by Tim Willocks
Before he left, he submitted to the rituals of the Order and received the Habit of Magistral Grace. In a bout of generosity he later had cause to regret, he donated most of his opium to the Sacred Infirmary, which remained in dire need. He secured Starkey’s promise that when Carla left for France she’d be accompanied by a pair of guardian knights of the soundest possible character. Then, on the brink of his departure, a boon befell him, and it was something to shine a light through the night of his gloom.
Among the few men taken alive in the slaughter at Saint Paul’s Bay was the silent Ethiop, the man who’d restored him to life in the pink pavilion of Abbas bin Murad. Tannhauser found him in chains and kneedeep in human swill, hauling disintegrating corpses from the ditch around the town. Tannhauser purchased his freedom. He washed him and bought him some clothes. And throughout all this the Ethiop remained quite mute. They sat at the refectory table in the Auberge of England, and while they ate Tannhauser studied him at length.
“I will be damned if I know what to do with you,” he said.
The Ethiop seemed to grasp the essence of this for he upped from the table and went outside. Tannhauser followed him. The Ethiop pointed to the far blue fastness to the south.
In Arabic, he said, “Home.”
Tannhauser talked his way into an hour with La Valette’s secret library of maps and with his broken fingers he copied as best he could what was known of Egypt and the African Horn. He showed it to the Ethiop, who recognized the Red Sea. If he could cross Egypt and reach the sea’s northern shore, the Ethiop believed, he could sail to its southernmost tip and from there cross what he said was called the Danakil and make his way to the mountains of his far-distant origin. It would be a most daring and singular journey, Tannhauser thought, and for a moment the epic vision of it leapt from one man’s mind to the other, and the urge to accompany the Ethiop blazed through Tannhauser’s breast. But only for a moment. That would be another journey, for another time, and another life, and not for this one.
Tannhauser loaded a mule with supplies and he and the Ethiop rode over Monte San Salvatore to the ruins of Zonra, where Tannhauser’s fabled boat yet lay concealed. They reassembled and launched it and Tannhauser instructed the Ethiop, as best he could, on the route to Alexandria and by which heavenly constellations he might be guided. He gave him a pound of opium and some hooks and line, and a Turkish sword and some Turkish specie in silver to pay his way, and he told him when he reached Alexandria to seek out Moshe Mosseri and ask for his counsel, and to invoke to him the name of Sabato Svi.
And all this the Ethiop accepted like a man who knew that his prow would be guided by God. Finally, Tannhauser made him custodian of the ebony-and-silver musket that Bors had so treasured.
“If you fail,” said Tannhauser, “it won’t be for want of fine tackle.”
The Ethiop smiled. And this smile was a jewel to be treasured always.
Tannhauser never knew his name, and to the last he did not ask it, for he knew he’d never see the man again. The Ethiop embraced him and climbed in his felucca and ran up the lateen.
Tannhauser stood and watched until the red sail was lost in the haze.
When Tannhauser sailed away himself, he watched Carla and Orlandu salute him from the wharf. This parting tore rents in the fabric of his heart and he knew not if he’d see these two again. Or even if he’d want to. There was no sense in this, it was true, for he felt a terrible love for Carla and harbored for the boy an uncommon affection for which the word love seemed trite. But so it was. And he had to go. Orlandu couldn’t comprehend his leaving, and raised “the famous enterprise,” in which Tannhauser had suggested they’d engage.
“If you honor your mother, and learn something useful, then perhaps one day it shall be so,” Tannhauser told him. “Meanwhile our ways must part, for I’ve business in the north.”
Carla didn’t make his parting more painful by trying to dissuade him. She contained the many emotions that battled within her. She tried to understand his need to journey alone. Her own needs would wait on Hope, and as she embraced him in farewell, she gave it voice.
“On the main road from Bordeaux to Perpignan is a church with a bell tower in the Norman style, the only one of that character in those parts. Beyond it is a fork in the road. The southern fork leads to a manoire on a hill, whose roof has a single turret tiled in red.”
