We marched through the day, resting every few hours. When we halted, the boys would collapse on the ground, while Cross would graze or lap from a stream. (About halfway through the day, it occurred to me these breaks were for Cross’s benefit, not ours.) The whole time we rested, Kite scanned the road in both directions, never once sitting himself. Much to Lark’s dismay, our respites were too short for us to prepare a proper meal, and it seemed we were back on the road after we’d managed only a few hurried bites and a small swallow of water.
As we approached sun-off, our feet began scuffing up ash. A thin grey-white layer covered everything. We passed a sharp line demarcating the periphery of a blaze and found ourselves surrounded by scorched fields. A few hundred metres farther along, we crested a small rise and saw what had been at the epicentre of the fire: a group of burnt-out stone buildings, a Church in their midst. Threads of smoke still rose here and there. One of the buildings had collapsed entirely, leaving just a foundation covered by a pile of rubble, and only the Church had the vestiges of a roof. Something about the scene struck me as familiar.
Kite sniffed the air and had a good look around before saying, “The Monastery burned three, maybe four days ago. No one’s likely to come around tonight. We’ll camp here.”
As soon as Kite said the word monastery, I could see it: the square of huddled buildings that would have housed the monks and their offices, the flattened area behind that would have been the gardens they tended, and to the north the blackened, skeletal trees that had once been their orchard. It was the Black Friar’s Monastery where I’d been held and forced to witness the torture and death of my father. When I’d been brought down to this benighted Sphere, I’d been hooded, but we had not travelled far from the Assumption before arriving at the monastery. I hadn’t thought about it, but it shouldn’t have been surprising that we might pass it in returning to the Assumption.
Staring at the ruination, I wanted to feel some satisfaction. But I didn’t. What I felt instead was a great sadness that men could perpetrate such cruelties on one another. Not just the ones I’d witnessed, but this, too. Some might claim that this was God’s punishment, but a loving God would not countenance such wanton killing, no matter how unrepentant the sinners. No, this was man’s hand at work. I said a prayer for my father, and for the souls of those dead monks. But most of all for the men who had done this, for they were the ones who would have to live with their sin until judgement day.
As we approached the buildings, a light rain began. We passed several charred corpses; arrow shafts jutted from them. Most of the shafts were still unburnt and feathered, which meant those poor souls had been pierced after they’d been ablaze. In all likelihood the Monastery had been torched to rout those inside; as they fled the conflagration they’d been killed, one by one. We walked through the front gate and into the cloister, then made our way across to the Church. Just inside, we had to step over another shrivelled body in the narthex, its mouth frozen in the rictus of an agonized scream. In its blackened fingers it clutched a crucifix.
The rain was coming down harder as we crossed the nave. The bit of roof that was left hung above the altar, and it was there that Kite and the two other boys threw their blankets. I couldn’t bring myself to do that. Instead, I wandered away and huddled in the northern transept, where the inward meeting of two walls afforded some shelter. I was numb, past exhaustion, in a kind of waking sleep. I stared off into the gloom, my mind turning over and over everything that had happened in the last day.
Later, I became aware that Kite was sitting next to me, watching me; in his hand he held a dirk. The one I’d plunged into the brigand’s neck. He held it out to me and said, “You may have use of this again.” When I didn’t take it, he laid it down next to me, then caught my eye. “They deserved to die.”
I looked away.
“I felt bad the first time I killed a man,” Kite said. He touched me lightly on the shoulder, then withdrew his hand almost immediately. A clumsy attempt to comfort me. Only I didn’t need comforting, at least on that score. I had intentionally killed a man who intended me no hurt, and in so doing had likely damned myself to the eternal torments of Hell. Yet I didn’t feel the horror of it as I thought I would. If anything at all, I felt relief. And shame that I didn’t feel worse.
“You can’t let it get to you,” he continued, “or the next time you have to act you will hesitate—and you will be killed.”
I didn’t try to correct his misapprehension; instead, I nodded. He made a move to leave, and I put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Why did you let the last four go?”
He chewed his lip for a moment, then returned a question: “Why fight when it’s unnecessary?”
“Because of what they did to Ignatius.”
“They did what they were forced to, by circumstance or otherwise.”
“I didn’t think you the merciful sort.”
He shrugged. “There are always other reasons.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve seen too many fights, boy, where one side was expected to win. Only no matter how good the odds, it doesn’t always turn out that way. Things can go wrong in hundreds of ways you would never expect.”
“Like tripping over a root.”
“Like tripping over a root,” he agreed. “The odds weren’t with us last night. We got lucky. I didn’t want to push our luck.”
I doubted he really believed we’d gotten lucky. We both knew he could have taken the last few brigands without breaking a sweat.
“There was nothing to be gained,” I said, “and everything to be lost.”
“Those who fight with their heads, keep them. Those who fight with their hearts, lose them.”
“If I tell you my thoughts about what happened today,” I said, “will you tell me if I’m right?”
He nodded.
