Part VI - The Road to Awe and Wonder

[twasadark]

 

-*-

“I’ve already been to mass this morning upon her insistence. And yesterday as well. I dare say I’ve seen the inside of more churches over the last three days than during the first half of my life. I’ve no desire to see another,” Tristan told his master.

Jensen merely cocked his head and said mildly, “You spent how long thieving on the streets before coming into my service?”

“What does that matter?”

“Weeks? Months? Perhaps even a year?”

Tristan shrugged in response, his expression sheepish.

“I thought so. You need all the holiness you can get, young sir. Besides, one whiff of the odor of sanctity from the tombs is said to cure skin diseases should you have them and prevent them if you don’t. Surely this is worth a brief visit?” Jensen was smiling a little, in that indulgent way he had, and Tristan found it incredibly difficult to refuse him anything when he wore that expression.

“Very well,” he sighed.

He and Jensen trailed behind Alona and her ladies as they walked through the streets, the three of them chattering and gossiping and occasionally consulting a map drawn by the keeper of the hotel. They lost themselves down side streets and through plazas more than once. Tristan found himself annoyed by the constant stream of noise from the women and their wandering, stop-and-start method of navigating to their destination, but Jensen did not seem to mind. He merely walked along, seeming to enjoy the sunny day and Tristan’s company. Tristan liked that about him, how he seemed content to take whatever life had to offer, be it good or ill.

Eventually, they arrived at the church erected over the entrance to the catacombs, and paid the admission fee to a gnarled old woman with rotten teeth. Alona gave a coin to each of the beggars that clustered around the entrance, which attracted the attention of other beggars across the street, and they came rushing over. Tristan stepped out to keep them back, baring his teeth and growling a bit, like a dog. That stopped their approach, and they entered the curving warrens without further molestation.

The catacombs sprawled beneath the city in dark, crooked tunnels, the air cold and damp and smelling of decay. Recesses were carved from the soft tufa and the bodies were placed inside, then walled up with cement. Every few feet a light well held a torch, and next to many of the tombs was a little vial of perfume meant to soften the smell to something pleasant. It had little effect, as far as Tristan could tell. Some of the tombs had Greek or Latin symbols carved into the cement – a name, he figured – but many had nothing.

They spent much of the morning down there, going from tomb to tomb, the smell of torch smoke as thick as the smell of rot, their voices hushed and respectful. More than once they entered a family tomb, a room painted in detailed frescos that contained numerous tomb niches.

Once, Tristan found Jensen staring transfixed at a tomb niche that had a doll embedded into the concrete. The sight of it made Tristan’s throat close up with emotion, a weakness that angered him irrationally.

By the end of the visit, Tristan’s shoulders ached from hunching over, and his stomach rumbled loudly enough that everyone laughed. Jensen clapped him on the shoulder.

“Try to hold out for a little while, will you?”

Tristan shrugged him off with a laugh.

When they emerged from the tombs, blinking in the bright sunlight, Tristan drew in a full breath of clean air thankfully. Cora drew cheese and bread from her bag and they ate under the awning of a dressmaker’s shop, talking about the beauty of the afternoon and the wonder of the catacombs and the glory of Rome, the biggest, grandest city that Alona and Tristan had ever seen.

“Is it the most wondrous place you have come across, in your many travels?” Alona asked Jensen, who sat cross-legged next to her just out of the shade of the awning, the bright afternoon sunlight emphasizing the blonde of his eyelashes and the green of his eyes. He looked at her with a kind of all-consuming attention and spoke in his even, low rumble of a faraway land on the Bosphorus straits, the jeweled city of Constantinople, cornerstone of an empire and seat of the new Rome. He spoke of the rich ladies in their palanquins carried by half-naked slaves, the veils falling sheer and beautiful over their dark eyes, and the lavishly attired churchmen – Greek Christians who believed that their own pontiff ruled the church, not the pope – hurrying through the streets with their students trailing behind like ducklings after their mother.

“And there is a church that is the finest in all the world. Hagia Sophia, she is called. The Great Church, the Holy Wisdom of God, which the Emperor Justinian commanded to be built by workmen from every land. It rises like a full moon from the earth, thick pillars supporting it and a dome the size of a half dozen ships as its roof. The arches and windows and the bricks pressed in perfect symmetry, the people crowded in and about her, marveling at the sight. But that is nothing compared to the inside. I have never seen such beauty, such great size and such perfect elegance.  The great space glows with golden light from the windows near the dome, the rays of the sun falling like spring rain on the gold-painted walls, the green-marbled columns and arches and the altar, the painted designs and the low-hanging lamps, all of them crafted by the most skilled workmen. Even the railings are wrought with designs – every surface you look upon is covered with some sort of art, some evidence of devotion.”

Alona watched him as he spoke with the same type of attention that he gave her, as though he spoke to her alone, in a whisper, in a quiet place where it was just the two of them and not in the midst of a bustling city with their servants all around and a laborer towing a cart filled with cabbages past them, the wheels squeaking and thumping erratically.

