The Vault of bones

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Winter sailing is harsh, even as a passenger, and although we had escaped until then, four days out of Stampalia the winds turned strong and icy. The Greek Emperor had his galleys out, preying on Frankish ships. Not until we had passed through the Cyclades did that danger pass, although we were running from the bitter north winds, and beating against them when we turned up into the Adriatic. It was passing miserable, for once again I could not join the crew, but needs must endure endless boredom. Letice might have been an entertaining companion, but she was ill most days, despite all her boasting, for, like James of Paris, she was afflicted by a dreadful seasickness. She kept to herself, wrapped in fur cloak and misery. I was not so callous that I did not understand how she felt, at least somewhat: she had come from nothing, and as far as she knew had returned there. She could not bring herself entirely to trust the Captain, no matter how much I tried to reassure her, and despite all his friendly advances. To her he must have been one more powerful man enmeshed in schemes that did not include her – or worse, that did.

She was often barely civil to me. When she was feeling less poorly we conducted ourselves as friendly acquaintances, and when she was suffering I gave her as wide a berth as I could. That was in a way not hard, because she had grown very cold and inward; but I could not forget how she had first stirred me, that morning in Rome, for as much as I distrusted her, the sight of her milk-white skin, and the soft pout of her upper lip made my mouth dry whenever I beheld her.

Letice Londeneyse did not need me, that was plain. No doubt she needed only herself. And there was the fact, as plain and dismal as a corpse laid out on a kitchen table, that she had had a hand in the death of a friend and of three other men, in the short time since I had first seen her. She had not held the knife that killed Horst, I could admit that much; but she had been in Foligno that night, as she had been in Spoleto. And I had seen with my own eyes how she had put an end to Dardi, I knew she was capable of it. And when I pondered this, I could only say that I had done such things as well: I had killed men who had had friends… but such thoughts were profitless, and I had long since taught myself not to tread that path lest it lead to melancholy.

The Captain began to recover in earnest, although it was another week before Andrew of Longjumeau would let him rise. Andrew had taken over his care, for soon after we had passed Thira, Mesarites, who had hardly stirred from the cabin which he shared with the ship's master and with Doctor Scot, fell ill. At first Michael thought it was no more than the seasickness that had afflicted the others, but on the second day of his illness, when I went to offer my sympathies, I found the old man shockingly changed. He seemed to have lost pounds of weight, his eyes were sunken and his cheeks had fallen in. His gaze darted about, confused, and his lips were caught in a quivering moue. A silver trail of spittle crept across his silvery beard.

What ails him?' I whispered to Michael, although I need not have, for the old Greek seemed not to hear anything.

'He has suffered an apoplexy’ he answered, bluntly. 'It happened in his sleep. I feared that all the disorder that has befallen him might do harm, and so it has’ He bowed his head, and for the first time Michael Scotus, so astute in divining the emotions of others, showed his own.

'Do not blame yourself, Doctor’ I told him. 'It was his great desire to make this journey. To achieve his great work – that is so, is it not?'

Michael nodded. 'It is so. But I came and plucked him from his family. He would have died, at least, in a Greek bed. As it is.. ‘ 'He will die, then’

'Alas. All his higher functions have been destroyed by the apoplexy. He cannot eat or drink. The ancients called it a stroke of God's hand, but I think it is a crueller touch than that’

'Amen’ I muttered, but I was remembering Anna's death throes. Why should God's touch not be cruel? I had seen nothing to the contrary.

I went and searched the old man's face, seeking in its all but abandoned furrows a trace of – what? The old Greece, the fallen empire that had been, whose spirit had run so hot in Anna's blood? I found nothing but the desolation of Constantinople as she had become, for the skull was plain to see under its veil of failing skin. I pressed Anna's ring to his lips, and kissed his forehead. That night, he died while Michael slept at his side.

The day after that, a foul storm swept off the Morea and tore our sail to shreds. We put in at Cerigo to bury Nicholas, and the man who had been Exarch of all Asia was laid in the crypt of the half-ruined Orthodox church, while an awestruck country priest sung him to his rest. We lingered to make good the damage, and then another storm blew up and kept us in port for another week. We did not leave Cerigo until the middle of February, and then it was slow, miserable sailing against icy winds. We were forced to take shelter at Zante, and then the threat of a raiding party of John Vatatzes' ships sent the master running for Patra. And so it was not until the second week of March that we dared set out across the narrow waters of the Adriatic to Italy.

In the long weeks that intervened, Michael Scot had become withdrawn, and ever more wrapped up in his thoughts. He blamed himself for the death of his friend, I guessed, and mourned the old man who would never see his dream, of healing the great schism between Greek and Latin, fulfilled. And he had received some news at Cerigo from a ship's captain from Brindisi. What it was I did not ask, but it upset him greatly. James of Paris and Letice were rendered barely human by seasickness, as I have said, and Andrew of Longjumeau fell to nursing his friend. Only the Captain strengthened while the others declined, and soon, despite the misfortunes and setbacks that battered themselves against the Seynt Victor, he was up and about, weak but with the life slowly coming back into him, and he and I passed most of our time together.

