The Road to Damietta

He went on about the work we would do together, how we would be married in the beautiful mosque and travel to Fez in Morocco and visit the great library there.

  After he had finished with his dream and I had washed out my brushes and put them in their box, I said, "You have been the finest of teachers. Since I was seven, you have crammed my head with more knowledge than it could possibly hold. You have put up with my sulks and tantrums. You are a loyal friend, the dearest I have or will ever have. Yet..."

  Raul said nothing.

  We rode out of the courtyard at dawn. We went at an early hour because Father deemed it best that we leave unnoticed, while the city still was asleep. Before we left Piazza San Rufino, however, people were staring down from their windows, and a gaggle of boys and a small spotted dog were following at our heels.

  Accompanying us were six men, four of them armed guards, a cook and his helpers, three serving girls, an older woman, Constanza, with sharp eyes, and a brace of strong varlets. Though I carried a crested peregrine on my wrist, it was not an impressive train, nothing to compare with the one we passed soon after we left Assisi: a Roman princess traveling north to Paris, there to wed a prince in the basilica of Notre-Dame. By Raul's count, her entourage presented nine ladies-in-waiting, a male secretary with pen and paper at hand, two elderly chaplains, an assortment of varlets, servants, cooks, two tailors carrying a pennon of crossed needles, a reader of books who was reading to the princess as they moved along, thirty muleteers, one cardinal, and two bishops—all in fur-trimmed robes though the day was warm—plus one hundred and three soldiers, two Spanish clowns, and fifteen trumpeters with jeweled trumpets.

  We wound down the mountainside, held to a turtle's pace by farmers and their carts on the way to market. At the first bridge over the river, where the road branches, one branch trending west toward Porziuncola and the other north toward Venice, a brief argument took place when I suggested that we go by way of Porziuncola and there pray to God for a safe journey.

  "But its a full hour out of our way," Raul objected. "There are shrines along the road where we can pray."

  "Dozens of them," said Constanza, the sharp-eyed one. "And I have already spoken to God."

  Since they knew why I was determined on Porziuncola and both were opposed to it, I suggested that they travel ahead. "I have a good horse and I'll catch up with you by noon." With this and a small apology, I rode off before they could say more.

  The church doors were open, bedecked with twists of wild flowers freshly picked, and from inside came the sound of a voice, either preaching or in prayer, which I recognized at once as that of Francis Bernardone.

  After a long pause, I was surprised to hear the hesitant voice of Clare di Scifi raised in song, the words Francis had written in celebration of spring, that I had heard him recite in the cathedral:

  "Praise be to Thee my Lord for Brother Wind

  For air and clouds

  Clear skies and all the weathers

  Through which Thou sustaineth all Thy creatures

  For the time of spring and flowers."

  I was shocked. The anger of the seven Scifi brothers had cooled somewhat since Clare had taken the vow—this I had heard. But I was certain that she was still where I had left her, behind the stout walls of San Paolo delle Ancelle di Dio, in the protecting arms of Mother Sibilia.

  She was not only in Porziuncola and not behind the monastery walls with the nuns of San Paolo, she was with Francis. Beside him, exulting in his presence, singing words he had written about God's creatures and spring.

  I had come here to ask him about the letters that I had written and that he had not answered—and to free the peregrine perched on my wrist. It was the last of the hawks. The rest I had already freed, beginning on the day after I had freed the first in San Rufino Square. They were unloosed over a period of months—secretly, so as not to arouse my father's ire.

  The one on my wrist I intended to free in front of Francis, after I had spoken of the letters. At the moment I left him, I would let the falcon loose. In his eyes, it would surely be a graceful act, but more, much more, it would be the proof of my undying love.

  I was thinking about riding away when lanky Brother Giles appeared. He strode toward me, shouting. I would have run him down had the horse not reared.

  "We've been talking about you," he said. "We knew you were coming. Francis had a vision two nights ago that you would come to Porziuncola. And here you are." He grasped my gloved hand and kissed it. "The Lord has sent yon. Praise the Lord!"

  As I sought to quiet the peregrine, uncomfortable at this onslaught, Clare came out of the church.

