He observed me through his fingers, then astonished me by replying, "I beg your indulgence, sir. My companions and I were mistaken."
How he got to his feet, I will never know. His skin became so pale I expected him to pitch over any moment. Yet he pulled himself up to his considerable height and looked down at me.
"If you will please tell me the damage I will make reparations."
His Arabic was not perfect, but good enough so I could not pretend to misunderstand. Still, I just stood and glared at him. His eyes widened as he saw someone behind me.
"So you are awake," Thérèse said. "Good. I will heat some water for tea." She walked close by him on her way to the kitchens.
"Tea," Louis-Philippe muttered, looking even more gray-faced. Then he turned back to me.
His eyes were the most amazing shade of blue-green -- as if sunlight on the waters of the inland sea had somehow been captured and given life in his gaze. I continued to glower, hoping that he would disappear.
"Sir," he mumbled. "I regret..."
He stopped as his incredible eyes focused upon me. His face became very still but his eyes moved as he regarded me and he reached out a hand, his fingers brushing a lock of my unruly hair back from my forehead. I stood my ground. Such expressions, I had seen before, and my heart leaped in gladness. This one would never love a woman. Thérèse would be mine!
"Why don't you try to drink this?" Thérèse's voice came from behind me.
Louis-Philippe ran his hand back through his thick chestnut hair and then gracefully extended his other hand for the lovely blue and white cup Thérèse was offering him. "Thank you," he said. Then he smiled.
I looked at Thérèse's face as she too saw the miracle of that smile. Louis-Philippe was without a doubt the most beautiful man I had ever seen, and from the softening of Thérèse's mouth and the glisten in her eyes, it was clear that he was her heart's desire.
My poor darling, I thought. Such heartache he will cause you! At that moment Bernart and Raoul both stirred and Thérèse reluctantly left Louis-Philippe to tend to them.
"What are you doing here in Constantinople?" I did not care what he answered, but I wanted to engage him in conversation so that he would not speak to Thérèse.
He lowered himself to the divan. "We are on a quest," he stated.
My heart sank. Thérèse's head swiveled around. "What?" she asked.
He made a regal gesture. "A quest for a piece of the true cross."
The next several hours we sat around Louis-Philippe and the other knights, listening to the tale they wove, the stories of their adventures in Jerusalem, in Damascus, even in Egypt. Iranzu and Thérèse translated, first for me, and then for the Khaldun sisters, and even for Justin, who joined us late in the afternoon. The sisters had served us a breakfast of figs and grapes and spicy meat wrapped in thin pastry. Later, they brought us a substantial lunch of boiled eggs nestled in a delicious mixture of hearty grain flavored with cinnamon, cumin and saffron. Finally, at the soft hour when the heat of the day was fading, the knights completed their story and we all sat in silence for a moment.
"A good tale," Justin said, stroking his beard. "Where are you staying?"
Louis-Philippe shrugged. "Our tents are set up in the eastern section of the city."
Justin pulled at his beard some more and eyed his younger sisters, who were giggling and watching the knights with interest. He spread his hands. "Why don't you stay here?" he asked the three knights.
Bernart and Raoul both looked to Louis-Philippe, who seemed lost in thought. He collected himself and his eyes darted to me. "We would be honored." He stood and bowed.
I had not missed the look he had given me, and ground my teeth in frustration. Thérèse said nothing, but her eyes were shining.
At that moment Justin sent the sisters away to prepare our dinner. "Good!" he exclaimed as his sisters scampered off. He leaned forward. "I happen to know of a man in Konya," his eyes twinkled, "who I have heard knows where one may find a piece of the true cross."
AND SO our journeys began. We discovered that Louis-Philippe was a baron of a château and had accumulated considerable wealth during his travels, so our group was well provisioned. When Iranzu, the knights and I gathered outside the walls of Justin's home to start our travels, a slight boy with a blue turban ran toward us.
"Away!" Louis-Philippe shouted, waving at the boy as he ran up to our horses.
