 
#

#

#

# STAR TAKER:UNDER THE SHADOW OF THY WINGS

Marian Goddard

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Marian Goddard

All rights reserved

### Contents

Book One

Book Two

Book Three

###  BOOK ONE

'And in the shifting of the winds and in the clouds that are pressed into service betwixt heaven and earth, are signs for people who can understand.'

Qur'an.

February 12th

In the Year of Our Lord 1383

Tubingen, Germany

THE BOY PULLED the rough blanket around his bony shoulders and dreamed of hot soup, conjuring up turnips and onions and cabbage, hot and peppery, his mouth watering in anticipation. He'd already eaten the hard cheese and the two apples the driver had given him yesterday and his stomach ached with emptiness.

His cheeks burned and his thin, fine boned hands trembled from the icy draught that had settled on him like a grave shroud, but the horses galloped on, jolting and bouncing the wagon along the muddy, rutted tracks.

They were not on the main roads. He knew because he'd been sitting with his face pressed to the crack in the wood and they'd passed no one all the days they had been travelling. And now, as evening cast its solemn wintry pall like a dark shadow over the sky, he could see no tallow-light in windows; smell no hearth-fires burning.

He needed to make water but the howling of the wolves stopped him calling for relief. He could hear them now, sometimes far off, sometimes close as if they were following. In his five year old imagination, he saw their slinking grey shadows, smelled their blood soaked fur. He put his hands over his eyes and then moved them to his ears to stop the eerie, curdling sounds.

The driver had spoken not a word since giving him the cheese and apples and a swallow of bitter wine from his own skin.

It seemed to him an age ago that the old man with the long scrawny beard and watery eyes had lifted him into the foul-smelling wagon and tousled his hair. "Fear thee not, lad. The monks will take ye." Then he'd pointed a stern finger at the darkly cloaked driver as he handed over the bag of coins, both men's voices rising in anger as they bargained for his fare.

He'd squashed himself into the corner, retching from the stink of rotted meat that had soaked into the wood all around him. His father had not been like these two rough men. His father had been big and strong...and tender with his words.

He remembered curling up in front of their small hearth and trembling with anticipation as father spun him wondrous tales; of drinking tea with an emperor atop a painted war elephant, or riding camels in Arabia, a land with no water or trees. He'd never seen a camel or an elephant, couldn't imagine a land with no trees, but father had made him laugh at the idea of beasts with humps and giant ears and long noses, had kept him warm with tales of faraway places, where the sun burned the ground to sand, and you could only travel at night by the light of the stars.

He could hear the horses braying as their ears pricked and their nostrils caught at the scent of danger. He understood their terror. He knew what fear was.

When he'd found a magnificent wonder of nature and been too restless and excited to sleep, his grandmother could always frighten him into obedience with her legends of the nightbeasts... About how a wolf-bitch would watch the house and if a child was being disobedient or had failed to kneel before bed to pray, she would steal in through an open window or unlocked cellar and drag the miscreant away into the night, to feed her own hungry infants.

Grandmama didn't like him finding wonders of nature. It upset her day, she said. Little boys should learn their manners and their duties and not concern themselves with filthy vermin and even filthier peasants. But he'd lie awake in his small bed by the fireside and try to remember the feel of the velvety green caterpillar he'd found in his shoe that morning, it's tiny black eyes shining like jewels, or the village children stick thin and starveling, their upturned faces grimed with dirt, unaware of their matted hair and bare flattened feet.

How he would have loved to play with those children, listen to their strange thickened voices, join in their games. They'd stared at him open mouthed as if he were a beautiful bird escaped from its cage or a painted puppet at the market fair.

He heard himself crying for his mother, but his sobs were lost in the rattling of harness and the beating of hooves.

Heaven was a long way from Germany; his father had told him gravely when he'd asked when she was coming home. It might take a whole lifetime before he saw her again.

A tear slid down the boy's cheek. His mother was a distant heavenly presence, like the beautiful angel statues he'd seen in chapel, but he could still feel father's rough whiskers on his face, still smell his warm father smell.

He wiped the tear and the memory away with a shaking hand. He was so cold and hungry and his need so urgent that he found his voice at last, thin and reedy over the rattle and bump of the wagon " Sir, please... stop!...I have to make water..."

A sudden lurch threw him back against the hard bench and the silence of the cracking whip told him his plea had been heard. "Shut it whelp!...Shut yer trap or I'll leave yer to the dogs! We'll be there soon enough and there'll be plenty of 'oles to piss in...and hot willin' cocks to keep yer warm." The driver's guttural laugh echoed through the trees, leaving him cringing in fright.

He didn't want a new home. He wanted _his_ home. He wanted to be back in his own home to eat hot soup and curl up like a baby in his father's strong, warm arms.

Tears began to course earnestly down his soft cheeks now. He didn't try to wipe them away.

There was no-one in the whole world to see them.

*

He'd slept restlessly, hunger pangs twisting his insides and turning fitful dreams into snatches of nightmare; wolf cubs' tumbling and growling, fur soft and warm, their puppy smell joyous in his nostrils, oversize paws batting playfully, until their tiny sharp teeth began to gnaw at his flesh. Then the howling wolves merged with Granmama's admonitions and he turned into meat for another's children.

A watery light seeped in through the basketweave over his head, casting gloomy shadows in the small space. He felt chilled and sore from the journey and his head was hurting, but he realised then there was no rattling and bumping, no lightning crack of a whip to make him jump.

He pressed his face to the split in the timber but couldn't see the driver, couldn't hear the whinny of the horses. He pushed away the threadbare blanket covering his shoulders and climbed down on to the frozen ground. His feet were bare and icy pain crept up his legs, making his knees knock together.

The first thing he saw was an abbey looming up out of the mist. He knew it was an abbey; his father had once taken him to watch a pageant outside the walls of a place just like this, as a special Yuletide treat.

He'd sat on a high wooden bench eating hot roasted chestnuts, wrapped in a sheepswool to keep out the cold. And then the play started and baby Jesus lay in his straw in the manger, with the wise men in their jewelled robes nearby, and father laughing when he'd begged to take his lovely blanket to give to the Holy Child, because the snow had started to fall and he was all uncovered.

He could hear gentle voices singing, separate and yet blending together, a soft comforting song. It was what the monks did to call to God, father said. He hoped that if the monks were successful then God would see him too and give him something to eat.

Suddenly the driver's whip cracked so close to his face that he felt it slice into his cheek. "Get back whelp! I've to be paid 'afore I give you up!" His eyes glinted. "Did yer think the pittance I was paid was enough? If the abbot won't pay more, I know who will...fer a pretty little boy like you." The harsh throaty laugh turned into hawking and he spat a gob of greenish phlegm on the ground in front of the boy. "Get you in!" He turned on his short legs and struggled back in, bunching up the blanket to press to his cheek.

And as the warm piddle soaked through his breeches and onto the hard wooden seat, shame welled up inside him like the tears standing in his pale blue eyes.

He heard a man calling out and then two, a gruff voice lowered in servility, wheedling and snuffling and another's, deep and full of authority. He peered again through the cracks. The driver, horsewhip coiled in his gnarled hands, head bent in deference, stood in front of a tall man dressed in a grey, many patched monks habit.

"Driven' all through the night I 'ave father. And the night before. Used every bit 'o me strength to bring the littl'un safely. Poor little mite, only a babby. And me with me own tots at 'ome to feed and times is hard."

He couldn't see the monks face as he stood erect and calm, listening to the driver's whining voice, but he heard the sharpness in his tone as he pointed an accusing finger.

"Do you think I have no eyes? I saw you whip the boy. And you have been paid already; else you would not have made this journey. Be gone with you, you foul creature or I will whip you myself!"

The driver straightened up and flicked the whip, lank grey hair falling across his pocked face, lip curled into an ugly sneer. "No money...no goods change hands. I've a'bin two days on the road gettin' here. Pay me or I'll be tekkin the cargo elsewhere."

The monk moved closer and stood towering over the driver, and his voice rang out like a Matins bell, low and clear in the frosted morning air. "Have you no shame?"

The man hawked again and spat on his sandalled feet. "Shame? Don't think I don't know what goes on behind them walls and you so high and mighty? Want him for yerself ? Well pay... or the load'l be goin' back with me....and I'll get a good price fer a little morsel like him."

The monk let out a cry of rage, seized the horsewhip from his hand and lashed out in fury. The barbs caught the man below the chin, opening the flesh and causing a sheet of blood to course down his neck and onto his dirty grey jerkin. He howled in pain and reeled away.

The boy watched as the monk turned slowly toward him, still holding the handle of the whip, the lashes trailing limply on the ground.

His parched lips cracked into a smile, the first for many months. This man reminded him of his father. The strong, deep voice, the surefooted way he walked and the strength in a body that could not be hidden behind a tattered robe. And white, even teeth, smiling out of a sun burned face.

Everything about him seemed big. He could see large, flat feet encased in rough hide sandals, a thick neck and startlingly fair hair ringed around a freshly shaven tonsure. And something about his mother too, an unearthly grace he was too young to articulate. He could hear the driver cursing, but the sound was muffled and a long way off.

Wiping the snot from his nose and the tears from his swollen eyes with the edge of the dirty blanket, he clutched his small leather satchel and waited.

There were no wolves here.

*

Paul Andre de' Langue felt a surge of mortification at what he'd done to the wagon driver. The outrage he felt at the vicious words burned like a brand in his guts, but his quick and unruly reaction had been unforgivable and against the rules of this Order. He could still feel the hot blood of anger coursing through his veins; still feel the sweat standing on a head he prided on keeping cool.

He had become unused to such violence, being cloistered these many years, but he had been no stranger to it once. He closed his eyes and asked forgiveness for his actions. For the sin of pride he would answer to the Almighty. The abbot's anger he would deal with later.

The morning was cold and the ground crisp with ice as he'd crossed the path to the herbarium and that's when he'd seen the driver strike out with his whip at a ragged bundle. It was only as he moved closer to the weather-beaten wagon that he saw it was a child. He thought perhaps it was the man's own and walked over to rebuke him for his brutality, until he'd turned to him a pair of cloudy, slitted eyes, the almost black pupils staring malevolently out of lids crusted with sores, and said he'd been told the abbot would pay him well to deliver the boy, as his family was of the nobility.

It was then that he'd seen two tear filled blue eyes peeping through a gap in the wood.

He walked slowly toward the back of the cart making an effort to smile. He pulled aside the hide covering and there, swathed in filthy rags and trembling in the frosty air, was a small, exquisitely beautiful boy.

A thatch of badly cut blonde hair, loose fitting ragged clothes and small shoeless feet blue with cold did not go with the well-formed face, the intelligence evident in the soft blue eyes and the mannerly bearing. This was not a cringing peasant child.

He held out his hand and the boy reached to touch his, the skin clammy, the tiny fingernails edged with grime. A spot of flaming red stood out on each cheek, feverishness evident as Andre held his small hand, smiling encouragement.

The whip had been cruel. A gash ran from the top of his cheek to the bottom of his chin, blood oozing slowly from the wound. But it would mend. If miasmas and fetid air didn't penetrate the wound.

Andre shuddered to think what else had felt the bite of that pitiless lash. The horses stood beaten and cowed, their sweat covered hides a mesh of scars, some weeping with pus, eyes dull, breathing hard and shivering with cold. He knew diseased animals like he knew diseased people. He'd spent many years ministering to the sick. These horses had been ridden almost to their death.

He shook his head in disbelief. What would possess a man to treat innocent creatures so? He looked around the dim interior. There seemed to be no food or water set for the child, no warmth for the icy winter. Yet the man said he'd driven two days and nights without stopping for rest.

Not thinking to look for telltale swellings or discoloured flesh, he gathered the small bundle in his arms and carried him from the wagon. He mounted the steps to the infirmary, wrapping the boy as best his could against the morning chill and nodded to Gaspard, the apothecary, as their eyes met with the understanding of long friendship.

"Get something warm brother, this child is near frozen to death."

He hurried away to the kitchen for broth as Andre laid the boy on the nearest pallet and covered him with a coarse woven blanket.

He looked down into the little face and the bright eyes regarded him steadily. "What is your name, child?" The reedy, lisping voice was unwavering, the answer swiftly given, even as his lids fluttered closed with exhaustion.

"Christian sir, my father called me Christian."

The monk laughed. "Well, many of us are Christian, young fellow. Did your father not give you another also, like Rupert, or Hermann, or Manfred?"

"Sir, my father gave me that name because he said I was a ' _magnificent wonder of nature,_ Just like Our Lord." And as sleep overtook the child he said, so quietly that he had to bend close to hear "And father said I was to come here... and take up the light."

Andre's breath caught in his throat and his heart began to pound. These last years, alone in his cell in the darkness, his dreams... a small boy, his bright eyes blazing, carrying a beautiful, golden torch too heavy for his frail arms, but struggling to hold it aloft. Calling for help.

Calling to him.

"For just a little while" he begs. "Until I can carry it alone."

