Pilgrims of Promise (6 page)

Pieter and his company followed the harbor road as it arced its way along the water’s edge. Back toward the city they marched, past the jetty of death and deliverance, past the brawling tavern, the sailmaker’s shop, along the wharves and the wall until they stood staring hopefully at the twin, cylindrical stone towers of the eastern gate, the
Porta Soprana.
Pieter winked at his companions and joined a throng of well-dressed merchantmen, coarse teamsters and their wagons, and a colorful procession of nobles, men-at-arms, and seamen funneling through the sixty-year-old portal. As they passed by, Pieter’s eyes fell upon an inscription: “If you come peacefully, you may touch these gates; if you come in war, you will leave defeated.” The old man grinned and dragged his hands along the rough stone. “I’m not sure yet!” he mused.

Inside the city’s four hundred-year-old walls the group paused to stare. Otto called from the rear of the group, “It stinks like Basel!”

“Aye! What city doesn’t?” answered Pieter with a laugh. The ancient city reeked of human waste and manure, of urine and garbage. But despite its terrible odor, wealth had begun to reshape the bawdy port. Competing with Venice and with Pisa, the Genoese had pilfered the Christian East as well as the coffers of Islam during various crusades. Their first patron saint, St. George, had been joined by St. John the Baptist, St. Lawrence, and the Virgin Mary in the city’s protection, and these new saintly alliances seemed to have provided every advantage to its residents. The old city of fieldstone and timber had fast given way to marble from Carrara and Promontorio. Master masons from Milan, sculptors, painters, and architects from Byzantium had joined with the finest Genoese craftsmen to form powerful guilds that had reborn the city as a vital, artistic jewel of the Christian Mediterranean.

Pieter and his companions wasted no time in searching for city officials. The priest hoped to have an audience with the governor—the
podesta.
What he could not have known was that the Brescian-born governor, Manegoldo of Tettoccio, was unpopular enough already and had no tolerance for the stray waifs annoying his city.

“Children, get in good order!” snapped Pieter. With his threadbare crusaders in queue and Solomon trotting at his side, he began approaching numbers of guards, strolling men-at-arms, and other minor officials.
“Si, si,
I understand,” pleaded the old man, “but we must be taken to the
podesta
or a magistrate … perhaps the captain of the city guard?”

Again and again his pleas were met with scoffs and threats and even one awful wad of spittle in the face. Discouraged, Pieter climbed the hills of the city until he finally led his trudging company to the gates of the governor’s palace. He had barely opened his mouth before lowered lances chased him away. Returned to the streets, Pieter pointed to a wall. “See, there? A fresco of incredible value! Yet they will not spare a pittance in charity.”

“Should we forgive them, Father?” cried a voice.

The old man spat.
Reproved by a child!
he said to himself. He leaned on his staff and faced his column. “What say you?”

The children shrugged, most wrinkling their noses.

“Our Lord said, ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.’ Think about that in this place.” He turned and whispered to Solomon, “And if they can forgive the devils, I hope they teach me how!”

Thoroughly discouraged, Pieter led his weary children on a wandering trail through the alleys and byways of Genoa. Eventually the frustrated crusaders became utterly lost among the arcades and markets, the courtyards and gardens of the city. They tramped through the neighborhoods of the nobles, past marble portals, lovely colonnades, and arched windows of colored glass. They trudged by fountains and into a spectacular piazza where Pieter finally paused to preach.

A growing group of curious onlookers listened to the old man crow in his poor Italian, pleading with them to offer one last gesture of Christian virtue for the welfare of the little ones. He preached of the compassion of Jesus, the love of Mary, the faithfulness of the saints, and the hope of the angels. He promised them that he would lead his broken lambs far away, that the foreign children would “no longer stain the beauty of fair Genoa with their wretched presence”—if only some could fill their baskets and their opened palms with pennies or scraps of food or even rags for their bleeding feet.

With arms spread wide and his face tilted toward heaven, the old man begged the gathered citizens on behalf of his starving waifs. He entreated, he implored, he beseeched, coaxed, petitioned, and finally fell to his knees weeping in a final, desperate supplication.

