The Book of Crows

by Sam Meekings

  ‘I’ve heard them. Ever since this plague came upon us. Strange whispers, carried by the wind —’

  ‘And me! Hissing voices around the tent in the dead of night —’

  ‘Demons. I’ve had my best knife go missing and the last of my wine and —’

  It suddenly seems as though almost every man among them is crossing himself, and I realise I must restore faith and order among them before the whole rabble lose all sense of propriety. After ordering Paul to let some water trickle upon the unconscious man’s lip and so cause him to be revived, I raise my hand high above my head and, with the most sonorous voice I can summon, call for calm.

  ‘My friends, fellow Christians and fellow countrymen, there is no need to give in to fear. The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him; and the Lord shall cover him all day long. Think on that and muster your courage. Together, with our faith, we will drive this cursed sickness from our camp! To your knees before the Lord, and pray for the state of your souls, for Prior Lovari, and for our young companion, for the Lord loves all men as they are brothers. Let us pray.’

  And so I lead the men in the Lord’s prayer, checking carefully as I recite those well-loved lines that every eye is screwed shut and every pate bowed towards the earth, while Paul and the other natives look on awkwardly. And lo, our petitions to the most loving Lord bear fruit, for what should happen but the Tartar boy begins to stir. I touch my hand to his brow and murmur a hurried blessing.

  The crowd lets out a gasp and pushes forward as the Tartar slowly, giddily, pushes himself up to a sitting position, shielding his eyes from the light. He mumbles a few indecipherable grunts in Paul’s direction, and my steward nods in response. Satisfied with my work, I make my way back towards Lovari. This will give them all a lesson – not that one, of course, should be needed – about the incomparable strength that faith begets.

  However, by the time I push back the fibrous netting overlapping as windbreaks at the entrance to the tent, I find that Lovari is fast asleep once again. Shrill wheezes rise from his sweaty form, while his pale cheeks puff and swell with the heavy breaths. I say a brief benediction, then retire to my own tent, for I would not wake him when he is in such need of rest. As I stride back across the sand I cast a glance towards the rabble of servants, scouts and stable-hands – the godly men from our home are grinning and giving thanks for the little miracle, while the recovered Tartar stands with Paul and the other natives, huddled together in a gloomy sea of scowls.

  In my own tent I feed my sand prawns and then decide to devote an hour of the afternoon to the works of Saint Augustine. Yet I cannot concentrate on my studies, and instead my mind turns to the first time I heard the name of Prior Tommaso di Lovari. It was five years ago, when I was summoned to the presence of the great Giovanni da Montecorvino – a man who was already then famed throughout Christendom, for Pope Nicholas IV himself had commissioned him to spread the glorious Word of God to the infidels, heretics and unbelievers beyond the realm of the Byzantines. It was a mission which I and the other brothers at the Franciscan monastery in Assisi had followed with much anticipation, for what could be more important than building a ministry of faith that could reach to the furthest corners of the world? We oft discussed and debated the progress and tribulations of this noble scheme in our dining hall, whenever news reached us from the outside world.

  The envoy had recently returned from his mission in Persia, and a messenger arrived at the monastery one morning announcing that before his return to the Papal States, Montecorvino would stop over for a number of days in Assisi, in pilgrimage to the tomb of the founder of our order, and that during that time the great man himself wished to see me. I thought there must be some mistake, for how could my name be known to such an illustrious man? I had only two score years behind me, and though my modesty must admit that I had achieved a modicum of renown among my brethren thanks to my prodigious skills at translation, composition and oratory, I marvelled at the fact that I had been heard of outside the monastery walls.

  Father Montercorvino was residing as a guest of the local duke in a fine palace a day’s ride from the monastery, and thus it was with a mixture of youthful nerves and giddy anticipation that I set forth the following morning. Past the tawny fields of swaying wheat, through the tiny village set around the crumbling stone mill, and right up until I was admitted through the iron gate into the courtyards of the ancient castle, I could not rid myself of the terrible suspicion that I would be scoffed at and turned away, a victim of some malicious prank. Thankfully, I was spared such a humiliation. A tall man in fine livery escorted me through the warren of hallways until we reached the splendid decoration of the guest quarters, where I was bid enter by the honourable Montecorvino himself.

