A Gift from Tartary

By Gary Magallon

A Gift From Tartary, whose central character, a Benedictine monk in the service of the Papacy, is unwillingly thrust into the Mongol whirlwind. The main character and other key players are fictitious, as are particular events relating to their ordeals. The novel is historically accurate, rich in detail. It is the story of one mans conflict, a scholarly monk torn between his duty to the Church and that pledged to his new masters, the pagan Mongols. This is a journey into one of the most spectacular and contradictory periods of history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 7, 2005
• ISBN: 9781462820085

Book preview

I

Was there a portent? An unseasonable chill in the air, perhaps? Winds uncharacteristically blowing inland from the Adriatic, from the east? Better yet, rumors of plague, an infestation of rats, the moon turned blood red. Did I uproot a turnip shaped like a human fetus?

If so, it passed by my senses unobserved, a shadow in the night.

Then again, who am I to deserve a sign from Heaven, an alteration in the divine order of things. A clerk, a courier, a lover of a blue-eyed Saracen, an old wayward monk is all I was and am; a lame, half-blind mole whose thoughts and passions are locked onto the past like loadstone to the North Star. As a Benedictine I should above all be heedful to the present and future well-being of others, only marginally concerned with myself and not at all with worldly deeds played out long ago. At most, I shall be remembered as a teller of tall tales, slightly mad, arguably a fool, who in spite of his vocation was never able to sufficiently impart the fear of sin’s consequences upon even the most receptive of ears. But why should I wish to make anyone’s life more difficult and fear-ridden than it already is? Have I not seen enough suffering to last ten men’s lifetimes? A hundred men’s? I have swam in rivers of blood; choked on the odor of burning flesh; beheld magical cities turned to dust; Gardens of Eden made desert. Is a reprive from certain spiritual duties too much to ask of one who has witnessed such chaos, such pain? For his own sake as well as for those he should attend?

Surely, I shall not be remembered as being much of a Christian, much less a credible monk.

Indeed, in time, I shall not be remembered at all.

And yet… God knows, I have seen things and have met men the likes of which the world may never again behold.

There was nothing, I say, nothing visibly portentious about that tranquil sun-drenched morning so long ago when the austere comforts and simple joys of my cloistered life were suddenly thrown overboard into a strange and violent sea of incertitude. On the contrary, it was a typical August day, hot as a baker’s oven and flavored with the smell of rotting fruit; clouds as white as angel wings trailing across a pallid blue sky toward Tuscany; black clouds edging the hilly horizon like smoke from a billowing caldron that would bring the usual afternoon rains; below my window in the south wing of the abbey, looking away from the Lateran and its uninspiring dome, the little piazza nestled amongst the cypresses congested, as always, with a horde of pigeons hectically scavanging for whatever edibles had fallen off the carts earlier that morning as they rolled to and from the market place; the old beggar woman squatting like a toad on a weedy patch of shade where the road and piazza meet. For as long as I lived at St. John’s Abbey this was her beggar spot, her sanctuary of subsistence. She may have had another, for by noon she would disappear, as would the pigeons, to reappear as diligently as they the next morning. There are so many beggars in Rome these days one doubts if she could have found a place as free of competition as is our little piazza. Although the traffic along the adjoining road is light, except at dawn when the market place opens, it must have been quite sufficient for the needs of a single elderly pauper. Perhaps she merely went home at noon—if one could call living under a bridge of the Tiber or within the crook of some dismantled ruin home.

As for myself, there was little reason to doubt that I had not found a home for life. I would work, study, fulfill my pious duties, grow old and die in the service of the Church at the very core of its glory—Rome. But as I sat at the table that ordinary summer morning idly glancing out the window of my cell, having wrestled with Ptolemey’s tangled Greek since before dawn, the day progressing with complacent regularity, there came an urgent knock on the door and the pronouncement by the papal secretary, Friar Thomas, that his Holiness, Honorius III, wanted to see me, at once!

I was dumb-founded, to say the least. Why would the Holy Father wish to see me, a mere scribe? For in truth that was all I was, but one of an army of copyists, translators, calligraphers and notaries engaged by the Papacy to help facilitate its multi-layered obligations, an army which seemed to have tripled in size and duties since the pontificate of Honorius’ illustrious predecessor, Innocent III.

Too stunned to respond rationally, I echoed stupidly, Me? The Holy Father wishes to see me?

