The Road to Damietta

  "For a year, signore. Perhaps two."

  Listening to the storm clamoring at the windows, I thought of Francis on his knees in San Rufino Square.

  6

  I was in the scriptorium soon after breakfast, to show Father that I accepted my penance in lofty spirits and was anxious to become a proficient copyist. Raul had not arrived, so I spent my time examining the Bible, which was half my height, bound in wooden boards. Resting upon a strong oak bench, it was fixed there against thievery by a heavy chain. It was one of the two Bibles anywhere in all the provinces; the other Bible belonged to the University of Bologna. There was also part of one in Venice.

  When Raul came he set me to work, not with a quill, unfortunately, but at a bench in a dark little hole at the far end of the scriptorium, making squares of lambskin into vellum by rubbing them with pumice, then treating the squares with chalk until they bore a velvety gloss. It was hard, dusty work that I didn't like.

  "We don't write upon air," Raul explained maddeningly in answer to my complaint. "We write upon parchment. And with the Old Testament we write not upon ordinary parchment, but upon the prince of parchment, which is vellum. So that you may treat this princely parchment with respect, it is well to know how much labor goes into its making."

  He kept me at this dreadful task for five long days before he stood me up in front of the Montanaro Bible. He handed me a freshly cut goose quill and told me to begin, following as a guide the chalked-in lines on the page of vellum set beside it.

  "You have an excellent, upright hand," he said, "perfect for the combination of Gothic and Arabic styles I brought from Granada. We'll leave wide margins, and later, as you gain a surer eye and we come to the Garden of Eden, we'll add a discreet number of peacocks, apes, and serpents. Nothing flamboyant, mind you."

  It was a fascinating art, exciting beyond anything I had imagined. On the first day, forgetting dinner, I worked until vespers and copied fifteen verses of the first chapter of Genesis, down to the words, "He made the stars also."

  The next day I copied nine more verses of the first chapter, working slowly. The third and fourth days I did even better, down to the verse where God said, "Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle, and creeping thing, and beast of the earth."

  The fifth day brought trouble. I had never read the Bible before, so when the words came, "And the rib which God had taken from man, made He a woman," I was shocked. I wondered why God had chosen a rib—a rib, mind you—instead of something more attractive like an arm or a thigh or even a small portion of the heart. And why shouldn't God have made a woman in the same way He had made a man?

  1 asked Raul about it. All he would say was, "Man has two arms and two thighs and only one heart, but dozens of ribs." Since it wasn't much of an answer, I wrote down the words reluctantly.

  More trouble came on the sixth day when I began to copy, "Vero vel et antalia eloquia apriere os non nadio—And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed."

  Like the rib God made into a woman, the words struck me as odd. At vespers I asked Father Giorgio of San Rufino why Adam and Eve should feel ashamed because they were naked; he blushed and said, "Would you not be ashamed, signorina?"

  "No," I answered. "Why should I be ashamed of God's wonderful gifts?"

  "You've been listening to the Greeks, I'm afraid."

  "Others, too," I said.

  Father Giorgio tried to smile. "It is Signor de los Santos's idea that you run loose in the library?"

  I quoted a drinking song I had heard Francis sing:

  "Vinum bonum et suäve,

  Bonis bonum, pravis prave

  Cunctis dulcis sapor, ave,

  Mundana lactitia!"

  "Does your father know that you run loose among the books?"

  "He does."

  To make sure that he knew, Father Giorgio told my father, who gave me a long lecture on rectitude.

  On my seventh day of copying in the scriptorium, the dreadful news came. Father announced at dinner that Signor Bernardone had decided to bring his son to trial and Francis had gone into hiding. The following night he brought home the sad news that Francis had given himself up and would appear before the church authorities within a week.

  "At last," Father said, "Pietro Bernardone, our esteemed merchant, respected in all of Umbria, in the cities of Milan and Venice and places as far off as Champagne, the province of France, this splendid man who has long been humiliated by his son's flagrancies at last will be rid of them."

