The Kingdom

by Bryan M. Litfin

  A short time later, a more imposing vessel rigged for war appeared on the western horizon. As it drew near, Marco ordered his sailors to be ready. Helmeted soldiers armed with crossbows lined the bulwarks of the warship. Several also held grappling hooks.

  “Easy, men,” Marco called to his crew. “Don’t provoke them.”

  As the warship approached, a tall man with his beard waxed to a point bellied up to the rail. He shouted something across the water.

  “I don’t know that language,” Marco said to Teo. “Do you?”

  “Yes. It’s a dialect of what we call the Fluid Tongue.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Stand down. You’re in the waters of the Republic of Marsay.’”

  “Tell him we’re friendly.”

  Teo shouted a salutation, but Pointed-Beard didn’t drop his scowl. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded.

  “We are voyagers from Roma,” Teo replied in the Fluid Tongue.

  “You look more like pirates.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. We’re not here for piracy but to meet the Knights of the Cross.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Teo didn’t know if the Christiani were persecuted in Marsay like they used to be in Roma, but he decided to speak the truth and see what would happen. “I am an emissary from the Papa of the Universal Communion. My mission is to make contact with the knights.”

  Pointed-Beard looked surprised at this, but at last he nodded. “Alright. You will follow me at a safe distance—and no tricks or my men will have your crew bristling like hedgehogs.”

  The warship escorted the Midnight Glider around a cape that put the mainland toward the east. Soon a large settlement came into view. The setting sun cast an orange sheen on the buildings along the shore.

  “That must be Marsay. A nice-looking city,” Teo said.

  “A good spot for a harbor,” Marco agreed. “They’re leading us straight in.”

  However, instead of continuing toward the city, the warship dropped its anchor near a small island in the bay. A wall ran along the entire length of the island’s coastline, and a castle loomed from its highest point. Catapults on the ramparts suggested any threatening activity would be met with force.

  The night passed with no further communication between the two ships. In the morning a rowboat was lowered from the Marsayan vessel. It came alongside the Glider as she rode at anchor.

  “Drop a ladder,” shouted the captain with the pointed beard. “Your emissary will come with me.”

  Teo climbed down and was rowed to the island. Pointed-Beard seemed to be more at ease today. “The place you’re going is called Castle d’If,” he explained while his men pulled the oars. “It’s the knights’ base. I’ll drop you there, and they can do with you as they like.”

  An adolescent boy with a shaved head met the rowboat at the island’s dock. He spoke briefly with the captain, then ran up to the castle. Soon a group of men emerged from the fortress’s main gate. They wore what Teo considered to be military uniforms: identical leather tunics with insignia, sturdy boots, and swords on their belts. Each man’s hair was gathered in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. And when the knights reached the dock, Teo discovered they also had crosses tattooed on their foreheads.

  One of the knights, a well-built man in his midthirties with chevrons on his shoulders, stepped forward. “I am Odo, commander of the Order of the Cross at Marsay.”

  Teo removed a parchment from inside his shirt. Kneeling, he proffered it to Odo. “I am Teofil. This letter from the Holy Father will tell you why I’m here.”

  Odo glanced at the document. Switching languages, he said in Talyano, “The people of Roma speak the tongue of the Likurians?”

  “Yes. The Likurians, Ulmbartians, Romans, and Sessalayans share a common speech.”

  “Yet you speak Fransais. How?”

  “I come from a land where it is remembered by a few scholars, of which I am one.”

  That seemed to satisfy Odo. “Follow me, Teofil. I will provide you a guest room while you are here.” He and his men began to walk toward the castle.

  Teo took the opportunity to evaluate his surroundings. The island was clearly an active military base. It had an obstacle course and a parade ground for marching and drilling. “You’re training soldiers here,” Teo remarked.

  Odo nodded. “The men of the city comprise a powerful citizen militia. We train them on a monthly basis. Our job is to keep them in top condition. The Republic of Marsay fears no threat, for all its men are skilled in war.”