Tristan looked from Jensen to Alona, but they had eyes only for one another, with such an intensity that it began to make him uncomfortable. He glanced at Cora, and she turned her gaze from watching the two as well and looked at Tristan with such wizened understanding that he knew he was not the only one aware that they were watching something not quite proper take place.

Jensen gave a sigh, then, and seemed to come to himself, as from a dream. “Truly, I cannot describe the majesty of the place in words. It must be seen to be fully appreciated.”

Alona’s lips curled into a smile. “Oh, I think you gave a passably fine account of it.”

Jensen ducked his head, a bit embarrassed, it seemed. He finished the crust of bread he had left, and his actions seemed to break the others from the spell of his words. They gathered themselves together and, after a trip through the streets nearly as indirect as the one that had brought them here, arrived back at their hotel.

-*-

The following week found them aboard another ship, this one larger and a little roomier than the last. The first days were spent sailing past the seaside houses perched, square and multi-colored, on the Amalfi Coast, and sliding through the blue waters beside the stunning isle of Capri, where the Roman Emperor Tiberius moved the administration of Rome. Further southward, they skirted the eastern shores of Sicily, verdant and rocky and teeming with life and activity. They left the relative security of the coastline, then, and ventured into the open ocean. The wind seemed stronger and the seas rougher. A half dozen of Jensen’s soldiers spent much of their days propped near the ship’s railing, nauseous and listless.

Despite finding himself plagued by a lesser case of seasickness, Jensen enjoyed sailing with a sort of manic glee that surprised him. He loved the bracing air, the physical work of hauling lines and adjusting sails, the skill needed to navigate by stars and tides and careful observance of the water’s unfamiliar terrain. He liked the rough practicality of the sailors, and their toughness as well, the uncomplaining way in which they labored, and the simple pleasure they took from having enough to eat, a warm place to sleep, and a measure of wine each day.

Here, unburdened with caring for the expedition, he slept soundly below deck as the ship rolled and creaked, separated from the vast cold ocean only by thin planks of wood. Most days he spent easily, comfortable with the routine aboard ship, and reveling in the steady supply of wind. Other times, when the wind blew inconstantly, he caught up on his sleep, laying about in the sun like a lizard, happy and warm. Some afternoons he played game after game of dice with Tristan, and lost most often. The boy had swift fingers and a keen eye and a delighted, full-throated laugh upon winning.

One clear night, after an entire day spent becalmed, he stayed up on deck and taught Tristan the constellations as he had learned them from childhood: the three kings, the princess and water bearer, the charioteer and the big and little dog, the raven and cup and the cross. Tristan laughed at the story of the big and little dogs, who nipped and chased one another all up and down the heavens, pulling the princess’s veil off and tipping the water bearer’s vessels in their play.

“My youngest brother always liked that one the best,” Jensen admitted on a sudden melancholy note. “He would beg Father to tell it again and again. He never seemed to tire of it, though Father told it the same every time.”

They fell silent, both of them watching the path of a meteor that flared before blinking out of existence. Tristan lay on his back next to Jensen, the lean gangling length of him still and relaxed, save for his restless fingers, which fiddled with the end of a rope hanging off the mast.

“Your father sounds like a patient man,” Tristan mused.

Jensen’s voice was a low and quiet noise against the background murmurs of the sailors on watch. “He was known for his patience, and his good judgment. When the peasants had a dispute they always accepted his rulings without argument.” Jensen conjured his father’s well-loved face in his mind – the graying hair and lines around his eyes, his stooped posture and long stride. The aching well of grief within him opened, a void that churned and rolled. He turned from it.

“And your father?” Jensen inquired, when it seemed that his voice was steady. “What was he like?”

Tristan looked at him for a long moment, but Jensen could not perceive his expression in the darkness. When he spoke his voice was quiet, and tinged with wistfulness and pain. “He was a large bear of a man with a deep growling voice and huge hands and a frizzy black beard. He talked loudly and drank with gusto and he left my mother alone for months at a time. She would cry, sometimes, from loneliness. But when he was home they would often scream at one another and throw things. I was too slow ducking more than once. The neighbors were always complaining about the noise.” He gave a rueful little snort. “He was rough in speech and manners and truth be told, he didn’t like me much. He beat me more than I deserved, and when he died it was a relief in some ways.”

Tristan’s stark description of the man shocked Jensen. He wanted to say he was sorry, that no father should heap violence upon his son, that he was justified in his relief at the man’s passing. He knew better than to say these things, though. Tristan was like the dog who challenged the pack leader, attuned to weakness of any kind, reacting with swift anger and violence when he found it. Jensen knew his type well – had seen such men before and knew how to deal with them. So he kept the words of comfort in his throat, though he felt them struggling there for a long time.

The two of them watched the stars, silent and companionable, until the watch changed and weariness compelled them off to bed.