*

Andre unwrapped the filthy peasant rags and saw a battered satchel held tightly against the bony chest. He pried it from the thin arms. The boy whimpered but his eyes remained closed, his small mouth twitching. He laid the bag aside for now and gently wiped his face with a muslin cloth, paying careful attention to the wound on his cheek. Then he called to Berthilda, the washwoman and beckoned her to the child's bed.

"Mistress, could you look to the boy for a little while? This poor waif surely needs the care of a good woman." She leant over the small figure in the bed and felt the feverish brow with her quick bony fingers. Andre could see pain in the deep lines of her face, the droop of her shoulders. He'd known her before grief turned her skin grey and took the strength from her limbs. Her last son had been lost to the pox at the last quarter moon and since then she'd haunted the halls like a wraith, weeping and sighing. Seven children borne and all gone, her husband too.

"Ah, the poor little mite, 'tis surely a loving mother's arms he needs. Has the child no family?" The monks kept her there out of Christian charity. Women such as she were common enough in the towns, scuttling like rats in the dark alleys, dying of want and cold. The plague had left a swathe of destruction behind it as it crawled across the land, and with their menfolk dead and tithes and taxes a terrible burden, none could spare food for a useless mouth.

"I know not. But I know that with God's will and your tender care he might live to be a hundred."

She chuckled and showed a wide, toothless grin. "God's will? Hah! The Almighty is too busy reaping souls in these terrible times." She blushed at the blasphemy. "Mayhap He won't have the time to worry about this little 'un? Mayhap hot broth and a warm blanket will have to do." She crooned a low tune as she bent to examine the boy, wrinkling her nose and clucking in disgust at his thin arms and dirty, spindly legs.

She brushed her hand across the seeping wound. "Ugh, it's as if the child has slept in a midden and lived on air. He's a whisker away from starvation, poor thing. Why, he can't be more than four or five of these dark winters past. And what has happened to him to get such a hurt as this?" Berthilda's tears threatened to overflow onto her sunken cheeks but she wiped them away with the back of her hand and pulled the blanket up to the boy's chin. Her eyes met his, and Andre saw for a moment the practicality of motherhood behind the sadness.

He watched fondly as her slight, bent figure ambled off to fetch warm water and cloths and smiled, his white teeth flashing. "Don't scrub him too hard Berthilda."

*

A thin morning light was beginning to seep through the casement window, casting a feeble glimmer on to the small work table. He sat quietly, turning the bag over and over in his big hands, smelling the animal smell still lingering in the worn leather.

Strong stitching held its seams firmly and bold, tooled patterns covered the flap and sides, reminding him of the mosques he'd seen in Spain or Morocco, their wall decorations interwoven to form elaborate designs. The rest of the bag was plain. It looked to Andre to be very old, the surface covered in light and dark patches, flaking in some parts, smooth in others.

He gazed absently at the rough surface; the shifting light casting hazy moving shadows, reminiscent of something he'd seen in the scriptorium, a map inscribed on yellowed parchment. And as his imagination accepted the comparison, it became something more. Shapes were forming on the worn leather. He could make out countries, the borders sharply delineated on the dark hide, see grey blue expanses of oceans and peaks dirt brown and threading through the land like a necklace of arrow heads.

His eyes narrowed in concentration. He'd often mused on the wooden globe in the library, carved by a monk of beloved memory who'd never been as far as the village square but this, this was different. It was a living thing. He could see the long arm of the Mediterranean; see Tripoli nestled at its edges and Jerusalem shining like a symbol of all their hopes in the centre.

He knew these lands, had fought in the deserts and defended the pilgrims. The noise and bustle of the monastery faded as he remembered the crimson copper smell of blood, feeling its warm repulsive spray on his face, feeling the tightness of battle fear in his chest.

How could this be? He did not believe in bewitchment and magic, however much his Order wanted it to be so. It was just a worn travelling bag and the light was playing tricks. He opened the satchel and laid out the contents, a black velvet pouch as travel stained as the bag and a parcel wrapped in faded green silk, its weight heavy in his hand.

Andre had expected to find the things of a small boy's childhood, pretty stones or insects, a slingshot or a precious knife. These were not the treasures of youth. He felt the stirrings of the hair at the nape of his neck as he glanced over at the sleeping form in the bed, bundled in blankets; his bandaged face scrubbed pink.

What manner of child is this?

He took up the pouch and tipped it onto the table. It was not cheery clinking coins that fell out, but a jewelled cross, intricately worked in gold and set with a wine red ruby. This last lay in the centre of an open, many petalled rose. He imagined it was something a wealthy husband would give to a beloved wife, or doting father to a spoilt daughter. It was a beautiful thing, but not something of particular interest. He replaced the cross in the pouch and took up the parcel.

Already, he'd deduced that the child had not been born to poverty, concurring with his own judgement on meeting him, despite his outward appearance and the scanty information provided by the wagon driver, if it was to be believed. If the silk wrapped parcel was to be a book, this would add to his conclusion. Books were not available to the majority of the people. He started by examining the wrappings.

The thin translucent material was pale greenish and very old, embroidered dragons chasing their tails, finely stitched in gold thread. In many places it was only this that kept the fabric together. The colour reminded Andre of a meadow pond in spring, shot through with sunlight.

Who obtains riches such as these in the heart of a downtrodden Germany?

He unfolded the fragile covering with the care of a doctor examining a wound. As it fell away in his hands, he could see more leather, dull brown and cracked with age, yellowed leaves and a stiffened spine. He opened it gingerly. It smelled of the wrappings of mummies, the musty sweetness of tombs.

He'd never lost his reverence for books. As a soldier he'd carried a small copy of the Rubaiyat and guarded it with his life through all the hardships of his fighting years, keeping it close to his chest even in battle. It was hidden under the rough boards in his cell.

The others would not understand the beauty of the Persian astronomer's words. To them all were evil Saracens, to be beaten down and hounded out of the Holy Land. He knew differently. His years in Palestine had brought him into contact with many learned men, especially of physic and astronomy and mathematics. He wondered if his brothers realised just how much of his own countryman's knowledge had been brought to the West from the East with the merchants and the soldier monks such as he.

The yellowed vellum pages were not stuck together as he had expected, but separated easily, the binding loosening in places as if it had been constantly opened and read. There was no illumination, no inscription; each page was filled with closely set numbers and letters, the ink faded with age, or strange painted pictures of flowers and cavorting maidens. What few words Andre could make out were in Latin or Greek, making no sense to him. He turned it sideways, upside down, tried reading from left to right, back to front. It was as if the whole book was written in code. He gave up. The abbot would perhaps understand better. He was a man of scholarship.

And then a folded parchment fell from between the pages.

He picked it up and turned it over. A red seal stood out brightly on the dun coloured page, a triangle with a loop on one side. In the centre of this triangle sat the same cross and rose as the jewel in the pouch.

There was writing on the front; the hand determined, the lettering scrawled and fluent. _"For the Abbot"_

He smiled. Someone had known that the child would be brought to a monastery.

*

_13_ th _October_

In the year of Our Lord

1382

Beloved Abbot,

I entrust unto you, the care of my only son Christian. By the time this letter obtains to your notice, I, his father, shall be nought but ashes. His is the family Germelshausen and our home is near Hesse, on the border. But this haven has long been closed to us and we have been hounded like dogs from our own lands. For this reason, I regret, I cannot offer payment for his keep. His lineage is noble but one that has been tainted by accusations of heresy. And the power of Holy Mother Church is such that those holding doctrines other than hers cannot survive. He is quick of mind and gentle of character, even the animals know his heart. Yet he has spirit and wilfulness, traits which I have encouraged, for his trials will be many and his life beset by sorrow. May he be instructed in medicine, for this is where the light of reason will burn most brightly and of all the arts, one that is most in need of faith. As was foretold by the astrologers on the day of his nativity, this is where his calling lies. While yet in his growing years, he will wish further instruction from those who possess greater learning. I beg you; do not hinder this endeavour. The world has much to offer him. My heart cleaves in two to think I will not see him grow to be a man. I take comfort in knowing that he will be safe among those who understand. Pray forgive the indulgence of a loving father but he is prone to night terrors. It has been so since his mother was consigned to the flames. Now there are no more hiding places so I make my stand and commend my Soul to God. I go to be with my Beloved in paradise and leave to you, in humble gratitude, a shining light in this unfathomable darkness.

In the eternal hope of Peace Profound,

Otto von Germelshausen.

Andre, transfixed, held the letter unfolded in his hand.

The date: October. They were now deep in a February winter. How has the poor child lived these last months? He felt his heart constricting in pity.

*

The abbot stood, his stature rigid, his steady grey eyes regarding the younger monk's blue with interest. His voice was deep and husky, belying the sparseness of his tall frame. "So, Brother, what think you of this?"

He held the abbot's gaze. "I know not Father. There are many things in this letter I do not understand, but it seems to me that the child has been sent here for a reason."

The Cistercian Order was held in renown for the devoutness of their brethren and the strictness of their Rule but a rumour remained that its libraries and scriptoriums concealed the works of many held to be heretics. It was also rumoured that in times past these teachings were disseminated amongst those of the Order willing to hear them. He suddenly became pale. Were the letter and the boy a trick, planted by the church to root out heresies? A Trojan horse of faith?

The abbot smiled, showing a missing tooth that in no way detracted from the austere dignity of his bearing. It was a kind smile, one that gave comfort to those in travail. He was beloved and trusted by brothers and townsfolk alike, a rarity among the noble heads of monasteries.

Andre looked down at the man's broad feet, encased in the same rough shod sandals as his own. Not for him were soft meats and feather beds.

But he had one luxury.

The room was lined, from the high domed ceiling to the worn wooden boards with sturdy shelves filled with books, spilling on to the floor, piled up beside his battered table, resting precariously on the only other chair in the room. "Sit down Andre, it's time we talked."

When the abbot bent to take the books from the chair he moved quickly to help. No-one knew how old he was, although his frame was sturdy and straight, the eyes clear, the years showed in the wrinkled skin around them and the swollen knuckles of his hands. He seated himself behind his desk and folded his hands, while Andre pulled the hard wooden chair closer.

"The boy is well?

Andre lowered his head. The truth was that he'd been sick with worry for the boy since the unmistakable signs of infection had begun to show themselves. His fever had worsened through the night. A picture formed in his mind of the cowered horses, their hides criss-crossed with lashes.

"I fear for the child, Father. The lash was fouled with animal matter and swelling has begun in the wound. I have applied poultices and the apothecary has sent coriander for the heat, but he is already weakened by privation and the next few days will be very grave."

The abbot's expression was unreadable as he placed his palms together." Then we will ask Our Lord to place His mighty hand upon him. The world is sore in need of light in these troubled times. And what of that which was found in the young man's possession?" The satchel lay innocently on the desk. No map, no moving pictures on its worn surface. The book lay divested of its threadbare silk wrapping, the jewelled cross upon its pouch.

Andre's family had prized honesty above all else, even when it came at a cost, like the time his father confessed to killing a doe on crown land to feed a family evicted for not paying their tithe. He'd been handed over to the guards and branded in the village square. He was fortunate. Death was the usual punishment for such a crime.

The townsfolk pelted him with rotten food for sport, even though they knew him to be a good and generous man. The ten year old Andre had hung his head in shame to see him so degraded, but two days in the stocks and the livid mark of a felon seared into his cheek had not dimmed the defiant glint in his father's eye, nor slackened the proud jaw.

He understood now. No price was too high to pay for the truth. "I confess Father, I found the bag to have some...strange fascination for me."

The abbot smiled "And I also. If I look at it long enough, it becomes a moving picture book and try as I might, the meaning escapes me. It reminds me of a time in my youth when the magic of the East held great attraction, but the reality was filled with something much darker.

And what memories did the infernal receptacle hold for you?"

He felt his stomach settle in relief. "A map Father... and my journey to the Holy Land. A time stained with regret."

"Yes. And it's so often that when we allow our mind to empty it's the bad memories that fill it first."

The younger monk nodded in assent and the abbot, his white robe hanging in folds on his thin frame, settled himself more comfortably in the chair. "But we are men of reason, as well as men of God. It is just an old travelling bag. And what of the other items?"

Andre fingered the cross on the desk. "A pious woman's trifle?"

The abbot seemed full of enigmatic smiles. "No, it has meaning. I have seen one before on my travels." He brushed his gnarled finger over the finely worked rose.

"Some say it symbolises the suffering of the soul upon the cross of life. Some say it is the device of a hidden society of adepts." The grey eyes regarded him steadily "And some say it is something other than Christian."

Andre paled, mysterious letters, bewitched bags and pagan symbols. Heresy. The very word was terrifying. To be associated with heresy was to be in peril of everlasting torment. He'd offered up his life to God in blood soaked deserts and plague infested hovels. Like all soldier monks, he cherished and nurtured his soul.

The abbot laughed. "I see this disturbs you." He waved his hand airily at the rows of books. "What think you these volumes contain? Think you that it is all jurisprudence and theological chattering?"

