Until this experience these desert youths had known nothing but dates, camel’s milk, and goat’s flesh. Suddenly they were surrounded by all manner of luxuries and permitted to enjoy the company of women of such beauty as only appear in dreams.
They were doped again, taken back to the outside, and told that the Old Man had transported them to Paradise and could do so again, at will. Furthermore, if they died in his service they would be returned to Paradise.
Then these young men were sent to slay the enemies of the Old Man, and because they were given hashish to make them fearless, they became known as hashishans, or assassins.
Stories were told of the Old Man and those he had slain. Every death of a possible enemy was attributed to him, no matter how it came about.
And now my father was a prisoner in Alamut. Somehow I must go there, enter the fortress, and get him out. I said as much.
“I knew you would want to go there, but there is nothing I can do to help you, nothing at all.”
“I expect no help. The task is my own. I now know he is alive, know he is in health, and the rest is up to me.”
“I need not warn you, Mathurin, but the Old Man has spies everywhere. If you speak of your intentions, he will know. Even here he may have spies, so tell no one of your plans.”
We listened to the rustle of the river, and the stirring of the leaves. “Safia? You are sure you will be all right now?”
“I have friends, Mathurin, but I will need money. If you agree, I will take what cash we have, and you keep the goods, and the horses.”
“It is unfair. The value of the goods and the horses far exceeds what we have in gold.”
Behind us the camp was stirring. Guido was singing, and we could hear the laughter of Johannes. “I shall miss them, as I shall miss you. We were fortunate to find them when we did.”
“And I was fortunate to find you when I did,” I said. “Do you remember that night, Safia? I had no place to turn and enemies everywhere.”
“You have been a good friend to me.” She looked up at me. “Mathurin, I wish…”
What she wished I was never to know, for at that moment there was a call from camp.
The Hansgraf and Peter awaited me, with them were Lucca and Johannes. “We need your advice. Safia informs us that you have much knowledge of the science of lands, and even maps?”
“I have such knowledge.”
“East of here? Do you know the lands of the Magyars and Petchenegs?”
“I have read Marvazi, and others. They offer little.”
“Do you know Kiev?”
“It is a large market town, the largest in northern Europe, but the way there is dangerous, and the Petchenegs are a savage people.”
“No matter. Our two caravans, Peter’s and mine, will muster more than one hundred and fifty fighting men.”
Having heard much of the fierce steppe tribesmen, I was worried about the idea. The Hansgraf listened gravely to my objections. “We have missed the fairs at Bruges and Lille while the fair here at St. Denis is a small one. There will be trading at Lagny and Provins, but if we go eastward, there are fairs at Cologne and Leipzig. It seems to me if we take the cloth of Flanders to Kiev and sell it there and buy furs to take to Constantinople, we will make good trade.”
There had been rumors of restlessness among the steppe tribes, and I was disturbed. Safia was awaiting me, and I told her of what was planned and what I feared.
The deep sea can be fathomed, but who knows the heart of a woman? We had known each other for many months, and she was always disturbing to me, yet there is a moment in the acquaintance of a man and woman and once that moment is passed it may never be recaptured. Not at least with the same essence.
We had met as equals, rarely a good thing in such matters, for the woman who wishes to be the equal of a man usually turns out to be less than a man and less than a woman. A woman is herself, which is something altogether different than a man.
“I shall escort you into the city. It is not well that you should ride alone.”
“All right.”
Silence fell between us, and I searched my heart for a key to the silence and found no words.
Paris was no such city as those to which I had become accustomed, but a shabby little place with muddy streets and a people suspicious of strangers.
My father told me how fishermen had settled an island in the Seine and started a town called Lutetia, raided many times by the Vikings. Finally, the Count Eudes and Bishop Gozlin fortified the island and organized the townspeople to fight off the Vikings, who then went downstream to settle in the land named for them, Normandy. The Northmen came to be known in the Frankish lands as Normans.
The city of Paris, if such it could be called, was actually three cities. On the island where Lutetia had been and where Notre Dame now was were the seat of government and the palace. The bishop lived on the island. On the right bank, separately administered, was the Town, the shops, markets, and the six great guilds. There were the money changers, goldsmiths, and bankers. This area was ruled by the Provost of Paris. On the left bank, only beginning, were the “schools” with their own laws, administrations, and customs. The Bishop of Paris was himself a feudal lord, a great landed proprietor with as much power as the king himself.
The ancient site of Lutetia was called the “Isle of the City,” but the king and the bishop who lived there had less to do with what was called government than members of the guilds or even the argumentative and often ribald students of the university. The Romans, I noticed, had not kept themselves to the island, for there were the remains of an amphitheatre and a few arches of an aqueduct on the left bank.
Safia and I parted at the bridge, for I had no desire to cross into the realm of officialdom. The further one can remain from the powers that be the longer and happier life is apt to be. Moreover, prolonged leave-takings made me uneasy.
“You will be all right?” I asked.