  I slept poorly that night, and the next day I began to make mistakes and had to throw away two sheets of vellum. I wrote down Italian words in place of Latin and made errors in spelling. Raul suggested that I try my hand at painting a unicorn to embellish the text. I tried hard, but the unicorn turned out to look like an ancient goat.

  The morning of the trial I was up at dawn. At breakfast Father said to me, making certain that I would share in Francis's humiliation, "You will be there properly dressed with your waiting woman. And because rowdiness may be expected, with an adequate guard."

  I put on a face to show him that I didn't wish to attend the trial. Then I smiled to show him that I willingly bent to his command. Nothing, lions or the pope's legions, could have kept me away.

  Snow lay in heavy drifts across the square. The sky was clear and brilliant, but the air felt as though it might snow again. And the streets, even at this early hour, were crowded. People on foot, in carts, on horseback, were swarming through the Roman gate, pouring up from the countryside.

  I stopped for Clare, so we were late and when we reached Santa Maria Maggiore there was no room to stand. We sneaked away from the serving women and the guards, sought the south side of the old cathedral, and inched our way along the wall to within a few strides of the bishops palace, where the bishop would appear, as he always did on solemn occasions.

  We tried to talk above the uproar of horns and clackers, above the sound of thousands screaming. In vain. Then bells struck three times. The crowd fell silent and the great doors of the palace swung open.

  The first to appear was Bishop Guido, a short, thin man in a splendid scarlet robe. He was followed by Pietro Bernardone and, a few strides behind, his son. The three stood in the bright light on the steps of the palace, not far from us.

  "Francis looks calm," Clare said.

  To me he looked frightened, though he wore a rich tunic and a cloak trimmed with fur and a jaunty cap with a feather. I wanted to run up the steps and take him in my arms.

  Pietro Bernardone was the first to speak. He told about the scarlet cloth stolen from his shop, a stolen horse sold in the Foligno market, and money given to the priest of San Damiano. His voice rose as he spoke. Twice, men had to come out of the shadows and keep him from throwing himself on his son.

  Francis stood silent through this tirade, not looking at his father or at the crowd. His gaze was upon the sky as if he saw something in its depths that no one else saw.

  Signor Bernardone read a page of accusation. A chill wind blew, but there was sweat on his brow before he finished. Drawing himself to his full height, he bowed low to the bishop, then glared at his son.

  I think that he expected Francis to defend himself, at least to speak a word as evidence that he was listening, but Francis said nothing. He was still gazing at the sky, where blue shafts of light showed among the clouds.

  A hush fell upon the throng, as if it were holding its breath.

  7

  Bishop Guido, clearing his throat and adjusting his splendid robe, broke the silence. "You have troubled your father," he said to Francis. "Give back the money you have stolen and he will be placated."

  Francis turned his gaze from the sky. "Lord Bishop," he said, "not only money that I took from him do I wish to restore, with all good will, but even the clothes he has given me."

  Quietly he slipped away. He was gone only a short time, then he was back standing in front of his father. He carried a sma
ll bundle. A moment passed before I realized that it was a bundle of clothes he held, his own clothes. He was naked.

  A woman near me screamed and fell to the ground. A prolonged gasp came from the crowd. In the quiet that followed, Francis moved forward to where his father stood.

  He held out the bundle of fancy clothes like an old, cast-off skin, and, bowing, said in a gentle voice, "Until this day I have called you my father. But now and in the days to come I can only say, 'Our Father who art in heaven.'"

  Signor Bernardone glanced at the clothes, at his son standing naked before him. He tried hard to speak. Francis bowed again, raised his hands, and glanced at the lowering sky. A stray shaft of light shone full upon him as he placed the bundle of clothes at his father's feet.

  I have often thought of that moment, though I remember so little of it. I do remember that the palace vanished. The silent crowd vanished. The gray clouds vanished. Everything vanished except a man and a woman who stood beside a tree in the shimmering garden of Eden. I saw, written in fire, the words I had copied so carefully from the Holy Bible, from the second chapter, twenty-fifth verse, of the book of Genesis, "And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed."