  "Sister Clare," Brother Giles shouted. "She's here. Look, the angel is here."

  I got down from the horse and we embraced. She smelled of sweat and hard work.

  "I know what you have endured," she said, clinging to me, tears in her eyes. "I have never thanked you, dear Ricca, for all you have done. I know that you are being sent away because of the help you gave and the great sacrifice you made for me."

  A twinge of conscience, sharp as a bodkin, ran through me.

  "I am sorry that I never thanked you," she said.

  "But the Lord has," Brother Giles said. "In His divine thoughtfulness He has brought you to Porziuncola. To loving care and rest and heavenly peace."

  He kissed my hand again. He pointed to the flowers that bedecked the church door.

  "Everything," he said, "awaits the wedding. Even the flowers. See how they nod their pretty heads in sweet anticipation. With your permission, I'll impart the wonderful news to Brother Francis. He'll be delighted. His vision has been fulfilled. Praise the Lord!"

  I looked at Clare. In the harsh light of day, with her golden hair shorn, her ears revealed, the delicate bones in her head clearly seen through a thin layer of fuzz, her figure hidden by a coarse gray robe too big for her, there was nothing left of the woman she had been. She looked like an innocent, a young, awkward boy.

  She was silent until Brother Giles had gone. Then she said, "He's a little enthusiastic. Does he frighten you? I hope not."

  Her tone had changed. It was no longer the tender voice she had used a few moments ago. It reminded me now of her religious mother.

  "With the help of Brother Francis," she said, "I have started a sisterhood. We take the same vows of poverty. We are Friars Minor together, brothers and sisters, following in the footsteps of our Lord." She paused and said softly, "Francis had a vision where you appeared—Brother Giles just spoke about it. In the vision you came to Porziuncola and joined us."

  Seeing the clear outlines of a trap, I said, "Your sisterhood takes the vow of poverty. Does it also take the vow of chastity?"

  "Oh, yes, of course."

  She spoke with fervor, with a touch of the arrogant tone of the Scifis. Francis might love her soul, hidden beneath the ugly gray garb, but never, never, could he love the woman.

  "I'm not ready to leave the world," I said.

  "You won't leave it at all. On the contrary, you'll enter the world. The world of true love."

  Francis was watching us from the church steps. He made a cross with his arms and asked Clare if she would tend the altar candles, saying to me, as he eyed the falcon on my wrist, "In the vision I had of you I did not see the falcon. I thought you set all of them free."

  "All but Black Prince," I said.

  "Why do you hold to the Prince?"

  "I came here to set him free."

  "And to join Clare and her new sisterhood, I hope."

  "Until today, only a few minutes ago, I had never heard of Clare's sisterhood."

  He smiled and, to hide his disappointment, spoke to the falcon, not in words but in bird sounds, which caused it to ruffle its feathers and chirr. Forgetting me, fascinated with the hawk, he began to praise its barred plumage, its amber eyes, its cruel, scimitar beak, and finally he plucked it from my fist. Black Prince had never suffered a stranger to touch it, but now it settled upon his bare hand like a sparrow on an ol
ive branch.

  Bold enough to intrude, I said, "I've written two letters to you, sir, and neither have you answered."

  "I've meant to."

  "Have you read them?"

  "Yes. What artful pictures you draw and what a beautiful hand you write. It flows like, like ..."

  "Honey?"

  "Not honey. The questions you ask are bitter. Beyond your age, perhaps. Which do you wish me to answer?"

  "If you must answer only one, tell me, please, why Abelard had a child by Heloise, to whom he gave the endearing name Alcete—as you know, Alcete means Light of the World. And then, swearing her to secrecy, aware that his career in the Church would be harmed if it were known that he had fathered a child, he secretly married Heloise. Only to force her, as he grew tired of her, into a nunnery."

  "What you have just said is what you said before. What is the question?"

  "In his place, would you have done the same?"

  "I am not certain. But I can say that at one time in my life I was fully capable of being Abelard."

  "At one time in your life, but not now."

  Francis made a cross of his arms, raised his eyes to the heavens, and was silent.