  “Judging from the size of your facilities, you must have quite an army.”

  “Thousands,” Odo bragged.

  The group arrived at the castle, which was protected by thick walls and rounded towers.

  “Buildings like this are very old,” Teo said. “This fortress was here long before the Destruction.”

  Odo pointed to the city across the bay. “The sky-fires of the Ancients reduced Marsay to ashes. But here on the island, the castle endured.” He lovingly patted the walls, which seemed to be made out of bedrock.

  Teo was led to a courtyard inside the keep. Though it was once open to the sky, a sheet of sailcloth had been drawn over the courtyard’s opening several stories above. Now only a dim light came through.

  “Wait here,” Odo instructed. “The noon service is about to begin. You can give the knights a greeting.”

  A stairway led to a narrow gallery that ran around the four walls of the courtyard. An altar stood on the gallery behind a wrought-iron railing. In the center of the courtyard was a well, but it had been bricked over. A brazier sat on it now, its flames illuminating the murky chapel. Stains marked the walls where smoke had seeped past the sailcloth awning.

  A bell tolled outside. Odo climbed the stairs to the altar on the gallery. Soon men began to gather in the courtyard. Most wore the leather tunics of the knights, but some were dressed in everyday clothes and carried weapons. Because they did not have ponytails or cross tattoos on their foreheads, Teo assumed they were Marsayan citizens receiving military training. A few women also mingled in the crowd—cooks and maids, judging from their attire.

  Odo opened a book and began to read. The language was unfamiliar to Teo, though from the sound of it he thought it was probably Latin. None of the listeners appeared to comprehend it, for they stared into space or even talked to one another in hushed tones during the reading. Periodically Odo would break off his chant and make the shape of a cross with his hand. At other points he sprinkled water on the crowd below. Twice he lit incense sticks in a little saucer. As the ritual built to a climax, Odo’s monotonous voice grew louder. Now an assistant came through a door and walked down the gallery with a chalice and a dish holding a small bun. Odo kissed the piece of bread and popped it in his mouth, then washed it down with a long draught from the chalice. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he stifled a burp and said: “Tout est accompli.” The people finally looked up at him.

  The commander of the Order of the Cross surveyed the upturned faces, then started in on a speech. “Today is a momentous day, my friends! Something has occurred that surprised even me: I have received a communication from the Papa of our ancient religion.” At this announcement a murmur rippled through the crowd. Odo paused to let the news sink in before continuing. “Perhaps you believed the Holy Father of the Universal Communion to be a mythical beast, like fairies and dragons. Perhaps you believed there was no such place as faraway Roma. Certainly no one in Marsay has heard from a Roman Papa in close to forty years. But now, behold! An emissary has come to us from afar.” Odo jabbed an outstretched finger at Teo and looked him in the eye. “Or so he claims.”

  The people around Teo drew back in superstitious awe. He held up his hands, smiling to show they had nothing to fear, but they stared at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

  Finally Odo beckoned Teo to join him on the gallery. As Teo mounted the steps he considered what he woul
d say. His command of the Fluid Tongue—or Fransais as they called it here—was more of a translator’s knowledge than a speaker’s proficiency. Though his words might be understandable, they wouldn’t be eloquent. Nevertheless, Teo decided he was going to do more than bring a simple greeting. He was going to preach the good news of Iesus Christus to a people who had never heard it.

  Teo stood at the railing next to the altar. After introducing himself and explaining that he was indeed an emissary from the Papa, he bowed his head and offered up a silent prayer. At last he opened his eyes and met the people’s gaze. “Listen to me and I will tell you a story,” he said. “It starts like this: ‘In the beginning Deus created the heavens and the earth.’” The opening words of the Sacred Writing seemed like the right place to begin.