  The earth trembled beneath my feet. Heavenly sounds came down from above, stopping my ears. The sun burst forth, blinding my eyes. Yet clearly I saw that the man, Adam, was Francis Bernardone, and his wife, Eve, was Ricca di Montanaro.

  I made no movement that I remember. I said nothing to Clare nor uttered a word of what I saw or heard. Though the earth trembled, I kept my feet. But suddenly and mysteriously, as if other hands had helped me, my clothes lay upon the stones. I stood there before the bishop's palace in Santa Maria Maggiore Square, white and naked to the wind.

  Francis was standing on the palace steps. He had turned from his father to face the crowd. He gazed in my direction. Doubting that he would ever find me, surrounded as I was, I took a step toward him. A hand grasped my shoulder. I heard Clares beseeching voice as her cloak covered my nakedness.

  At the same moment Bishop Guido had taken off his jeweled cloak and was throwing it around Francis Bernardone, amid the wildest of laughter. Clare pulled at the hood of her cloak and tried to cover my face. My gown, my shift, my shoes had disappeared.

  "Ricca," she said—said it twice more as she led me away—"what possessed you? How could you do such a terrible thing? What will your father..." She choked on the words and glanced fearfully about as if she expected to see him come stalking through the crowd. Pleading with a wayward child, she shook me. "You are mad, you are mad," she cried. "Gather up your wits."

  The sun disappeared. The wind grew bitterly cold. The dream faded. People were staring through Clare's thick cloak at my nakedness.

  "There's one good thing," Clare said. "You are not quite a woman yet. Those who saw you might have taken you for a boy."

  We hurried through the scattering crowd. Snow, driven by a chill north wind, had begun to fall. We both were freezing, she without her cloak and me naked beneath it, my feet shoeless on the slippery stones.

  "I'll take you home," she said, "and give you clothes and you can wait until the storm's over. By that time your father will be less angry than he is now."

  "My father's anger will not be less. It will grow. He'll be angry forever," I said, beginning to be aware of the enormity of what I had done. "It's best that I go home, but you must come, too."

  Guards stood at the portal. They glanced at my bare feet as they opened the door. In the hall the serving woman looked askance as she reached for my cloak. I waved her aside.

  We ran up the stairs to the tower and bolted the door behind us. But no sooner had I slipped out of the cloak into a sedate, high-necked costume than there came a series of loud raps.

  I had scarcely opened the door when my father brushed past me. He crossed the room and stood stiffly at the window.

  "I cannot believe what I have heard," he said, his back to me. "Not from one citizen but from twenty, and not from any enemies but from my friends as well, friends who would say nothing to cause me distress."

  He turned and stared at me. I was a stranger he had never seen before.

  "Is it true?" he shouted in a choked voice. "Can I believe what I have heard? Is it possible? Did you disrobe in Santa Maria Maggiore while the crowd whistled and cheered and beat on drums?"

  "With all respect to you and your good friends," Clare said, "she did not disrobe for the crowd. Few saw your daughter because I threw my cloak around her."

  "She did disrobe?"

  His question was directed at Clare, but I answered it. "I did disrobe, but not for the crowd."

  "Not for the crowd, not for the crowd," he said to mock me. "If not for them, then for whom? For the guard in the tower? The priest in the belfry who rings the hours? The serf looking down from the palace roofs? The varlet who sweeps dung from the streets? For the Devil himself ? For whom does my daughter, my only daughter, Cecilia Graziella Beatrice Angelica Rosanna di Montanaro, stand naked in Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore?"

  How was I to describe the vision that had overcome me at the sight of Francis Bernardone naked on the palace steps? Or ever make my father believe that for a joyful moment I was Eve, standing beside Adam among the trees and flowers of God's heavenly garden?

  "Tell me!" he demanded. "What ... Who is the cause of this?"