Are you deaf, man! Yes, you! At once! The stoutly built Augustinian was standing just inside the room, having opened the door on his own, the brows of his ruddy moon shaped face pinched with impatience, a doughy white hand restlessly fingering the folds of his habit. One would think it were he, not I, whom the Holy Father had summoned.

It is not easy to describe the thoughts and emotions which play havoc on one’s being at such overpowering moments. Fear, excitement, disbelief, denial, ground swells of panic all vying for dominance, none completely gaining hold. I tried to read Thomas’ expression, see behind the sense of urgency straining his soft, unweathered features. Was I to be reprimanded for a mistake in a translation of one of the correspondences from Constantinople I had recently made? A mistake so serious the Holy Father wished to chastise me personally? Or was it potentially even more serious than that? Had my avowed interest in the works of such nonchristian thinkers as Avicenna and Averroes, both newly condemned to the fires of Hell by the Bishop of Lyons, come to the attention of some important personage here in Rome? Yet these and many other works of equal controversy had been flooding into the universities and cathedral schools of Christendom for almost a century now, stimulating the intellectual fervor of many of our most celebrated churchmen, abbots and bishops included. So why would I, a humble clerk, be singled out for censure? And by the Holy Father himself?

These and a dozen other improbable thoughts swept through my mind like a frigid gale yet there was nothing to be read on Thomas’ face except annoyance at my sluggish reaction and, curiously, a touch of glee in those ice blue Celtic eyes of his, a look almost feminine in nature which I was later to see in the eyes of eunuchs preparing virgins for their first night with the potentates of the East.

Come, come, Lorenzo, do you think his Holiness has nothing better to do than wait for a lowly clerk he has summoned? Scowling like a fishwife, he stepped briskly into the room and literally grabbed the leaf from Ptolemey’s Geography out of my hands which I had been mindlessly holding ever since he had knocked on the door and quickly laid it atop the table face down so as not to have the words of the devil offend his eye, for Thomas was one of those old fashioned monks who thought all pagan writers corruptive of Christian virtues. He looked at me and smiled slyly. Don’t worry, Lorenzo, I do not think you are to be burned at the stake—just yet. But why the Holy Father—. He shook his head in bafflement. Just be thankful that you have been blessed with the opportunity to meet the heir of St. Peter in person. Few men have been so honored.

Including himself, I suspected. Friar Thomas was little more than a messenger boy, forever scurrying back and forth between the ancient archways and corridors of the sacrum palatium with notes and dispatched of varying importance but seldom, if ever, dealing face to face with anyone of more consequence than a fellow secretary. At the moment I think he would have gladly exchanged his position for mine. And I, just as gladly, with him.

Firmly cupping his hand under my elbow, he herded me out of the room like a proverbial lamb headed for slaughter. If there was a premonition on my part it was then as I stepped into the hall, for I felt compelled to look over my shoulder at the sparsely furnished cell that had been my home for half a decade—at the ragged straw cot, more hair shirt than bed, abutted against the stone wall opposite the window, an emblem of celibacy; at the rough-hewed table and chair where it seemed most my waking hours in Rome had been spent hunched over like a beetle, my nose buried in soiled manuscripts and crisp new documents, eyes blurred by fatigue and the failing light of flickering candles, fingers cramped like a leper’s. In the winter my hands so cold I could barely hold a quill, yet despite all the discomforts my mind hotly, feverishly digesting a storm of ideas and speculations streaming into Christendom from the East, from, the past. But as I say I had the sinking feeling that all of this was about to change. How or why, I had not the slightest intuition. But change, yes. In that, I could not have been more prophetic.

Instead of ushering me out of the front gate of the abbey and toward the Basilica of Annibaldeshi which is the most direct route to the Lateran Palace, where I assumed I was being taken, Friar Thomas led me down a back stairway and across a small vineyard rather negligently attended by we Benedictines. From there we crossed a dirt road, more a footpath really, utilized in the day by pilgrims as the quickest route to St. Peter’s Basilica on the other side of the city and at night by thieves to prey upon stragglers. We crossed an open field littered with debris and rotting animal remains and by this roundabout way reached a side wing of the Lateran Palace some three or four archways over from where the statue of Marcus Aurelius stands reposed in a posture of pagan serenity.

