Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad

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 to find the Teutonic knights again. They had gone to Transylvania to fight against the hordes from the east — an enemy of which I had no knowledge. I could kill these infidels, I thought, because they were strange to me. During my journey, I fell in with a party traveling to Petraathen, the citadel of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. They took me in instead, and after years of training, I took their vows — pledging myself to serve the Order and the Virgin.”

Brother Mante returned, a bottle in either hand. “Ho,” he said. “A bounty has been provided.” Piro crowded behind him, carrying an armful of wooden cups.

As one of the bottles was opened and the cups were filled, Raphael sighed. “God is testing me, isn’t he?” he asked.

Brother Leo hesitated. God tests all of us was the thought he had, but he feared such language would not assuage the young man’s despair. He wished Brother Francis were with them. He would have words that would soothe the knight; he could tell Raphael of his own trials as a knight of Assisi. He had been commanded to fight against his own people when Assisi went to war with Perugia.

But Brother Leo had not had such experience. Nor, he quickly admitted to himself, will I ever know what it is like to take up a sword against another man. Battle changed men; that was part of why Francis preached so strenuously for nonviolent resolutions to conflict. Fighting your fellow man was bestial behavior — worse than beasts, in fact, for no wolf or bear assaulted kin for the specious reasons many nobleman and king clung to as their rationale for going to war.

He accepted a cup from Piro and swallowed a mouthful of the warm liquid, wincing at the bitterness of the young wine. “God is inexplicable,” he said, moving his tongue around his mouth in a vain effort to clear the taste. “He gives us both anger and compassion in equal portions,” he continued, trying to recall one of Brother Francis’s sermons. “Which of those two we choose to live our lives by is how we demonstrate whether we are worthy of His grace.”

Raphael had accepted a cup from Piro as well, but he rested it on his thigh as if he was unaware of its presence. Brother Leo could not entirely blame him. A cup of wine was a rare luxury at the hermitage, but even his dull palate could tell this wine could have benefited from another season in its barrel.

Patience was a virtue, especially among vintners.

Brother Leo waited for Raphael to continue. The young man’s burden had been carried a long distance, and it would take him a little while to shrug it off his shoulders.

“I killed men in Egypt,” Raphael said, finally stirring himself to speak again. “Shortly after I took my vows, we were ordered to join the Crusade to take Egypt from the Sultan, Saphadin. I went with my brothers, eager to make the right choice. I had been instructed, over and over again until it was the only thing I seemed to know, that the Virg — that God — wanted me to defend Him. I must uphold God’s law, and to do so, I must defeat those who wish to subvert His law. And that is what I did. I killed men in the name of God. Men, who, in another time and place, might have been kind to me as a child. Why were they my enemy? Because they believed that Jesus Christ was just a man and not the Son of God? Does that make them any less deserving of my compassion?”

Brother Leo tried to think of a suitable response, but nothing came to mind.

“I arrive at your sanctuary, and even though you do not know me, you greet me with affection. ‘May the Lord give you peace,’ is what you said.” Raphael twisted his body so that he could look at Brother Leo. “And how do I return your blessing? Your lay brothers ply me with requests to tell them of my exploits, and I agree to their request.” His voice was agitated, rising from deep within his throat. “The Crusade was a failure, and yet I am looked upon as a hero for what I did. I speak of my actions not with shame and revulsion but with pride. How can my spirit be so…so broken? How can a man suffer to live with this desire to please God — to train and take up arms in His name — and yet still live a compassionate life?”

Mark Teppo