Flies buzzed about in the baking Mediterranean heat, alighting and feeding upon the lunatic’s festering wounds. Several of the men covered their mouths as the stench of pestilence greeted them. Most of them shrank back from the confrontation now imminent between this filthy wretch and the leader of their tiny group, a rather unimposing figure whose expression appeared to be a mixture of slight annoyance and weariness. One of the men, however, the one called Cephas, moved much closer to his leader, but was careful to stand behind him, as though this would afford a certain degree of protection from the crazed brute running toward them.
“Master,” he said quietly but hurriedly, “we are not safe here. This man is possessed...by a demon.”
When his master gave no response, Cephas quickly added, “He sleeps here among the tombs.” Then, as if to clarify his statement: “He has lain with the dead.”
The demoniac continued to close in on the tiny group. Then suddenly, as though he had struck some invisible barrier, he stopped abruptly in his tracks. He dropped to his knees just a few short paces from the men and began to curse them.
The leader of the group studied him. “Tell me your name,” he said firmly.
The man flopped to the ground, thrashing about like a fish tossed upon dry land. He gurgled something inarticulate, then cried hoarsely between foam-covered lips: “We are Legion, for we are many!”
Two swineherds, bringing their stock to market by way of the Gerasa road, stopped to watch the spectacle unfolding at the edge of their town. They stared in confusion as the demoniac squirmed in the dust while hissing:
“We know who you are, Son of God. Why do you torment us? We have departed the land of Jacob — why do you seek us here, in the land of the unclean?”
Cephas stepped back, but his master simply frowned at the man writhing upon the ground. “Be silent, Legion,” he said. “Depart from the man at once!”
For a brief moment the man convulsed like one in the throws of an epileptic seizure. Then slowly his body began to relax, and an expression of serenity brightened his grimy features.
No sooner had this happened than a new disturbance broke out, this one to the alarm of the two herdsmen. The swine, which until then had been drowsing peacefully at the roadside, began to squeal, frantically jostling and snapping at one another. Within moments they began charging up a low hill opposite the tombs, their wild movements so synchronous their motion appeared to be that of a single frenzied beast.
The two herdsmen ran after them, reaching the hilltop in time to see the frightened animals race down the other side, a hopelessly steep cliff that plunged to a swirling river. They watched helplessly as the pigs, unable to escape the momentum of their mad descent, hurled themselves into the churning water below. The frantic beasts sank to the bottom of the river, and a piercing squeal of terror rose out of the ravine. A ghastly shriek unlike that of anything earthbound.
Upon hearing this unnatural cry, the herdsmen fled to Gerasa. Within an hour they had returned, accompanied by the town’s chief official. They found the man they had believed to be demon-possessed sitting outside the tombs, surrounded by a group clearly foreign to their region.
Addressing their leader in an antagonistic voice, the official said, “We cannot explain the strange feats you have accomplished here today, but these things are terrifying in our sight. Consequently, we demand that you leave our country at once.”
As the tiny group of strangers departed, Cephas looked back and said, “Filthy creatures!” Whether he was referring to the swine or the townspeople, the chief official couldn’t know for certain.
Neither could he know that down in the ravine, a silvery slick had begun to form on the surface of the river. It glistened under the noon sun as it floated toward the far bank, but when it reached dry land it seemed to dissipate in a heat shimmer. This ribbon of distorted light wavered momentarily above the riverbank, before moving off into the east, in the direction of the Syrian Desert.
****
The man surveying the eastern horizon turned and remarked to his companion, “Halfway there, Mateo, and still I have misgivings about this journey.”
Mateo returned the map to the pouch on his belt and said, “Perhaps you should address them to the Papal legate upon our return.”
“We are living in a new and enlightened age, brother; secret missions across the desert belong to the past — as relics of the Crusades...and we should thank God for that.”
“Times change, Renato, but in all the generations since Jerusalem fell, the hearts of men have not.”
“It is not men, but the perils of the desert that concern me. Or have you so quickly forgotten that we began our journey as a circle of seven. How many do you number today?”