Added to the main structure in the time of Gregory the Great, the wing we had entered is noted for its narrow, serpentine corridors, built in imitation it is said, of the catacombs under the city. Had I been alone I would have been lost in no time at all. Of course, the passageways had been constructed in such a maze-like manner with exactly that in mind—to confuse marauders or any unauthorized person attempting to enter the palace from this easily pregnable side entrance, a case which did not apply to Friar Thomas. He led me through the torch lit labyrinth with the instincts of a sewer rat, never showing a moment’s hesitation as we turned one way then another down a moldy web of stone wall tunnels.

Even though the dungeon-like atmosphere only served to enhance the sense of doom weighing on me, its secretive, reclusive nature was to my liking. So far, at least, my crime, whatever it might be, was not being turned into a public spectacle. Moreover, no one, save Friar Thomas, was as yet privy to the discreditable manifestations of anxiety I was exhibiting with increasing clarity the further we proceeded along this dark, circuitous route to my enigmatic audience with the Holy Father. My face was beaded with sweat only partially caused by the heat of the poorly ventilated corridors; my hands were as clammy as a wet sponge, my legs weak, rubbery; my heart beating so fast I thought it would burst against my chest. If Thomas heard me murmuring non-stop under my breath as I struggled to keep up with him he said nothing about it. I was praying for courage.

Near an intersection of corridors we heard footsteps. A moment later three men emerged from an adjacent passageway just ahead. Two wore the white tunic and black cloak of the new Dominican Order, the bloodhounds of the Lord, as they proudly call themselves, their faces obscured by conical hoods. The other was a layman, a nobleman judging by the finery of his tunic and the silver fox headed hilt jutting from the scabbard at his side. Although I only caught a glimpse of him in the flickering torchlight his features seemed German. As they approached, Thomas stepped aside and dutifully bowed his head, as did I, my chin dropping to my chest not so much out of respect, which I did not lack, but out of a vague sense of shame. I could not shake myself free of the fear that I was about to be punished for some unpardonable transgression, and by no less than the Vicar of Christ! If they knew of me or of my crime they did not express it by word or action for they sped by us without a sign of acknowledgement, as if we were invisible specters. Surprisingly, this brought me no more comfort than if they had thrust accusing fingers in my direction.

Friar Thomas led me down a corridor much darker than the others for there were no torches attached to the walls. Another turn, this time to the right, brought a flood of sunlight into the passageway, so much so I had to shield my eyes from the brightness. We had reached a small red brick piazza shut off from the outside world by the ancient stone walls of the Lateran. Potted plants, mostly roses with huge red and white flowers in full bloom were arranged along its perimeter padding the stagnated air with a sweet, cajoling aroma. A modest bowl shaped fountain, the sides green with mold, was situated in the center of the piazza. A trio of cherubs were playfully poised along the lip of the cistern, water jetting weakly from their half opened mouths. Catching the sun from above, the water glistened like crystal as it daintily splashed into the cistern. All at once my fears were washed away by a surge of piety, for it seemed to me that I was standing at the very center of the universe, that if the earth was the hub around which the heavens revolved and Rome was the core of that hub, then this secluded little piazza with its unpretentious cherub-ringed fountain was the focus through which God’s will on earth emanated.

This way, Lorenzo. Friar Thomas’ voice broke into my pious reverie like the blow of a hammer, the first words he had spoken since our leaving the abbey. He was standing in front of a solitary wooden door, the rear entrance to a small chapel virtually lost in the stone work surrounding the piazza. He rapped vigorously on the door. As it opened slightly he bowed deeply, the palms of his hands pressed together against his chest. In a low voice he announced that I had arrived. Hearing my name enunciated in this foreboding context brought back all the fear the sight of the little piazza had momentarily erased. Thomas bowed again and without so much as a glance in my direction quietly retreated into the murky confines of the corridors from which we had just emerged. The door swung open and I found myself staring into the lined and cheerless face of John of Saxony, Master General of the Dominican Order.

II

Occasionally, I have observed others of the same general physical type—prominent beak-shaped nose almost demanding to be broken, cheekbones like clenched fists, high forehead, thin, sharply cut lips—but never one whose features so perfectly reflected the rigid, razor-pure predatory nature of his soul as did those of John of Saxony.

