Part V - The Road to Awe and Wonder

[twasadark]

 

-*-

The fact that conditions aboard ship were not entirely to Alona’s liking was an understatement. At first she was simply grateful that they were on their way again, but it didn’t take long for the luster to wear off of her gratitude. The battered, barnacled caravel they traveled on was incredibly cramped; it carried not only her retinue and the crew but a half dozen other passengers – two of them churchmen and the rest merchants or pilgrims like herself. The churchmen, she quickly discovered, carried extra passengers in the folds of their robes: fleas. That wouldn’t have been so bad except that the cramped conditions made them all uncomfortably familiar with one another. The hold of the ship, where they slept on the deck nose to nose, not only stunk of piss and vomit and must, but it was also infested with rodents who scurried about at night and used their sharp teeth to tear at their mattresses and gnaw on their extra provisions. The nights seemed endless, filled as they were with snores and the groans of the sick and the shifting that accompanies sleeping people everywhere. She lay awake for hours sometimes, feeling the roll of the ship and listening to the skittering of the rodents.

In the mornings, as soon as they awakened, everyone climbed out of the stinking hold to spend the day shoulder to shoulder above deck. At first, Alona was entertained by the workings of the ship, but the duties and tasks of the crew grew commonplace soon enough, as did the monotonous blue of the sea stretching off in all directions. She spent most of her time sitting crowded next to the other passengers, chilled by the moisture-soaked breeze and bored by the lack of entertainment. Apart from idle conversation, meal breaks, and the inevitable trips to the rear of the ship to attend to their bodily needs, there was little else to do.

Most of her fellow passengers seemed likewise dulled by the inactivity as well, save for Jensen. He always seemed busy, whether it was in conversation with the other passengers, or storytelling with the crew, who mostly spoke Frankish, though some were fluent in Greek as well, a situation that Jensen used to his advantage in practicing his speaking skills. Frequently, he helped the sailors with the rigging, and he seemed fascinated with the array of knots employed around ship, going so far as to spend hours practicing the various configurations on a coil of rope borrowed from the captain.

Tristan followed him about like a puppy. A sullen, rather menacing puppy, but a puppy nonetheless – young, energetic, and teachable. Jensen and he sparred often, Jensen showing the young Frank the finer points of hand to hand combat, or knife fighting, or even the battering of one another with the oars from the tiny boat tied to the side of the ship. Tristan was a willing pupil, but an easily angered one, with expressive hazel eyes and color high in his cheeks when he was particularly piqued. Jensen instructed him patiently, only losing his temper with the boy once that Alona could tell.

Tristan narrowed his eyes and thrust his chest out, posturing like an angry bull, when the ship’s boy brought a load of dishes to the deck to clean. For some reason, the ship’s boy performed this duty near Tristan’s customary spot, an action which ended up soaking the deck every time since it involved hauling buckets of sea water from overboard.

Eyebrows drawn together in a menacing dark line, he shoved the small waif of a boy, knocking him to the deck. “Take that work elsewhere or I’ll give you the back of my hand!” He demonstrated with an upraised gesture that made the ship’s boy cringe.

Jensen, who had been across the deck talking to one of the sailors, strode forward quickly. The ship’s boy scrambled out of the way of he and Tristan, dishes clattering and bucket thumping against his skinny leg.

With quick violence, Jensen smacked Tristan across the face. “You will not treat children like that in my presence ever again!”

Tristan drew back in shock, the red imprint of Jensen’s hand bright across his cheek. He swallowed visibly, and seemed to curl in on himself, anger deflating. Although Alona thought that Jensen’s reaction was harsh, Tristan’s change of demeanor was immediate and long-lasting. He did not trouble the boy thereafter.

She was wary of Tristan, who carried something dark in the hunch of his shoulders and the downturn of his lips, something which spoke of loss and instability. On the rare occasions that he smiled, though – well, he shone at those times, all straight white teeth and dimples. He was but three or four years younger than she, but the age difference and the class difference combined to keep them leagues distant. His silent, brooding presence, and his role as servant, kept him from attracting much of her interest. In fact, in her eye he seemed to exist only as an extension of Jensen.

Jensen, with his clear green eyes and lush lips, his fine straight jaw and the curve of muscle and bone that made up his body. He fascinated her to a degree that frightened her a bit. She tried not to watch him as much as she wanted, for surely such actions did not please God when her husband at home missed her, and as such she vowed to put the pleasure she took in his presence aside in the favor of reciting prayers. It did not work as well as she had hoped it would.