“Only this can I tell you. I shall be here for some time. Some friends, it does not matter who, plan to introduce silk manufacture to Paris.”
“It is a good idea, Safia. Times are changing. Only a few years ago towns lacked importance. They have ceased to be merely places of refuge and have become markets. You have seen it. Traveling merchants are ceasing to wander and settling in the towns. You are wise. Where there are women there will be a market for silk.”
We said no more, but parted with one last, lingering glance. I rode away, unhappy as was she.
The old Roman road to Lyon led me toward the edge of town, but I turned aside, seeing a gathering of young men. Walking my horse closer, I paused to listen. A group of young men sat about on bundles of straw listening to a lecture. This was the place of the Fouarres, and one of the first schools in Paris.
Some glanced askance at me, sitting my fine Arabian horse but wearing battered armor, sword at my side, bow and arrows slung on my saddle. No doubt they wondered at such a man being interested in their discussion.
The lecturer, a thin man with a sour face, was expounding upon Bernard’s condemnation of Abelard for his application of reason to theology, and praising Bernard for his sentence against Abelard, whom he called a heretic.
“Nonsense!” I said irritably. “Bernard was an old fool!”
Every head turned, and the teacher stared, aghast. “How dare you say such a thing?” he demanded.
“I dare say anything,” I replied more cheerfully, “because I have a fast horse.”
Several of the students laughed, and one shouted, “Well spoken, soldier!”
“Have you no reverence?” the teacher demanded.
“I have reverence for all who ask questions and seek honest answers.”
“A philosopher!” laughed a student.
“A wanderer in search of answers,” I said, then to the teacher, �
�You asked if I have reverence? I have reverence for truth, but I do not know what truth is. I suspect there are many truths, and therefore, I suspect all who claim to have the truth.”
Walking my horse a few steps closer, I added, “I have reverence for the inquirer, for the seeker. I have no reverence for those who accept any idea, mine included, without question.”
“You are a heretic!” he threatened.
“I am a pagan, and a pagan cannot be a heretic.”
“You ride an infidel horse.”
“My horse has never committed herself, but judging by her attitude on a frosty morning, she is an unbeliever.” There were subdued chuckles, and the teacher’s eyes narrowed. “You ridicule the Church,” he threatened.
“Who mentioned the Church? On the contrary, I have great respect for religion. My objection is to those who are against so many things and for so little.”
“What are you for?” a student called out. “Tell us, soldier.”
“What am I for? Being a man, it is obvious. I am for women.”
This drew a burst of laughter.
“My only trouble is, I am unacquainted in town.”
“Stay the night, soldier! We will introduce you to Fat Claire!”
“It is a theory of mine,” I countered, “that as a seeker for truth I should find my own answers, and my own women.”
“Tell us, soldier, in your travels have you discovered if the world is round or flat?”
“It is round,” I said, “a fact known to the Greeks and to the Arabs as well. For that matter, it is known to the people of Hind, which is far away.”
“Do you know this of yourself, soldier, or is it by the word of others that you speak?”
“That the world is round I know of my own experience, for I have sailed far out upon the ocean-sea, and I know it is known to the Arabs from converse with their teachers. As for the Greeks and those of Hind, I have read their books.”
“You read Greek?” The teacher was astonished now.
“Greek, Latin, Arabic, some Persian, and some Sanskrit,” I said, “and much of what lies in a woman’s heart.”
“I think you lie,” the teacher said.
“It is the eater of chillies,” I said, “whose mouth is hot.” Then I added, “Teacher, when you say I lie, say it with a sword in your hand.”
Several of the students arose. “Soldier, the hour grows late. If you will not accept our recommendation of Fat Claire, then by all means come with us to see what else Paris has to offer. Also, we would test the wine of the country with you to see if your palate does justice to your intellect.”
“By all means, gentlemen! Lead on, lead on! A true philosopher will never refuse a lass, a glass, or an hour of conversation!”
Turning to the teacher, I said, “I meant no disrespect to you or what you teach, only ask questions of yourself.”
“The bishop will ask the questions,” he said darkly, “and he will ask them of you!”
“Put him on a fast horse then,” I said, “or he will ask them of the wind.”
31
THE CHURCH OF St.-Julien-e-Pauvre had been built upon the site of an ancient fortified priory, a part of which remained.
It had been the custom for travelers arriving late at the gates of Paris to spend the night at the priory, but when the site was taken by the Church, several inns came into being.
These inns eked out a precarious existence until schools began to appear on the Left Bank. Most of the teachers had been given their license by the chancellor of Notre Dame, but due to crowding, the desire for greater liberty of expression, or other reasons, they had moved across the river, leaving the Isle of the City.
In later times licenses would be granted by the abbot of the monastery of St. Genevieve.
No shelters being available for these schools, they were held in the open air, the students seated on their bundles of straw. Later some took shelter in the Church of St.-Julien-e-Pauvre until it became famous for fierce debates and student brawls.