I had seen him before, at a distance, perhaps a year or so prior to my audience with the Holy Father. It was mid-morning. The sun was slowly tearing through a dome of gray clouds, opening up patches of sky like pieces of blue porcelain. I was in my cloister copying Gerard of Cremona’s translation of Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics for the papal archives, an exceedingly trying task that had practically occupied all my waking hours since the beginning of fall. Suddenly, I heard bells clanging, like those monks wear tied about their waists. Happily setting the work aside for the moment I went over to the window to see what all the commotion was about. On the road adjoining the piazza a small procession was taking place. Some thirty or so friars of the Dominican Order, the Preachers as they are officially called, were marching in pairs toward the Basilica of Annibaldeshi, cowled heads humbly bent toward the ground, eyes fixed on the heels of the man ahead. All but one of the Preachers that is, who was on horseback near the rear of the procession. Although dressed in the same white habit and black cloak as the other canons regular of the order, there was nothing humble or regular about his bearing. He carried himself like a nobleman, a duke or abbot, shoulders as straight as a board, head held high as if balancing a precious gem on his chin, periodically glancing from side to side as if hungry for admiration, almost in mimicry of the bird of prey his features resembled.

There could be little doubt who this fierce yet genteel looking man was. His expectant return to Rome from the wars against the heretical Cathars in Lanquedoc had been the subject of much conversation at the abbey. Assuredly, this was John of Saxony, the successor of Friar Dominic, Master General of the Order of Preachers. He had led the spiritual arm of the crusade, responsible for rooting out Cathars who had escaped the thrust of the secular sword. His Dominicans, his Bloodhounds, had sniffed out, tortured and burned at the stake hundreds of suspected heretics including women and children. With grave curiosity I watched him bring his horse to a halt alongside the old beggar woman squatting there on the ground in the fragile warmth of the morning sun. He reached into his purse, leaned over and handed her a coin which she grasped as eagerly as if it were a piece of the True Cross. A touching and symbolic gesture to be sure. Here was the head of a new and powerful mendicant order giving alms to a poor, helpless beggar. A gracious and gentle act performed by a man who thought it was his absolute duty to inflict unspeakable pain upon anyone deviating from the dictums of the True Faith, and then to kill them in a most horrible manner if they refused to recant; the same individual who stood in the doorway of a secluded chapel beckoning me to enter with a restless flick of the hand!

The chapel was surprisingly small, not more than twenty paces in length or width, and peculiarly gloomy, having but a single window, a small rectangular opening near the top of the wall bordering the enclosed piazza allowing but a modicum of light to enter. A small wood altar draped in red cloth upon which was placed a knee-high statue of the Virgin, outstretch hands cupped heavenward, was set against the adjoining wall, to the right of which was a closed door made of pine blackened with age. The plaster covering the concaved ceiling was webbed with cracks. In its somber simplicity the chapel was reminiscent of the chantries one frequently finds in the less prosperous towns of southern Italy. But in one respect it was quite unique, for the wall opposite the rear door was adorned with mosaic tiles, mostly blues and whites arranged in checkerboard patterns suggestive of the decor found in old Roman and Etruscan villas.

However, it was not the interior design of the chapel that occupied the bulk of my attention as I nervously stepped by the watchful eye of John of Saxony and into what I feared would be a den of lions. Curiously, it was not the person one might think, considering his exalted position, who immediately caught my eye. A man was standing, arms crossed, against the mosaic covered wall facing the doorway I had just entered. He was short in stature, with a conspicuous nose joining his forehead without the usual indentation between the eyes. His lips were thick, moist, negroid. His skin, especially the crown of his bald head had been deeply bronzed by the sun. A gold earring embellished his left ear. He wore a luxurious fur lined tunic, olive in color, with a wide blue silk sash around the middle. His feet were covered in elegant black leather boots, rounded at the toe like those the Saracen nobility wear. So shocked was I to see a man almost infidel in appearance standing in the confines of the Latern Palace, the most consecrated of abodes, that for the moment I was completely oblivious to the presence of a third person in the chapel, as absurd as it may sound to pious ears.

That third person was of course his Holiness, Honorius III, heir to the see of St. Peter, Vicar of Christ. He was seated in a modestly constructed oak chair just to the left of the altar, a moody light from the window falling across the lower half of his body leaving the upper half transected by shadows. The unmistakable cross and orb of his tiara was clearly silhouetted against the wall behind. A veneer of purple flowed across his wispy frame like a magical river of wine. The sheer power of his presence filled the dingy little chapel with an aura of overwhelming sanctity. How numbed by fear I must have been not to have felt it immediately!