Moments of excitement did punctuate their existence occasionally, made all the more precious by unpredictable occurrence – dolphins racing along the prow, darting and joyous; Jensen, laughing as he hauled a heavy tuna, thrashing and shining, from the water at the end of his fishing line;  the breaking of sunlight, multi-hued and separated into rays, from a thick bank of clouds, at the close of day.

A quick stop at Calvi on the island of Corsica allowed them to replenish their provisions and deliver letters and a shipment of finely dyed cloth. The passengers did not depart the ship, but Alona spent the hours they were docked there marveling at the rugged, towering mountains, atop which rolled white clouds, and the pleasing green of the shrubs that dotted its slopes. The little homes and shops were made from ivory-colored granite, roofed with red tiles. Children played on the rocky beach, and sailors tended their nets nearby, speaking to one another with an unfamiliar accent.  

The wind favored them upon their departure from the island, speeding them to Rome’s harbor at Ostia quicker than they had expected, bringing smiles to the faces of the crew and a building excitement to Alona. She had ever dreamed of the wonders of the eternal city, where Caesar had ruled and the early Christians had died, the seat of the church and the place where Peter had been crucified upside down because he felt himself not worthy to die upright like his Lord.

They docked during a storm, and climbed down the rope ladder off the ship’s side with their possessions on their backs and the water tossing them up and down like a newly saddled, untamed horse – bucking wildly every which way.  Despite the steady rain, which quickly soaked one and all of them to the skin, they were accosted by a swarm of boys chattering away in Latin. Alona soon divined that they had been hired by hoteliers in the city to bring in new customers.

Jensen dickered with them in rapid Latin, at one point completely surrounded by children, all of them tugging on his arms and tunic—the bravest among them even pulling his hair. Tristan smacked that one’s hand away and chased him off, cursing the child in Frankish.

What with disembarking from the ship and finding suitable transportation, it took them several hours to make their way to the inn Jensen had chosen. They waited another half hour in the vestibule while Jensen went from room to room, inspecting the accommodations to make sure that the rushes covering the floor were not infested with fleas and that the dinner they had been promised as part of their board included more than broth and bread, but some vegetables or meat as well.

They ended up renting one room for the women and three for the men, and even though the men had multiple rooms they ended up crammed together as closely as they had been aboard the ship. No sooner had they laid their goods down in their quarters when Alona gave a peremptory rap on the door of the room which housed Jensen and Tristan and walked in. Jensen was lying down on his blanket near the window, a hand pressed to his eyes. Tristan sat near him, his back against the wall, industriously picking at something underneath his fingernail. She approached and nudged Jensen with her foot.

He looked up, blinking, then groaned upon recognizing her. “Absolutely not.” His eyes traveled down her dress. “You haven’t even changed your clothes. You’ll catch cold in the chill air.”

“I’ve been aboard a ship for ten days,” she informed him. “A stinking, crowded, broken down little tub that nearly shipwrecked upon the shoals as we approached this harbor. Clearly, God has spared me and wishes for me to visit the pilgrim’s sites as soon as possible to give thanks for this mercy. What is a wet garment in the face of that? Come. I certainly can’t go alone.”

Jensen gave a resigned sigh and looked to Tristan, who simply shrugged and made no move from his position. It took a few moments of grumbling and shuffling about on Jensen’s part but he donned a warm tunic and laced his boots and soon they were in the streets in front of the inn, Jensen trailing behind with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked in annoyance. The hardships of travel so far had taught her that she wasn’t as accomplished at holding her temper as she had previously thought.

He shot her an irritated glare. “Speaking Latin gives me a headache. Accompanying demanding mistresses makes it worse.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “Everyone knows that walking about a strange city is the perfect remedy for such minor inconveniences.” Then she strolled off toward the nearest shrine.

Jensen murmured something under his breath that she couldn’t quite hear and trudged along afterward. She relented slightly by slowing her pace.

The rain had stopped while they were at the hotel, and now the clouds broke and allowed clear bright sunlight to bathe the silver-coated streets. The sun felt glorious on her shoulders, and encouraged the city’s residents to flood the streets once again. She got so caught up in looking from here to there at the slim dark haired people and their curving, unfamiliar streets that she forgot Jensen accompanied her until he gave a short laugh.

She glanced at him, eyebrow raised.

“You’re smoking,” he informed her.

