A Stolen Tongue (23 page)

What a welcome for the bone-weary traveler! Here the resurrected Jesus, disguised as a pilgrim, broke bread with his disciples Luke and Cleophas, who knew him not. We feel Christ, in the same dusty pilgrim garb as we, has come out of His city to greet us.
You go in,
He says, embracing us.
Witness my passion. I have my own pilgrimage to make
—
I'm off to my Father's house.
How we kiss this spot, my brothers, and here receive indulgences. (††)

For the duration of my stay in the Holy Land, brothers, I will use the symbol
(††)
to designate the places we prayed and thereby received indulgences.

After marveling for a while at this place, we remount our asses and climb up out of the Valley of Terebinth toward the south. Gradually, the earth becomes greener, and even the Augsburg knight finds vegetation in which to delight. We trot past terra-cotta pots of herbs set out to sun atop a stone fence and into an orchard of ripening fig trees. I reach up for the boughs above my head to pluck a green fig when Cassa shakes me suddenly.

“Shoof!”

We see it, all at once.

Blue-and-white Jerusalem, shining in the sun.

How to describe the most Holy City, my brothers? Can I even see it through my tears? It is a wavy city, a blurry city, one obscured by salt and wet lashes and thick-coming sobs. It is a city seen from the ground, seen in shy glimpses through the fingertips of hands that cover an open, shaking mouth. Only birth and the winning of hard races bring about this sort of unconsolable joy. From halfway across the world we've run to this place—Germans, Italians, Hungarians, Spaniards—we outran death and seasickness, anger and intrigue, to finish our race at Christ's home on earth.

“
Te Deum laudamus
.” I struggle through the tightness in my throat. “
Te Dominum confitemur
.”

Up ahead Lord Tucher joins in, softly singing Saint Ambrose's hymn of thanksgiving. John Lazinus feelingly begins the first few chords before realizing his order in Hungary sings the
Te Deum
to a different tune. No matter. His voice joins ours cacophonously, encouraging other monks, from other orders, to weave in their
melodies, each according to the notation of their choirs at home. Never have you heard such a joyous, polyphonal, heartfelt song, for even the laypersons join in—some knowing the tune but not the words, some knowing neither but humming loudly some prayer of their own. How the sight of Jerusalem changes these contentious, grasping, chatty men! I see pilgrims lie powerless on the ground, as by an excess of devotion, sapped of reason. I see others wandering among the asses, beating their breasts like those pursued by evil spirits. Others drop to their knees and extend their arms in the shape of the cross; others shriek aloud as though in labor. A few pilgrims lose all command of themselves and, out of immoderate zeal to please God, make strange and childish gestures, jabbering in a language that I think not of this earth.

My brothers, had you been through the hardships we've endured, and gazed for yourselves upon the longed-for Holy City, I do not think you could have stanched a flood of tears. Witness: Some young Saracen shepherds who left their flocks to mock us, when they saw the deep earnestness of the pilgrims, went quietly away. And some of them remained and wept with us.

After unloading our luggage at the Hospital of Saint John, a vaulted, ruinous building far more squalid than our accommodations in Ramleh, we joined the venerable abbot of Mount Sion's Order of the Brothers Minor, Father Guardian, as we call him, for a tour of the nearby holy sites. If I told you of all we saw, my brothers, this account would encompass eight books, for every stone holds a story, every street a chapter and verse. I will take you with me, then, a little ways, at least until my hand cramps up and I am forced to set aside my pen.

Having heard mass in the noble Church of Mount Sion, built over the spot of our Lord's Last Supper, we descended a flight of steps and came to the Chapel of Saint Thomas, who by his most profitable curiosity won the privilege of touching Christ's wounds.

Many saints have taken their refreshment at Christ's side: Saint Bernard, Saint Francis. Saint Catherine of Siena, that holy maid, was once changing the bandages of an ulcerous woman when, overcome
by the stench, she vomited the contents of her stomach. Angry at the weakness of her own flesh, Catherine straightaway collected the pus and bloody bandages and, going off apart, swallowed the whole. That same night, Christ appeared before her and, laying His right hand upon her neck, guided her mouth to the wound in His side, saying, “Drink, my daughter, whereby thy soul will be filled with sweetness. As you have gone beyond your own nature, so I will give thee a drink beyond all that human nature is wont to receive.”

The iron spear with which Christ's side was pierced is kept in Nuremberg; I have both seen it and handled it. I now stood on the spot where Thomas reached out his hand to prod that spear wound, and thereby received indulgences (††).

Outside the Church of Sion, but not outside its gates, we found a small door leading into what appeared another church. As it was shut tight and iron-bound, I asked the Father Guardian if it could be unlocked for us. No, he said, this is the burial place of Christ's forefathers David and Solomon, yet it exists within the confines of a Saracen mosque, where you are forbidden to go.

We were quite saddened by this, for the place is often mentioned in the books of Kings and Chronicles. When we asked the Father Guardian how this place came to be covered by a mosque, he informed us that long ago the Jews and Christians had fought over the site so publicly that the Sultan, to thwart them both, seized it for himself. I understand the Jews are pleading for its return, even to this day.

We stood outside the door and prayed earnestly, and there received indulgences (††).