Trembling with reverence, I rushed over to where he was seated, threw myself at his feet and promptly began kissing them, alternating rapidly from foot to foot. I felt a hand on my shoulder, as light as a feather. Enough, my son. There is no need to bathe my feet with devotion. The voice was frail, hollow. Timidly, I looked up. Honorius was smiling indulgently. Needless to say, this was as physically close as I had ever been to the Holy Father. I knew he was old—but I was not prepared for a wizened, mole dotted face, more skull than flesh, gray eyes dulled with age, jaw shrunken through lack of teeth, lips like scarlet threads.

Lorenzo di Brindisi, we have set a chair aside for you. This was a voice neither frail nor hollow. It fell against my ears like a slap across the face. John of Saxony had spoken.

As I obediently rose to my feet, the Master General gestured perfunctorily toward an empty chair situated maybe five or six paces from where the sun-darkened foreigner was standing. He was brazenly staring at me, this refinely dressed curiosity, a condescending smile parting his voluptuous lips as if he had found my display of piety toward the Holy Father amusing. His eyes, as black as soot, followed me to the chair. He seemed to be studying my person with some end in mind. Whoever he was, I disliked him immensely.

As for John of Saxony I felt nothing but fear.

As soon as I had sat down he stationed himself between me and the Holy Father, towering over us like one of those northern cathedral spires, tall and slender, yet hard as flint. I shuddered as he set his eyes on me for I knew he was looking into the pit of my soul, assessing its purity, or lack of. Every sin, ill-thought, or vainglorious desire I had ever had was being laid bare and open for inspection. In my own eyes I had become evil incarnate, as deserving of punishment as the most zealous of Cathars. Astonishingly, a sterile chronicle of my life began to roll off of his tongue. Born in Brindisi in the year of our Lord, 1195. The second son of Mariano Burghesi, of the guild of bakers, now deceased, as is the rest of the immediate family. Entered the Order of St. Benedict in 1210. Showing aptitude for the curriculum sent to cathedral school at Milan. Adept at Latin, Greek, both old and modern, German and Arabic. Employed by the curia for the last six years as a clerk.

How terrifying it was to realize that a man of such eminence—and power—had memorized the essential facts of my lowly history!

Am I correct in assuming these are accurate statements?

Although I tried to reply promptly my voice got caught in my throat and what came out was more like the braying sound an ass might make. As the Master General narrowed his eyes on me I cleared my throat and tried again, this time with more success. Yes, Your Grace, the statements are substantially correct, although I do not consider myself exactly proficient in German. I would have gone on to say more about my questionable adeptness in regard to contemporary Greek but I was afraid that I might start to babble.

Let us pray that one day none of us in Italy will have to be proficient in German, he said, glancing slyly in the Holy Father’s direction. But your Arabic, he continued with a taut, vigilant look that seemed molded to his stringent features, is impeccable, is it not?

This emphasis on the infidel’s principal language sent a chill down my spine. The Saracens have translated many of the ancient philosophers into their own tongue, I offered defensively.

I am quite aware of that, he said sharply. What I’m trying to verify is your supposed proficiency in the language.

How I wished I could have melted into the chair right then and there, become one with the wood. I have little trouble, Your Grace, translating it into Latin, although sometimes the poetic references—

And can speak it well if need be?

. Speak it well? No, I can not claim that, Your Grace. I, myself, have never been to Spain or Sicily, or ever in the company of infidels. With newborn hope, I glanced over at the man with the earring. Was it possible he spoke Arabic but no Latin and that I had been summoned to act as a translator? The relief this thought produced was measurably diminished by the Master General’s next question.

And you are of sound constitution, are you not?

I looked up at him in confusion, so unexpected was the inquiry.

No limps, chronic coughs, oozing sores, bleeding orifices or the like?

I thought about mentioning the various discomforts occasioned by long hours spent copying and translating manuscripts but they seemed a bit trivial compared to the other maladies just mentioned. No, Your Eminence. As far as I know I am of sound constitution.

And in possession of an inquisitive disposition?

Your Grace?

He smiled oddly, the corner of his mouth lifting twitchingly. We have been told that not only do you understand the infidel’s sacred language but that you hold his philosophies in the highest esteem.