The boy came close to Louis-Philippe and bowed and grinned at him, looking up with Thérèse's green eyes. Louis-Philippe's face was stern, then his eyes widened in recognition. His face grew quite still, yet his eyes moved over her form and he leaned forward to touch her cheek.
I clutched the reins of my horse. The change in his face when he really saw her tingled my spine. I resolved to stay close to them.
We went to Konya. What we saw there and what we learned could make a long tale in itself. It is sufficient to say that we did not find a piece of the true cross.
No, I must say more. I promised myself that my tale would be honest. There were two incidents during this quest that sealed our fate.
The first happened on the way to Konya. We had been riding for several days and had seen no one. In fact, I wondered if we would ever reach our goal. We had become tired and fretful, and were not on guard for danger. Louis-Philippe was riding out in front, with Thérèse close behind him. From time to time, he would point to something in the barren landscape and laugh. I could not understand what he was saying, but Thérèse would always turn her face up to him, her lips parted into an adoring smile and her eyes glimmering. I could see all of this because I rode right next to her -- I would not leave them alone together!
As I recall, they had been quiet for some time and I was all but dozing on my mount. Yawning, I leaned back in my saddle, an act which they later told me must have saved my life. The rush of air from a lance as it hurtled past my throat nearly pushed me off my horse. It missed me by less than the width of a finger and missed hitting Thérèse by the length of my forearm.
Thérèse immediately dropped from her horse and yanked the reins, wheeling it around, shouting for me to do the same, to put the horses between our bodies and the bandits who were visible now. I slid awkwardly to the ground and watched as one of our donkeys was struck in the leg. It bolted, screaming in pain, dragging the lance across the scrub. It was all I could do to keep my horse from following it. I looked around to see where our attackers had gone and watched in awe as Louis-Philippe bore down on a bandit who was clothed entirely in black. This bandit was brandishing a wicked looking curved sword with one hand and a large knife with the other. Louis-Philippe did not swerve as the man swung his sword around and rode toward him. I held my breath and tried to close my eyes. "Good-bye my rival," I whispered.
But my eyes would not close. I was aware of Thérèse's muffled inhalation when she saw what would happen. Louis-Philippe's face was before me. His features were set and impassive, as if he were made of stone, not rushing forward to certain death. I watched him ride toward the bandit, closer and closer. At the last possible moment before he reached the man, Louis-Philippe dropped gracefully to the side of his mount, hanging over the edge, holding his sword with both hands. The curved sword of the bandit passed harmlessly through the air over him, but Louis-Philippe's razor-sharp sword was swinging upward at the same time and removed the man's arm. Shock took the man's face as he saw his arm fly away from his body and then his strangled yell stopped when Louis-Philippe straightened in his saddle and swung his sword around, taking off the man's head. I could not look as his head flew off his body, but I heard it hit the ground. My eyes were still riveted to Louis-Philippe. He had drawn his mount up and was coolly surveying the area.
Bernart and Raoul were fighting three of the bandits, yelling and clashing swords with them. Iranzu was trying to unseat one of the bandits with his long staff. Louis-Philippe charged over to his friends, raising his sword and swinging it in a circle above his head. Blood was
flying off it all around him. "How can he do that?" I asked Thérèse. I knew how heavy that sword was, I had lifted it myself once to hand it to him. His face was still impassive and cold as he expertly urged his mount to the side of Raoul, who was taking the worst from two bandits.
The bandit Louis-Philippe chose to kill never knew what happened to him. Louis-Philippe's damascene blade made a clean arc and swept this man's head off his body, also, just as it had done to the other. The two bandits who were left wheeled their mounts around and rode away, closely pursued by Bernart and Louis-Philippe. Thérèse was already at Raoul's side, helping him dismount. She had ripped the turban from her head and was holding it against his shoulder to stop the flow of blood that had already soaked the ground around his horse.