He folded his hands once again. "My son, I have watched you these last nine years. Who here would tend to the sick at the expense of his own health. Who here would disobey the Rule to defend a child? And who would dare to hide the words of a Saracen poet under his floorboards to read by night in the darkness of his cell?" Andre flinched but the kind face remained passive.

"You learned much in the Holy Land, did you not? Warfare... yes, but your penchant for medicine for instance, your love of words from the heart? Did you not sense a knowledge more profound than our own? Did you not feel that sometimes it was home?"

All these things and more had Andre discovered, and felt. And as the unearthly melodies of the evening plain chant flowed softly through the open door, the abbot smiled "Do not be ashamed of what the God of your heart tells you, my son. As even the Roman legions knew when they gave up their lives on a battlefield far from home... Every soil is a brave man's country. Oh, I know the mention of these things is tinged with danger. The very walls here have ears. But I speak the truth.

One day all men will be able to stand upright to cry their heartfelt beliefs to the world and not be branded heretic and condemned to burn, even if they are at odds with Holy Mother Church." Andre watched as the old hands flew about in illustration of his words, the gleam of hope in the calm eyes.

The abbot sighed "What lives in a man's heart is his own." He poured a glass of wine from a plain stone pitcher and handed it to Andre "And what of the book?"

"I know not Father. I cannot understand it at all. It's very old but in no language that I have seen. A few words of Greek yes, several of the language of the church but the rest is a mystery to me."

The abbot took up the book "And to me. But I believe that it may be a compendium of knowledge, one written in the secret language of the alchemists." Again Andre felt the blood drain from his face, but the abbot didn't seem to notice. "As you know, in our time much knowledge is hidden in symbols... to protect those who may be accused of heresy. This book may be no different." He opened the book to a yellowed page. Beautifully wrought lettering surrounded strange drawings of naked women sitting in ponds or entwined in the roots of trees. Another page was filled with finely drawn illustrations of unfamiliar plants and another, bizarre constellations and stellar maps, detailed and unknown. It gave Andre a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like the boy's satchel, it had an other- worldliness that felt off kilter. Like a flat note played on a beautiful harp.

The abbot suddenly stood and walked to the shelves furthest from the door. He reached to take down a faded red book; its binding cracked with age. His face was serious now "My uncle took me to Jerusalem in my fourteenth year, the year my mother and father died of the plague. He thought I should know the world for what it was.

We travelled with pilgrims hoping to wash their guilt clean at the Holy Sepulchre but the deserts were infested with robbers then, so six Templar knights escorted us much of the way and those aloof, martial knights inspired such awe and dread in me, I fawned on them as only a youth in the first flush of manhood could. My waking nights were filled with dreams of heroic battles and mighty warhorses." He smiled "The truth is they smelt like pigs. Their long beards were matted and their tunics filthy with blood and sweat."

Andre grinned in return. He remembered the stench of a hundred unwashed knights. The horses smelt liked roses in comparison.

"They looked at me as if I was a rodent to be stepped on, but one, a tall man with kind eyes and a clean mantle, took pity on me and sat with me at meals and shared his food. I remember his smile and the way he rubbed his horse's muzzle as if it were his friend, as well as his battle steed. And one night as we sat together watching the stars, he gave me this book. Then he knelt to pray as the Rule dictated.

I have never forgotten the sight of that battle weary soldier; face shining, head bent humbly in prayer.

The next morning, we were attacked. We cowered, terrified, as the horde overtook the stragglers and swarmed upon them, slashing with their curved blades. Old men, women and children, it made no difference. Those of us that were left huddled in a circle, the Templars facing outward on their big horses, determined to protect us. I hid in the back of my uncle's wagon, trembling, all my dreams of valour gone. Not one of us had seen a battle. All we could do was pray. My friend the knight called to me, and made me understand that I must hold on to this book, whatever should befall. Then he bid me goodbye with a salute and joined the others.

I have seen soldiers in battle but never like those few knights. They fought like the angels of light gave them wings. I remember their battle cry and the way their swords hummed as they swung them through the dry desert air, like some kind of horrible music. They stayed, their backs to us, slashing and thrusting, covered in blood, crying out to God to help them in their holy mission. But it was impossible. From my hiding place, I saw them worn down and pulled from their horses by the mob and my friend cut to pieces on the sand.

They found me in the wagon petrified with fright, holding this book as if it could protect me from their knives." He held the small book reverently in his hand, the serene expression unwavering. "They tethered me to the wagon and forced me to walk on through the desert. They killed all the rest, my uncle too. But they had seen the book I held and the eagle sigils of the Caliphate engraved on the cover.

They let me go when they reached the city gates." He looked at Andre keenly, the steady eyes seeing more than he might have wished. He held out the book and Andre took it gently from the old man's hands. "Take it now my son; keep it safe with the other, for it is still unwelcome in this place. Look upon it when you have need, for it is full of knowledge such as we in our calling, do not as yet possess. Think upon the things I have said, for if the boy lives, _you_ are to be the one who sets him upon the path of Light."

Andre gazed at the abbot in wonder. How did he know what he had hidden under the boards to read in the dark?

How did he know what he had hidden in his heart?

He looked down at the small volume and opened it to the first, crumbling page, at words written in faded ink:

Ala-al-din abu Al-Hassan Ali ibn Abi-Hazm al-Qarshi al-Dimashqi Ibn al- Nafis

' _Commentary on the Anatomy of Canon of Avicenna'_

He turned to another page and read:

"... _the blood from the right chamber of the heart must arrive at the left chamber but there is no direct pathway between them. The thick septum of the heart is not perforated and does not have invisible pores..."_

Andre remembered the prized copy of Galen in the library and its treatise on the heart:

' _Blood, reaching the right side of the heart, oozes through invisible pores in the cardiac septum, thereby reaches the left side...'_

Many times during his travels in the East he'd heard the name Ibn Sina spoken of with awe... the great and learned physician, Avicenna. He'd seen enough torn hearts on the battlefield and in the crude field hospitals to know the truth of the words in the old book. He lowered his head and the abbot raised his hand in blessing.

"In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

He left him standing, hands folded serenely as if in prayer, the enigmatic smile still gracing the gentle features. "Go my son, and look to the boy. Have faith in Our Lord's wisdom and your own."

Andre hid the book in his robe and hurried to the infirmary. The child's battle was yet to be fought.

*

Christian slept for three days, tossing and crying out in the small bed, sobbing for his father and mother, his fever rising and falling intermittently like the tides.

One moment Andre, seeing the beads of sweat on his upper lip, believed that the fever had broken and the worst was over; the next, heat rose like a furnace and threatened to overwhelm the fragile body, exhaustion evident in the flaccid limbs and grey pallor. He remained by the child, holding cool cloths to his burning cheeks, spooning tiny mouthfuls of broth between his parched lips.

The brothers prayed. They knew nothing of the boy's strange arrival but they saw in Andre's obvious concern and the abbot's daily visits that here was a child of some importance.

Berthilda hovered over them both, fetching cloths and bringing Andre food and watered wine. Relieved of his other duties, he'd left the boy only to observe the Rule. He prayed then, imploring on bended knee to the Almighty to intervene just this once and let the boy live, hearing his whispered words." I am here to take up the light."

And he knew, as surely as he knew the sun would rise in all its glory in the morning that this was where his future lay. He was thirty one years old and had travelled over half the world, but now he knew that it was not in the Holy Land slaughtering Saracens, or among the horrors of the plague that his mission was to be fulfilled. It was here with this small boy, fighting his own battle with the Lord for his frail earthly form, that he would find salvation and in that salvation, peace.

*

Christian struggled to open his eyes. His arms and legs felt numb. He could hear a tinkling musical sound, distant and comforting. He thought of his mother when she came to kiss him goodnight, singing to him in her high lilting voice. Perhaps it was mother come to take him to heaven? He strained his ears to listen for her soft voice, the swish of her skirts against the bed, feel the warmth of her hand on his face. These were the things he remembered, before she was gone so suddenly from his life.

But the memory of his father was still strong. He could hear his deep voice and throaty laugh, remember how he smelled, dark musky and clean. Not like the peasants who tended the gardens and smelled like the pigs he'd seen going to market in open rickety crates.

He remembered the games they played on cold winter evenings and father's gentle voice telling him that it was important to live his life well, so mother would be proud when she came to take him to heaven.

He would come to his bed after supper and talk to him of the day. What had he learned? Had he said his prayers? Had he found any _magnificent wonders of nature?_ And Christian would tell him of the big hairy, creeping spiders down by the well, their webs strung bravely between the trees, and after the women would brush them away clucking, their mouths turned down in disgust, the spiders would start all over again, spinning and weaving intricate patterns of sparkling gossamer threads.

Father told him that it was a good lesson in life, to keep spinning your web no matter how many times it was knocked down. To try harder to make it more beautiful than the last so that one day people would see it for what it was, _a magnificent wonder of nature._

Then one cold, wet day, when the last of the tinder had been used to light a sputtering fire and they'd huddled as close as was safe to the feeble flame, his father was taken to heaven too.

The beautiful angel voices were fading now but he could still hear father, strong and insistent. "Not yet, my boy, not yet. Be brave and live well...and we will be waiting for you in heaven."

He could not go with his mother. He had done nothing to make her proud. He must stay. He struggled upward through a grey fog and opened his eyes.

He was in a long room, with many beds. Some had people in them; others were empty and neatly made. Sunlight shone weakly through the glass windows, making dark shadows dance along the wooden roof beams, and as he turned his head, he saw the man who had taken him from the cart seated beside him, his eyes closed, his fair hair shining round him like a halo.

But the only thing he wanted in all this painful world was the strong arms of his father.

He felt the warm tears that had been sitting in his eyes slide down onto his cheeks.

*

August

In the year of our Lord 1393

Bebenhausen

"Christian, come down from there! The Lord will not give you wings to fly if you fall, you foolish boy!" He'd climbed on to the parapet and was sitting like a roosting hen on a nest.

Berthilda stretched out her arms as if to catch him if he lost his footing, anxiety clear in her wrinkled face, and using the age old threat of mothers everywhere "Come down or there will be no supper for you tonight!"

A distant boyish voice called back "Have no fear for me Mistress Berta. I am waiting for the storm."

She called up through cupped hands "What storm? There is not even a cloud in the sky.

And the faraway voice piped back "Brother Alberto said there will be a storm, that the end of the world will start with a storm of locusts and they will eat all the food and leave us to starve. I am waiting for them to come."

She noticed Brother Andre standing beside her, concern showing equally in both their faces, but his voice calm where hers was shrill. "I think he means swarm Mistress, a swarm of locusts."

Berthilda clucked. "The things they put into that boy's head, it beggars belief. The end of the world indeed! Don't those scribblers know that the end of the world has come already? Mayhap their bellies are too full and their brains too small to see about them. Get down from there young man, or the abbot will hear of this!"

Andre smiled. Christian haunted the scriptorium, watching the brothers transcribing, and followed him around the infirmary asking interminable questions. He pestered Gaspard in his workshop and fidgeted in the chapel, but it was in Father Abbot's book lined study that he found his most joy. He'd seen it when he was young, his eyes bright with wonder as he traced the anatomic drawing of a mouse found in an old book, the living animal in the palm of his hand and the abbot smiling, pointing to the small body parts with the tip of a rheumatic finger; " _vertex, iugulum, ventriculus."_

And he saw it now at his lessons, in his look of triumph as he laboriously translated a passage from the Greek to the Latin and read it out loud, his breaking voice stumbling clumsily over the words.

The cooks saved small titbits for him and watched in joy as he relished every mouthful. The pigs vied for his attention when his chores took him to the piggery. The horses called to him in the fields. He was fifteen years old and loved by all who knew him. If sometimes Andre saw a sadness in him, especially at prayer, when he never failed to offer up his hopes of seeing his mother and father in heaven, he made no mention of it.

The boy had seen much death in his ten years at the abbey: a litter of pigs born in winter and frozen in the night, a tangle of abandoned kittens, no mother's milk to feed them, dying one by one in his hands and then as he grew older, those in the infirmary expiring of disease and hopelessness. He was well acquainted with the vagaries of nature. Life was hard and Christian knew it more than most.

Andre had not spoken of his family's fate, but he knew that soon the time would come for him to be told. He was already long past the age of childhood and a nobleman's birth demanded a debt of responsibility. Had his mother and father not incurred the wrath of the church and paid with their lives, even at half the age he was now, Christian would be a lord in his own right and ruling his own lands and serfs.

Andre knew he had kept him sheltered for too long.

But the name Germelshausen would be forever tainted with the curse of heresy and anonymity had been the only thing keeping him safe.

Christian scrambled down from the high battlement, using his fingers and toes to grip the crumbling stonework, eliciting a gasp of fear from Berthilda and a stab of pain in Andre's chest. He moved to sit in the shade of the gnarled ash that the monks had planted when the monastery was built and waited. There was something he wanted to give the boy.

He sat quietly, watching the dapple and play of the leaves in the gently swaying tree, the rumble of the wagons carting wine to the cellars, the call of the ploughmen in the fields, the clattering of pots in the kitchens. The busy, workaday voices of the people he loved.