So we had reached it at last. My worst fears coming to a breathing, fiery life! I was being accused by the great Inquisitor himself of nonchristian sympathies. Of heresy! I saw the man standing quietly against the wall in a new and chilling light. Was he a professional torturer, here to force the truth out of me, if need be? Admittedly, there was no malice to be seen on his exotic, sunburned face. But that meant nothing, not if he were the dark artisan I feared he was. Shifting my position slightly, I strained to see the Holy Father, hoping desperately to find signs of clemency showing on his parched and crinkled visage. But either by accident or design, John of Saxony remained planted between us and all I could discern of him were the purple folds of his sleeve falling lavishly over the armrest of the chair.

Verily, they are not immune to errors, Your Grace, I pointed out in the fragile hope of deflecting or at least softening the accusation. For instance, I believe Averroes’ commentaries on Aristotles concept of the Prime Mover fails to—

And geography? he interrupted, obviously not inclined to indulge my feeble attempt to mitigate an admitted passion for nonchristian philosophers. You have, perhaps, some knowledge of the infidel’s lands?

I could not grasp the direction the denunciation had taken. What did the science of geography have to do with errors of faith and logic? A rudimentary knowledge at best, Your Grace. I have read excerpts from Idrisi and certain correspondences from the Holy Land, but beyond that I know very little.

The Master General nodded his head in acknowledgement of my ready admittance of a scholarly deficiency. Then to my disconcertion, he changed the subject again.

Certainly, Lorenzo, a man of your learning, geography aside, is familiar with the legend of Prestor John?

The line of questioning had taken a divergent route to be sure. Prestor John? Was the seemingly irrelevant and disjoined nature of the interrogation a Dominican trick of some kind, a way to throw me off-balance, to weaken the walls of mendacity constructed around my heretical heart? Yes, of course, I have heard the legend. Prestor John is said to be a powerful Christian king whose domain lies somewhere far to the east. Otto of Freisling makes mention of him in his Chronicle, as do several letters sent to Rome from Christian communities in Syria. It has always been hoped that if such a great and pious monarch truly exists, then one day he would march forth from out of the East and wrest the Holy Land from the infidel.

Indeed, the Master General said with a curious air of solemnity. Unlocking his hands, he brought his forefinger to his chin as a child might do who has just remembered something, a perculiarly disarming gesture considering his usual intimidating demeanor. Forgive me, Lorenzo. I should have introduced you earlier. He nodded toward the man standing against the wall to my right. He who I feared was here to torture the ‘truth’ out of me. This is Gregory Sarkarian.

An Armenian name, or at least it sounded similar to those of the Armenian Patriarchs mentioned in correspondences from Constantinople. If so, he was the first of that ancient eastern Christian race I had ever met or seen for that matter.

Gregory is a merchant, a sea captain, in the service of the doge. He has just returned from Acre with some very interesting information which I would like him to share with you. What passed for a genial smile softened momentarily the Master General’s stern features. Please, if you would, Gregory, tell Lorenzo what you have related to us.

With pleasure, the merchant replied in thickly accented Latin. Shifting away from the wall, he faced me directly, his amiable countenance contrasting sharply with John of Saxony’s rock-hard mien. He bowed deeply, exaggeratedly I thought, then began: As I explained earlier—his dark eyes darted lively between the two illustrious individuals present—what I hear of events taking place inland from the Levant is at best second hand. But these sources are, praise be, almost always reliable. Otherwise, I could not very well conduct my business affairs with confidence since the flow of merchandise into and from the coast is dependent on conditions farther inland. However, if important events, or disturbances if you will, take place beyond the Euphrates, deep in the interior of Asia, then my sources are more likely to be third hand and consequently less reliable, but still nothing to be ignored for chaos along the caravan routes of farthest Asia will also effect the flow of merchandise into the Levant. He unfolded his palms toward the ceiling in a manner distractedly similar to that displayed by the statue of the Virgin on the altar behind. Now apparently just such a thing has occurred. My sources—third hand mind you—say that the trade routes north and east of Persia are in disarray owing to an invasion by an unknown race of warriors. And indeed, the flow of silk and spices into Antioch and Acre has sharply declined of late. I personally know two merchants in Antioch, one a Persian, the other a Jew, who refuse to send their caravans east of Kurdistan on account of these disturbances.

Tell Lorenzo the significance of these ‘disturbances’, as you call them, John of Saxony broke in, as anxious as I to get to the purpose behind me being privy to rumors of turmoil in distant Asia.

Of course, Your Excellence. Gregory bowed obsequiously toward the Master General. As I said, my sources report that an invading army is the cause of the present chaos along the caravan routes. These same sources also say that the knights of this army bear the sign of the Holy Cross upon their shields and breast plates.