  ‘You must be the young man I have been hearing so much about. Stop fidgeting and sit down, will you? Good. Now, set to work on translating these four parchments. You may use that quill and ink, but try and make your finished work readable. My eyes always tire when trying to make out monkish handwriting, and I have a headache already. Go on, boy, you may begin.’

  It was not quite the introduction I had anticipated. I sat myself down at the desk he had gestured towards and, after stealing a glimpse at the cropped brown beard, hooked nose, fierce sorrel eyes and turret-jutted chin of the great man, I set about the task he had outlined. I laboured for little over an hour as he paced the room behind me, and the thought of his presence only a few feet away was so overpowering that I did not dare let my eyes rise higher than the parchment, ink-pot and slow curve of the fresh-feathered quill with which I furiously scribbled. Only once I had finished my task did I risk straightening my back.

  ‘So?’

  The great missionary took the pages from my hands and, after the most cursory of glances over my work, leant forward to stare straight at me. I did not know where to look, and it seemed some minutes before I could call up the courage to meet his gaze. His look spoke of authority, of restlessness and resolution. I fear mine spoke only of timidity.

  ‘What can you tell me of them?’

  I forced myself to swallow and take a deep breath, lest my tongue should babble forth before I got a chance to compose myself.

  ‘Well, the first was an early Latin hagiography of Saint Anthony and his trials in the desert, the second was a letter in the Greek that is now spoken by our Orthodox brothers in the east, the third was the apocryphal book of Ruth written in the ancient Greek of the sophists and Platonists, while the fourth was the language in which the Moors composed their heretic prayers to the black stone, though I must admit I struggled with that, having only had access to some half dozen Arab texts.’

  His mouth bristled into the beginnings of a smile. He straightened himself up and began to pace towards the high oak bookshelf at the back of the room.

  ‘You will forgive my little test, but you will understand that each man in my service must prove his worth. Your friend at the monastery has spoken most highly of you. No doubt you know well of whom I speak. An extraordinary linguistic ability coupled with a most untainted devotion, I think those were his words. Come, do not blush boy, these are gifts you were given by Our Lord, so do Him justice and be proud of them.’

  He stopped speaking and began to move some of the heavy tomes aside. Since I did not know how to respond to his speech, I decided to say nothing at all, but instead worked on cultivating a percipient and sagacious look with which to impress him. He finally retrieved what he had been furrowing for, and returned to the desk bearing a long roll of cloud-grey scroll, which he began to unfurl before me.

  ‘This is a map of the earth. As you will see, the Pope resides in the very centre, and the whole of Christendom spreads out from him. You will notice that our cartographers have not scrimped upon detail. Our knowledge extends now to three points of the compass, to the furthest reaches of the islands of the Britons in the west, to the Viking lands of the north, and to the dark jungles of the Africas in the south. Only parts of the east rem
ain unaccounted for, namely those beyond Jerusalem and Arabia. As you may know, I have recently ventured as far as Persia, just here. The proceedings of that expedition need not concern you. However, while I was there an idea came upon me. Tell me, brother, what do you know of the vast plains of Cathay?’

  I stared down at the scroll and gulped. Beyond the mighty twin rivers of Persia there was little save empty space, a great expanse of the map that the cartographers had left blank.

  ‘I know that our ancestors knew the populace of that strange land as Seres, the people of silk, for they alone hold the secrets of that miraculous cloth. It is said that the men of Cathay breath only through their noses and that while we trade in gold they swap slithers of paper, and where we write with quills they prefer the thick brushes of painters. It is also well reported that bordering Cathay is a country whose populace are preserved in some eternal youth, and any traveller who enters shall not age a single day though he stays there many years, though I put no more faith in this rumour than in any of the stories of phantoms and two-headed beasts the local farmers tell on feast day to scare one another.’

