon Fitzsimmons. He left England in the very same year as Sir John. They went to the same places at the same time—why, they might even have met each other."
I scribbled down the name as he continued talking. "And another piece of advice. Follow the Franciscan prayer tour along the Via Dolorosa. Sir John might have done that as well. Monks have been leading pilgrims around the holy places since the very beginning of their time here."
In Sir John's day, Jerusalem was still contained within its huge fortified walls, which had been constructed by the crusaders some two centuries earlier. The Pope himself had instigated the Crusades, and when the massed expedition finally accomplished its goal and wrested Jerusalem
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from the infidel, the knights and foot soldiers from Europe brutally slaughtered all the occupants of the city.
By the time Mandeville came to write The Travels, the tables had turned. The western knights had themselves been evicted from Jerusalem by Muslim forces in 1244, and the city was now ruled by a new force—the Mamelukes of Egypt—who held Jerusalem until the sixteenth century. Although there was continued talk of another crusade in Mandeville's lifetime, it was a forlorn dream, for the Mamelukes had built their land into a powerful empire; when envoys of King Philip VI of France travelled to Cairo to demand the return of Jerusalem, the Egyptian Sultan contemptuously dismissed them from his court.
The Mamelukes had a passion for building and left their legacy in stone. They had already spent a fortune beautifying Damascus; now they turned their attentions to Jerusalem, constructing palaces, mosques, universities, and public baths. For all the Mamelukes' brutality on their battlefield, their surviving buildings bear none of the hallmarks of ruthless oppressors. Instead of citadels and fortifications, they lavished money on the facades of their pleasure palaces, and the decorative interplay of pattern and texture suggests an instinctive appreciation of aesthetics and beauty. The Madrassa al-Tankiziyya is adorned with a striking pattern of black-and-white mosaics, while the tomb of Turkan Khatun is built of pink-and-cream masonry. There used to be many more Mameluke buildings in the old city: sadly, many were bulldozed to make way for the huge precinct in front of the Wailing Wall.