This was the closest thing to home he'd known for a long time. He was fortunate to have been accepted here. The brothers were tolerant and of a stable disposition. His tasks were not onerous and the food plentiful. Why then had the urge to leave these peaceful surroundings become so strong?

Nowhere now in his dreams and meditations could he see his future welded to Christian's. Perhaps all the boy had really needed from him was the chance to grow up in safety.

He looked up from his musings. The lad stood before him, tall for his age, limbs long and slender like a newly born foal; blond hair standing out at all angles, blown adrift by the wind. It was impossible to be angry with him. He had won all hearts at the monastery, Andre's most of all. He was a gift from God.

Christian flopped down on the grass at his feet and looked up into his smiling face. Andre took two apples from his pocket and gave one to the boy.

"I'm sorry to have frightened Mistress Berta... but Brother Alberto in the scriptorium told me the locusts would come and I had to see for myself."

He gazed at the earnest young face "Yes Christian, you must always see for yourself. Have I not always told you that you must not accept anything until you are sure of it in your heart? And what did you learn from your perch in the sky?"

Christian wrapped his thin arms around himself. "It's very cold up there. And the wind almost blew me off the ledge." A frown of worry crossed Andre's face. "And there is bird dung on the stonework, many different colours. The robin's is watery and tastes of apples from the orchard; the raven's dark like pitch and tastes of berries.

The monk tried not to laugh out loud, Christian's expression always one of serious thought. It surprised him not a bit that he would taste the bird droppings to analyse the contents. "And what of the coming storm?"

Christian looked thoughtful" The sky is clear, I can hear the bell ringing in the chapel in the town, people working and singing..."

"And the locusts?"

"I can see no sign. Perhaps Brother Alberto made an error in his calculations?"

Andre nodded "Are you glad that the locusts didn't come?"

Christian's face brightened as he bit into the apple with his strong white teeth. "Yes. Mistress Berta is making me dumplings for supper. They are my favourite and Brother Alberto has told me that food cannot be hidden from God's locusts."

Andre made a mental note to speak to the others about frightening the lad with tales of end of days. It had become the all too familiar lament of many of the brethren in these dark times. "And the end of the world?"

"Brother Ames and Brother Peter say there is too much wickedness in the world for the world to bear, that God shall give up and start anew, like after the flood."

He determined not to lecture the boy, but felt that here was too pure a spirit to be damped down by doomsday fables. "We are men of reason, are we not?" the boy nodded.

"What think you that wickedness is?"

The boy looked thoughtful "Like when the boys in the town steal the loaves from the baker and run off?"

Andre smiled "And what if those boys had no one to look to them, no-one to give them food? Would you not steal bread to live?" He saw something flicker across the young face, something full of sorrow. He laid his hand gently on the boy's shoulder, to encourage him.

"Brother, I must confess that I too have stolen food." He lowered his head in shame. "I remember a long time ago, before I came here, being cold and very hungry. I hid behind a wagon load of turnips and took two to eat." He looked up through thick pale lashes.

Andre felt a stab of pity, remembering a frail child in tattered rags. "You have committed no sin. The Lord sometimes assists us to stay alive, so we can do His work. The turnips in the wagon, the baker's loaves...could they not be a gift from God?"

Christian's face lightened. "Do you think so Brother Andre?"

"Indeed I do. I remember as a child stealing grapes from a farmer's vineyard. I was sure I was going to starve to death if I didn't. My father beat me for the theft after I'd spent the whole day on the latrine. _That_ was the gift from God, a painful lesson in gluttony." He smiled at the remembrance.

"Is it wickedness when the townsfolk throw rocks and spit at the Jews in the marketplace?" asked Christian.

"Not all the townsfolk treat them so. Do you think that the Lord would end the world because of a few bad people when all the others keep His word?"

The boy looked thoughtful "I have read the book in the abbot's library about how the knights fought in the Holy Land, and their commander ordered them to kill everyone, Christian and Mohammedans together, because they could not tell them apart."

Andre felt another stab of pain in his chest, but this time he recognised it as the bitter lance of guilt and not the twinging soreness of an old battle wound. He had seen and been a party to, much wickedness and here he was instructing a young boy on the nature of sin. He felt ashamed.

"We are getting much too serious on such a beautiful day, my friend. Your observations on the ramparts have reminded me that there is a gift I wanted to give you." Christian's face broke open in a smile. "But only if you promise not to climb up there again. At least until we make you a sturdy ladder and safer platform." He jumped to his feet in excitement and followed Andre into the scriptorium.

No-one had ever given him a gift.

*

Christian turned the strange brass disc over in his nimble fingers. "What is it Brother Andre?" He was trying hard to conceal his disappointment. He thought the gift would be a knife or slingshot. All the boys in the town had slingshots. He'd heard them yelling and cheering each other as they practiced at targets in the fields, flinging small stones with fatal accuracy.

"It is an astrolabe, Christian. A very old one." He laughed. The boy could not hide his thoughts; they were always plain to see on his open face. "I see you are not bubbling over with excitement at my gift."

Christian blushed. "No sire. I know it is of great value. It is finely made and very beautiful. But I am not worthy of such a gift."

Andre had presented it to him with much ceremony. Nineteen years ago he'd brought it with him to the abbey, wrapped carefully in a lambskin, with other ghosts of his past. The abbot, reminding him of his vows of poverty, locked them in a chest in his apartments, with the promise that if he should ever feel the need to return to his Order, they would be his once more. "Why are you not worthy? Did you not make a weaving loom for Mistress Berthilda? Does not the abbot instruct you in Aramaic so you can read the words of Our Lord in His own tongue?"

The boy looked doubtful "Yes, but I cannot understand the use of this instrument. What is an astrolabe?"

Andre seated himself on one of the wooden benches and gestured to Christian to come closer. He placed the astrolabe reverently on the table in front of him. "The Arabs say that with this, they can call down the heavens." He laid the device, the size of a small serving plate, in the palm of his hand. "See here a disc within a disc that is turned by the hand?" He moved the inner wheel around. On its surface were imprinted numbers and fine lines and as it was turned, delicately engraved symbols on its surface changed position to align with others.

"It was an invention by the Greeks before the birth of our Lord, but it was in Arabia that it was brought to perfection." He handed it to Christian who looked at it in puzzlement. "It measures the distance between the horizon and the sun, or the moon or the stars in the sky. The sages of the East use it to calculate the time of day and the seasons, and the phases of the moon for planting. And they use it to find the Quibla...the direction they are to pray. With this you can find your way, across land, across deserts and, if you are blessed with calm seas, the mighty oceans themselves.

Christian's eyes widened, his interest truly evident now. "Do you know how it works?"

"Yes. And I will teach you how to use it." Andre's smile faded, it was time to tell the boy of the decision he had made.

"Before I go."

For a moment Christian did not react, his gaze concentrated on the unfamiliar mechanism in his hands, but Andre's eyes never left his earnest face and he watched as tears began to form in the boy's bright eyes. He wished there had been another way. But there, it was done. Andre felt a surge of relief. At last he had told Christian of his leaving, a task he had been avoiding these long months.

He sat quietly, knowing the boy deserved an explanation, formulating in his mind the words he would use to tell a child there really is wickedness in the world and he had played his part in it.

That there was always a reckoning and his was due.

*

Christian willed himself not to cry. He was almost a man now. He did not know exactly when his natal day was, but he knew that he had been at the abbey for ten years. The monks had told him he was about five when he'd arrived mysteriously on their doorstep. That made him more than old enough to work for his living and old enough to go to war.

Weeping was unbecoming in a young man such as he, but Andre had been like a father to him, so tears crept into his eyes anyway, exposing his heart. He found it difficult to make the words. "You are going away?"

Andre nodded. "Yes, Christian. Jerusalem has been much in my mind."

"But you will return?"

Andre looked at the boy and shook his head. "No my son, I am not coming back."

Christian lowered his head to hide his tears and suddenly there came a memory, one so strong he staggered, clutching at the table edge to keep from falling... His father, dragged through the door of their small hut, a city guard at each elbow, shouting. "I will go, I will go! But leave the boy. He is not my child. Do you not see he is a peasant? He fetches firewood and works in the fields." Father looking at him, his gentle eyes boring into his own, filled with terror, not for himself, but for Christian.

"Go back to your family, boy! There is no more food for you here!" He'd watched his father's bent back as he was shoved through the door, the guards not caring for the whimpering boy huddled by the sputtering hearth. A small child was worth not a farthing in a time when Satan slithered among the people, filling them with heresies, cramming the Church's coffers with gold.

He did not know how long he'd travelled, his bare feet bleeding and raw, hiding in the hedges on the side of the road, eating the windfall apples under the trees and eggs from the nests.

He'd made his way to the next town, to father's old servant Pierre, who would not take him in, for fear of being accused of harbouring a heretic. Christian handed him the last of his father's coins and begged help to get to Bebenhausen, as he'd been instructed.

And then alone in a hide tanner's cart, galloping through the night, the cracking of whips and howling of wolves, cold, hungry and afraid.

The pain he was feeling now was the pain he felt all those years ago, seeing his father dragged away, lost forever. He loved Andre like a father was loved and it was happening all over again.

He flung the astrolabe into Andre's lap and ran out of the door, blinded by his tears.

He ran on, not thinking where he was going, not caring. The monks called after him good humouredly as he rushed across the quadrangle, unaware of his pain.

Then he stopped, panting, at the monastery gate and looked back at the arched doorway of the scriptorium. Andre was standing on the steps, his hands hidden in the folds of his habit, his mouth turned down in sorrow.

Christian knew that Andre loved him. Their long years together had forged a bond between them and in the distance between them now, Christian could see pain in the monks blue eyes.

He walked along the path toward the town, seeing no-one, his heart aching. He looked back to the looming walls of the monastery, at the place where he had been received with love and kindness, from Andre most of all.

And there came to him an understanding, one that in his dreaming nights and thoughtful days, he too had made a decision.

He walked slowly back to the scriptorium thinking, not as a child might think, of abandonment and loss, but as a man might think, of things needing to be done and only the short years of a man's existence to do them.

*

It took a long time for Christian to tell Andre of his plan to leave.

They worked together in the infirmary, Christian's skill apparent even in his tender years.

He'd been helping treat the festering wound of a young mason's 'prentice who'd caught his leg on a rusted iron spike and been too frightened to stop work to tend to it, his master being known for harshness. The boy had the care of his widowed mother and lived in fear of them both starving.

He was seated on a stool by the open door of the infirmary, the reek of the inflamed leg too overpowering to allow him a bed in the hall. Christian tried to comfort him, making light of the injury as men do, even _in extremis_. He pointed to a pretty girl passing by and both boys giggled and snickered as she raised her arms to lift a heavy basket of linen and the outline of her small breasts showed through the thin fabric of her smock. She'd tossed her head at them, an older and world-weary woman of fifteen disdainful of the attention of boys her own age.

It was a short-lived diversion for the feverish lad, as Andre began, in the light of a sputtering candle, to clean out the pus and dirt from the deep wound, then when the agonising treatment became too much, Christian cleaned the wound as Andre used his strength to hold the boy still.

When it was done, Gaspard made a poultice of comfrey root to aid the healing, if the boy stayed alive long enough to heal. Christian knew that even a small wound could be fatal in this unclean place. Most were ignorant of the need for cleanliness, or the dangers of superstitious remedies. A week ago, the boy's mother had prayed to Saint Ursula and her ten thousand virgin martyrs for aid and then bound it with nettle leaves, only serving to drive the infection in further.

After the boy had fallen into a fitful sleep, they sat on the steps outside the infirmary, watching the stars shooting across the summer night sky, the small fireflies of light blinking out as they arced gracefully through the heavens.

Andre took the astrolabe from the folds of his tunic and handed it to Christian. He was readying himself at last to begin his journey to the Holy Land.

Christian noticed the lines etched deeply in the sun-browned face, the once thick hair thinning around the neat tonsure. He was a strong man still, but the years were showing and the boy could see something else in the kind and open face...longing.

Andre smiled; he was always smiling "Yes Christian?"

"May I come with you to Jerusalem?"

He was so surprised he could find no answer. All the objections of a concerned father flashed through his mind: The privations of the journey, the solitary desert nights, danger. After his own father died, Andre's inheritance had gone to the Order, in accordance with his oath. He was a penniless monk. It would be a hard journey.

And then there was the risk of entangling an innocent in his own guilt.

"Why would you travel to such a place? Did you not tell me that you wish to heal the sick? What better place than here, where all around come for succour?"

Christian nodded solemnly "It is true Brother, I confess my soul takes wing when another's suffering is eased, such as that fellow in there." He pointed toward the door, to the now snoring mason's boy. "You have taught me so much and I am grateful beyond any words I can say. But there is more I need to learn."

While treating the sick in the infirmary, with Christian by his side, Andre had always talked of the difference between skills learned on the battlefield, such as his, and healing learned in the great schools of medicine. He nodded, but his thoughts were far away, with the mysterious satchel and the strange items they contained. He remembered the desperate letter written in a doomed man's hand...'I beg you; do not hinder him in this......'