We left that court and entered the old choir of the Church of Sion, which is utterly destroyed but still worthy of veneration. The Jews especially honor this place, because they believe, as we do, that here David deposited the Ark of the Covenant, amid songs and great rejoicing. Jesus, in his youth, preached here, which spot is marked with a stone, as is the place where the Virgin listened proudly to her intelligent son read from the holy book. We kissed these stones reverently and received indulgences (††). While the other pilgrims were paying their respects, I spied a crumbling staircase leading to what remained of the choir's broken vault. I climbed these stairs and, by hoisting myself up, was able to sit atop the roof and thus look out over the mountain. Far below, in the courtyard, some Eastern Christians gathered around a square stone that juts out of the old choir, apparently rolling dice upon it. They would pick up four pebbles from the yard, roll them across the stone, and foretell the future by the pattern they formed: the nearer the figure is to the cross, the luckier they will be. I marveled at their behavior for some time until the Father Guardian yelled at me to come down or he would leave me behind.

We wandered a little farther until we came to the spot where the disciples roasted the Paschal lamb, pounded the bitter herbs, and heated water for washing the dirty dishes. This place is not without
holiness, for as we read in the twenty-second chapter of Saint Luke, Saints Peter and John were the cooks of that sacred Passover feast. We pilgrims merrily pictured these two worthies burning the meat and overboiling the water, fighting between themselves over seasoning and technique, arguing over who had to do the dishes. Here, also, Peter and John heated water with which Christ washed his disciples' feet. Granted, nowhere in Scripture does it say that Christ washed his disciples feet with
warm
water, yet warm water takes away the dirt better than cold and refreshes the feet and legs. Warm water also shows greater piety, for it is no great proof of friendship to wash a man's feet in cold water, just as it shows no great affection to offer a man lukewarm water to drink. We cannot suppose Christ would withhold any sign of perfect love, whereby we can also assume, though it not be in Scripture, that his water was not only warm but steeped with fragrant herbs, strong-smelling roots, and aromatic cordials as well. Profiting by this pious conversation, we knelt and here received indulgences (††).

After walking about a good deal more in the heat, we caught our breath at a spot outside the Brethren's cemetery, where Saracen women had set up a heap of stones stuffed with prayer rags they rip from their linen clothing to display piety. Around this altar they bury loaves of bread and claim that here, not in the Holy Sepulchre, our Lord Jesus is buried. These women say that the man hung upon the cross, whom the Jews call Jesus, was not Jesus but some other man put in his place. Jesus, the Son of God and Mary, was able to escape and lived a long holy life, dying peacefully here, where they now propitiate him with sandy loaves. This is to be added to the list of the Saracens' many errors. They also believe Mary to be the sister of Aaron, putting her a thousand years before she was born!
Though not believing in the Seven Sacraments, they still often bring their sick babies to be baptized, thinking Christian priests can perform the same magic with water that Thetis did when burning off Achilles' mortality in the fire. I made sure no one was looking when it was time to leave this place and with my foot scattered the women's stones, rooting out the offending loaves, and so left signs of my vengeance there.

“Felix, may I bring you more water?”

“Yes, thank you, Lord Tucher. Would you mind fetching the bread? And salt?”

How satisfying it is to order my patron about for the good of his soul! When he realized several other nobles had volunteered to wait on the pilgrims and humbly serve them lunch, he leapt up from his place beside me and grabbed a water pitcher. Ursus takes even greater pleasure in the situation than I, purposefully dropping food on the ground for his father to pick up.

As we had eaten nothing since our arrival in Jerusalem, the Father Guardian kindly invited the pilgrims to his Minorite convent before we returned to our lodgings at Saint John's Hospital. We sit crammed together around three long boards, shaded by an embroidered cloth depicting the Descent of the Holy Spirit. Where the sun comes through its loose weave, I feel my scalp as much on fire as the twelve stitched apostles, each capped with a tidy orange flame.

“Friar”—Ursus fidgets, anxious for sunset—“tonight I am made a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre.”

“Yes, that's true, son.”

“None of Count Eberhart's other pages are likely to be Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, are they?”

“Not likely,” I say.

He sits across from me, his too-long arms awkwardly bumping Conrad every time he reaches for his food. I can hardly imagine what
it must be like for his father, knowing our pilgrimage will soon end, leaving him only a few more precious months with this boy. Whenever Ursus brings up his apprenticeship, I've noticed my patron inevitably steers him back to some shared funny moment from his babyhood: how Ursus once put a spider in his mouth or fell asleep in the chicken house and had the whole manor searching for him. They will laugh together, and for that moment, at least, Lord Tucher has Ursus for eleven more years.

“If only we could have crossed the desert to Saint Katherine's Monastery. Certainly dying for Saint Katherine would count for more than a knighthood of the Holy Sepulchre.” Ursus Tucher sighs.

“Listen to me.” I reach across the table and grip his arm more tightly than I mean to. “I don't ever want to hear that sort of talk again. Saint Katherine is nobody compared to the One who died upon the Cross to save your soul. Now I want you to say thirty pater nosters for insulting our Lord in His own city.”

“Friar!” Ursus cries. “You are the one who told me Sinai was the holiest spot on earth!”

“Since when do you listen to what I say?” My anger comes out of nowhere, brothers, and I am ashamed of it. Have I really filled this boy's head with such nonsense? “Speak no more of Saint Katherine, she is a weak, irregular saint.”

The boy pulls away, and I cannot blame him. I have been an irresponsible, besotted friar, unworthy of entering this majestic city, as cheaply as I've held it. The Archdeacon John, having witnessed the scene, looks over worriedly. I am saved his concern, however, as Father Guardian is about to speak.