He told me what had befallen him on leaving Constantinople.

'They set upon me,' he said, 'and beat me insensible. When I awoke I was bound, and soon I was passed over to Nicholas Querini's ship. Querini, whom I counted as a neighbour and an acquaintance in Venice, gloated over me, and tormented me with insinuations and threats until we came to his fortress.'

There he had been starved and tortured by a man who fitted the description of Facio. They had hung him by the wrist from the ceiling, and flogged him, and doused him with icy water.

'They wanted the letter,' he said. 'The pope's letter. I said I did not have it, for I did not. Bravery had nothing to do with it: I told them the truth. They left me there, for some other man was coming to put me to the question, someone they promised was far more terrible and merciless than they’

'Dardi’ I told him. And I recounted what had taken place in the Pharos Chapel, how Letice had killed Dardi and how we had struggled to heave his fat carcass out of the window. The Captain took some grim amusement at that. I knew he was all but overcome with curiosity as to what I had brought out of the chapel, but we could not be open about that. My oilskin pack was locked in a chest in the master’s private hold, and I had bought the only key from him. As we waited for night to fall and the others to go to sleep, I told him about the girl, and how I trusted her despite myself.

'She is hungry’ said the Captain. 'Someone or something will be consumed before she is whole again – take care it is not you’

'She has had her chances’ I answered. 'I do not think it will be me’

That night – it was the night before we came to Cerigo, and the seas were running high and fierce – we stole into the master's hold. The ship was pitching madly, but we were both used to such things, and when I had hung our lantern from the ceiling I took out the key, opened the chest I had bought, and pulled out my pack. The Captain watched, rapt and lupine, as I undid the ties and pulled out the contents one piece at a time. First, the broken spearhead.

'The Spear of Longinus’ I intoned, holding it out. There were two pieces, and Baldwin's list only mentioned a spear set in an icon – so I took this one.'

You did well’ said the Captain softly, turning the lozenge of metal over in his hands. ‘I thought I was going to have to fight with it’ I told him, reaching into the pack again. What would that have done, to shed blood with the holy Lance?'

The Captain shook his head and began to wrap the spearhead up again. We are in a realm that even I had never quite dared to imagine’ he said. 'As to their power – their metaphysical power, I mean – they have none. But as things, as gross matter, they can change the world. What is next?'

Next were the Sandals, which the Captain examined with an amused look upon his scabbed and bruised face. 'Dear oh dear’ he muttered. 'Could they not have done better than this?' But he nodded when I produced the authenticating papers. 'They are official, then: marvellous. We shall copy these, of course, and then go into the cobblers trade. Do you think Gilles would care to turn sandal-maker?'

I laughed, for it was a merry thought, and we had need of such. 'Now this’ I said, 'requires a deal of care.' I opened the flat golden case that held the Robe of the Virgin. 'The Maphorion of the Theotokos? I said. The Captain held out his hands, and I placed the case on them and opened it. He bent his head towards the faded cloth.

'This accords with all that I have read’ he whispered, carefully examining the folds. 'It is… I feel strange saying this, but did you know, Patch, that this is the talisman of Constantinople? The Virgin's veil protected the city. Emperors carried it as a standard into battle. What will happen to the city now that it is gone?'

I could not quite tell if he were serious, so I said, with care, 'The city's talismans have failed her, sir. But you do not mean that I should have left it be?'

'No, no’ he said. 'Nevertheless it is strange that you and I are here in this reeking ship's hold with the very thing that once girded the Empire of Rome itself with… with magic' 'I hesitate to show you what is left’ I said, 'if we are going to talk of magic. For there is something that I do not understand. Perhaps we should wait’

'I am sorry, Patch,' said the Captain. 'I am not quite myself yet. You know that I have no belief in magic, nor in miracles. No, it is their power over the minds and hearts of men that I find strange and terrible, and this thing…' he handed back the robe, 'has kept an empire in its thrall. Now, what is it you have to show me?'

I said nothing, but took out the plain wooden box and set it on top of the chest. Opening it, I held my breath, reached in, and took hold of the uppermost two corners of the cloth that lay folded within. As I lifted, the watery, shimmering face I had beheld in the Pharos Chapel slowly rose into view from the shadows of the box. The Captain gasped.

‘I think this is the Mandylion of Edessa,' I said, and my words fell flat and lifeless about me. The Captain had bent forward and was gazing at the cloth, mouth open. For an instant I thought that he too had been stroked by the hand of God, but then he tore his gaze away.

'How did you find this?' he hissed. I told him. And as there did not seem any point in avoiding it, I also told him of Mesarites, and his great and marvellous scheme to heal the wounds of Christendom.

'Stand up,' said the Captain, suddenly. I was surprised, and made to lower the cloth back into its box, but the Captain stopped me. 'No, keep hold of it. Raise it up.' Obediently I stood, and drew the cloth up with me until it hung before me, the face – if face it was – level with my own. But no, it was not the face. I was looking at the imprint or the stain of hair, and only then did I understand that the cloth I held was folded over, and I held the fold between my fingers. I was looking at the terribly faint image of a man's back. It was translucent, the cloth, and even in the dim lantern-glow I could see the Captain behind it, examining every inch.