  Montecorvino nodded, and ran a hand through his closely cropped beard.

  ‘I see you have as good a memory for gossip as for facts. Yet many of those rumours appear to be correct. Indeed, they were gathered some twenty years ago in a report by one of our Franciscan brethren, Friar William of Rubruck, who travelled to the Mongol capital of Karakorum – up in the north here – on a mission for His Royal Highness Louis IX of France. However, he never made it as far as Cathay itself, and so his testimony is based on hearsay alone.

  ‘Yet I have reason to believe that the great Khan who rules over the vast continent could be a useful ally to us. Together we might be able to cleanse Christendom of the vast evil of the Moorish infidels. The minds of those natives have not been troubled or warped by the lies and heresies of the Jews or Moors. And think also, my brother, on all the lost souls in that distant land who might be saved if we were to bring the Word in all its glory to their shores. I have a mind to build a great cathedral there that we might show them the righteous path of the Lord. Yet we must proceed cautiously. I cannot make public my aim, nor even bring this matter up formally with the Papal authorities, until I can be certain of success. Thus I am in need of a small delegation to prostrate themselves before this Khan and find out whether he may be persuaded to be friendly to us. If so, I will then make the journey myself.’

  He must have noticed my mouth gape ignobly as I realised what he was suggesting, and that same small smile twisted upon his lips.

  ‘Come, it shall not be difficult. There are already a number of Italians in Cathay, lured by the promise of trade in rich silks, jewels and fruits, and it is reported that the Khan is most tolerant of foreigners. You will travel with a group of merchants who well know the route across the plains of Persia, around the black-hearted mountains, and down through the eastern desert. You will be provided with a full livery of servants, scouts, cartographers, chefs and stable-hands, though it is imperative that you must mention the purpose of your mission to no one save the Khan himself. I shall arrange for a ship to deliver you to Antioch in forty days, where you shall meet with your guides. No, do not protest – I have faith that you will not let me down.’

  He rolled the scroll back up and knotted the ribbon tight around it. Then he moved behind my chair and set his hand upon my shoulder in a manner which I imagine was supposed to confer a paternal assurance, though it instead had the opposite effect of making me shudder with worry.

  ‘You will be assisting Prior Tommaso di Lovari of the abbey of Ancona. He has written a much-admired apology for the apocryphal apostles and has worked under my auspices as an emissary once before. Though he is your elder, I believe you will find that the two of you have much in common – aside from scholarly notoriety, you are both renowned for your unfailing devotion to your vows as initiates of the order of our own most Holy Saint Francis. No doubt this will be the beginning of a great partnership.’

  He moved in front of me and looked me in the eyes, and I saw once more the purpose that kindled them.

  ‘You will not let me down.’

  I shook my head hurriedly, though it was clear that this was not a question. I rose to my feet and gave an awkward bow – it was obvious that I was being dismissed. He did not require my assent, for he must have known that few men would have the courage or lunacy to refuse him. He pressed the wound scroll into my hands, and also a curled length of parchment – containing writing in a cryptic code that, once deciphered, gave details of the journey I was to make – before bidding me good day. Yet just as I was at the door, his voice rang out once more.

  ‘I recall that you and Prior Lovari also have something else in common. Think on it, for more instructions shall surely follow.’

  With that the hardy wooden door was hauled closed, and a servant was once again at my arm, escorting me back to my horse.

  I had been chosen. The Lord had answered my calls. As I rode back through the villages to the monastery, I was buoyed by a great elation that was tempered only by the fear of failure – and the dreadful repercussions that might accompany it – which such responsibility invites.

  My thoughts are disturbed by the great slurring of the sandflies outside my tent, a cloud of tiny succubae waiting to feast on my lifeblood in a terrible mockery of the Holy Eucharist. I call a servant to enquire whether Brother Lovari is yet awakened. The reply soon returns that he is still given to his slumber, and so I take the opportunity to recline on my bed of lumpy cushions and motheaten rugs and return to my reminiscence.