  While the people listened in the courtyard, Teo proceeded to proclaim the Christiani message. He used the eleven words from the Council of Roma as his outline. First he described how the goodness of the original creation became corrupted by sin. Then almighty Deus provided a system of sacrifice for his people, Israël. When that failed he sent his beloved son Iesus Christus to provide atonement. Though Iesus was killed, Deus raised him to life again. The Pierced One calls men everywhere to believe in him for salvation and be washed with water. True Christiani must live holy lives and share the sacred meal with one another. They are called to extend love to the poor and oppressed and to proclaim a message of hope to all mankind until Iesus returns.

  At the end of his speech Teo examined the crowd, trying to assess the people’s response. He felt thankful that his command of the Fluid Tongue had been strong enough to deliver the message. In fact, he had found himself speaking more eloquently than he would have guessed possible.

  However, despite this unexpected eloquence the crowd was unmoved. Teo remembered being astounded when he first learned that Iesus Christus had come back to life after being executed by wicked men. Yet these listeners seemed unimpressed. Teo couldn’t understand why his recounting of Deu’s grand story failed to move the so-called Knights of the Cross. Apparently the cross was nothing to them but a meaningless symbol.

  Outside, the bell began to toll again, awakening the people from their slumber. Smiles crossed their faces, and their attention perked up. Moving as quickly as possible, they exited the courtyard. Teo turned to Odo. “What’s all the excitement about?”

  “Can’t you smell it? Roast lamb for lunch today!” Odo glanced around to see if anyone was looking, then quickly guzzled the leftover wine from the ritual before he could be noticed. When he set the chalice back on the altar it tipped over, but Odo paid it no mind. He walked toward the stairway to join the other knights for lunch.

  Teo stared at the fallen chalice. A single droplet dribbled from it, staining the tablecloth red. He set the cup upright and turned away in disgust.

  Ana sat near the back of the chapel at Lido di Ostia’s little convent by the sea. The melodious sound of the chanting sisters echoed off the stone walls and vaulted ceiling. A singer herself, Ana could appreciate the beauty of the women’s combined voices. She recalled a time she had sung a ballad before a Chiveisian audience in a stone hall much like this one. Back then she had not yet encountered the Eternal God, so her song was a heartfelt lament for her spiritual emptiness and her kingdom’s decadent culture. The aristocrats at the elite poetry competition had scorned her as a peasant girl until Teo burst on the scene, silencing the critics with his commanding presence. Ana smiled at the memory. She hardly knew Teo then. Who could have guessed all the adventures I’d one day share with him? The journey of life alongside Captain Teofil had been anything but dull.

  As the service continued, Ana let the soprano and alto voices elevate her heart in worship. The glorious harmony sounded like a choir of angels. Ana was contemplating the beauty of Deu when a noise outside yanked her back to reality. A horseman had arrived at the convent. Since Ana wasn’t formally removed from the world by a monastic vow, it was her job to greet visitors. She rose from the wooden pew and hurried outside.

  A man stood next to his horse, tamping herbs into his pipe. His frame was stocky, and his hair was close-cropped. He wore a neat tunic and trousers in the latest style. As Ana emerged from the convent, the man turned to look at her.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “My name is Riccardo.”

  Ana nodded. It was a common name. “What can I do for you, Riccardo?”

  “I’m a dealer in foodstuffs. Cheese, salt pork, pasta. I assume the holy sisters do not fast all the time?”

  “Of course not. The fare here is simple. Much of it is produced on the property. But the housemother buys food from the market as well.”

  “I can cut you a deal. You can spend the money you save on luxuries for yourselves. Womanly stuff.”

  “Um . . . that’s not really what we do . . . ”

  “Or you can give it to poor people. Whatever you want, I don’t care. The point is, I can get you a good price on what you need.”

  “This is a matter for the housemother.” Ana turned toward the door. “If you’ll come this way I’ll introduce you. A novice will care for your horse.”

  The man looped the reins around a post and followed Ana inside. She escorted Riccardo to a parlor and instructed him to wait.