-*-

The storm came on quickly. In the morning, the sun shone brightly from between scattered clouds. At noon thick dark clouds clotted the sky and wind buffeted the sails and waves with equal fretfulness. When a hard, cold rain began to fall, the captain sent the passengers below deck, his normally wide, easy expression grim and tight.

Jensen stayed above deck, soaked by freezing rain and increasingly nauseous from the roll and dip of the tiny craft amidst the roiling insanity of water everywhere. When a particularly fearsome wave nearly rolled the ship over, he heard terrified cries rising from the hold. As soon as the ship righted itself enough for him to walk instead of crawl, he rushed below to check on the welfare of the others.

A fetid blast of warm air, foul with the stench of vomit, met him when he opened the door and descended the ladder. Everyone was crowded to one side, as were the tumble of their belongings, driven there by the rolling of the ship. Many of the passengers wept and prayed aloud, including both of Alona’s maids and several of Jensen’s hardened soldiers. At another time, in a safe place, he might have teased his men for their fearfulness. But here, now, he understood it far too well.

Tristan and Alona huddled away from the mass of people, both of them pale and frightened-looking, but silent. Shaken into setting aside propriety, Jensen went to them and put his arms around both of them at once. Then, mindful of his dripping clothes, he released them. Alona gave him a shaky smile, and clutched his hand, hers small and cold. In her other hand she held rosary beads, her fingers absently smoothing over them one by one.

Tristan’s eyes were huge, and his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. Jensen gripped his shoulder at the join of his neck and gave him what he hoped was an encouraging squeeze.

“Be strong,” he exhorted them both, even as the ship began another slanting roll, and the alarmed cries of the other passengers swelled. Jensen tried to find a steady stance and the three of them clung one to another like an unwieldy beast as the ship rose and plunged. One of the torches lighting the hold slipped from its holder and rolled across the floor, casting fearful shadows on the walls. The rocks that served as ballast in the hold beneath them shifted and rolled with terrible force, making the timbers beneath their feet tremble.

Jensen felt his stomach dip and twist, and that, combined with the ship’s movement and the sound of retching from some anonymous soul, nearly triggered a similar response in him. He fought for strength, and eventually both his gorge and the ship settled down. His head throbbed as well, and the misery drove him to sit back against the corner, eyes closed. Tristan and Alona settled next to him, and he felt Alona’s fingers card gently through his hair as she murmured the Lord’s Prayer in low cadence.

He rallied when the ship bobbed again and Alona gasped.

“Count through it,” he said to both of them. “Think about the numbers and speaking them slowly and evenly.” He demonstrated in Latin. “Unus, duo, tres, quattor, quinque, sex, septem, octo, novem, decem …”

Together, they recited the numbers in low tones, faltering only when the violence of the motion either sent them skidding across the floor or pitched them into walls or one another.

When a leak sprung on the port side – a separation of the planks that admitted intermittent water sprays, there was shouting and praying anew. Jensen and Tristan shoved someone’s spare tunic in the hole with cold-reddened fingers. They had scarcely finished when a huge wave pounded into the side of the ship, and they fell back, scrambling toward the corner where Alona waited.

Up surged the waves again, and Jensen began counting, trying to keep himself calm. Tristan’s strong voice echoed his. After a while, the others joined in as well, and slowly – agonizingly slowly – the terrible pitching waves shortened in duration. Again and again, the ship rolled and tipped, and again and again, they counted through the worst times.

The storm blew itself out with the night, leaving bitter cold in its wake. Morning found the lot of them staggering, bedraggled and exhausted, from the hold to the ice-slick deck. Jensen stepped wrong and slipped, sliding across the deck with such speed that it seemed he would vault right over the rail and into the sea below. Tristan reacted immediately, flinging himself on Jensen to stop his movement, heedless of his own safety. The two of them crashed into the railing in a tangle of limbs.

Jensen righted himself with effort, since his grip kept slipping from the slickness everywhere, but eventually he made it to a sitting position, helping Tristan to the same. The two of them sat there panting and looking at one another, the moment of fear slowly receding. Tristan cast back his head, letting out a slow deep breath in relief and at that very moment a slushy piece of ice from the rigging cast down and struck him right in the middle of his forehead, splashing water all over his face and hair. He looked so surprised and then annoyed that Jensen burst out laughing, and couldn’t seem to stop himself though he knew he sounded half crazed. Tristan joined in after a bit, and soon they were both cackling like drunks.

The long night was ended.

Part VII

 

Comments

[sandymg.livejournal.com]

That storm was quite scary. Much more and I would have started to feel seasick :)

I liked the scene where Jensen comforted Alona and Tristan at the same time. It's rather easy to see a three-some developing. Although I don't think such a relationship could be maintained given what seems to be going on.

This: Tristan was like the dog who challenged the pack leader, attuned to weakness of any kind, reacting with swift anger and violence when he found it. Jensen knew his type well – had seen such men before and knew how to deal with them. So he kept the words of comfort in his throat, though he felt them struggling there for a long time.
--- Lovely characterization. Visual and striking and painted the clearest of pictures.