This time Christian could not read Andre's expression, but he trusted this man more than any other. He thought of his clear and persistent dreams and the work he was destined to do before he could be with his mother and father again. "I have read that those in the East possess greater knowledge than we, in the art of medicine and the sciences, that they can conjure with numbers and..." He lifted the astrolabe and sighted it at the night sky "...measure the heavens."

He hoped that Andre would believe that he too must be on his way.

"Brother Andre if I take journey with you to the East, I might find those that will help me discover this knowledge." There was pleading in the boy's eyes...and determination.

Andre, still smiling, asked gently "Have you spoken to the abbot?" He understood the longing for knowledge he had fostered in the boy and understood also that the time had come. He put his hand gently on Christian's shoulder. "I was much your age when I left my home and family. We lived in a small village and I wanted to see the ocean." He didn't want to tell him that at fifteen his dreams had been of battle glory and slaughter in the Holy Land, low aspirations indeed in comparison to these lofty ideals of healing.

"My mother was sorely disappointed in me. She thought I would stay and tend to my father's trade." He felt a leap in his heart as he thought back to that day, his mother standing on the path, weeping as he rode away, enlisted as a page in the Order of St John. He didn't know it then, but an infant lay rotten in her womb and she would be dead before Yuletide.

He shook away the memory and brought his attention back to the boy. "Our beloved abbot is very old now and his health is poor. What will you do if he refuses to allow your journey?"

It was Christian's turn to smile now. "Father Abbot has told me much about the sages of the East. He says that they will welcome one such as I, as long as I am humble and of a willing mind." He pulled a small volume from a pouch at his waist. "He gave me a book. He said it was given to him as a gift by a Templar knight who fought to protect him from robbers in the Holy land."

He handed the book to Andre. "He said that the book saved his life...that it was respected by all who looked upon it."

This time Andre laughed out loud, the abbot's wisdom apparent in dealing with hot headed young men. "Tell me, did he tell you to keep it close, that its face was unwelcome here?"

Christian nodded... "How did you know?"

"I was once given such a book, but I was very much older than you and not so wise.

He opened the small volume " _The Conduct of a Physician_ " by Ishaq Bin Ali Rahawi. "Our beloved abbot seems to have a veritable abundance of hidden works of knowledge given to him by brave knights. It is a wonder that he was able to carry them all across the desert."

For the first time doubt crept into Christian's voice. "I have many times talked of my desire to travel to the East to learn from the wise men there and Father Abbot always seemed very happy with the idea...but..." Andre watched the boy's eyes as he talked, "It seems to me that sometimes his thoughts are in another time and place now and when I am with him he doesn't see me at all. I fear that he has forgotten our discussions."

It had indeed been noticed that the abbot was becoming forgetful and vague in his dealings with the brothers. His gentleness remained, but there was an absent quality to his words. Andre agreed "He has been preoccupied of late. He is of a very great age I believe. And the apothecary visits him often. In fact I have not seen him for some time. He begs burdensome duties and confines himself in his rooms. I fear that he will not want you to go from him.

I see a light still, in his window. Shall we go together and beg his leave?"

Christian's smile lit up the night-time sky.

*

"No, no, my son. I have need of you." The abbot's hands trembled as he waved them before his supplicants. "You are the only thing that keeps this crumbling bag of bones on this earth." His voice took on a plaintive, whining tone "Who will read to me in the evenings? Who will bring me treats from the kitchens?"

Andre felt saddened at the sight of this once proud man, declining into the childhood of old age. Surely this was not what the scriptures meant when it was written that we must become as children to enter the kingdom of heaven?

The old man folded his arms across his chest in stubbornness. "No. You will not go lad. Your duties lie here."

Christian looked crestfallen although a glint of defiance remained in his eyes. "Father Abbot, could you not let me go? We talked of it last night after Compline. Do you not remember sire?"

The abbot began to wave his arms about again. "No, my boy, I do not!" He stamped his foot in petulance "Pray bring me something nice from the cookhouse and let's have no more talk of you leaving."

The boy bowed his head in obedience. "Yes, Father. I...I think Brother Wilhelm has made some honey bread for tomorrow. I will fetch you some steeped in milk." He ran past him with his head still down to hide the sheen of tears on his cheeks.

Andre had been standing quietly, watching. He looked intently at the old man, noticing the blueness of his lips, the yellow parchment skin, the gaunt frame. He broke the bitter silence at last. "It is very hard Father, to take leave of someone you love. Is it not?"

The abbot plucked absently at imaginary pieces of lint on his habit, meticulously rolling and pinching away the invisible fluff with knotted, bony fingers.

Andre had seen this motion before, when the apothecary prescribed syrup of poppy and the patient had need to rely on it. The swellings and nodules on his fingers bespoke of pain but perhaps there was something more. He asked gently "You are unwell, Father?"

He sighed, and shifted in his chair. The clouded film of age lay in the rheumy eyes now. "Yes, my son. Gaspard tells me it is rotting of the liver and I will be dead before the autumn leaves turn." He giggled childishly. "I spoke in truth when I told young Christian that it was only he who bound my soul to this world."

He let his head fall into his hands "Could he not remain for just a little longer? Can he not wait until I am dead?"

Andre took a deep breath "We must be gone. The winter will soon be upon us and the boy feels the pull of his calling. Who are we, Father, to stifle another's dreams?"

The abbot sighed and in that pitiful exhalation, Andre heard all the disillusionment of a long life. "Ah! The others think I am in my dotage, that I don't know a turnip from a cabbage anymore, but it is a ruse Brother. I feign madness to cover the true reason for my infirmity." He scratched absently at the flaking skin of his hands "It is no rare thing for an abbey to be ruled by a mindless dolt..." and here he smiled, showing more missing teeth and swollen, discoloured gums. "But the loss of my physical presence will be a blow indeed. There is none here who could take my place." He looked sternly at Andre "And _you_ will be occupied assuaging thy guilt in the Holy Land." Once again he was struck by the abbot's perception.

"I have written in urgency to His Holiness for a replacement." He pointed toward a small vial on the table. "The elixir keeps the demon at bay, most of the time; I merely need to keep drawing breath until the other arrives. The boy is my only joy."

Andre let compassion soften his words. "You must let him go, Father. It is time."

He moved closer and put his strong hand on the old man's thin shoulder. "I have come for the boy's possessions."

The abbot nodded slowly and turned to the wooden chest behind him and in one swift movement that belied his age, he lifted the lid and brought forth a gleaming sword, its blade luminous in the flickering candlelight. His eyes glittered as they bored into Andre's "And have you come for your possessions also?" He held the weapon perfectly balanced in his bony hand, every emotion playing upon his features. Andre could see that he was enjoying the almost erotic feel of the power forged into the steel blade. He imagined he could hear it humming in the silence. "Is it not fitting that you should die by your own sword?"

Andre's gaze moved to the quillion, to the intricate scroll work inlaid with lapis lazuli taken from the deserts of Afghanistan, then down the long wide blade, the best Toledo steel, tempered with a virgin's water.

Gaspard had been very proud of that sword.

His eyes rested on the fuller, the blood gutter running along its length, in his imagination stained a darker colour to the unspoiled rest. He knew the reason for that groove in the blade. It was said that it lightened the weight without taking the strength, but all soldiers know it is for swift removal. Even the armies of antiquity hollowed their weapons for speed at the kill.

He remembered that sucking feel as the blade came free, then swinging it high and plunging it again, blood lust firing his strength, watching dispassionately as his victim's surprised eyes rolled back into eternity. A feeling arose in his breast of finding a lost friend and longing to embrace it. It had saved his life countless times. He owed it now.

The abbot pointed the sword toward him and he felt the tingle in his throat where the blade might enter. The old man sneered. "It is you who is encouraging the boy, you who has put these ideas into his head."

He moved closer to Andre, who stood in mute silence, his heart filling with an overwhelming sense of shame and sadness. He felt no fear.

And the old man watched as he sank to his knees, bowed his head in submission and began to pray. He prayed for sins, heavy in his heart, for the abbot's distress and most of all for Christian, that he might have the strength to carry his torch onward, to his destiny.

He began to feel that death now, or later, would not really matter. That he should die by Gaspard's fine sword would be an honour in its way. Their friendship had survived these many years. They had taken oath to protect each other and their fellow knights. They'd fought together and prayed together.

He heard a crash from the doorway but did not stir. His heart was at peace. He welcomed oblivion.

Then Christian's voice rang out, clear and firm. "No Father...Do not...I beg you..." then silence...and the sound of weeping.

He opened his eyes and looked up. The abbot was standing, the sword limp in his hand, head bent and shaking from side to side, tears coursing down into his grizzled beard, spittle flying from his mouth." Oh, Forgive me...Forgive me... Oh Lord...What have I done?"

His strength failed him then and Andre sprang up and caught him as he fell. He lifted him gently and carried him to his bed in the corner of the room. He was no weight at all. Disease had taken his body from him already. Death was just a separation of his soul.

Christian picked up the heavy sword and laid it on the desk. It held no fascination for him. It was just another means to harm another, folly and arrogance in the human beast. It was no threat now. He hurried to help the abbot, who lay curled on his straw pallet, sobbing into his hands. He looked at Christian with such sorrow and remorse that the boy felt his heart breaking. He loved this man also.

"Forgive me, my son. I am a fool. I deserve to reside with the devil for what I have done."

Christian shook his head and clasped the shaking hands. "No Father. You are ill. And I can see that you are enduring much pain." He looked around for Andre and saw him preparing a draught from the abbot's vial, mixing it with a little wine to soften the bitter taste. He brought it to him, smiling and held his head gently while he sipped. Even swallowing had become painful.

Andre felt a feeble heart beating in the sunken chest and sensed that perhaps, with this final act of desperation, the old man's strength was spent. It took only a little while for the furrowed brow to smooth, the anguish to ease.

They sat by his bed, comforting him by their presence.

He whispered and Christian bent close to hear. "Take what is yours my son...with my blessing. I have been well honoured by your company. " And before he drifted into grateful sleep he raised his fingers in the familiar attitude "In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

He patted the young hand and smiled. "And now...go...and show the light of Truth to the world."

The abbot did not rise from his bed again. He died a few days later, in the early hours of the morning, before the bell struck Matins, and Christian wept bitterly for his loss.

*

Their journey began before the first snows fell.

Everyone assembled in the refectory to break their fast and they ate in good natured humour, with much back slapping and declarations of friendship.

Until the new abbot arrived, the brothers decided that the usual dour readings from the scripture were to be set aside, the abbot's death and their friends' departure leaving the abbey under a heavy pall of sorrow. Psalms were sung instead, joyously celebrating a life well lived and youthful courage. It was a sadness to see them go, but they were proud of the small child grown to manhood under their wing. And now the morning air hung heavy with the homely smell of wood-smoke and the comfortable aroma of sizzling bacon.

Berthilda shuffled around, wringing her hands in grief, fussing over Christian's clean and patched jerkin and sturdy woollen trews. He had never been meant for the cloister and his attire showed his status as a poor companion to a mendicant monk.

Andre carried a jute bag with his spare habit, books and medical instruments and Christian, the astrolabe in his old leather satchel and a coarse hempen bag with a batch of Mistress Berta's honey dumplings folded in a piece of muslin cloth.

The books and crucifix he left in the care of Gaspard, who locked them in a box in his workshop.

Each carried other precious items. Gaspard's beautiful sword lay sheathed in the chest in the Abbot's empty room, but Andre had taken the short falchion he'd brought to the monastery all those years ago. It lay, strapped to his hip, invisible under the folds of his copious habit. He thought it might fetch a few pennies if the need arose.

And also if the need arose, he would use it in defence of the boy who was willing to risk everything in the pursuit of knowledge.

Christian found another pouch in the satchel. It contained three gold sovereigns and a short letter from the Abbot.

For Christian,

Words cannot express the joy you have given me. Your journey by ship will require payment. These may suffice until you reach your destination. Carry your torch high, my son and if God wills it, you will prevail.

Brother Alberto gave Christian writing quills and ink and a thin bundle of scraped vellum, a precious gift indeed.

Gaspard gave him a small chest containing tinctures and remedies and nudging and winking in ribald humour, gave instructions on the making of love philtres for beautiful maidens. Then he clasped Andre roughly to his barrel shaped chest. There were no words. They said goodbye with the intimacy of brothers, in the sign language of soldiers. Their eyes filled with tears at their parting, the first since they'd joined the Order together as boys. He understood why Andre had need to make this perilous journey. He was there when the children were murdered.

Christian wrapped his arms around Berthilda and kissed her withered cheek. Her tears wet his face and he brushed them away quickly. He was about a man's business now.

They set off amid much cheering and waving and as the monastery walls faded from view and the thick forest cast deep shadows before them, both fell silent, lost in their own thoughts.