He then fell silent, exhausted and without words.

The audience murmured, then tittered, and then returned to the tables of wine, cheese, and fruits scattered about the piazza, a few tossing pennies for the pleasure of seeing the desperate children scramble for them. Pieter stood quietly and finally gathered his little ones. “Come, my lambs, follow me.” The old priest smiled at his flock and took his position at the fore of their column. With a firm grip on his staff, he lifted his head proudly and led his young crusaders through the square, elbowing his way past ample women adorned in all their finery, past protesting gentlemen in velvet doublets, and past gaping churchmen boasting fine vestments.

With little more than a shilling for their troubles, the company stumbled upon a kindly cluster of nuns who pointed them to the monastery of St. Andrea, where they fared a little better, leaving with baskets now half-filled with bread and some cheese.

Croaking like a veteran beggar, Pieter strained through the narrow streets of the city, passing by countless ruins of imperial Rome, along the crowded edges of piazzas and under the watch of the city’s many towers. He scolded one of his young boys for pilfering a blind man’s basket but ignored the quick hands of a little girl who plucked a lemon from a passing cart.

Pieter’s crusaders passed the palaces of noble families with names such as Alessi, del Popolo, Sale, and De Martini. Begging as they went, they marched through the rutted streets along the ancient wall until they arrived at the city’s cathedral—the Cattedrale di S. Lorenzo—where they paused to gawk. “Inside, children, are the wonders of conquest. I am told it is filled with gold and silver chalices, jewel-studded crosses, the finest vestments, and breathtaking reliefs. Crusaders have filled its reliquaries with miracle-working icons, including the ashes of St. John the Baptist. Humph, pity to have all that yet no food for the poor.”

Turned away by an impatient clerk, the discouraged crusaders finally made their way to the shade of a squat tree. A wealthy woman strutted past and tossed a penny with her nose lifted high. Pieter caught the coin and called after her,
“Danke!”
The word prompted a loud “humph.”

“Papa Pieter, why won’t any help us?” asked Ava.

Pieter shrugged. “I feared it would be so. Look at us. Our skin is pink, our tongue is different. Look at our clothes…. We are poor and dirty. We come here uninvited, unwelcome. We do not belong.”

Chapter Three

THE SEARCH FOR EDEN’S GATE

H
ow is he?” asked Heinrich as he crouched by Frieda’s side.

“Somewhat better. He was awake until moments ago. I told him of all that has happened.”

Heinrich nodded and lightly touched Wil’s face. “Seems the fever’s broken.”

“
Ja
, but we must allow the wounds to dry.”

The man studied Wil’s bandages and lifted a few to check his stitched wounds. “The red worries me some.”

Frieda nodded. “The deep cut along his belly is the worst. It gives pus and the redness has spread.”

Heinrich gently lifted the bandage off the lad’s left cheek. “He’ll have a scar from nearly eye bone to chin.”

“There is no better scar in all Christendom, m’lord. ‘Twas earned in saving others, and I’ll see it always as his mark of honor.”

“Ah, my dear. Well said. The boy has the heart of a knight.”

At that moment Otto appeared with a couple of younger boys. They were the first of Pieter’s column to return from the city, and they dumped a pitiful collection of crusts, garlics, cracked eggs, and onions on the ground. “They deserve to be robbed,” he grumbled.

As the rest of the crusaders returned to camp, the bells of the city pealed loudly, announcing the prayers of nones. The children had been given little, though the monasteries had provided what they could. Soon the day’s collections were combined, and after a few words of thanksgiving, Pieter, Paul, and Heinrich summoned eager hands to begin the distribution.

By compline, what had been gathered was eaten, a few pennies counted, and feet were wrapped in the city’s rags. Pieter made one final attempt to dissuade Paul from either his plot to rob the city that night or to take his crusade to Rome. Failing once more, he returned to Heinrich, and the two men surveyed their new company.

