Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad (The Foreworld Saga) (5 page)

“What
do you say?” Raphael asked, his voice breaking.

“It
is from the fifty-first Psalm,” Brother Leo said, eyeing Raphael carefully. “‘
Domine,
labia mea aperies
.’ Do you know it?”

“‘Lord,
open my lips,’” Raphael translated.

“Do
you know what comes next?”

Raphael
shook his head.

“‘
Et
os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam
,’” Brother Leo said. “‘And my mouth shall
declare Your praise.’”

Tears
began to track down Raphael’s face.

Brother
Leo embraced the young knight. Raphael’s body was tense at first, but gradually
the tears broke down his defenses and he relented, weeping openly and freely.

“‘Create
in me a clean heart,’” Brother Leo quoted softly, recalling another part of the
fifty-first Psalm, “‘and renew a steadfast spirit within me.’”

When
he spotted the hunched figure totter around the edge of the rocky outcrop and
make its way slowly and painfully toward the bridge, he let go of Raphael. “God
knows what is in your heart,” he said to Raphael. “That is the true measure of
the man.”

Raphael
nodded, wiping at his nose. He looked very much like the boy he might have
been, had many things been different.
Had God granted him a different path
,
Brother Leo reflected.

“I
have been lost, Brother Leo,” Raphael said. “I have not known what to do. Where
to go. I just haven’t known…”

“Very
few of us ever do,” Brother Leo said as he made the sign of the cross. He
pointed over Raphael’s shoulder.

As
the young man turned to look, Brother Leo departed. He wasn’t needed anymore.
As he reached the first bend in the path, he heard Raphael’s voice — querulous
at first, but stronger in its second attempt.

“‘
Domine…Domine,
labia mea aperies…’”

Brother
Leo did not wait to hear Brother Francis’s reply.

A
storm brewed in the north, dark clouds fuming over the wind-lashed bay, and the
only respite the Christian camp received from the summer heat was a sturdy
breeze that tried to blow dust through the gaps in the canvas of the tents.
Inside the legate’s expansive domicile, there was no dust; the wind billowed
the walls of the tent, outraged that it couldn’t be party to the gathering
inside.

Already,
Raphael was wishing he could become a leaf, and the next time the heavy flaps
were raised, he could escape on a curlicue of warm air.

The
legate was an austere man, like a piece of driftwood — bleached by the sun and
dried by the wind. Like all of the Crusaders, he had lost weight since arriving
in Egypt, and his skin was stretched tight across his thick bones. He looked as
if he did not enjoy the heat; none of them did, truly, but the Egyptian summer
left him perpetually breathless. When he became agitated, he began to wheeze
like an old hound.

“I
am surprised you do not understand the gravity of our situation,” he said as he
rose from the heavy oak chair he kept in his tent as a symbol of his position.
He began to stalk back and forth across the wide floor of his tent, his red
robes flapping about his lean frame. Raphael knew he was not unaware that the
cloth made him appear as if he was drenched in blood. “I was led to believe
that your master was a pragmatic man.” He paused to glare at Raphael before
continuing to pace.

Raphael’s
back itched. He wanted to look over his shoulder. To seek some sign from either
Calpurnius or Sir John of how he should reply. But he didn’t dare. They had warned
him already. Once they stepped inside the tent, they were witnesses. They were
not allies. They could not be called upon for aid.

“Calpurnius
is a knight initiate of my order,” Raphael said, repeating what the legate
already knew. “He is the master of the company of Shield-Brethren that seeks to
assist Rome in the matter of this Crusade. He leads us because he has proven
himself worthy of that command.”

The
legate whirled on him. “And what of me?”

“I
beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“Am
I not worthy?”

Raphael
hesitated, seeing the trap before him. Beside him, Eptor shuffled nervously.
“Worthy of what, Your Grace?” Raphael replied. It was an impudent reply, but
after having suffered through a lengthy speech already on the glory that
awaited each of the Crusaders in Heaven once they had accomplished God’s will
here in Egypt, he had found himself recalling Calpurnius’s assessment of the
man — a gnat with a tiny bite. “The Pope has granted you honorifics that you
wear with exceptional pride, including the title of Patriarch of Antioch. This
army of Crusaders seeks to — as you said so yourself not a few minutes ago — provide
the Church with the bounty that God has set for us. Yes, our reward for our
committed service. As I am but a simple soldier who seeks God’s blessing, how
could I not find all of this splendor worthy of my devotion?”

The
legate stalked up to him, putting his face close to Raphael’s. There was a
curious dry smell about the man; it reminded Raphael of the dried herbs hung
near the hearth in the great kitchen at Petraathen. “I do not care for your
tone,” the legate said.

“My
apologies, Your Grace,” Raphael said. “This desert air is drying. It makes my
words harder than they warrant.”

“It
makes hard men of all of us,” the legate sneered. “And we must make difficult
choices. Choices that may appear to be in opposition to what we believe, but
which are for the greater good of all.”

“I
understand that God seeks to instruct us with this manner of trial,” Raphael
said. “Did he not test Jesus thusly during his time in the desert?”

The
legate’s cheek twitched. Behind him, Raphael heard Sir John shift nervously.

“Our
morale is dangerously low,” the legate said, ignoring Raphael’s question. “I — we
— need a miracle. We need a sign from God that our victory is preordained.”