Their journey would span more than two thousand miles, some of it by sea most of it on foot, over mountains, through swamps and rivers, across deserts. They would travel to Bavaria, through the Brenner Pass and on to Venice, then take ship to Crete, to Cyprus and then on to Jerusalem, a journey at first fraught with the natural dangers of bitter cold, wolves and alpine passes, later by lonely deserts and marauding bands. This was not the usual route taken by pilgrims, but one that afforded them some freedom of travel and solitude, a luxury after these many years of monastic life.

They would hunt or work for food; they would take nothing that was not freely given. They would heal the sick and that, gratis.

On this they had both decided and both agreed.

Their route now would take them through the Black Forest and over the Feldberg Mountain, a crossing that Andre had made before, dragging behind him the dark ghoulish spectre of his remorse.

They walked on through the short hours of daylight, stopping little to rest. Then as the thin sunlight faded and the night began to wrap its cold arms about them, they knelt in prayer together and asked of the Lord, His blessing.

*

Andre adhered to the tenets of the Quran 'Allah loves those who purify themselves...' accepted without question by many of the Knights of the Hospital. This Holy Book was not forbidden them in the East, as it was in their own lands. It had been consulted by the learned physicians and the Jews, along with the Torah and the Christian Testaments in their bid to find the best methods of healing. They'd found wisdom in them all.

He washed himself in the stream that flowed sluggishly past, rinsing his mouth and nose, washing his hands up to his elbows, his face and feet. The brothers had laughed at first and regarded him with suspicion for his heathen ways, but he was certain this ritual had protected him from the terrible maladies raging all around them. And in this he had instructed Christian, believing that filth was the cause of much disease.

They rested that first night in a hay-loft on the edge of the forest and supped on summer apples and honey dumplings. The moon was almost in its fullness and it lit the loft with a comforting glow that somehow matched their thoughts. Christian could not sleep and Andre stayed awake, listening to the boy's excited chatter.

Andre watched him now as he took his fathers letter from the battered satchel. He'd not spoken of it since they'd retrieved it from the abbot's chest, but he knew that the boy had read it many times. Christian looked up and sighed. "I wish my father had been a coward."

Andre agreed. "Yes, perhaps you would still have your father if he had not been a man of such courage, your mother too. She must have been a woman of rare fortitude." He had determined upon leaving the flapping ears and wagging tongues of the abbey to speak only the truth. What Christian learned now would shape the man he would become and tales and fantasies would only muddy the clear waters of reason. "I feel that intolerance may be the greatest of all evils, and our Mother the Church is guilty of much intolerance. To treat our fellow men so is an abomination, whatever the scriptures say.

The truth is that she is like a beautiful and haughty woman. It is power that she craves.The faith of your mother and father must have drawn many to its fold. So it was a threat to the dominating power of the Church. That is why your family were accused as heretics and condemned."

Andre was thankful that Christian had never seen the horror of a burning.

He'd witnessed an execution in Palermo as a young knight, one which their virtuous majesties, the king and queen of Spain had graced with their presence. They'd sat, stony faced, as the might and mercy of Holy Mother Church was displayed in all its glory.

He'd never forgotten the gruesome spectacle of that day. It seemed that the whole city had turned out in its finery, food vendors, wine merchants and relic sellers jostling each other for business among the noisy throngs, jongleurs and acrobats vying for attention.

Then a great roar from the crowd as the heretics were dragged out in chains, two women, two men...... Jews, black with bruises, shaved and starved to skeletons, wearing the sanbenito and corosa, the painted tunic and conical hat of a relapsed heretic.

Andre pushed the memory of their terrible deaths away and saw instead, their overwhelming courage. He remembered their lips moving in prayer before the flames turned their faces into a rictus of agony. And he recalled the priests standing arrogantly before the screaming women, holding aloft the banners of Christ, watching as the tar soaked sackcloth burned away to reveal their heaving breasts.

He felt that this horror must have gratified some urge in these seemingly pious men, relishing as they did such terrible suffering. He wondered now, coarsely, if many of them hid swollen pizzles under their fine garments in their lust for the pain of their victims.

Bile rose in his throat at the thought.

It was a horrifying end for many good people and Andre prayed that one day, the abbot's dream of brotherhood and tolerance would emerge from the profound darkness in which they lived.

He looked at Christian's young face shining in the moonlight. Perhaps this innocent boy would acquire the wisdom of the sages to which he yearned and inherit the courage of his forebears, to right the wrongs of this unjust world.

Christian nodded. "I do not remember my mother at all now." Andre was lost in his own musings and had forgotten him. "Although sometimes I imagine I can smell her in the flowers that grow by the watermill, or in the sweet bread that Brother Wilhelm makes on Saturdays. Do you think that I might see her again Brother Andre?"

Andre fought to keep the catch from his throat. "You will surely see her again, my son, your father too. But you have many years to live and much work to do before God calls you home." He yawned and pulled his hood over his eyes. "Now sleep. Who knows what perils await us on the morrow."

As if in response, he felt the weight of his falchion, heavy on his leg.

*

Andre rose before dawn to pray.

He sat quietly, enjoying the chill morning air bracing against his skin, the soft babbling of the water on the rocks, the assurance of a new day. The morning came quickly, bringing with it an unwilling sun and fine, misty rain.

But there was a stillness that he could not reconcile with the comforting nature sounds around him. He was still thinking on this when Christian bounded up, full of excitement and eager to be on his way.

He pointed to a rough hewn cottage further along the path, half hidden by marsh reeds at the forests edge. They'd seen no-one the day before and it seemed impolite not to thank the reaper for the comfortable bed. But as they neared the small dwelling, he began to feel a familiar wariness. He'd long been accustomed to relying on his instincts and they told him now to take heed. He reached out for Christian and pulled him close. "Look there, Christian. What do you see?"

He stopped and peered intently. "Nothing Brother, no-one is stirring, nothing looks amiss."

Andre pointed to a corner of the house "The sun has been aloft for some time, yet no-one is about. Over there is a basket of wildflowers and a patch of tansy part weeded. Should there not be smoke from the chimney, dogs barking, a woman fetching water?"

Christian noted a long scythe leaning against the wall, its curved blade glinting in the early light, an axe lodged in a post, wood stacked neatly beside. A few plump chickens pecked for insects in the verdant grass, a rooster crowed on the cottage roof.

The reaper would not have left these precious tools unattended. Not in these days of hardship and wandering strangers.

"Perhaps there is sickness in the house?" Andre nodded; it was what he'd been thinking himself. The goodwife would not have let such fine chickens wander abroad or let her family's hearth go cold. The pathway beside the house was well trodden, and disease liked to travel also. The Black Death had left its evil footprint across the whole of Christendom and beyond. That this family had been taken unawares was not beyond the bounds of possibility.

Andre had been in plague houses before, had been stunned by the swift passage from vague feelings of weariness and fever, to agonising death.

He tried to think of the words that would prepare the boy for what they might find. This was not the infirmary, with its clean beds and linen bandages; this was the reality of his calling. "Christian, God does not give us the power to cure all ills, but we must never cross a threshold unless we can do some good."

As they approached they noted the thin wattle door ajar, a sweet, sickly stench they were both familiar with and the buzzing of flies. There was no mistaking now what had befallen the occupants of this house.

Andre entered, Christian after, his young eyes already adjusting to the dim interior.

He looked to the corner of the small room and saw two little girls laying entwined in each others arms, their coarse bedding black with flies. It seemed as if they were peacefully sleeping but the indication of disease was apparent in their blotched and darkened skin, death in the stillness of their repose.

A woman lay nearby covered with a piece of sackcloth stained with blood, her eyes cloudy and staring, flies crawling busily over her bloated face, into her nostrils and open mouth.

Andre' spoke first. "I fear they have been with the Lord for some time." He bowed his head in silent prayer for them all.

Christian looked around the miserable room, at the privation evident in the rough furnishings and sparse comforts. A small cooking pot lay tilted on the cold hearth, the remains of a potage filmed over with green scum and crawling maggots. But the children were warmly covered, their faces clean, their flaxen hair combed and dressed with small white meadow flowers. Two straw poppets lay beside their upturned faces.

His heart lurched for the grief their mother must have felt as she fought this blind, raging monster for the lives of her children... and lost. He wondered if she welcomed the first tell tale signs of the disease in her own body, to be with her daughters in paradise and leave to the rest, this hellish existence. And then this heartrending scene became more heartrending still.

He pulled the covering from the mother, seeing a misshapen bulge and there in her arms, an infant lay dead, still suckled at his mother's teat, his small fist clenched at her withered breast.

He bent to touch the lifeless body, feeling the child's skin waxy and cool, hoping against hope some shred of existence remained. He could not stop the tears and let them fall, unashamed. Then he looked up and saw something else in the darkness of the roof beams. A man hanging, dirty bare feet pointed downwards, neck at an impossible angle, his face shadowed in gloom.

He backed away in horror. This was an unpardonable sin in the eyes of the Lord. The abbot had told him so. The taking of ones own life, which belongs to God, would promise an eternity in hell.

Andre stood calmly, surveying the dreadful scene, holding his plain crucifix loosely in his hand. His mouth moving silently in the telling of the beads, his face showed only sadness and pity. He looked at Christian with that same pity now. "If the only good we can do here is lay them to rest, then that is our duty. Look about you for something with which to dig."

"But, but the......" He could not say it and only pointed. Andre looked up toward the hanged man. "Yes, I know my son. This wretch must have been insane with grief to do such a thing. Let us hope that the Lord will forgive him his humanity."

They buried them in the soft meadow beside their lowly home, side by side, the children with their poppets, the baby between his mother and father. Andre felt it would have been better to burn the cottage with the family inside; to prevent the spread of the disease, but it would have left them without hope when the last trumpets sound and all are resurrected in the light of the Lord, for in Corinthians he knew, was written, 'The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.'

He began his prayer for their souls as Christian stood nearby, lost in thought. Not of this unfortunate family, taken from the world in such anguish, but of the man beside him, gently intoning 'Grant them eternal rest, Oh Lord and may everlasting light shine upon them...' He'd removed his habit to carry them to their grave, in a practical gesture to cleanliness, and then bathed in the stream before speaking the words for the burying of the dead.

It was the first time Christian had seen him undressed, and his disinterest turned to curiosity as Andre turned from him to wash. His broad back was a vivid mesh of old scars, some fine, like hair, others deep and puckered. He'd never spoken of his life before coming to the abbey, excepting childhood tales that Christian recognised as lessons. He wondered what could have happened to leave such terrible wounds.

And for the first time wondered why Andre had exchanged a comfortable life at the abbey for a perilous journey to the Holy Land.

*

It was late when they made their way into the forest, neither feeling the need to talk, the sadness of the day drawing their thoughts inward.

Andre noticed Christian's sombre mood and as the afternoon turned from a dismal setting of the sun to peaceful night he looked for a place amid the trees to rest.

They lit a small fire and ate the last of their dumplings in silence, the promise of winter crackling in the air. He hoped they could make their way through the mountains before the passes became impenetrable with snow. He could see them above the tops of the trees, sheer and white in the gloaming.

The boy sat huddled in his cloak, all excitement dissipated by the dreadful toil of the morning. Andre rose and came to sit beside him. "You have had much to think on this day, Christian. Not all men could have kept a cool head. Many would have taken flight in the face of such horror."

Christian studied Andre's calm face, as if measuring and weighing his own reply and the response to it. "There was no sign of disease in the infant, Brother. And rigor had only just begun in the limbs."

He nodded for Christian to go on, understanding now the reason for his quietness. "Yes, the poor child likely did not have the strength to cry out."

"Why did the Lord not spare him such suffering? Why, when help was so close?"

Andre smiled sadly. How many times had he asked himself the same question? How many blameless children had he seen lying dead, their bloodied corpses piled up like firewood, all for the crime of being born into a nation at war, or a faith at odds with another's. Both Christian and Saracen alike had been guilty of crimes against the innocent. "I know not, my boy. It's not given us to question, although I believe there is a time in all men's lives when we do. He made us in His image after all, and gave us intelligence to think.

To see such a thing is the stuff of nightmares, but a necessary nightmare, one that instructs. How can you feel compassion if you have not known grief? How can you know beauty if you have seen no ugliness to compare it with?" And as Andre looked into blue eyes full of innocence, he decided once again, that only the truth will suffice. "This is the world the Lord has chosen for you Christian. It has always been filled with sorrow.

But every day we can learn and become wise.

Have you forgotten that there is much in our world that is splendid also? Do you not recall your magnificent wonders of nature? I recall very well the spiders you housed on the infirmary shelves. Mistress Berthilda nearly died of apoplexy when she took down some linen to air in the sun and a whole nest of spiders scuttled out."

They both laughed softly, Christian remembering now the pale, silky cocoons he'd hidden behind the sheets, promising their dead mother, trampled underfoot in the chapel, to keep them safe till they hatched.