“Do not count them as dead so soon,” Mateo said irritably. “We may yet find them.”
“Two men do not disappear in the heart of a sandstorm and then return. They were swept away, surely, or covered over with sand until they choked.”
“These men were no less than yourself: priests, yes, but warriors also; and all of us trained to overcome such obstacles. I would not be surprised to see Gaetano and Uberto come walking into camp tonight.”
Renato pointed to a twisting column of sand slowly meandering across the dunes. “We have company.”
“A dust devil,” Mateo said.
“Come,” Renato said, turning back, “we are at greater risk up here.”
The two men made their way down the ridge, their boots kicking up tiny clouds of dust with each hasty step. In the distance the funnel of sand was doing a slow dance across the dunes, bending and weaving. It seemed to perfectly parallel their return to the tiny group awaiting them below: three priests who were trying to calm the seven Arabian horses now tugging at their reigns.
“You are being followed,” Eusebio said in a gleeful tone, pointing across the dunes at the dust devil.
“I see no occasion for mirth.” Mateo said, taking the reigns of his restless sabino. “Nor do the horses, apparently. Have they more sense than we?”
“Well, perhaps they have less intelligence,” Eusebio answered softly, for he realised that Mateo blamed himself for the loss of their missing companions; and that despite his hollow words of optimism, Mateo had given up hope of finding them. What Eusebio couldn’t comprehend, though, was how a man so nominal in the faith as Mateo could attain such a high position in their order. True, many noblemen had pledged huge annuities to obtain membership and higher rank, but none of them had risen to “Master” — not until this Castilian Count turned his back on his title and lands to wear the purple mantle of the Brotherhood of the Holy Veil; not until Mateo the warrior-priest left behind a wife and children to lead the Pope’s secret service.
Eusebio pondered this, and other things, as he rode behind Mateo. Half a league across the dunes there were now three dust devils churning up the sand. Their dirty plumes rose up against the blistering sun hanging in the western sky. The wilderness of the desert had a history of weird phenomena, much of it purely physical, caused by the extreme heat and wind. Thirsty travellers continued to see water where there was none. This, of course, was simply the refraction of light through ribbons of heated air. But there were plenty of other, more severe, meteorological disturbances: violent electrical storms that repeatedly struck the desert floor, but delivered little or no rain; the bone-dry, insufferably hot sirocco that blew from the north, sucking the water out of whatever stood before it; wind-whipped sand that could scour away the exposed flesh of any man or beast not fortunate enough to find shelter. And ultimately, there were the sandstorms, like the one that had swallowed Gaetano and Uberto — massive walls of grit that could tower over a mile above the earth, rolling, like ocean waves, across the desert, able to flatten dunes and anything else.
Eusebio shuddered and looked back at the slanting funnels of sand continuing to snake along the horizon.
The desert was home to other, less explainable phenomena as well; a traditional environ
ment for supernatural occurrences, where men who’d come to face their inner demons found themselves face to face with devils far more real. Eusebio thought of Moses, plagued by Azazel for forty years in the wilderness of Sinai; of his Saviour, who for forty days fasted and resisted Satan in the desert; of Saint Anthony, who had been tormented by an endless legion of evil spirits. Natural terrors, he decided, paled in comparison to such unnatural things.
“Finally the dust is settling,” said Ludovico, who was riding next to Eusebio. “I have watched these desert whirlwinds persist for hours...tower a thousand feet into the sky...move across several miles of open terrain. These were not so high, by far. Nor particularly wide.” Both men watched as the last of the grey columns collapsed behind a distant dune. “Who could imagine so much life resides in a grain of sand?”
****
The Veil party rode on for another hour before stopping to eat and sleep. They pitched a small, low-ceilinged tent not far from a shallow wadi, long dried up. Sitting cross-legged in the tent, one of the brothers, Ignacio, played on a lute.
“I hope you devote as much time to swordsmanship,” Mateo said, as he sat sharpening the edge of his Damascus blade.