THE MOON was rising when Louis-Philippe and Bernart returned. Louis-Philippe dismounted easily and was using an old tunic to clean blood and bits of flesh off his sword. I went over to him.
"Did you get them?" I asked. His face went perfectly blank, then animation returned and he held his sword up to the torch light.
"Of course we did," he said. "If we had not killed them, they would have brought others."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
His forehead wrinkled, then his face cleared and he grinned. "I do not know it, my friend," he said. "But we could not take the chance." He became engrossed in scrubbing his sword again. I watched his ears grow first pink, then red. Was he embarrassed?
"Why did you swing your sword around your head?" I asked him.
Louis-Philippe scratched under his chin. "When did I do that?" he asked.
"Never mind," I answered. "But thank you anyway."
"For what?" He was clearly perplexed.
I felt an odd thrill. He had just saved our lives and it was nothing to him. It was what he expected of himself.
I must say here that the idea of violence often made me ill. Indeed, as I stood before him while he cleaned his sword, I found myself wondering if the men he had killed had families. I wondered if their mothers would cry for them. And yet a quivering ache was born deep inside of me. This is what he did best, this man, I thought. He did it without malice, without thinking, even. He is a killing machine, I thought. And within me bloomed the flower of desire. I wanted to experience his strength, the cool reserve he showed while he was fighting.
I wanted to make him quiver inside, too. I wanted him to tremble with desire for me.
Turning away, I walked over to where Iranzu was rubbing down the sweating horses. "This will never do!" I told myself, "and yet..." I kept my distance from Louis-Philippe that night.
THE SECOND incident took place in Konya. I had not forgotten my own quest for knowledge, and sought the great teacher Baha-od-Din Walad. He granted audience.
"Have you seen the face of God?" I asked him. "What is the nature of God? Why are we here? Why is there suffering?"
He sat silently through all my questions, nodding now and then. When my questions were all asked, he still sat there without speaking. The silence became profound. He motioned for me to come closer. I moved toward him and he bent to whisper in my ear.
"I want you to talk to my son," he said. "You must go to see Djalal-od-Din."
I was angry, but I bowed and left him.
I was sitting in my tent fuming about my meeting with Baha-od-Din when a stranger asked if he could enter. I spoke my assent and a boy pushed aside the cloth covering the entrance. He sat before me.
"My father has said you need to see me," he told me. His eyes were the large and liquid eyes of a deer.
A boy, I thought. I felt insulted, but was polite. I asked him the same questions I had asked his father while he sat there before me, nodding his head and gazing at his hands.
When I finished his eyes looked right into my heart. I could not move. Something buried inside me, something ancient, shifted and writhed. A bell sounded deep within my being. Truth spread out in a vast wave, flooding my senses, demanding to be seen, touched, heard, tasted -- an immense, uncompromising love. I was myself and yet not myself; suddenly very wise and large and looking upon my life and the lives of others with loving amusement.
It was too much, this truth. I shied away and the flood gates closed. Yet a small, glowing piece stayed behind, warming my heart.
"You have a great dhawq, a great desire for God," Djalal-od-Din said. "Your search is your path. Why are you so afraid?" He reached out and took my hands now. "Your search will lead you to the door of secrets. In the act of seeking you will find the answers you want." He dropped my hands and gestured at the walls of the tent, the carpet on the floor, the gentle beams of sunlight streaming through the doorway. "The answers you seek are all around you. Do you not see?"
Djalal-od-Din still held me with his eyes. "Within you, what you are seeking and the seeker... these are one and the same." He stood in one graceful movement. "Ibrahim," his voice caressed my name. "I am a seeker, too." And he left the tent so quietly that I hardly knew he was gone.
As I write this I know I cannot even begin to convey what happened when he spoke to me. How can I put into words that which cannot be written? Ibn Arabi could have told you with his songs. But I am no poet. All I can say is that my life was never the same afterward. I could never look at anything in the same way again. Was I made holy? I think not, and as you read further you will see that my actions were not those of an holy being. But something changed for me then, changed forever. My search became my life.