"You will see many magnificent wonders on our journey Christian. Have I not told you of the dervishes of Constantinople, who swirl round and round in their skirts till they plunge into ecstasy and see visions of God? Or the tigers that the fine ladies of Baghdad lead about in jewelled collars like tame dogs, or the wonderful stone pyramids of Egypt and the sphinx that guards them? "

Christian rubbed his eyes with the coarse wool of his sleeve and listened as Andre wove a bright tapestry of hope in the autumn night.

"Or the scorching desert of Arabia, nothing but sky and sand for a hundred miles then, just as you think you will die for the want of a drink and your eyes are so crusted with flies you are nearly blind, an oasis, shaded by swaying palms, with deep wells filled with icy water and dates as soft and juicy as plums."

Christian closed his eyes and began to drift into sleep "My father told me about animals with humps on their backs and how they carried him across the desert to safety."

"Yes Christian, a camel. You will certainly see many camels; the Arabs call them the ships of the desert. Let us rest now and leave to the past this day of sorrow. Look, the clouds have cleared away and the stars are shining. We are truly blessed, for tomorrow the road may end and we will have need of your fine astrolabe to find our way."

He looked toward Christian, who had indeed gone to sleep, and smiled.

*

The forest teemed with life; crickets chirruping, robins singing sweet songs, rabbits bounding through the undergrowth. And with surprising regularity they encountered people going about their business, gathering kindling for their fires, setting snares.

Always they were greeted with friendliness. They looked as they were: pilgrims making for the Holy Land and salvation.

Often they would smell the inviting aroma of someone's cooking pot nearby, or hear the high pitched whistle of a hunter calling back his hounds.

The path was wider here, edged with soft green fronds and shaded by a dazzling canopy of gold and russet leaves swaying gently overhead. It was a place of peace, and as they walked, the sadness of the day before fell from them like a light summer shower on new wool.

Christian gathered hazelnuts and late berries and with much good natured mockery from Andre, chased a hare till he cornered it in the tangled roots of a tree, its soft doe eyes wide with fright. He wrung its neck quickly, asking forgiveness. Then he used his flint and steel to make a small fire and roasted it slowly, savouring its rich earthy meaty smell. It was the first hot food they'd eaten since leaving the monastery and they relished it with grateful enjoyment and laughter.

At nightfall they made a bed of ferns at the foot of a spreading beech and slept under its sheltering branches, protected from the misty autumn rain.

It was a good day.

*

Christian woke before the first rays of the sun, but Andre's place was already empty. He could see him through the dappled leaves, head bent in prayer, as always in the tranquil hours of the morning.

A light frost covered the mossy ground and Christian lay contentedly in his sweet smelling bed, contemplating the beauty of the icy crystalline forms. A rustle of leaves turned him sharply toward the sound but all was undisturbed. He watched as Andre straightened and moved toward him with his familiar upright stride.

The leaves rustled again.

This time Christian was ready and leapt to his feet. He reached for the small knife he kept in his jerkin, but suddenly a hand snaked out of the quivering branches and clutched at his wrist. Then the branch fell to the ground and a woman was standing beside him, leaves and twigs sticking in her long chestnut hair. He tried to wrench away but her strong hand held him still.

Her sleeveless shift of coarse sacking showed well formed shoulders and slender arms. One hand still gripped Christian's wrist, but the other held a clutch of hen's eggs, which she offered to him with solemn grace.

Andre returned and took in the scene with some amusement. "I see you have been captured. Are you not going to remember your manners and thank her for the eggs?"

Christian looked ashamed, seeing now what Andre was seeing, a woman offering food to travellers. He lowered his head and took the gift. "I thank you mistress."

Her unlined face and clear skin showed her to be a woman of no great years but the pleasing features were disfigured by a mass of deep welts and burns around her mouth. She turned her attention to Andre, her gaze travelling upward from his broad feet and strong hands, his rough woollen habit and greying hair, to rest on his open face. He in turn studied her, and the terrible injuries that marred a face that once must have been very beautiful.

Then it seemed that the air had begun to ripple around them.

He'd heard many tales of wise women living in the woods, called on by the townsfolk to birth their babies and tend to the sick and then scuttling back to their hiding places to avoid accusations of witchcraft. He wondered if she were such a one.

She turned as if to leave, then changed her mind and beckoned for them to come. Andre raised his eyebrows and followed her off the path and through the undergrowth.

They walked side by side watching the woman's straight back as she strode on ahead. Christian whispered "Why does she not speak?"

Andre answered softly, not wanting her to hear, "She has spittle on her chin, her teeth are broken and there are burns around her mouth. I believe she has had her tongue cut out."

It wasn't long before they came upon a clearing and a small wattle hut, covered in forest vines. Bright wildflowers were growing on either side of the well swept path and wisps of smoke drifted from the crooked chimney. She opened her door and gestured for them to enter and the enticing aroma of food drew them closer.

Andre watched Christian as he hesitated on the path. "What does your heart tell you about this, my boy? Should we enter the hag's lair?"

"The cottage looks well kept and the woman seems harmless. I feel now that she was trying to set the eggs beside me undetected, perhaps to save my pride." Andre was pleased that he had begun to evaluate and reason. It would help to keep him safe. They ducked their heads under the low doorway... and entered an Aladdin's cave of riches.

Everywhere were wonderful smells. A pungent broth bubbled in a pot on the softly crackling fire, herbs hung in bunches from the low roof beams, rough made shelves held earthen bowls of fruit and nuts and everywhere were flowers. In this homely place were all the treasures of the forest.

She gestured for them to sit on a wooden bench close to the hearth and ladled out two bowls of steaming soup thick with wild turnips and onions. She took no nourishment herself but stood quietly by as Christian wolfed it down. Then she offered fresh made bread and more broth and cut some honeycomb from a larger piece and handed it to him.

Christian's eyes were wide with wonder. He saw a pallet in the corner, sweet smelling bracken covered with rabbit pelts and felt he could curl up there and sleep forever in this safe, warm home.

She held out the honeycomb to Andre, who refused it with a shake of his head and a smile, but she did not turn away. She reached up her hand and as her warm fingers touched his cheek, her eyes locked onto his. Once more he felt the ripple of the light around them. And the smile began to fade from his lips.

He felt a gentle pulling as his surroundings disappeared in a hazy dimness and all that remained were the two of them, their eyes locked together. He wanted to tear his head away, afraid that she might see the sins of his past imprinted on his soul. And then his body became as a feather floating in time, as his past reared up before him and his future followed in its wake.

Christian waited, watching the silent exchange between the two. Then she grunted loudly and pulled her head away, tears in her eyes. Andre sat motionless; saying nothing, his fair skin had turned ashen in the soft morning light.

He felt the sharp sting of tears also, for if he laid his soul bare to her, she had laid her soul bare to him. In the space of a breath he saw her, standing erect and defiant before the might of the Church, her husband tortured unto death beside her, and writhing in agony as white hot pincers were forced into her mouth to tear her tongue free of its roots. He felt the blinding pain and terror of that awful punishment and his head swam with the knowledge.

They spent the day chopping wood for the winter ahead and piling it neatly beside the cottage. She gave Christian a fur bonnet and mittens and they all laughed when he pulled them on and wagged his ears, the flaps making him look like a giant, long limbed rabbit. She covered her mouth with her hand but the smile remained in her eyes.

Then her kind face became solemn. She handed Christian a small earthen pot sealed with wax and put her other hand to her chest in a rubbing motion. She pointed to Andre.

Her instructions were clear. Andre stood quietly and nodded his thanks to her, their eyes meeting once again. This time he felt no anxiety. Both had seen and both understood.

And as the afternoon shadows lengthened they took their leave, humbled by her generosity. She stood at her door, watching as they set off down the path. Christian felt sad as they rounded a bend and she disappeared from view. "I would have liked to know her name."

Andre smiled "And I too, but perhaps she has no need of it now."

*

The sun was beginning to set but they decided to walk on, the full moon lighting their way. They saw no firelights as they travelled deeper into the woods, heard no hunter calling his dogs. At nightfall the wolves began howling and as Christian tuned his ears to the ominous sound, long buried memories rose to the surface. His voice dropped to a whisper "I do not like that noise."

Andre laughed. "Ah, my boy. You can charm the birds out of the trees and the pigs from their swill. Of what concern is an overlarge dog? Do you not have as much right to walk here as he?"

"Yes, but I remember the tales I heard as a child." Andre stopped suddenly and looked sternly at Christian, the first time he could recall doing so.

"Childish fears have no place in a man's life. There will be many dangers on our journey; wolves the least of them. But they will smell your fear and attack if they perceive weakness. So, hold up your head. The moon is bright and our path is clear. Soon we will be out of these woods and there will be other concerns."

Christian looked sheepish and lowered his head. "Forgive me sire, I have much to learn.'

Andre clasped his shoulder in a fatherly gesture. "You have much wisdom already my boy, far more than I at your age. Did I tell you I once stole a maiden's petticoat as she bathed naked in the moonlight? Her father ran after me with his axe, swinging it above his head like a madman, but I stuffed my prize into my jerkin and hid until he gave up the chase." And then he smiled his broad mischievous smile. "I still remember the smell of that wonderful garment."

They walked on through the night and the baying wolves faded into the darkness as Andre recounted the exploits of his youth.

*

Two weeks later they emerged from the shadowed woods to find a vast rock- strewn plain and snow covered peaks sharply outlined against a slate grey sky.

They lit a fire and roasted the rabbit Christian had snared earlier. These harmless creatures had blessed them with fresh meat for most of their journey but the desolate scene ahead held little promise of food.

Christian took out his astrolabe and sighted it at the sky, adjusting the rule and rete to calculate their position. Andre had taught him well how to use it and his intention now was to find a route toward the East, to the Quibla. As he made his reckoning, he saw that their direction lay between the ridges of the two highest peaks. They would have to climb but not ascend to the mountain tops. He looked to Andre who had fallen asleep with his back against a rock, wrapped in his cloak. His face was grey with fatigue, although not once had he made complaint or suggested they rest.

When they began their trek to the mountains, they bent into the icy wind that howled across the flat, barren land, snatching at their clothes, biting into their skin. Christian became very fond of his bonnet and mittens and although Andre seemed impervious to changes in the weather, Christian noticed that his pace had slowed and his usual steady gait was hampered by a limp.

Crags and ridges loomed up, dark and menacing, water tumbled over rocky outcrops and ledges, snow clothed the peaks in a ragged cape of white lace.

Now Christian understood what Andre meant about the wolves. They'd left them alone, stalking alongside but not approaching, intimidating with their growls but not attacking. They were of no consequence in comparison to this formidable barrier. He'd kept his fear tight inside and he kept it in now, sensing that he would need all his strength for this part of the journey.

They walked on without stopping until the light began to fade, then took shelter in the lea of a giant rock formation which stood like a sentinel at the foot of the mountain.

Christian thought of what lay ahead, the people he might meet and the marvels he might see, the bright whirling dervishes, the magi of the East with their charts and scrolls and incantations, the wise Hebrew scholars and mysterious Egypt, full of grand temples and hidden knowledge.

With all his heart he wanted that knowledge, to heal and comfort and ease the suffering of those he saw around him. And he knew with a sureness he couldn't explain, that one day, it would be granted.

He wrapped himself in his travelling cloak, pulled his bonnet over his face and drifted into contented sleep.

Tomorrow they would begin the journey through the passes, out of Germany and onward to the coast, to take ship to Jerusalem.

*

The snow fell heavily the next day and the day after. They were fortunate they had so few possessions. Christian's small apothecary box weighed heavy on his shoulders and began to chafe against his backbone, creating sore patches of raw, bleeding skin.

Andre's limp became worse until Christian insisted he stop to examine his feet and found large, inflamed blisters where his new boots had rubbed against his toes. He applied salve and bound them with the muslin that Mistress Berta had wrapped the dumplings in and they joked about the healing power of honey dumplings.

Eerie echoes howled like long dead ghosts through the natural corridor made by the cliffs towering above them, but the snow had hardened to a firm crust, making walking easier. They said little as they journeyed on, the fierce wind whipping the words from their mouths as soon as they were spoken.

When their battle with the wind bent them double with weariness, they stopped at last, finding an underhanging rock to shelter them. They ate the hazelnuts Christian had gathered in the forest and slept till the morning, wrapped like cocoons in their cloaks.

The next day the sky was heavy and grey with threatened snow but it stayed in the heavens and they made their way steadily, enjoying the surreal majesty of the alpine peaks. It was a place where time was measured by the beating of a heart or the inhalation of a breath. It was not hard to imagine that they alone inhabited the world.

They saw the tracks of snow foxes and marmots, but no living thing crossed their path, even the birds had disappeared from the sky.

Christian padded like a leopard in the snow, alert and watchful for small game, comfortable in his surroundings. It made Andre glad and he prayed that the boy would find that which he sought.

For himself, he thought of the righting of wrongs and of peace.

Nothing could give the children back their lives, but they had been innocent, welcomed into the arms of the Lord with joy. His beautiful Yiola had taken her own life and would burn in eternal torment if he could not make amends.

It was his fault that the children had been murdered in their beds, not hers. And he had carried his guilt through the years like a bloated leech fastened to his soul.