With schools on the Left Bank, students flocked to the inns, and although many of them managed only the most precarious existence, their very numbers kept the inns alive. However, among the students, adopting their attitudes, garments, and the protecting arm of the Church, were a number of renegades, thieves, panderers, and cutthroats. These were tolerated by the students, and some became students or catered to them.
This area on the Left Bank came to be called the university, meaning in this case simply a group of persons. Originally the students had met under the cloisters of Notre Dame, and teaching still continued there. Those who migrated to the university were the most ribald, disrespectful, and freethinking, and more often than not, the best intellects.
Hungry for learning, young men came to Paris to learn, many of them walking for days to reach the city. Only a few had sufficient money to maintain themselves. Books were scarce, paper expensive, teachers diverse in attitude. After three years a student might be received bachelier-des-arts, but two years more were required to get his master’s degree or license. To become a doctor of medicine required eight years of study, and to earn a degree of doctor of theology the student had to present and defend four theses. The last of these was a challenge only the exceptional dared attempt, for the candidate was examined from six in the morning until six at night, nor was he allowed to leave his place to eat, drink, or for any other purpose. Twenty examiners, relieving each other every half hour, did their best to find flaws in the preparation of the student.
The language of the students was Latin, and for this reason a part of the area became known as the Latin Quarter.
The common room of the inn was a dingy place, low-raftered and dark. Several board tables stood about, each surrounded by benches. A huge roast was turning on a spit as we entered, filling the room with a fine, warm smell. One of my student companions, Julot, dropped to a bench, and I seated myself opposite. His was a hard, reckless but intelligent face, with a ready smile, and he had a pair of strong hands.
“Did you mean it when you said you had read books? A lot of them?”
“Of course. They are sold along the streets in Córdoba.”
“They sell books in shops?” His disbelief was obvious. “Religious books?”
“Everything. Philosophy, medicine, law, astronomy, astrology, poetry, drama, what you will.”
Julot grabbed his companion’s arm. “Did you hear that? They sell books along the street as if they were onions or fish! What I would give to see a sight like that!”
“There are dozens of public libraries in Córdoba, and you can read what you like.”
“Let God have his temples and cathedrals,” Julot said passionately, “if they will give us libraries!”
The one called The Cat brought three bottles of red wine to the table, and when I placed a gold coin in his hand he stared at it. “A scholar with money! What have you done, robbed a priest?”
They brought slabs of roast beef to the table. Plates were almost unknown in Europe, and the meat was served on slices of bread.
We drank wine, ate roast beef, and gestured with the meat bones as we talked. We argued, protested, debated. Their eyes were alive with excitement, and they vied with one another to have their questions answered, arguing furiously over the answers or probable answers.
Had I read Hippocrates? What of Lucretius? What did I think of On the Nature of Things?
“What of Avicenna? Who was he? Where did he come from? We have heard his name, nothing more.”
“One of the greatest minds of this or any age,” I said, “he has taken the whole field of knowledge for his province.”
Their excitement was a tonic. They knew of John of Seville, of Averroës, and of al-Biruni, yet only by name, and even those were whispered about. As I talked, I kept an eye out for spies, for there were those w
ho wanted no teaching that might weaken their power, and they were hard on any deemed as heretics. Being a pagan, I was theoretically free from persecution, for by Church law a pagan could not be prosecuted for heresy. At least, not at the time. However, I was skeptical about the interpretation of such a law, and strangers were forever vulnerable.
Students crowded about the table, for despite their often rowdy ways, there was a genuine hunger to know what the world outside was thinking. They wished to know what had been thought in ancient Greece, in Rome, and Persia. There is no curtain knowledge cannot penetrate, although the process can be slowed.
Even as we talked, there were those in the monasteries who were moving cautiously into areas of knowledge hitherto forbidden. There were abbots and bishops who were overlooking the fact, but observing with interest.
It is a poor sort of man who is content to be spoon-fed knowledge that has been filtered through the canon of religious or political belief, and it is a poor sort of man who will permit others to dictate what he may or may not learn.
Those about me had tasted the wine of learning and liked the bite of it on the tongue. Their appetites had grown with tasting, and they were no longer content merely to wonder and question, they wanted answers. Civilization was born of curiosity, and can be kept alive in no other way.
Of Moslem poetry they knew nothing, so I recited for them from Firdausi, Hafiz, and el-Yezdi. As to Avicenna, I told them what I could: that he was born in Bokhara in 979 and died in 1037. By the time he was ten he knew the Koran from memory, had studied the Arab classics, and by the age of sixteen he had mastered the existing knowledge of mathematics, medicine, astronomy, philosophy, and had lectured on logic. Before his death he had written more than a hundred works, including the Canon on Medicine of more than a million words.
Suddenly, the door burst open, and in the door stood the hugest woman I had seen, but large as she was, there was still a shape to her. She was no taller than the average man present, but in girth she would have outdone any two of them, possibly any three.
The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 24