We soon left Konya and spent the winter in Constantinople. Thérèse watched Louis-Philippe and I closely watched the two of them. By spring, Iranzu announced that he and Thérèse were returning to their home. We thanked my cousin for his hospitality and I congratulated myself. Soon I would have Thérèse to myself again.
As we prepared to leave, Louis-Philippe took Iranzu aside and they talked for some time. I grew nervous. Finally, Iranzu announced that the three knights would accompany us back to Navarre. "With such an escort we can travel overland without fear of attack." While Iranzu was telling us this, Louis-Philippe stood at his side. But Louis-Philippe's eyes were focused upon me.
Thérèse had abandoned her street urchin garments and now dressed in her flowing gown, with her hair unbound. I watched her hair curl and lift in the breeze, wanting to bury my hands in it. My fingertips ached and the yearning in my loins throbbed. She rode beside Iranzu most of the way, although I saw her looking back at Louis-Philippe. It hurt me to look at her expression, so hopeless! I could not avoid seeing her, though. You see, Louis-Philippe rode beside me.
He had decided to teach me the langue d'oc as we rode. I sang the "Songs of Raimbaut d'Orange" to him and he helped me put together phrases that conveyed meaning, rather than the simple words I had strung together haphazardly in order to communicate. The months we traveled together enabled me to acquire the language. Finally I could understand and converse, and although I was not fluent, I could be understood.
At one point I asked him how he had learned to fight. He looked puzzled for a moment, then his ears grew pink and he turned his face away.
"I am the only son of baron. If I had been born a serf or even a second son I may not have learned the art of battle. I was sent to squire for the Viscount of Béarn," he told me. "All of us learned to fight on the fields. We fought each other at first, then we fought for our lord."
"I have heard of your customs," I said. "So you fought for this viscount?"
He laughed and faced me. "There was a disagreement between the Viscount of Béarn and the King of Navarre. I fought well but on the losing side." Now he lifted his tunic and showed me his scars -- an ugly, puckered slash across his belly, and a crooked line down his back. "The dispute was settled and I now owe fealty to the king." He urged his horse forward.
As we traveled further, he pointed out features in the landscape that resembled animals or people and he laughed in delight. The curve of a rock that looked like a pregnant sow, a cluster of bushes that looked like a bunch of monk
s defecating on the ground, the ragged edge of a gully that looked like huge lumps of turds -- all of these strange things he saw in the earth around us. I noted that he mostly saw images of animals or food or bodily waste. Where most men, if they saw anything at all, would see sexual images all around, he did not. He was curiously innocent. I found myself both touched and disturbed by this.
OUR JOURNEY drew to an end. We were outside of Roncesvalles, which was six days ride from his château. You know Navarre. Where Alexandria bakes gold and brown under the sun and Constantinople ripples in blue, Navarre broods under inconstant sky and cloud; deep forest and soaring peaks. The mountains closed around us in a tight, green-black embrace. I must say here that Thérèse and I were the only members of our company who had our own tents, Thérèse because she was the only woman, and me because I refused to share a tent with men who had not seen soap and water for years. As I recall, on this evening Thérèse retired to her tent early. Louis-Philippe had obtained an earthen jug full of the very fresh and fragrant wine of the region, and he brought it to my tent. I motioned for him to sit across from me on the carpet. We toasted each other and drank the wine out of silver cups he had obtained somewhere during his travels.
"Not bad, not bad," I said, watching how his eyes avoided mine. He looked at the walls of the tent, at the carpet, at his feet.
"Followers of Mohammed cannot drink," he said, wiping his mouth.
I nodded. "Allah will forgive me," I said. "I am of the Temple of Isis."
Finally, he cleared his throat and said, "Raoul has told me a strange tale he heard about the temple -- where you lived in Egypt."
I waited.
"He said that the initiates there loved men and women in some kind of ritual."
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