Forty children had chosen to follow Pieter and Heinrich. Most of the children were younger, as the majority of older ones had chosen to follow Paul. They were small and bony, and though a fortunate few wore shoes, none carried a blanket. About a third of the group were girls of varying ages, most being under twelve. Their ankle-length gowns were torn and tattered, their hair tied with weedy vines or loosely braided.

Heinrich looked about his group. “You, lad, your name again?”

A broad-faced boy of nearly fifteen stepped forward. “I am Rudolf of parts by Liestal.”

Heinrich nodded. The fellow seemed pleasant enough, respectful and proud. “It was your parents who gave help to Wil’s company in the mountains of the north?”

“
Ja
.”

The two chatted for a few moments before Heinrich said, “You’ll be a captain.” The man called another forward. “And your name, lad?”

“I am Helmut from parts near Bremen.” The narrow-faced boy was about the same age as Rudolf.

“Bremen?” The familiar name caused Heinrich’s face to tighten. “You live far to the east to join the crusade in Cologne.”

“
Ja
, sir. My father is a free merchant in the lands of Lord Ohrsbach. He took me to the fair in Cologne when Nicholas was preaching of crusade.”

The baker nodded. “I see. Very well then. You’re to be the other captain.”

Heinrich raised his hand over the quieting assembly. “Hear me, all of you. We shall divide you into two groups of twenty. Each group will report to one captain. Over the captains is Otto, whom we shall call ‘Master,’ and over Otto is Wil, Father Pieter, and m’self. When Wil is healed, he shall be your leader, while Father Pieter and me will be his counselors. Is that understood?”

The children whispered amongst themselves. Most thought it a reasonable order of things. What Pieter lacked in menace, Heinrich had; what Heinrich lacked in wit, Pieter had. Wil, of course, was one of
them
and, as such, their true leader.

“Master Otto!” called Heinrich. “See that the groups are arranged. Keep the girls and little ones divided evenly.”

The thirteen-year-old puffed his chest.
Master!
he said to himself.
I like the sound of that!

Pieter drew Heinrich aside. “Tis time we were leaving. Paul will not be dissuaded, and his group will enter the city about an hour past compline. If my memory holds, the monastery I spoke of is about six leagues south. With this bunch I fear it is a three-day march.”

“You think Wil can travel safely?”

“I do. His litter is sturdy.”

“And what about food along the way?”

“I’ve no idea. We’ll pray for mercy.”

Heinrich sighed. “Forty of us and barely more than a turnip or a pea! I’ve some gold that should help and some silver pennies.”

“Ja,
my son. But we must not forget we’ve a long journey north when winter’s past. We should use your gold coins sparingly. How many have you?”

The two walked out of view, where Heinrich reached into his badly worn satchel and retrieved the pouch once presented by the old tinker of Salzburg—the gift from poor Dietmar of Gratz. He lifted it and handed it to Pieter.

As the priest untied the bag, he stared inside and informed Heinrich that the coins were likely minted in Sicily. “Ducats … they’re precious and valued all over Christendom.”

“Aye.” Heinrich picked one out and set it aside. “I’ve a special use for this one,” he said. He then grabbed a handful and began dropping them one at a time into Pieter’s joined palms. As they fell, each counted coin clinked atop the others like the sound of rain on thirsty ground, and when the counting was done, the two men looked at one another in astonishment.

“Amazing!”

“Unbelievable!”

“How can it be so?”

“Forty!” exclaimed Heinrich.

Pieter grinned. “Ah, the angels are surely with us. One gold coin for each child! God be praised!”

The pair returned to their company and immediately disclosed the plan to leave within the hour and to travel by night until they were beyond the wrath of Genoa. Surprised, the children were immediately anxious. Travel by night was a fearsome thing. Evil was known to lurk in darkness—highwaymen, wicked villains, beasts, spirits, and dreaded creatures of legend. They might become lost to wander endlessly in the mountains rising steeply from the sea. Or they might stumble upon some unseen precipice, only to fall into the merciless black waters below. “Pieter,” said Otto, “surely not by night.”

The priest understood, as did Heinrich. The baker, too, had ventured out in darkness along some fearsome trails. He thought of the Bohemian swamp and shuddered. Pieter nodded. “
Ja
, but know this: your enemies fear as well. You’ve suffered far more than they, and your sufferings have made you stronger than them all.”