Tannhauser took this in without making any answer.
Carla said, “If a certain bargain is—someday—to be concluded, that’s where you will find the appropriate partner.”
In answer to this, Tannhauser kissed her.
And letting that stand as his promise, he was gone.
In Messina, Tannhauser paid a visit to Dimitrianos.
In Venice he settled the affairs of Sabato Svi.
Then on an instinct too primal to refuse, he continued north—far north, and east—and on this journey he learned to treasure solitude above all things. He slept in monasteries where silence was the rule, and the company of women he abjured, and as he and the winter closed fast upon each other, he reached the village of his birth, and threw himself upon the kindness of his father.
Tannhauser spent the winter and spring at work in Kristofer’s forge and the bond that war had long broken was spliced anew. In the frosty dawns he wrestled with fire and steel. He became a great favorite with his newfound sisters and brother. He accompanied his father on his circuits and they talked of simple things. They shared memories—at first with pain, but then with a bittersweet joy—of the kin they’d so loved and had lost. They prayed together at the graves—which Kristofer had dug from the earth with his own hands—of Tannhauser’s mother and Gerta and dear Britta. And Tannhauser sometimes wondered, did Kristofer remember the mysterious Ottoman stranger who’d called at his forge? And sometimes he sensed that he did, and that the stranger was no stranger at all; and sometimes not. And neither ever mentioned the stranger, and this was fitting, for the man was a ghost, and a ghost to Tannhauser himself most of all.
Thus he regained his strength in heart and limb. And through winter’s slow retreat and the burgeoning of spring he believed that he would never leave again. And perhaps it was from that conviction that the healing came, for these people cared little for his past or his deeds or his glory. They cared only for him. And this put him in mind of Amparo and he thought of her in the nights when he watched the stars traverse the sky. And he thought, too, of Carla and Orlandu. And he thought of Ludovico Ludovici, the tragic monk who lost his mind in the gulf between Power and Love, and who told him that Sorrow was the route to Grace and spoke true.
In these mountains far from everywhere, Tannhauser came to understand that sadness was the thread that wove his life into a single piece, and that in this there was no reason for regret, much less surrender. And this his father taught him: that in spite of sadness, in spite of loss without measure, Life beckoned yet, like a billet of base iron awaiting transformation. Since Tannhauser had last raised a fire in that pale stone temple, where his father brought things into being that had not been before, emperors and popes had fallen and the lines on the maps had been changed. Flags had been brandished and armies had marched and multitudes had killed and died for their tribes and their gods. But the Earth yet turned, for the Spheres danced to a music of their own, and the Cosmos was indifferent to the vanity and genius of Men. The human spirit eternal, if such a thing there was, was here, in an old man with his hammer and his hearth, and with a woman and fine children whom he loved.
Tannhauser realized, at last, that it was in the gap between Desolation and Love, between Sorrow and Faith, that Christ and the Grace of God were to be found.
As summer kissed the Alps, and melted all but the highest snows, Tannhauser packed his gear and saddled Buraq and bade farewell. And though many tears were shed, this parting didn’t rend his heart as had others before, for it was only a parting of flesh and not of spirit. He headed back across a continent, through the dominions of many diffe
rent kings, and in the shortening days of summer, Tannhauser entered once again the land of the Franks.
Thus, on an auburn autumn day, the Chevalier Mattias Tannhauser rode from the city of Bordeaux and down the Perpignan road into Aquitaine. Horse and rider together had covered a thousand miles in the year now gone by. It had taken that long and that far for the wounds to his spirit to heal. Buraq was in fine fettle and ate up the sunlit miles with equine joy. Tannhauser had found the city greatly to his liking. It was a splendid port, a start that could not be bettered, and a town committed to commerce rather than war. He would have to improve his French, a chore he didn’t relish, but it could be done. As a Chevalier de Malte, and a veteran of the greatest siege in history, all doors were open to him there as they’d been elsewhere. More than all this, he’d seen the Atlantic Ocean, a gray and turbulent immensity that entranced his imagination, and which set him to wondering what lay on its farther shores.