She looked down at herself to see that, indeed, steam was rising from the woolen folds of her damp dress, wreathing her in smoking tendrils from the combination of the sunlight, her body heat, and the cold air drying her clothing.

“Oh,” she said, then took a good look at him and burst out laughing as well.

“What?” he asked.

“Steam is rising from your head. Is there, perhaps, a fire kindling in your skull?”

He put a hand to his damp hair, eyes crinkling with merriment. “Perhaps.”

She hooked her arm under his, noticing the firm feel of his muscles under her fingertips. “Come, there is much to see.” She held up the scroll she had purchased from a seasoned pilgrim back in Toulouse.

“May I see that?” Jensen asked, ever polite.

She passed it to him and he unrolled the scroll. “What is this?”

“A map of all the holy places we shall be visiting.”

His eyes grew wide and his expression stricken. “There must be two dozen of them here!”

She gave him a sunny smile. “You see why we had to start right away, then.”

His groan, loud and heartfelt, nearly made her laugh again.

-*-

Among the cities of the world, Rome shone like a candle – beautiful and bright and, should you wander too close to the flame, painful to behold. A jumble of impressions struck Jensen: narrow crowded streets, rutted by cartwheels carved into the soft tufa over hundreds of years, tumbled ruins and lonely upright columns, ornate churches with their attendant monks and nuns and richly garbed priests, and fellow pilgrims, from the rich and haughty to the lowest and most desperately poor, and all conditions in between. They traveled from shrine to church to graveside, praying at altars and statues and holy wells, giving alms and receiving blessings from the guardians of the sites. Relics seemed to fill every corner of the city – the clippings of saints’ hair, the bones of their fingers, skin shriveled and leathery, their detached arms and detached legs and every body part you could imagine being revered for its holy power. Here they found Christ’s burial shroud, there vials of Mary’s tears, and there again blessed wine from the banquet at which Salome demanded the head of John the Baptist.

Jensen returned Alona to their hotel each night buzzing with exhaustion, his clothes smelling of incense, his feet sore from the constant standing and walking, skin tingling from where Alona had placed her hand upon his arm – such a delicate hand, soft and beautiful but strong, too. It had been so long since he had touched a woman, so long since he had existed in a world where it was possible to feel well and truly alive to the passions of the living. Such thoughts made his stomach curdle and his eyes itch; they snapped against the edge of his mind like a strong wind buffeting the thick canvas of sailing cloth. 

The days passed in a blur of exhaustion and discovery, of pleasing conversation and endless searching for the next shrine or ruin or sunken cave where some miracle or another had taken place.

The holy feast of Ascension came one night near the full moon. He and Alona trailed the torch-bearing procession through the streets to the Forum where the tomb and prison of Saints Peter and Paul stood. Beyond them lay the scattered ruins of the old Romans, the basilicas and temples, the arches of Septimus Severus and Titus, and the Column of Trajan, with its spiraling bas relief chronicling the wars of the Romans.

The moon shone luminous upon the ruined buildings and tumbled columns, lying helter skelter and broken. Jensen left Alona seated on an upright stone drum as he made his way around the area, wondering about the many festivals and law proceedings and parades that had taken place here, and reading the engraved letters on the marble everywhere that shouted their messages, clear and bold, to eternity: justice triumphs here; may this flame burn eternally; hush and hear the sacred words spoken.

Little gatherings of some farmer’s cattle stood huddled together just beyond the Forum, evidence anew of the way rural life was creeping back into the capital after it had been sacked by the barbarian hordes one too many times. Jensen noticed, then, that Alona had not moved from her seated place, so he made his way back to her. She sat, back erect but chin tucked low, silvery tears tracking down her cheeks.

“My lady?” he asked, stricken by her distress. “What is wrong?”

She looked at Jensen as though seeing him for the first time, and gave a little shudder. “Oh, Jensen. I have dreamed of coming to this place, so filled with glory and power. It is wondrous and terrible to know that thousands once flocked here, that they lived and suffered and loved, that they created such grandeur which has now fallen into such decay.”

Her hair gleamed straight and golden; her cheeks were smooth and unlined, her eyes dark and hidden by shadows. He did not think. He cupped her soft cheek in one calloused palm. How like a sculpture she was at that moment, perfectly formed and unutterably beautiful. She inclined her face into his touch. Her tears felt cool and thin on his skin.

The chanting of the procession, now receding into the distance, carried the words of blessing clear on the night breeze. Somewhere, a dog howled in strange accompaniment.

Part VI