“You poked Cross to create a distraction while remaining concealed. You knew as soon as she started braying I’d run out and make a scene. If I killed the sentry, that would be one less you’d have to worry about. If I didn’t, you knew they weren’t going to kill me. Like the Captain said, I wasn’t worth anything to them dead. In either case, they were only expecting me and so they’d all turn towards me, which would make it easier for you to kill the only man who had his wits about him, the Captain.”
“Some of the others had their wits about them, too.”
“Then you went for their leader, because you knew they were undisciplined and would panic without him.”
He nodded again.
“Who were those men? Why did they want me?”
“I know as much as you, boy.”
I didn’t believe him. “May I ask one more question?”
“Suit yourself.”
“Why do Ali and Lark hate me?”
“They don’t. They are shamed that you killed a man they wanted to kill. And they are angry that they are beholding to you. No man wants to owe another.”
I could see the truth of it. Even though I felt they owed me nothing, I would have to find a way to let them believe they had balanced the accounts if I wanted them to like me again.
With his last answer, Kite stood up and walked away.
I had one more question I had wanted to ask him, but I let him go because I had worked out the answer for myself. I knew what his promise to Ignatius had been. It was the reason he had let me return to the campsite, why he’d brought the dirk, and why he’d answered my questions just now. His promise had been more than returning me safely to Rome.
Kite was to be my new teacher.
The Postulants’ Camp
Before us was a sea of ragged, makeshift tents the size of a substantial city. Fifty thousand souls, if the Captain’s figure was to be credited, all desperate to leave this unhappy Sphere. The encampment bearded the hill upon which the lily-white Assumption sat, and fanned out onto the plain below, the disarray of the camp a sharp contrast to the pristine, geometrical precision of the hallowed structure. The stench
of human excrement assailed us well before we reached the camp’s extremity, and Kite tore pieces of cloth for us to press over our noses and mouths. We were on a meandering path that no one else travelled. In the distance, however, we could see a steady stream of refugees entering the camp on well-marked roads, all in defiance of the Pope’s edict. Why, I wondered, would they risk such a journey to come to a place like this?
We entered the camp and discovered why no one else followed our route: we were in a lazarette. Sick people had been laid out in a rough grid, and harried physicians moved amongst them attempting to provide what succour they could, while hollow-eyed priests administered last rites. Most of the ill, I learned later, had cholera. Few attendants or patients looked at us, and those who did gazed at us with a combination of surprise and wariness, as if to say, Why are you, the living, here amongst the dying? We encountered a tall, gaunt drayman wearing only a loincloth, dragging a cart laden with bodies. He grunted at us to give way. The dray trundled past, its wheels creaking under its load, leaving behind the sickening stench of putrefaction that no thickness of cloth could ameliorate. After picking our way through dozens more rows of the ill, we came to a sort of buffer zone between the lazarette and the rest of the camp, demarcated by a fouled river whose banks were covered with all manner of filth and detritus. It was here, where the runoff from the camp accumulated, the stench was greatest—so much so I gagged and almost fainted. Ahead of me, Lark went to his knees, heaving violently. Kite dragged him to his feet and pushed him forward, towards a rickety bridge that spanned the foul river.
I knew little about doctoring, but enough to know that the ill recover more readily in sanitary conditions. It seemed madness to place an infirmary next to a river of excrement—unless, of course, the sick were not expected to recover.
Crossing the river, we entered the camp proper. The stench abated somewhat, a stiff breeze blowing it back over our shoulders. Save for Lark, we all dropped our cloths. Kite picked his way between ragged tents, past their sullen occupants. I could feel eyes on us, see the sharp set of hunger in their gaze as they watched Cross, with her fat packs, clop past.
The Meek, they had named themselves. Yet I had no doubt they were bold enough to rob us of our goods—and perhaps our lives. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Was the appellation one of resignation because they knew there was nothing left for them in this life and their only hope was for the next? Or was it a not-so-subtle threat to those who controlled the Assumption?
Both, I decided, the stares prickling my back like thorns. I had seen enough of the world now to understand that violence all too often stalks the loss of hope.
I was relieved when we finally hit a road of sorts—a wider, hard-packed path, really, but broad enough for four men to walk abreast. It seemed less likely we’d be troubled here. People wandered up and down this avenue, clutching pots and water-skins; some looked dazed, others utterly defeated. A few sat at the side of the road, gazing off into the middle distance. At regular intervals, Gardes Suisse were stationed beside wooden huts. Set up next to each were two tables and a stool. A scribe sat on the stool, busily inking large quarto sheets on one of the tables, while a line of men and women and children looked on anxiously. On the other table were ledgers, stacks of blank quarto paper and a burning candle. I thought this odd, the candle, because it was not quite yet dusk, but more so the reams of empty paper. There was a fine for those in possession of more than three sheets of paper, except for those with dispensation from the Church, so I’d never seen so much blank paper in one place. Not only that, but the sheets were of the size used in printing books—well, The Bible since no other books were printed now—four pages per side. I could only see them as unformed books. Books were the least of his sins, the Bishop had said to me, But a clear sign of a struggling soul, the beginning of his slide into iniquity. They had led to my Father’s downfall, because of his love for my mother; and the sins of my father had been visited upon me. I got a small chill, looking at all that paper. Not because of the misfortune they had brought to my family, but because of the promise of their empty pages: tabula rasa. And though I felt it likely to be a sin, I was seized momentarily by the strange idea that, had I the means, I could rewrite my story—in more favourable terms—on those sheets.
