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.
VERNA, 1224
“Have 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?”
“Eptor,” Raphael said. “He is no longer with us.”
Brother Francis lowered his head. “May his soul find comfort with God,” he said with heartfelt compassion.
Raphael nodded curtly, not wishing to speak otherwise, but in his heart he wondered if Eptor had not found solace in the arms of another.
“A terrible tragedy, Damietta,” Brother Francis said, continuing his slow shuffle toward the shack. “So many lost.”
“It got worse,” Raphael said. “After your mission.”
“So I heard,” Brother Francis said. His upper body twitched as if he was adjusting the immense load borne by his bowed shoulders. “Pelagius refused to open his heart to God, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Damietta wasn’t enough. After your departure from Egypt, the legate began to talk of marching on Cairo. Sir John and a number of the other lords abandoned the cause, but the legate kept many with him — held them captive with promises of God’s eternal reward. And then he discovered the prophecy. A lost book of the Bible, supposedly written by a man named Clement. It spoke of a great Crusader victory in Egypt. He held it up as proof