  My head began to spin. The room moved. Father seemed to come close to me, very close, then fade away. I sat down on the bed to steady myself.

  "Who?"

  The word came from a far distance. It hovered in the air above me like a dark bird.

  "Who?"

  I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. The bird still hovered above me, croaking the word over and over again, "Who, who, who?"

  I sat up in bed. The bird had gone. I searched for my father but he was gone too. Then he was there by the window, silently pointing a finger at me, waiting.

  The name came from deep inside me. It was on my lips to say and I must have said it, for my father was no longer by the window, and I heard the door softly close and steps fading away on the stairs.

  I wakened to the sound of a screeching wind. White shadows moved through the room and the sun was up. Beside the bed stood Bishop Guido, in his hand a golden censer that gave off little clouds of smoke and the odor of cinnabar as he swung it to and fro. In a severe voice he was muttering about demons, commanding them to gather themselves forthwith and in the name of the Lord depart my tormented soul.

  Father was standing behind the bishop, beside my mother, who was quietly weeping. There were others in the room, but I couldn't make out their faces among the sun's white shadows.

  Mother quit weeping and announced that the exorcism was a wonderful success. She had seen the demons—there were three of them, two oldsters and a mean young one—leap through the window. To their deaths, she was sure.

  By nightfall, completely recovered, I drank a large mug of broth and would have drunk more had not she said it would be bad for me. But in the morning when I was anxious to be up, she brought in three bearded physicians. They talked for a while, eyeing me from afar, and at last decided that I needed a bloodletting.

  A bevy of serving women, those with fat white legs, were dispatched to the river to gather leeches. I had to wait in bed until noon for them to return. The river was frozen over and the ice had to be broken through. Then the women, who had to stand in the river while the leeches fastened to their bare legs, could only stay in for a short time because the water was ice-cold.

  I felt no pain as the leeches ever so gently burrowed into my chest with their tiny teeth. It was only the sight of them clinging to my flesh and afterward falling off onto the sheet, stuffed red with my blood, that disturbed me.

  I was in bed the rest of the day, but Mother allowed me to go downstairs for supper, which was very quiet, everyone glancing at me when they thought I wasn't looking.

  8

  I resumed work on the Old
Testament, but Raul was instructed to see that henceforth I copied only those parts that dealt with godly thoughts and led to proper conduct.

  It was three weeks and one day, exactly, before I saw Francis again.

  Sister Carlota, Mothers cousin who lived in a monastery in the town of Perugia, died of dire pains in her chest, and the family rode down the mountain to her funeral. On the way back, as we neared the abandoned church at San Damiano, we were witness to an odd encounter.

  Francis came out of the church, blinking in the hot sun, and fell in step beside us as we rode along. Dressed in a threadbare gown, he had a pale, half-starved look about him. He gave me a sweet smile and a bright glance, but I was appalled nonetheless.

  "You're a bundle of bones," I said. "You're not eating enough."

  "Enough," he answered. "Too much."

  "You'll die one of these days if you don't care for yourself." I would have said more had not my father been within hearing.

  At a bend in the road we passed the leper house and soon thereafter saw a young leper walking toward us. He carried a warning bell but something was wrong with it, and though he shook it with all his might the bell was silent.

  I looked for Francis to take to his heels. Instead, he greeted the young man, grasped him by his bloody hands, and kissed them not once but again and again. Shocked, I remembered the day on the road to Assisi when he had quavered at the mere sight of a leper and had fled across the river to avoid a meeting.

  My mother said, "Do you see the miracle? A golden light hovers above the tree where the leper is now hiding. Do you see it, Ricca?"

  She frequently saw these apparitions and usually, to be a comfort, I saw them too. "A shining cloud," I said, "the same color as the mist on the river."

  "Not mist, not a cloud," she cried. "It is our Lord. It is Christ Himself standing beside the tree, guised as a leper. The moment after Francis Bernardone kissed his hands, He revealed Himself." She turned to Raul, calling out to him, "Is this not so, Santos? You, too, saw the miracle!"