  The ship set sail six weeks after my encounter with Giovanni da Montecorvino, and I remember standing nervously at the bow, beneath the great wing-like web of sails, watching my homeland slowly obscured by the grey clouds skimming up from the waves. I spent much of the journey confined to my berth, for the tumbling and jutting motion of the ship much disturbed my constitution, and I admit that more than once I awoke from fevered dreams in which I had imagined myself Jonah trapped in the juddering belly of that great sea beast. Two servants from the monastery accompanied me and did a passable job of preparing meals under such difficult circumstances. I was thus greatly relieved when the high domed towers and grand stone fortresses of the port of Antioch came into sight on the morning of the eleventh day.

  My first glimpse of Prior Tommaso di Lovari was granted me when I stumbled down the gangplank, grateful for the solid, motionless earth beneath my feet once more. Just as I was saying a prayer thanking Saint Barbara for helping deliver me safely from the trials of the ocean, I noticed a bulky shadow looming over me.

  ‘By my soul, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fellow so green about the gills!’ he boomed.

  I looked up to find myself confronted with Lovari’s broad grin. I had thought for a moment, thanks to his great height and strong shoulders – as well as the stark rudeness of his remark – that he was a shiphand or idle workman, and was about to chastise him for his ill-judged comments when I realised with a start that he was wearing the hooded grey robe and rope belt of the Franciscan brotherhood. He had deep-set eyes the colour of moss after a storm. The dark umbra dotted across his cheeks told that he had not bothered to shave that morning.

  ‘Father Lovari?’

  ‘Call me brother, for on this mission we are equals, my friend. Ah, I see your name is apt! I might advise keeping your hood up through some of the areas we will be travelling through, since in some of these lands red hair is considered the mark of evil.’ He grinned as he spoke.

  I was somewhat affronted by his words. I was, and indeed remain, a firm proponent of the proposition that monks ought to remain austere and sober, so that the common man might see how devoted they are to that most solemn of truths. Laughter is the work of the Devil, and shows only that a man does not understand the severity of his earthly situation.

  In short, I was unimpressed with Prior Lovari’s deportment. I remember offe
ring him only a curt reply and quickly suggesting that since we were all assembled we might now start our journey without further ado.

  Despite our shared purpose, and the wealth of similarities that the honourable Giovanni had spoken of, our initial relationship was somewhat strained. As we journeyed through the first plains of the Persian land, it became clear that Lovari preferred the company of the merchants who were guiding us, and often stayed out long after I had retired to my tent, discussing all manner of useless trivia – about the men’s families, their hometowns, the nature and economics of their trade – with them. I even once caught him making jokes with the servants, a sight which perturbed me greatly. I felt that he was not paying proper attention to the observation of the rites and vows of our faith, yet he laughed off my admonishments and even had the audacity to tell me to try to let my spirit be open to the new experiences so that I might learn a little myself.

  We sailed the Persian drifts (where we had journeyed for one whole year) for the lands of men whose faces are as though blotted with ink, and whose hearts, it is rumoured, are no less dark; taking with us victuals for twenty months, along with a mass of servants, donkeys, tents, steeds, chefs and lackeys; we had good weather for the most, though the sun brought a sickness that buried the two servants from my own monastery and caused some other men to propose that we turn back. Lovari, however, had a fine gift for persuading each to stay.

  It was not until one early summer evening long into our journey, when we had made camp in a winding valley in the dark man’s land of singing crows and wild spices, that Lovari and I began to become close. We had been travelling fourteen long months, and though I had at first been content to retire early at night to my prayers and spend the long days’ walks or rides in silent contemplation of the wonders of the Lord’s creation passing in front of our eyes, I was by then beginning to long for a little lively debate of the type that the monks would engage in back at the monastery. I will readily admit that I was perhaps a touch envious of Lovari’s easy manner with the other men, since my own attempts to strike up conversations with the merchants about the esoteric nature of the Trinity or the deeper reasons for the Greek and Roman schism had not produced the animated discussions I had anticipated.