  I didn't press him for an answer. "Is the Song of Solomon," I asked, "a poem about two lovers, the Rose of Sharon and Solomon, or a love poem between Solomon and the Church?"

  "It can be one or the other. Or both."

  "Which do you prefer?"

  He was silent, smiling to himself, perhaps at some memory.

  "When you were younger," I said to remind him, "running about at night from tavern to tavern, singing under windows, which did you prefer?"

  "In those days, I hadn't heard of the Song. If I had, then surely, surely, I would have made up a pretty tune about it."

  "And sung it under my window?"

  "Yes, to the sounds of lutes and violins."

  He was an agile young man, slippery as the eels that glided around in our leather tank at home.

  I waited, thinking that he might bring up, without being reminded, the last message I had sent him, the one in which I had openly confessed my love.

  "I wrote you a letter weeks ago," I said, "and sent it by armed messenger to be certain you received it."

  "Oh, yes, it came," he said. There was an odd look on his face. Was it pain or puzzlement?

  "Perhaps you think that it was brazen of me, but once you sang love songs beneath my window, like this one:

  'Put out my eyes!

  Blind me!

  Let me never again gaze upon thy beauty

  For my heart it crucifies.'

  "Do you remember?" I asked.

  "Of course, dear friend. Memory is a moon that never sets. But now, by the grace of God I sing under the window of the Virgin Mary."

  I wanted to shout, You are fickle, Francis Bernardone; you're a mad changeling! But instead I quietly said, "At San Rufino you urged your listeners to remain unmarried. What would happen if they all were to take your advice? How long, sir, would the world last?"

  "I don't expect everyone to follow my preachings. Only the few. Only the chosen."

  "The chosen? Who is the chooser? God?"

  "No, each man chooses for himself."

  "And each woman chooses for herself ?"

  "Yes."

  "But Clare di Scifi didn't have a chance to choose. She fell in love with you and head over heels was swept away into a sisterhood."

  "Away, that is so," Francis said, a strong note in his voice. "Away, to the arms of Christ. And only to Christ, our Lord."

  He was answering the rumor, abroad in the city for weeks now, that the two were secretly lovers. People believed this; the Scifis and all of my family believed it. And until this very moment, I, too, had believed it.

  "You're not in your fancy clothes, your furs and jewels," he said. "You are dressed for travel. Where do you go?"

  "North to Venice, as I wrote you in my letter."

  "Oh, yes," he said, pretending the letter meant nothing to him. "Why do you go to Venice? It's an oriental city, rife with corruption."

  "I go because I am being sent there."

  "Why are you sent?"

  I hesitated. I glanced at the trees bending to the gusting wind, at the portals with their spring flowers, finally at him.

  "Why?" he asked again.

  "Because of you, signore."

  He quit fondling the hawk. Baffled and silent, he looked at me. Color rose to his cheeks.

  I took the hawk from his hand and launched it on the air. It flew as high as the trees, then wheeled back and hovered above us, beating its wings, torn between us and the sky.

  I didn't wait for the bird to disappear. I put heels to the horse, and when I came to the clearing I glanced back. Francis was watching from the church steps. Boyish Clare di Scifi, fuzzyheaded in her ugly woolen sack tied by a cord around her middle, who would tramp the streets, begging for pork rinds and stale bread, stood behind him.

  "Patience, patience, patience," I said to the thud of the horse's hoofs, remembering the moment I had told him why I was being sent to Venice. Remembering his silence, the color that rose suddenly to his pale cheeks, as he struggled with memories of happier times. As he thought of the letters I had written to him, the last one.

  The hawk I had freed was a symbol and a pledge. I had prevailed over Clare di Scifi. I would prevail over his latest love.

  21

  Past noon I overtook the caravan, resting in a shady grove. Before I got down from the horse, Raul was at my side, babbling away.

  "We'll soon come to the crossroads where we turn west on the road that leads to the coast and on to Granada," he said. "I can see that you've already made a decision. A wise one, I trust. I see it in your face. It speaks out from your radiant eyes and smile."