He saw in the distance the Norman church tower that marked the road he was seeking. He took the southern fork, and half a league later saw a small manoire on a hill—and suddenly he was aware of the beating of his heart, for from its roof rose a turret tiled in red.
In a cobbled yard beside a barn he found two youths brawling in the horse manure and straw. Rather, one youth lay curled in a ball while the second kicked him—without any great appearance of mercy—in the back and skull. Since the one prostrate and whining for quarter was somewhat the elder and larger of the two, Tannhauser felt a distinct glow of pride.
“Orlandu,” he said. “Let the oaf get up and send him on his way.”
Orlandu turned in mid-kick and saw the golden horse. He raised his eyes, as if to an apparition, and stared at its rider. He swallowed his shock and said, “Tannhauser?”
By God the boy looked well. And what a power of good it was to see him. Tannhauser suppressed his inclination to smile, which required a considerable effort, and assumed a stern expression. “I’d hoped to find you studying Latin, or geometry, or some other such higher enterprise,” he said. “Instead I find you brawling in the dung like a common serf.”
Orlandu continued to gape, now torn between rapture and shame. His mouth opened and closed. The oaf scrambled to his feet and stumbled off. Tannhauser dismounted. He could contain the smile no longer.
“Come here, boy.” He opened his arms. “And tell me how you’ve been keeping.”
When Orlandu’s excitement was at last contained to the degree that he could carry out an order, Tannhauser said, “I think it’s time you announced my presence to the lady of the manor.” He added: “Then recruit Buraq and leave us in peace until I call you.”
Tannhauser chose to take a seat in the château’s garden, where he enjoyed the wane of the day and took in the scents of the fruit trees and flowers, and reflected on the lushness that abounded thereabouts. He felt the presence of Carla—that strange aura of control and impending abandon that she cast about her. A woman of property and taste. He reexamined his gear for stains and found himself presentable. Time passed and he grew a mite perturbed. He’d been certain of a warm welcome from the boy, but from Carla he was less sure. She’d had time and tranquillity in plenty to reflect on the folly of falling in league with such as him. Carla’s allure might have drawn him across a continent, but the potency of his own was wide open to doubt.
Music drifted from the manor house at his back. A viola da gamba. It started with great delicacy, perhaps hesitation, then it found its wings and soared and swooped and plunged with majestic freedom. And Tannhauser felt a great happiness, as great as any he’d known, for the music was the voice of Carla’s inmost heart, and she played for him.
When the music stopped he collected himself and stood up and Carla walked down the garden path to greet him. She was every bit as elegant, if not as erotically attired, as when they’d first met, yet, in compensation, her hair fell unrestrained about her shoulders and there was an exuberance in her carriage that he’d never seen before. Her beauty was not just undimmed, it had bloomed. She smiled, as if she’d believed in a moment like this, but hadn’t expected it.
“You haven’t lost your touch,” he said. “Sublime. If I may say so, in art and appearance both.”
Carla inclined her head in appreciation.
For a moment they took each other in.
“As you see,” he said, at last, “I’m powerless, once again, to resist your call.”
She said, “I hope it will ever be thus.”
Her green eyes shone. She smiled. She tossed her hair. He was lost for words. What had he meant to say to her? So much. But where to begin? They stood looking at each other. The silence lengthened. He reached out and she gave him her hand. The loveliness of its touch sent a tremor through his spine. Her fingers squeezed and he saw her swallow the emotion that rose in her throat. His impulse was to pull her against him, and to crush her lips to his, and to submit to long-dormant instincts that now roared to life. Yet he resisted. Their last kiss had been stolen from a world replete with horror. And though horror and fire and madness would forever be mixed in the mortar that bound them together, he wanted their first kiss here, in a gentler world, to be free of shadows. And there was a shadow—of an unforgettable passion, and of a spirit who had to be honored before they were free. The spirit of one they’d both loved and who loved them still.