Ignacio nodded. “Almost as much time as I devote to the study of the Holy Scriptures.”
Mateo stared sullenly at the honed steel.
“You mustn’t blame yourself for the loss of Uberto and Gaetano,” Ignacio said. “It was preordained by our Lord.”
Mateo smirked. “God no longer concerns himself with the affairs of men, Ignacio. Why should he?”
“Tell me, Mateo,” Eusebio said. “If you’ve so little faith in God, why did you join the order in the first place?”
“I believe in what the Church is trying to accomplish,” he replied. “I’ve sacrificed far more than most, in order to further its cause. Must I embrace all its doctrines as well?”
“Your exploits as a warrior are legendary, Mateo,” Eusebio said. “We could not ask for a more experienced leader. But what can possibly prompt such zeal? How can an unbeliever hope to do the will of God?”
“I believe,” Mateo said defensively, “though differently now, and perhaps less than I once did.” He hefted the sword. “But what is more real? The steel of this weapon, which I can see and touch — or an invisible God? I’m sorry, Eusebio, but I put more faith in this sword and my ability to wield it.”
“That’s precisely the problem with the Church in Rome,” Renato said. “Too many leaders with too little faith! They attempt to accomplish in the flesh what God alone desires to accomplish in the Spirit.”
Ignacio put aside the lute and stood up. “I will see if Ludovico requires help tending the horses.”
“My dear brother,” Renato continued, “we cannot hope to change the ways of kings and kingdoms until God changes the hearts of men. The Church cannot accomplish this. Only God.”
“The Church in Rome may not be perfect,” Mateo said, “but it is God’s instrument on earth.”
“His sword, you mean?” Renato said hotly. “To cut down all who oppose it? Heaven have mercy on your soul, brother. Have you so easily forgotten the atrocities committed during the Crusades? How we set fire to the Synagogue in Jerusalem — with men, women and children in it? Was our Saviour not Jewish?”
“Those were unfortunate consequences, I admit,” Mateo said.
“And how many Saracens are buried beneath these sands?” Renato asked.
Mateo stood and sheathed his sword. “Far fewer than those who died defending the Faith,” he said. “Saracen hordes beheaded thousands of Christians...and Jews. I don’t forget, Renato. I don’t forget.”
Eusebeo stood also. “The unbearable heat of the day has affected us all,” he said. “We should be resting while it is cool.”
Ignacio rushed into the tent. “Ludovico is gone,” he said, breathing heavily, “and something is wrong with the horses!”
Eusebio grabbed a torch, and the four men hurried out into the darkness. The desert night was almost impenetrably black.
“The fire’s gone out!” Mateo said as he passed the mound of glowing embers.
“Ludovico!” Ignacio called out. But there was no reply from the dunes — and no sound in the camp except the strange, subdued whimpering of the horses.
“No moonlight,” Renato said.
“There,” Eusebio said, pointing to a dull crescent hanging low above the dunes.
The horses shifted nervously in their tethers. Mateo placed his hand on the neck of his sabino. “This horse is wet,” he said. “Bring the torch here.”
“It is blood,” Renato said, running his hand along the flank of his own horse.
“Do you see any wounds?” Eusebio asked.
“Several,” Mateo said. “No...not wounds. They are covered with sores!”
“More like patches of raw flesh!” Renato replied. “Where the devil is Ludovico?”
Ignacio took the torch from Renato. “I shall find him,” he said, and then hurried toward the dunes.
“Come back here!” Mateo yelled, but Ignacio’s torch had already become a pinpoint of light in the distance.
“I doubt Ludovico had anything to do with this,” Eusebio said.
Renato nodded slowly. “The wounds could be sand abrasions.”
“Sand must be driven by powerful winds to do this,” Mateo said. “The last two days have been dead calm. Besides, the horses were fine when we left them.”
“Why do we stand here in the dark?” Eusebio said. “I’ll get another torch.”