Dimly, I heard Honorius mutter something, a benediction perhaps. John of Saxony was staring pointedly at me, dissecting my reaction to this astounding piece of news. Without question, I was taken aback, for it was obvious that his talk of Prestor John and Sarkarian’s reports of Christian knights in distant Asia were related. In normal circumstances I might have fallen on my knees in thanks to God. Prestor John—up to now but the phantom monarch of some nebulous Christian realm—reportedly on the march against the Saracens! It was like a secular version of the Second Coming! But my enthusiasm remained tempered because I still could not fathom why I, a mere clerk, had been brought into the presence of both the Holy Father and the head of the Dominican Order to hear such wondrous tidings.

The Master General planted his hands against his groin as doctors of philosophy often do while lecturing and said, rather guardedly, If true, then the long awaited moment has arrived. Prestor John has launched his crusade against the accursed infidel. He leaned forward slightly, as if to smother me in purity and said in a voice cloyed with earnestness, I am sure you can understand, Lorenzo, that for Rome to respond appropriately to this perhaps very important occurrence we must first be certain of its veracity. As dependable as Gregory’s sources may be, they are, unfortunately, as he himself has admitted, third hand. In other words, what we need is a reliable eyewitness, someone with linguistic skills and a keen eye for detail who can confirm or deny the validity of these rumors concerning a Christian host from the East attacking the lands ruled by the servants of the False Prophet.

My heart skipped a beat, several beats. I could not believe, refused to believe what John of Saxony seemed to be inferring. In a parody of supplication the Master General lifted his locked hands to his chest and in the resolute, self-commanding voice of a man who knows that duty and righteousness are one and the same, said, My son, the Holy Church wishes you to perform a great service for the faith. It has selected you to be an emissary to the court of Prestor John—assuming, that such a court exists. In this capacity, it would like you to not only establish a friendly discourse with this mighty Christian monarch but also to learn all that you can about him and his subjects—his military strength, the size and wealth of his domains, the tenets of his faith, the nature of his attack upon the Saracen realms and above all what, if any, his intentions are in regard to the Holy Land.

But… I… I was too stunned to speak coherently. I knew what I wanted to say, that I was only a clerk, a scribe, far more suited to the ascetic demands of a cloistered life than trekking through dangerous, far-away lands; that I dared not even walk along the road to St. Peter’s Basilica which was only on the other side of the city for fear of thieves, much less journey across hostile worlds unknown even to our best map makers. . . . I know nothing of diplomacy.

John of Saxony made no effort to hide his contempt. Have you not spent the last six years copying and translating letters of diplomacy? And do not your eyes, ears and tongue work properly? As do your logical faculties?

Yes… of course… but…

His eyes bore down on me like daggers ready to extract the poison from my soul. Perhaps the triumph of our faith is of little concern to you?

No, on the contrary, I pray every night that our Lord opens the hearts of all men to the truth of His Word.

He seemed satisfied with the response, which actually was only partially true for only occasionally had I made such supplications in my prayers. Of course, we do not expect you to undertake a journey of this magnitude alone. Mario di Carpella, heir to the Duchy of Almalfi, will accompany you, as will Friar Paolo Marioni, of our order. Gregory here will take you by ship from Bari to Cyprus and from there to Acre where you will engage the services of a follower of the heretic Nestorius, a priest named Alexis who we are told is familiar with the roads of Inner Asia.

Although he was standing but a few paces away, his voice seemed to be resonating from a great distance, as sounds sometimes do in dreams. I remember thinking it was not really me he was addressing but some poor ignorant fool who had been goaded into martyrdom as a sinister joke and that I was in fact back in the abbey, safe and untroubled. Strange how the mind works at times… It did not even occur to me to ask why the heir to the Duchy of Amalfi should wish to go on such a singularly dangerous mission or indeed to ask any of the thousand questions that normally would be raised by a person abruptly presented with such a stupendous task. All I could do was sit there looking as dumb as an ox, unwilling to accept as real this sudden rupture in what I had always assumed was my life’s vocation, this highway robbery of the simple, scholarly pleasures I held so dear, giving no thought at all, I am ashamed to admit, and as John of Saxony had correctly surmised, to the tremendous service the success of our mission could provide to all Christendom.