He said, “I made you a promise that I want to keep.”
In the garden lay a bed of roses, white and red, which Tannhauser had marked as soon as Orlandu had left him there. He led her down the path and stopped by the flowers.
“I’d hoped to find these here,” he said.
Carla said, “So you’re going to tell me a tale.”
She smiled. Her green-and-black eyes brimmed. And Tannhauser knew she understood, and he knew why he loved her, and why he always would. They both were bloodred roses. They all of them were. He pointed out a tall white bloom.
“In Araby,” he said, “they say that, once upon a time, all roses were white.”
Glossary
abanderado: Lowest noncommissioned officer of a Spanish tercio infantry unit.
adhan: The Moslem call to prayer, made at dawn, shortly after midday, in late afternoon, at sunset, and at bedtime.
aga: Chief or general, as in Aga of the Sari Hayrak: “General of the Yellow Banners.”
akçe: Ottoman currency; silver coin; fifty to a golden ducat.
Allahu Akabar: “God is most great.”
alure: Walkway along the top of a castle wall.
Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae / Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto: “The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary / And she conceived by the Holy Spirit.”
arquebus: A matchlock musket; an arquebusier is a soldier thus armed.
Assalaamu alaykum: “Peace be upon you.”
Assalaamu alaykum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh: “Peace be upon you and Allah’s mercy and blessing.”
Azeb: Frontal assault troops composed of Anatolian Turkish males.
bailey: The ward or courtyard inside the castle walls; includes exercise area, parade ground, corral.
barbican: Gatehouse or outworks defending the castle entrance.
basilisk: Large-bore mortar.
batter: The sloping part of a curtain wall; the sharp angle at the base of all walls and towers along their exterior surface; talus.
bey: Vassal sovereign of the sultan, or provincial governor.
Boluk: Janissary regiment.
bork: A tall, white cylindrical cap about eighteen inches high worn by the janissaries.
camerata: Orphanage for infants administered by the Order of Saint John.
caravan: A year of combat duty at sea in the Order of Saint John.
cataphract: Heavy cavalryman.
Charles Quintus: Charles V, King of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor.
chrism: Consecrated oil used in the Roman church.
crenel: The low segment of the alternating high and low segments of a battlement
.
crownwork: Freestanding bastioned fortification in front of main defenses.
culverin: Long-barreled cannon.
curtain or curtain wall: Connecting wall hung between two towers or bastions.
devshirme: “The gathering.” The conscription of Christian boys into the janissaries and the Ottoman civil service. Devshirme also referred to the conscript himself.
enceinte: The line of fortification enclosing a castle or town.
Enderun: School in Istanbul for boys gathered in the devshirme.
Fee iman Allah: “May Allah keep you safe.”
fra: “Brother”; member of a religious order, as in Fra Ludovico.
gazel: A Turkish poem of six couplets.
gazi: Warrior(s) of the Moslem faith against the infidels.
Holy Office or Sacred Congregation: The Roman Inquisition.
humbara: A Turkish grenade, filled with gunpowder and Greek fire.
ignis fatuus: A light that, due to the combustion of gas from decomposed organic matter, sometimes appears in the night over marshy ground.
in foro interno: A papal dispensation whereby in a particular case relaxation is granted from an existing law or monastic vow insofar as it affects personal conscience.
Inscrutabilia sunt judicia Dei: “The judgments of God are inscrutable.”
Jacta alea est: “The die is cast.”
janitor: Janissary rank equivalent to captain.
kazan: The brass cauldron from which the janissaries ate once a day and which was the mascot of their regiment. To “tip the cauldrons over” described the janissaries in mutiny or revolt.