“I
hope — with all my heart — that such a sign would present itself,” Raphael
said, once again feigning ignorance as to what the legate was suggesting.

He
was doubly thankful for the meeting the previous day with Sir John and
Calpurnius; otherwise, he would not have been prepared for the unexpected
summons to the legate’s tent. He had had time to prepare for the audacity of
what might be asked of him so as to better pretend to not understand the
legate’s request. As Sir John had warned him, the man from Rome wanted what he
could not ask for directly, not without tainting the very thing he sought.

It
sickened him — this subterfuge, this willful effort to manipulate the Crusaders
— and at the same time, he knew it was his own innocence that prompted such
revulsion. And he loathed that he was so weak and foolish.

The
legate meant to sigh, but it came out more like a growl. Eptor started at the
noise, drawing the legate’s attention away from Raphael. The legate put his
hand underneath Eptor’s chin and raised the young man’s head.

Eptor
had had another visitation last night, and his sleep had been disturbed — as
had Raphael’s. As a result, he was more addled than usual. He stared at the
legate, eyes big and round like those of a dumb ox, and he seemed content to
simply match the legate’s stare.

“He
is a fool,” the legate said. “There is nothing left in this man’s head.” He
looked over at Raphael. “Your master is equally a fool for keeping him.”

“Would
you have me slaughter him like a pig, Your Grace?” Calpurnius spoke from the
back of the room. Raphael heard the rasp of steel as a knife was drawn from its
sheath. “Shall I do it now? Does God require an immediate demonstration of my
devotion?”

“Stay
your hand,” the legate snapped. He let go of Eptor’s chin roughly, and Raphael
was the only one who saw the ghost of a reaction flicker across the young man’s
face. “You Shield-Brethren are nothing more than brutish heathens,” he growled,
glaring at Raphael. “I should have you lead every charge.”

“And
we would do so gladly,” Raphael heard himself whisper, “for it is nothing more
than our eternal duty.” The words sprang from his mouth before he could stop
them, but as soon as they were out, his heart sang at having said them.

The
legate recoiled as if a serpent had just crawled out of Raphael’s mouth, and to
hide his shock, he stormed back to his chair and hurled himself into it, the
petulant response of an angry child. “We will attack the day after tomorrow,”
he announced rudely, reasserting himself to those present. “It is the Feast of
the Beheading of St. John. A fitting day for our glorious victory over the
infidels within the city.”

“It
is too soon,” Sir John said, his calm voice carrying across the tent. “We lost
more than a hundred men in our last assault. As well as all four of the ships
so recently arrived from Venice and Pisa. We cannot continue to hurl ourselves
so egregiously at the walls.”

“Those
walls are weak,” the legate scoffed. “They cannot — they will not — keep us
out.”

“We
should wait,” Sir John continued, undeterred. “We have captured deserters who
have managed to climb over those walls. The people of Damietta are starving.
Why should we waste Christian lives when the city will open its gates for us in
a few weeks?”

“Why
should we wait?” Pelagius snapped, his face reddening. “If the infidels are so
enfeebled, then why are we not strong enough to conquer them? Is our
faith
lacking?”

Eptor
stirred at Raphael’s side. “She is waiting for us,” the young man whispered.
His voice was so soft Raphael almost thought he had imagined hearing it. “She
is waiting for the faithful.”

 “You
are condemning Christians to a meaningless death,” Sir John said.

“I
am achieving God’s plan,” the legate shouted. Realizing he had lost his temper,
he composed himself, smoothing the front of his frock. “We will attack in two
days,” he said when he had mastered his ire. His voice was hard and flat, the
voice of papal authority. He leaned forward, staring at Raphael. “Give me a
prophecy,” he said sternly. “Give the men a reason. They will fight harder.
Lives will be spared.”

Raphael
shook his head. “There is no prophecy,” he said, committing himself. “Eptor is
a fool. He speaks nonsense, now and forever more.” Out of the corner of his
eye, he spied Eptor staring at him, a bright light in the young man’s eyes.

Raphael
closed his eyes to blot out the sight of his brother’s boundless devotion.

“H
ave
we met?” Brother Francis asked as he led Raphael to his private retreat at the
peak of the mountain. He was shorter than Raphael remembered, bent like a piece
of warped wood, and his robes were too big for him. His head protruded from the
top of the voluminous cloth like a tiny mushroom straining for moonlight. The
change in his eyes was the most startling difference, though. Naught five years
ago, the priest’s eyes had been clear, glittering with both intelligence and
resolution. Now they were crusted over with a layer of mucus and dried tears — crystalline
formations that clung to his face like rough gemstones. Through narrow gaps in
the crystals, Raphael could see the milky movement of the priest’s eyes.

“We
have, Father — Brother Francis,” Raphael said, stumbling over his words. His
face was still warm from the recent flood of his shame, and glancing once again
at the monk’s distorted eyes, he wiped his hands across his own face, as if to
wipe free the crusted starts of a similar buildup on his own cheeks. “Several years
ago…” he continued, “when you came to Egypt.”

Brother
Francis came to a halt, and he swiveled his entire body around to better
position his face toward Raphael. Raphael stood awkwardly as the monk peered up
at him. “You are taller than I remember,” the monk said when he finished his
examination. “And sadder.”

“I’ve
grown” was Raphael’s response.

Brother
Francis chuckled. “And your friend? The quiet one touched by God?”