What is it? What do you see?' I demanded, when I could bear it no longer. The dark suggestion of eyes in the face was beginning to oppress me.

You are right’ said the Captain at last. 'This is the Mandylion. I wish I could have talked with Mesarites, for we might have understood each other despite..He did not finish, and did not need to. The heretic and the schismatic contemplating a thing I could find no name for: what strange discourse would have been born from such a meeting?

What is it?' I asked again. It is not a painting’ I offered, 'but is it woven into the cloth? It frightened me when I found it, and I did not want to take it’

'But you did’ said the Captain, 'and perhaps you will never do so great a thing again. Here’ he added, and took hold of the cloth himself. 'Let me hold it for you.'

I went round into the light and stood where the Captain had been, facing the cloth. I licked my dry lips and forced myself to stare. It was a piece of yellowed flax that I beheld, about a yard's width, and upon it was painted – I had to say painted, for I could find no other explanation that I could give words to – the image of a naked man with hair that curled to his shoulders and a full beard, his hands crossed modestly over his shame. There were dark stains on the cloth, darker than the image itself, around the head, in the side and upon the left wrist. I instinctively looked down, but the feet were still folded.

'De Clari was right’ muttered the Captain. 'And Mesarites – of course, Mesarites. If only he… no matter. "The Shroud in which Our Lord had been wrapped, which every Friday raised itself upright so one could see the figure of Our Lord on it" – that is what de Clari wrote of what he found in 1204’ 'This must be it’ I stammered. 'Does that mean..’ 'That it is real? How can it be? But I cannot tell how it was done. It is not paint’

'Is it branded in some way?' I said, squinting reluctantly at the blank-eyed face. 'It is horrible’ I confessed with a shiver of revulsion. As if I had given him some signal, the Captain lowered the cloth carefully into its box and hastily shut the lid.

'The image of a tortured man’ he said, when we were both sitting on some handy bales of silk. I was shocked to find that he was wide-eyed and smiling. It was an expression I knew, but had never thought to find upon that face: the ecstasy of faith. What a symbol of love that is, eh? I hate it too’ he burst out. 'My people revile the cross and the Crucifixion, for-'

'But to you, Christ was a spirit’ I put in. 'He had no form, so how could He be crucified?'

'Indeed! He could not be, but it has long been our belief that the Crucifixion was a dreadful mummery concocted by the Dark One to shame Christ, to humiliate him, by spreading the lie that He had suffered death. No matter that He was resurrected, for what has never had life, not as we imperfect ones know it, cannot be reborn, can it?'

I suppose not’ I muttered. Then I understood. 'And because this seems to be real…'I could not believe I was saying this, but I pressed on. 'Because this is, somehow, the burial cloth of an actual man, you think that your belief is proven? But – forgive me, but I was once a Church scholar, if a dreadfully indolent one – it also seems to prove the presence of the miraculous’

'There are no miracles’ said the Captain. 'No – there may be, but they are illusion, tricks of the Devil made to snare us and lure us from the pure way. If this is proof of a miracle, then…' To my horror, he buried his face in his hands and gave an awful, sobbing laugh. I hugged him around the shoulders.

You are tired’ I soothed. 'I should not have shown you these things yet’

He took a deep breath, and when he turned to me he was himself again.

'Forgive me, Patch’ he said. ‘I have lived for so long with my people's agony. The reason I was overcome is not hard to explain. The Good Christians have brother sects in the East, even in Constantinople, where they are called other things – Manichees, Bogomils – and when I was a child, the perfecti in my country heard, from merchants coming from Greece and the land of the Serbs, of an image of Christ crucified with three nails, thus proving that the cross venerated by the Church was false. The Good Christians used this image to taunt their enemies, and even made images of their own, with which they mocked the priests of Rome. I wondered if the stories had their origin in something they had seen in Constantinople, and when I read Robert de Clari… Now you see. Here it is, in the flesh, as it were. And that is the point. This thing, miracle or not, is the imprint of flesh. We cannot deny it, can we?' He took a deep breath and swallowed as if his own Adam's apple were choking him. 'And if this is the image of the crucified Christ…' He sat back and reached his unsteady hand towards the wavering light of the lantern.

'So this is your proof’ I said after a long silence. What will you do?'

What can I do? Doctor Scot will carry out his friend's wishes, and give it to Frederick Hohenstaufen, who in turn will give it to the pope – is that not the plan? I cannot let that happen, but what is my choice? We cannot – I cannot do away with the doctor, for that would be a foul sin indeed, to pay such a friend out for his good deeds. I do not know. I will think’ He rose, and clapped me upon the back. 'And now I will go to bed. Master Petroc, you have done well. You are the equal of any man I know, and the better of most. Thank you for saving my life, and..he looked towards my pack where it lay upon the chest, fat with secrets, gleaming black and smug.

I fear I have brought a deal more trouble into the world’ I muttered, but locked away our dreadful treasures and helped the Captain to his bed. But I did not sleep well that night, nor for many nights to come.