“But you’ve not yet said where we’ll be going?” Otto asked.

“We’ve spies about, Otto, so I cannot say. I ask that you trust
Herr
Heinrich and m’self until we’ve begun our journey.”

Still worried, the lad nonetheless agreed.

“Good. Now we must make ready. Have you organized the groups according to Heinrich’s plan?”

“
Ja
.”

“Have we any sort of buckets or flasks?”

“We’ve a few things among us,” answered Helmut. “A few pots, some clay jars, and the like.”

“It will have to do.” Heinrich cast a worried eye at Paul’s group now assembled and receiving instructions from their commanders.
Brave lads, all… and maids as well,
he thought.
If they only knew what sorrows are waiting in Rome
. He shook his shaggy head and walked toward them.

Paul turned to greet the man. “Godspeed to you and yours,
Herr
Heinrich.”

“And to you, son.” The man studied three rows of about twenty crusaders each. Most still carried wooden crosses stuffed defiantly in their belts. Their breasts still boasted embroidered red crosses—faded and tattered though they were. “Is there to be no changing your mind on this?”

“Nay, m’lord. We are fixed to do what we must to save our crusade.”

“You truly believe the pope will give you guidance?”

Paul nodded confidently. “He shall equip us to carry on our crusade.”

Heinrich sighed sadly. “Each of your followers has been offered a fair chance to join with us?”

“Aye.”

“And none of yours wishes to refuse your night’s raid on the city?”

“Aye.”

Heinrich looked at Paul’s gathering comrades quietly.
Brave, but so foolish,
he thought. Realizing he could not stop them, he relented. “Well then, walk with me for a moment.” He led Paul a short distance from all the others and extended his hand. In the center of his palm was a gold coin. “Take this, my son. Take it to Rome. Find the church called
Santa Maria in Domnica,
and there you must give it to Sister Anoush. Tell her of me; tell her I’ve sent you. Tell her ‘the worm is no more.’ She will help you in ways beyond what the mere value of this gold could ever do.”

Puzzled but grateful, Paul received the coin and closed his fingers around it tightly. He looked into Heinrich’s face with sincere gratitude and nodded.

Each camp reviewed its particular plan one final time. For Paul, the strategy of the night’s robbery was complicated and perilous. He had decided to send seven groups of five through the gates along the northern arc of the city wall, the rest in trios through the carefully guarded southern gates. He had assigned most to the neighborhoods of the wealthy, though his group was intending to pilfer the Commenda—the hospice for travelers en route to Palestine. After the raid, they’d make their way quickly southward in hopes of eventually gaining an audience with the pope in his Lateran Palace.

Meanwhile, Pieter’s captains checked their commands carefully to be sure all were accounted for and what few possessions they had were not forgotten. Frieda changed Wil’s bandages before others tied the young man securely to his litter. Pieter prayed for his new flock, then for Paul’s, pleading in grave tones for the safety of both and a happy end to their suffering.

Then, as the bells of compline prayers began to echo over the rooftops of Genoa, the two bands of crusaders bade their reluctant farewell. With tears, both companies embraced and wished one another Godspeed. They now suffered that painful moment when friendships lose their breath to become mere memories, when the sharing of life ends and reminiscing begins. For these veterans of hardship, purposes were no longer held in common, and new paths would lead them to different places. So while one was yet called “crusader,” the other would now be called “pilgrim.” And with that simple change in title, that subtle shift in name, destinies would be forever divided. They would never meet again.

Night fell quickly as Wil’s company hurried away from Genoa. As fearsome as the darkness was, however, it did not quench the relief felt by leaving the unfriendly city behind.

The road was narrow but remarkably free from ruts. It had been cut through the mountains by the Roman legions centuries before and followed the arching Ligurian coastline from Genoa to all parts south. The forty pilgrims could not see it, but just two rods beyond the road’s shoulder were steep slopes and stark cliffs dropping to the rock-edged sea. It was enough that they could hear the menacing rumbling far below.