As we passed the next guard house, I saw a scribe finish his document, roll the page neatly, then seal it by dripping wax from the candle and impressing his signet ring. He passed it to a large man with massive forearms, who I took to be a smith. The man poured some coppers into the scrivener’s outstretched palm—and then I understood what was transpiring. The scribes were professional petitioners.
“Agents of Rome,” Kite hissed softly, as if he’d read my thoughts. “For those who can afford their services.” He spat, his disdain undisguised.
Any person, I had learned at San Savio, had the right to petition the Church. At the time, I had liked the idea that the Church had such a mechanism, enabling its most humble parishioner to directly petition the Pope. Father Finn had said to us, “But before you boys all run off to write the Pope a letter, there is one more thing you should know. . . .” The catch was that the petitions had to be in a prescribed format. It had to be on quarto-sized sheets, addressed to the Most Holy Father (Beatissme Pater), followed by the name and diocese of the petitioner. It had to be written in the language of the Church, Latin. This was done, Father Finn said, to ensure fairness, expedite the requests, and reduce frivolous requests, such as ours would have been.
But here, in this camp, where many couldn’t write (and of those who could, only a few understood Latin), and where tens of thousands screamed for the Pope’s leave to escape this unholy Sphere, it suddenly seemed an absurd prerequisite, serving no purpose—except, perhaps, to line the pockets of Rome’s agents.
I couldn’t believe the Church was enforcing this ridiculous requirement.
Despite what I’d suffered, I still believed in the essential goodness of the Church, and that the Pope was God’s chosen vessel, our Holy Father. Had the Pope been aware of the injustice of my father’s inquisition—or of the myriad of injustices, small and large, at San Savio—he would not have permitted them. But he was not God, he was a man, and couldn’t be everywhere at once. Besides which, he had bigger fish to fry, next to which my sufferings amounted to nothing.
But this?
I began to understand Kite’s disdain.
We came to a crossroads. On the corner to our left, a large white tent, a cross at its apex, had been erected. At its entrance, several Gardes were measuring meagre portions of food and water into cups and bowls extended by wasted men, women, and children, while half a dozen other Gardes struggled to keep order of a hopelessly long line that snaked down the road perpendicular to ours. From within the line, sunken, hungry eyes turned towards us with undisguised envy and hatred. I am sure they would have swarmed us had Kite not swung his halberd from his shoulder to the ready. In the eyes of several men I witnessed the glint of desperation give way to the wariness of self-preservation. Taking advantage of this, Kite pushed unceremoniously through the mob, stopping before the two Gardes posted at the tent’s entrance. Under their berets both were pimply faced, and looked to be only a handful of years older than me. I could feel people pressing in behind us, almost feel their breath on my neck. From the corner of my eye, I saw a hand dart out and touch one of Cross’s packs.
“Let us inside,” Kite said, “or you’ll have a riot.”
The Gardes took in Kite’s halberd, and then looked nervously to the crowd. The older of the two pulled back the flap and said in a voice that broke, “Go!”
The pressure of the crowd seemed to waft us inside. I felt a palpable sense of relief as the heavy flap fell behind us.
Bales and crates and casks filled the space—and, of course, more Gardes Suisse. Farther back in the tent, a half dozen sat at a trestle table on which was the remains of their evening repast. They were somewhat older, but all were still
well under twenty if I was any judge. They looked untried, more like a gang of sulky teenagers than the vaunted Gardes. It was worrisome, that things had deteriorated to the point where men this green were being deployed. The oldest one—a major, from the single star embroidered on his epaulettes—rose from the table and approached us where we stood with Cross. A bit older, perhaps in his early thirties, he was a tall, black man with a commanding air. I could see him taking in Kite’s faded uniform.
“Are you mad?” he said, in a pleasant enough voice. “Walking through the camp with that.” He waved his hand at Cross.
The men at the table watched in silence.
Kite reached into this satchel, pulled out Ignatius’s vellum, and proffered it. The major unrolled it and frowned as he read, then handed it back to Kite. I had feared he’d simply strip us of our goods and turn us out, but by the way his expression had changed, I could tell the letter had its intended effect. He turned to the young men at the table and nodded in a way that said, I will handle this. They returned to their meal.
“Rome grants you passage,” he said. “That’s clear enough.”
“And aid,” Kite said.
“More precisely,” the Major said, “it exhorts us to ‘render what aid possible.’ These days, little is possible. What is it you want?”
“An escort to the Assumption.”
The major laughed. “You are mad.” When Kite’s expression didn’t waver, the Major said, “I can’t spare a man. We’d be overrun.” He glanced at the table of young men and sighed as if he found them wanting. “We might be anyway,” he said so they couldn’t hear. Then he looked at Cross. “Even if I did give you an escort, your mule would still be on a spit before you got ten paces. You, too, if the whispers are true.”
The Book of Thomas - Volume One: Heaven Page 7