Mateo knelt before the heap of faintly glowing embers that less than an hour before had been blazing cheerfully. “No wonder the fire is out,” he said. “Someone has kicked sand over the coals.” He stirred the ashes back to life, and then piled on additional pieces of charcoal.
Together the three men bathed the horses’ wounds, using water they could scarcely spare. Afterward they applied a medicinal ointment made of crushed Balsam roots.
“I doubt this will be enough,” Renato said.
Mateo wiped his hands. “It will have to be.”
“These horses need proper attention,” Renato said. “We should turn back.”
“No, we finish what we started. We deliver both the signet and the document as planned.”
Renato sighed. “I’ll take the first watch. I would rather stay out here with the horses, anyway.”
“I will keep you company,” Eusebio said.
Mateo shrugged. “I will relieve you both soon,” he said, then walked back to the tent.
Renato sat heavily in the sand. “There goes a stubborn one. He will lead us all through the flames of perdition.” He picked up a handful of sand and let it pour through his fingers. What are we doing here, Eusebio? We risk our lives over a piece of paper and a king’s bauble!”
“Which may very well prevent another war,” Eusebio added.
“Possibly. Assuming we get there.”
“You have always had misgivings about this mission, Renato.”
“I felt it was cursed from the beginning,” he said bitterly. “Out here in the desert like latter-day Crusaders. No, my brother, I have no taste for clandestine meetings in the wilderness.”
“I, too, have grown quite uneasy during this expedition,” Eusebio said. “I still cannot believe that Uberto and Gaetano are gone. And to so suddenly vanish from our midst, as though swallowed up like Jonah in the belly of some great leviathan.” He stared broodingly at the burning coals. “This thing with the horses...I’ve heard legends of a desert creature the Arabs call Palis. It licks the wounds of men and animals; it feeds on their blood.”
“A bloodsucking demon, Eusebio?”
“There are many things that inhabit the desert, Renato. Strange things we have yet to explain.”
“Well, if ever a place were suited for such things, it is surely here. Think of the blood that was spilled across those dunes, the inhumanities that were perpetrated. The desert harbours far more than Arabian folk le
gends, Eusebio. It covers all our guilt as well.”
Renato poked at the fire. “Don’t tell your stories to Mateo. He will laugh at you,” he said. “Here he comes now.”
“So soon, Mateo?” Eusebio called. “You cannot have slept much.”
The dark figure coming toward them gave no reply. It moved slowly, dragging its feet with difficulty.
“Mateo? Dear Lord!” Renato cried, jumping to his feet. He tried to reach the staggering man but was too late. The poor soul fell face down in the sand.
Eusebio knelt and turned the man over. “I think it’s Ignacio!” He touched the man’s face. It was sticky. “Mateo!” he yelled.
“I am here!” Mateo answered, running from the tent. “Pull him closer to the firelight!”
Eusebio gasped. “What happened to his face?”
“What happened, Ignacio?” Mateo asked. “Who did this?”
“The skin is gone,” Renato said in disbelief. “Scoured completely off his face.”
Mateo shook the wounded man roughly. “Ignacio! Tell us what happened?”
“He is dying,” Eusebio said. “Leave him be.”
Ignacio tried to speak and began coughing.
“Give him water,” Mateo said. “Ignacio, did you see Ludovico out there?”
Ignacio swallowed hard. “Some...thing,” he said. “Behind… the dunes.” He coughed again. “Coming. This way. Not like us.”
“Nomads?” Renato asked.
“Not like us...” he replied.
For a few seconds Ignacio struggled to breathe, before growing still in the arms of Eusebio, who gently laid him back upon the sand and then crossed himself. Renato, too, made the sign.
“Saracens,” Mateo said. He stood up and scanned the curtain of blackness obscuring everything beyond the tiny circle of firelight. “Renato, put out the fire,” he said. “Someone is out there...behind the dunes. Someone followed us here.”
Renato flung several handfuls of sand across the flames, plunging the four men into almost total darkness. “Moon’s behind the dunes. All we have is starlight.”
Dead Souls Page 5