  Returning to the horse, Ana led it to the stable and left it with one of the novice girls. When she entered the main building again she saw the sisters had finished the service and begun to disperse. The housemother was in conversation with one of the senior nuns.

  What’s that?

  Ana’s head came up sharply. She smelled smoke—not the pleasant aroma of woodsmoke, but the stench of something burning that shouldn’t be.

  She ran to the parlor. Riccardo was there, stamping the rush-covered floor, trying to put out a bright blaze. An overturned wastebasket was on fire, and to Ana’s horror, so was a decorative tapestry that hung on the wall. The flames licked the wood paneling and curled around the beams overhead. No! Not the roof!

  “Help me!” Riccardo cried, though his ridiculous foot-stamping was accomplishing nothing.

  Ana dashed down a corridor to the bell tower. She began to tug on the rope, sounding the alarm until she heard shouts and voices. Some of the sisters had followed the smoke to the parlor. The quick thinkers among them had already grabbed buckets.

  “Line up in an orderly fashion,” the housemother instructed. “Right down to the sea. It’s the closest water.”

  The sisters formed a bucket brigade, and soon they were dousing the parlor wall. The wastebasket and burning tapestry had been dragged outside, but the wood paneling still smoldered. Steam hissed from the wall every time a bucketful of seawater was hurled against it. Finally the fire began to lose the battle against the determined women.

  “I’m so sorry,” Riccardo stammered. “I was lighting my pipe. I tossed the match away and, you know . . . ”

  Something about the explanation didn’t sit right with Ana. The parlor had caught fire in several places. How could one careless match do that?

  Vanita Labella approached Ana in the confusion and pulled her aside. “Who is that guy?” she whispered.

  “He says he’s a food seller who wants to do business with us.”

  “He’s a Clansman!”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “Marco says they all look like him. Big beefy guys with short hair and overpriced clothes. You can tell by the way they move. Light-footed, like a cat.”

  Ana sucked in her breath. “You’re right! Why is he here?”

  “Not to sell us food, that’s for sure. Is he an arsonist trying to burn the place down?”

  “If so, I can’t imagine he’d walk through our front door. The whole sisterhood is out here watching what’s going on.”

  Ana and Vanita gazed at each other, considering Riccardo’s devious intent. Their eyes widened in unison, and their mouths fell open as they realized what was happening.

  “A diversion!”
Ana exclaimed.

  “Right! Let’s go!”

  The two women dashed upstairs to the dormitory floor. The doors to the sisters’ rooms were never locked, so there was nothing to stop a thief. Yet none of them was opened. Ana glanced at Vanita. They looked down the hall toward their own room, a bedchamber designated for guests. Their door alone stood ajar.

  “We need a weapon,” Ana said.

  “I’ll get something.” Vanita entered one of the bedrooms and returned with a ceramic pitcher and a mop. Ana stepped on the mop’s yarn head and yanked out the handle, then led the way to her room.

  They paused outside the door. Muffled sounds came from the other side. Ana’s heart beat wildly. “He’s in there,” she mouthed as she pointed to the room. Vanita nodded. A look of firm resolve was on her face.

  Ana kicked open the door and burst inside. A muscular man was rummaging through a dresser. He whirled to face the women.

  “Get out of here!” Ana screamed.

  She swung the mop handle with both hands. Though the man fended off the attack, the blow was hard, and he grunted as the pole struck his forearm. He barreled at Ana and rammed her into the wall, then punched her in the stomach. Ana gasped as her breath was knocked out. Nausea overwhelmed her, and her knees felt watery.

  There was a loud crash. Shards of pottery flew everywhere. The thief staggered back, stunned by the blow to his head. Vanita dropped the handle of the broken pitcher and snatched a bottle of wine from the dresser. She hurled it at the man, but it missed and went sailing through the door, shattering against the opposite wall.

  “What’s going on?” shouted a voice in the hallway. Running footsteps sounded against the floor.