  Bluntly I told him that he was mistaken about my eyes and face and smile, that I was happy thinking of my new life in the carnival city of Venice. Without further comment we went northward, past the crossroads where we could have taken the road to Granada, traveling until dusk.

  At nightfall of the third day, while we were camped in a meadow beside a slow-moving brook, Tommaso, the captain of the guards, a windy oldster, heard the sound of hoofs behind us in a wooded ravine we had just passed through.

  "It can be one horseman or many," he said, speaking quietly to allay our fears. "But this is a favorite haunt of cutthroats, and the time of day they usually emerge. I suggest, therefore, that all the women repair to their tents. When last I rode through here I met with five of the scum. Of that band, however, there's now only one, and he with a missing leg. Be calm, have faith in my strong right hand."

  The cook asked him if we should pray, but before Captain Tommaso could answer, the rider appeared at the mouth of the ravine, crossed the brook, and dismounted. To my great astonishment, it was Nicola Ascoli.

  During the past three days I had thought of her. Of all the family, all of them except my father, she was saddest to see me go. She had followed me into the street, clinging to the horse's mane, until I found the courage to ride away.

  Joyful cries of "Thanks be to God" rose from the camp, now that we were confronted not by a brigand but by a pretty girl with a travel-stained face.

  Nicola had chosen a wrong turn in the road or she would have overtaken us sooner. "I went to the left instead of the right," she said. "Then I was in a forest for a long time, hiding from a band of men. They were cut-purses, for while I watched they held up a man and a woman traveling in a cart. Then this morning I had to hide again..."

  Full of the day's wild adventures, she would have rattled on had I let her. My delight at seeing Nicola was short-lived. She brought a problem. I would be protected by the prioress, Mother Sofia, a handsome gift for my board and keep having been given in advance. But what of Nicola Ascoli, unsponsored, without a soldo to her name?

  She had eaten two eggs, she told me, stolen from a farmyard the night before, and nothing since, though in a basket tied to t
he saddle she had a rooster hidden away, which she wished to present us for supper. But the rooster, thin and bedraggled, stretched his neck and challenged us with a crow, so defiant and yet so appealing that we took a vote on whether to have him stewed for supper. The men voted to place him in the pot, but the women prevailed, so we kept him and gave him the name Cerberus, the watchful keeper. And keeper he proved to be.

  Sleeping for the most part at well-guarded inns, we made our journey without incident until we approached the town of Padua. Here, pitching our tents midst scattered trees in open country, we were awakened late in the night by the frantic flapping of wings and prolonged cries of distress.

  The guards bounded out of their tents—all were asleep at the time—to confront a number of brigands in the act of running off with our horses. If successful, the raid would have left us stranded leagues from the nearest help. Afterward Cerberus became our pampered guide and, with the help of Captain Tommaso, brought us safely to the fabulous city of Venice.

  The city, as everyone knows, is paved with seawater and not with stones. Twice each day the tides of the Adriatic Sea flow in, sweep up the streets, and flow out again.

  You do not, therefore, ride gaily into Venice, nor do you walk. At the edge of the salt meadow where the land ends and the sea begins, boats of all descriptions wait to take you to this island city—double-ended gondolas, mostly painted black, each rowed by a single oarsman; small, shallow-draft boats of all colors; the floating palaces called bruchielli; and, if fishing is poor, the fisher-man's skiffs.

  We left our retainers in the meadow, including Cerberus, and hired a gondola to take Raul and Nicola and me to Piazza San Marco. From there it was a short walking distance to the monastery.

  My aunt was at prayer when we arrived, so we had a long wait in a bare room lit by a small window and a row of candles beside a crucifix and a picture of Christ, like the room where I first met the prioress of San Paolo, Mother Sibilia.

  The two women were also alike. Indeed, when Aunt Sofia came striding into the room, a candle clutched in one hand, shielding it with the other, she gave me a start. Like Mother Sibilia's, her pale skin was stretched tight over sharp bones and deep hollows. It was a face that comes from hidden heat. For a terrifying moment I saw myself standing here in this same room, holding a candle in my hand—it could be three years from now, perhaps longer—pale, hollow-cheeked, like this woman.