those who take up arms in her name.
The boat quivered beneath them like a horse about to expire. Overhead, something struck the hide roof, and the water-soaked leather hissed and steamed. A roaring noise like the howl of angry demons made the men flinch, and long black fingers of ash began to smear through the protective cover.
Eptor started to moan, his face slick with sweat.
Raphael shook his head, trying to catch the other man’s gaze. Eptor, caught up in the shame of his terror, refused to look at Raphael.
Raphael grabbed the chain of the other man’s maille and hauled him close. They were going to cross the bridge together. He needed Eptor to not panic. As the hide roof began to smoke and crumble to fiery ash, he put his mouth close to Eptor’s ear and began to shout the Virgin’s Prayer.
The deck lurched beneath them as the boat collided with the rocky spur that supported the chain tower. Wood splintered far beneath them, and the tenor of the river changed as water began rushing into the shattered hull. “Attack!” Edzard screamed.
The ropes holding the bridge were cut. The narrow crossing fell, bouncing as its end collided with the rough ramparts of the tower. The men surged forward, eager to cross the exposed bridge.
There was no more time for prayer.
Take up your arms, my brothers, and fight.
She will be waiting for us.
VERNA, 1224
Raphael’s admission of being in Egypt did little to diminish the lay brothers’ enthusiasm. Welcoming the young man as an honored guest, they practically dragged him to the oratory, where he couldn’t escape their queries. Initially reticent to talk of his experiences in Egypt, Raphael finally relented after some earnest coaxing from Piro and the younger men. At first he spoke hesitantly, clearly having trouble settling on a story, but after a few minutes of haphazard storytelling, he fell into an oft-told tale. He spoke plainly and easily, with a natural oratorical grace that reminded Brother Leo of a young Brother Francis.
Brother Leo had at first assumed Raphael to be nothing more than an itinerant student, a minor son of a wealthy Ghibelline family from Arezzo who had joined one of the military orders. After listening to Raphael speak, Brother Leo was struck by the similarity between who this boy had become and who Brother Francis might have been. Francis, eager to wear the mantle of chivalrous knighthood, had taken up arms along with many other sons of Assisi against Perugia. When the battle had been lost at Collestrada, Francis had been captured and held for ransom — a captivity that was to last a year. If God had not chosen Francis, would he have become like this man? Brother Leo wondered.
“This fire you speak of,” Brother Cotsa asked. “Greek fire. What is it?”
“It is an alchemical mystery,” Raphael explained. “It is water that burns. It was the Byzantines, I believe, who mastered it first. They used it against the Persian Empire, and since then their alchemists have been attempting to create their own version. Naft, they call it. They put the liquid in a flask and wrap the flask in leather and cloth, which they set alight. The mangonel hurls these flaming flasks with enough force that they shatter upon impact, spreading a large wave of burning liquid.” He held up his hands as if he were cradling a skull. “Something not much larger than this” — he spread his arms, indicating the sparse space of the oratory — “and…” He faltered, suddenly at a loss for words, realizing what he was implying with his gesture.
This entire room, Brother Leo realized, filled with fire. “Let us speak no more of these atrocities of war,” he interjected quickly. He fumbled for the wooden cross attached to the loose strands of cord around his neck.
He said this more for the benefit of the others, but it was clear that his words broke through whatever spell had come over the young man in the telling of his tale. “I am sorry,” Raphael stuttered suddenly. “I…That is not why I came here.” His eyes widened as he seemed to realize how small the oratory was, how hemmed in he was by the others. The frightened face of a trapped animal.
Brother Leo shoved his way through the crowd and inserted himself between Raphael and the lay brothers. “Enough,” he said. “We have been neglectful in our hospitality. Did our guests not bring victuals? We should investigate as to the possibility of a bottle of wine. And some cheeses perhaps. Those would be a proper cause for celebration, especially in this house of God.” He glared at Cotsa and Mante, the two who had been most vocal in their desire to hear the young knight’s stories.
Brother Mante was already fleeing for the door, Piro at his heels, eager to retrieve the forgotten satchels. The other lay brothers nervously made the sign of the cross as they tried to make themselves less noticeable to Brother Leo’s baleful eye. He was not without fault, he knew. He too had been caught up by the young knight’s tale.
He turned and sat down heavily next to Raphael on the rough-hewn bench that served as the room’s pulpit. “I have been a Fraticelli, a lesser brother, for many years,” he said, “and I have lived here since this oratory was first built. I should be more accustomed to the life I have chosen for myself — for the devotion I have given myself over to.” He smiled at the contrite man sitting next to him, a fatherly smile meant to reassure and comfort. “But, as God continues to remind me — to remind each of us — we remain fallible, easily led astray. We crave the company of others. We delight in stories of outrageous adventure.” He shook his head. “We forget the burden laid upon those who tell such stories.”
Raphael said nothing. His hands fumbled over each other, and more than once his right hand strayed toward the hilt of his sword.
What atrocities has this young man experienced? Brother Leo wondered. Brother Francis had railed many times about the lack of faith in those who sent young men to die in Crusades. Are we not shepherds of a flock? Francis had preached more than once since returning from the Levant. And does this flock not seek guidance and humility and sanctuary from us? This young man had been trained for war, and he had survived a Crusade known for its brutality. What was left? Brother Leo wondered.
“During the Crusade, I saw many whose faith in God failed to sustain them. On both sides,” Raphael said, his voice soft enough that Brother Leo had to lean his shoulder against the other man’s in order to make out the words. “Do you know the Muslims believe in the same God as Christians do? They have a different name for him — Allah.”
“I have heard Brother Francis speak of the Muslim beliefs,” Brother Leo replied, happy to be speaking of a different topic, even if it was one he was not well versed in. “I have not had the opportunity to study them myself,” he admitted.
“Do you know their traditional greeting?” Raphael put his hands together as he had when he had first arrived. “ As-Salamu ‘Alaykum,” he said. “It means ‘Peace be upon you.’ That is not dissimilar to the greeting you offered me. I have heard Brother Francis use it as well.”
“He finds it suits his mission — our mission — quite well,” Brother Leo said, nodding.
“My father was a German soldier,” Raphael said. “He fought for Frederick Barbarossa and went with him to the Holy Land for the Crusade. When Frederick died in the river crossing, my father completed the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He ended up fighting for King Richard of England against Saladin. However, when Richard returned to England, my father stayed in Acre. My mother told me he became a Knight of the Teutonic Order, but” — Raphael shrugged — “when I got old enough to ask of him, the master of the order claimed to not know my father.”
Brother Leo nodded. He continued to fiddle with his cross, playing the well-rehearsed role of listener.
“I grew up among Muslims,” Raphael continued, winding his way toward the confession he sought to make. “I played in the shadow of Muslim minarets and mosques. Their call to prayer — the azan — was as much a part of my childhood as the shouts of the merchants in the market or any oratory from a pulpit. More so, in fact, for it happened multiple times each day. How could I become a Christian warrior and treat these people as my lifelong enemy?”
Brother Leo shrugged as if the question was mysteriously opaque to him as well.
“When I was old enough to think I knew something of the world, I stowed away on a Venetian merchant ship. The captain found my audacity not without charm, and instead of hurling me into the Mediterranean, he put me to work. I stayed with him for several years, all the while yearning to set foot in Christendom — the land where my father had come from. Finally, when the ship was in Trieste for repairs, I managed to escape. I went north, hoping