I heard the Holy Father call out my name. Although much feebler than the Master General’s voice it did not seem far away at all, but close, intimate, like that of a guardian angel. At once, I rose from the chair and rushed over to where he was sitting, sweeping past John of Saxony and the Armenian merchant as if they were inanimate statues and again threw myself at his feet, beseechingly this time, for I now saw him as my savior, the only person who could free me from the onerous charge just imposed. But as I was about to speak, to beg him to find a more competent, more adventurous soul than mine for this considerable task he leaned forward and gently cupped his hand under my chin as if I were a choir boy. His face, as fissured as a bed of sunbaked clay, was so close to mine I could taste his breath, like rancid butter. Ever since our Lord has called me to sit on the throne of St. Peter, my greatest desire has been to free Jerusalem from the claws of the infidel. He was staring kindly into my eyes, a father of all innocence, forgiver of transgressions. Time and time again, I have pleaded with the Emperor to raise the Cross and go to the aid of our valiant brethren in the Holy Land who grow more desperate by the day. Each time Frederick listens sympathetically, swears he is in accord with our concerns, promises to contact his vassals. But then always he finds some pretense for delay… always.

It is no wonder. He is half infidel himself, the Master General interjected harshly.

Honorius lifted his free hand to silence the Dominican. If we learn to our delight that Prestor John or someone akin to Prestor John has embarked on a crusade against the infidel and we make this glorious news known to all Christendom then Frederick could not possibly justify any further delay in the raising of the Cross. He tightened his grip on my chin. Think of it, my son. We from the west, Prestor John from the east; the Saracens will be crushed in a vise of steel! He let go of my chin, his hand falling limply onto his lap. His eyes, which had gleamed with passion as he spoke of crushing Saracens returned to the dull, somewhat unfocused look common to the very old. Of course, none of this will come to pass if Prestor John is not on the march. That is why your mission is so important to us, my son. We cannot act unless we are certain… unless there is proof. He shoved a gold ring bearing the cross and orb insignia into my hand. God willing, give this to Prestor John as a token of our good faith. Tell him of our intention to join in his crusade against the infidel. Have him write us a letter in reply. Bring us back this letter, Lorenzo di Brindisi… bring us back this letter.

As my hand tightened about the ring John of Saxony said in a tone of voice admitting no argument, You leave three days hence. A papal escort will accompany your delegation to Bari. You are to say nothing of your mission to anyone. We do not wish word of this enterprise to reach the Emperor—as yet. Understand?

Understand? All I understood for certain was that suddenly and undeservingly I was being cast into a realm of stygian darkness.

III

And so it came to pass that in the year of Our Lord, 1220, the year of Frederick II’s coronation as Holy Roman Emperor, I was thrust either by chance or fate and in startling contradiction to the contemplative life I always believed my destiny, into the role of papal envoy to the fabled court of Prestor John; my commission being dependent on whether or not such a court actually existed. Indeed!

Not that I disbelieved a mighty Christian kingdom glorified the name of our Lord in the shadowy depths of Inner Asia or that its saintly sovereign had launched his long awaited crusade against the infidel, as Gregory Sarkarian’s sources, whoever they might be, seemed to indicate. After all, far more knowledgeable men than I had accepted the flesh and blood existence of Prestor John. As I had indicated in response to the Master General’s inquiry, the celebrated historian, Otto of Freising, had written of Prestor John, albeit briefly, in his famous Chronicle—as fact, not myth. Moreover, some years ago, clerics of the Nestorian heresy sent several letters from Syria to Pope Alexander III describing in seductive generalities the singular grandeur and refined splendor of Prestor John’s court. During my first year in Rome I made a copy of one of these remarkable letters for Cardinal Tomasino. If I remember correctly, he sent the copy, along with some relics which included a tattered fragment of St. Anthony’s cloak, to the Bishop of Cologne as gift for his support in the recent investiture controversy. Without question, I found the context of the letter most intriguing, for whose imagination would not be stirred by the affirmation that a great Christian empire existed somewhere on the other side of the world. But I must also admit that I seldom gave Prestor John much thought after that, certainly no more than I gave Roland or Charlemagne or any of the other sword-wielding heroes of the True Faith. My heroes, if I may call them that, were of a less violent nature. It was men, or more accurately, the words of men like Plato, Boethius, Anselm, Abelard and above all, Aristotle, that elevated my thoughts and passions beyond the mundane. That is, until my unexpected audience with the Holy Father, when all at once the very ground I stood on began to revolve wildly around a half-mythical Christian king who, God willing, was presently leading his