He'd hidden behind a pillar as she tended the babes in the nursery, singing sweet lullabies, her pure clear voice like a softly ringing bell. He'd watched her lay a dead child to rest, her tears falling like pearls on the pale waxen face and ached to kiss away her pain.

And when he wrapped his strong arms around her at last and pulled her close, his tunic still stained with the blood of the battlefield, she'd tried to push him away but he'd held her, knowing by her bright eyes and the heart beating like a fluttering wing under his hand that she wanted him too.

He remembered pulling away her veil and the clean, silken feel of her hair as it fell through his fingers like sunlit water, the soft warmth of her cheek as he tasted her salty tears and then the moist velvet feel of her tongue in his mouth as his need for her reached such heights that he thought he would drown in an ocean of desire. And later, the smell of jasmine on the warm summer night, his big hand cupping her breast as the other explored gently between her parting thighs, not needing now to be overcome by his strength. And the world disappearing as her cool hand reached down to close around his swollen manhood and guide him to her, willingly.

They'd both known it was wrong. He was bound by his vows and she, an orphan put to use in the nursery to save her from starvation. But he'd been young and strong and full of fire.

The memory of what he'd done filled him with shame even now. He walked on, not looking at Christian, lost in his past.

She'd tried to resist him, he knew that now. She'd shown him in the way her eyes averted his gaze as he worked in the infirmary and in the way she stayed close to the others as they tended the sick.

Gaspard knew. He'd sensed the tension between them. The big knight was not known for his subtlety and he'd waited until they were alone, grabbed Andre by the throat and pushed him against the wall. He must stop. The woman had been dishonoured. Could he not see that he placed them both in danger?

Andre had brought up his fist and smashed it into his friend's face, outrage blinding him to the truth. Blood spurted from a gash in Gaspard's cheek but he was bigger and not given to displays of temper. He'd looked calmly into Andre's eyes then reached down to take the dagger from his belt. He threw it into the corner and walked away, saying nothing. For the first time since they were children, they'd raised a hand against each other.

The encounter had left him shivering and overcome with shame. He'd hurt his friend in a flash of anger and worse, Gaspard had felt the need to disarm him. Had he thought he would use his knife against the man he'd always loved as a brother?

But Gaspard was right. The knights of St John were looked upon as intruders on the island and now the citizens had become surly and resentful. The penalty for relations with a Cypriot woman was severe. And he had broken his vows, an inexcusable act.

He'd wept at the thought of not holding her in his arms, not feeling her soft lips against his. That he loved her he had no doubt, but he realised his love for his Order and his Lord must be stronger. He would do penance for his disobedience, his pride and his lust. He would ask her forgiveness for the loss of her innocence and try as best he might to atone for his behaviour.

He'd resolved to leave her alone and attend to his duty.

But the world was bigger than two lovers and the horror that was to come would drive all thoughts of her from his mind.

*

A few weeks later the plague showed its loathsome face to the beleaguered inhabitants of Cyprus.

A Portuguese slave-galley carrying natives to be sold in the markets of Genoa docked in the harbour, bringing with it spices, silks and the reek of death.

The stink of the ship forewarned them of its approach while still outside the headland and as it came closer, the wailing of the slaves shackled below carried on the wind like the howl of whipped dogs.

There was something grey and cowering about the way the vessel hung limp in the water and the harbour master denied the captain refuge, calling to him from the wharf that no ship could berth without a permit from the Seneschal, and permission would not be granted if the ship carried contagion.

The swarthy captain pulled back his shoulders and vowed that his ship was without disease but run dangerously low on water, being turned away from every port they'd sighted.

The orange sun hung low on the horizon as it came alongside the pier, the captain manoeuvring the ship close before shouting down with a carrion smile that he carried black pepper, nutmeg and opium from the Holy land, which he would be willing to trade, for the right price.

While two silent crewmen threw the dock-lines over the bollards and tied it fast, the harbour master walked its length, noting the filth encrusting the hull above the water line, the rats scuttling along the hawser to shore and the reek of human waste seeping from its hold. Barrels of water and fruit were hauled across on ropes while the townsfolk ambled down to the wharf to watch the spectacle of a fully laden slave-ship.

They were disappointed. The pleas and groans of the wretches packed tight in the hold would have melted the heart of the devil, but the captain kept them locked below.

The harbour master set a watch for the night to ensure no-one disembarked and waited for the Seneschal. The next morning it was turned away, both agreeing that the ship had a certain fetid miasma that bespoke of trouble.

The captain was unconcerned; he had water and his goods were a valued commodity everywhere. He showed his gratitude by dropping his kedges at the furthest point of the bay and throwing over the side the rotting carcasses of the slaves who'd lain dead in the hold, manacled to the living.

The sharks had surrounded the ship, thrashing and whirling in frenzied circles as they ripped and tore at the bodies as they tumbled into the water. The rest washed up on the sands and over the next few days, and before the sun set on the third, the infirmary began to fill with feverish and worried citizens.

Andre worked in the open courtyard, tending to the most severe, but between one Sabbath and the next, half the islands population had succumbed and swollen corpses lay in the hot dusty streets for want of strong hands to bury them.

The men were always the first to succumb and the first to be shut away from loved ones and help, in fear of spreading the disease further. There was usually nothing to be done. Either they lived or died, stinking of putrefaction, black buboes livid and disgusting and their families would be left without strong men to till the fields or bring in the harvest.

They tried to keep the children safe, only Yiola coming and going between the nursery and the outside, fetching clean water and food, then blocking the gaps under the doors and covering the small windows to keep the evil humours out. They were orphans too and she cosseted them like her own.

One week stretched into another and still they battled the Black Death, Andre working through the nights, dragging his feet, his eyes grown dim from weariness, until finally Gaspard ordered him to rest. He sat propped against the wall eating a fig, the stench of decay thick in his nostrils. And then he saw her drawing water from the well, her face swathed in muslin. She turned and moved toward him, her beautiful eyes filled with longing, but he jumped to his feet and blocked her path, his hands held up in front of him as if to turn her away.

She must have seen the truth in his eyes for she lowered her head, her knuckles white on the handle of the water jar and he put his hand under her chin and lifted it up, forcing her to look at him. What he saw there made his heart leap, but he pushed away his desire for her and stepped back, steeling his resolve.

He begged her forgiveness and admitted the shame he felt for the advantage he had taken. He'd forced himself upon her for the basest of reasons. He told her to look for a husband who would care for her, as his duty could be to no earthly woman. He knew what he said was cruel; he could see the hurt in her eyes. She'd looked at him for just a moment, her dark eyes moist with tears and ran past him to the nursery.

He stood silently, tasting the bitter gall of treachery on his tongue and then walked back to the courtyard to tend to the living among the dead.

No-one saw Yiola the next day or the day after. The chaplain became concerned when he went to bless the children on the morning of the Sabbath and all was in silence. They forced open the door and found her lifeless, her veins opened and emptied onto the stone floor. The children had been washed, neatly tucked into bed and smothered in their sleep. When the chaplain emerged pale and shocked it was Andre he looked for among the others.

He went straight to the Grand Master and confessed.

He had dishonoured her, he had forced her against her will and it was his fault that her mind had given way. She was a poor orphan and he had taken the only thing she had, her innocence. He did not want the sanctity of the confessional, he wanted his guilt laid bare and shouted to the world.

The Grand Master looked upon him with distaste and had him flogged in the stables, with all the knights assembled as witness. He was a worldly man, used to the passions of young men, so he saved his anger for Gaspard who, after the fifth lash tore into Andre's flesh, strode across the yard and knocked the whip out of the lictor's hands. Then he stood, feet planted apart, his sword resting between them, defying the others to approach. No-one did. They were well loved among their brethren.

The Grand Master expelled them both from the Order for the breaking of their vows.

Poverty, chastity and obedience. Only poverty remained to them now and they walked away with their few possessions and begged passage home.

Andre had lain feverish for a week on the deck of the ship, his wounds weeping and livid. Gaspard saw to the outward damage but could do nothing for the guilt that skulked around him like a wraith.

The children were interred in the crypts, a mass said for their innocent souls. Yiola was buried outside the walls and the townsfolk spat on the last sod that covered her.

*

Andre stumbled and Christian moved quickly to his side. "I thank you my boy. The rocks are treacherous here." But Christian had been watching him for some time and had seen the anguish that he'd not thought to hide.

Ice blasted trees stood like skeletons against the fading light as they found shelter once again in the lee of the rocks. The wind had carved a small cave in the face of the cliff and here they took refuge for the night, Andre wrapping himself against the cold and falling gratefully into sleep.

Christian gathered the dry twigs that lay around them and lit a small fire at the entrance, filling the cave with cosy warmth and the soft, resinous scent of pine. He ate half the nuts that were left, saving the rest for Andre, but he was still hungry and the chill seemed to have seeped through to the marrow of his bones, denying him sleep.

He took the astrolabe out of his father's pouch.

The wind ceased its howling and the night came down quickly, a sliver of moon hanging pale in the heavens, setting a scene of such profound beauty that Christian thought he might weep at the sight.

He handled the instrument carefully, setting the pendulum and rule in line with the horizon that lay far in the distance, but his calculations were made difficult by the poor light and their lofty perspective, so he contented himself with studying the fine engravings on its surface. He'd never asked Andre how he came to own such a thing and he wondered now at its provenance. Had it been possessed by an astronomer, a learned man, a prince? What other hand had sighted it at the sky and called down the stars? His fingers tingled at the thought.

He was still watching the play of the stars against the velvet sky when Andre rose to pray. He stood beside him, laid a hand on his shoulder and pointed at lights twinkling in a hazy shimmer below. Christian had been so intent upon his contemplation of the heavens he hadn't noticed the early morning wakening of the town beneath them.

*

The road to the town was narrow and ill made and the stinking gibbet cages on either side overflowed their foul cargo onto the muddy ground. Andre fingered his beads. They had been men once.

This death by hanging, till the flesh rotted and fell from the bones, was a common enough punishment now. He remembered a journey to Stuttgart one frosty spring morning, where he'd gone to negotiate the price for a wagonload of wine the brothers had put away to pay for repairs to the summer refectory. He'd stopped to give thanks for his safe journey at a beautiful three-naved church in the centre of the town and looked up to see the tower hung with iron cages just like these, each with a whimpering man inside. The citizens had gathered to watch, hoping for sight of the devil dragging his minions off to hell, for it was always a good showing, they said, when Waldensians were brought to account. They were to hang till the crows pecked out their eyes and thirst drove them to rip open their veins with their teeth for want of a drink. They were given no mercy.

He banged with the flat of his hand on the thick wooden gate and a coarse, wavering voice answered from within. "Declare your business!"

"We are pilgrims sire, bound for the Holy Land and Jerusalem." Andre could see the pride in Christian's face as he called through the small opening but the reply was harsh and unexpected.

"Yet more pious scavengers in search of a meal they haven't earned is it?"

Christian's jaw dropped open in surprise but Andre's voice was gentle. "Good gatekeeper, we are pilgrims surely, but we are also trained in physic. Many are suffering in these difficult times and we offer help. We ask no payment."

A dark eye and bushy grey eyebrow showed at the peephole, moving up and down, resting on Andre's grey robe. "Well, the good folk of Trent won't be needin' the help of any beak doctors and leech squeezers, thanks be to the Lord.

A monk heh?" The eye narrowed and regarded them steadily. "No pox or swellings?" Andre pushed back his hood and showed his unscarred face to the eye. "What about the boy?" Christian did the same. Hoarse laughter followed them as the gate swung open on creaking hinges. "Well, I bid ye enter then, lest we be in peril of our mortal souls."

They approached the town square and saw a hive of activity in the dawning light. It was market day. Shopkeepers were unloading their wares from carts and wagons, shouting and whistling, each calling to the other in good natured rivalry.

Christian's eyes grew wide as he wandered among stalls laden with loaves of warm bread, fresh apples and fruit pies, cider in barrels and new milk in jugs, bright painted eggs, trussed and squawking chickens tied on poles and tubs of wriggling eels.

He hurried across to help a fishwife whose catch of tench was so fresh it had slithered out onto the cobbles. He grabbed at the slippery, flipping fish and placed them back in the basket, laughing. The fishwife smiled her thanks and gave him a penny.

His nose led him to a trestle table piled high with golden baked bread steaming in the chill air. He chose two soft honey rolls and handed his money to the portly baker, then offered them to Andre, who waved them away, "Too rich for me... but let them not go to waste."

The baker was a kindly man, who'd noticed the boy's gaunt cheeks and sparse frame and the monk standing quietly by. He waddled over, a round girth bulging from his pristine white apron. "Here boy, you look like a lad with something between your ears. Tis a busy morning I'll have, what with the goodwives gossiping and this fine specimen you see before you and his famous cherry pies earmarked for betrothal. I'd be glad of some help with the loaves."

Christian looked to Andre, who nodded, his eyes twinkling.

"I'll pay you a tuppence for the morning and a hot meal at the last. What say you?"

His face lit up, his mouth still full of bread. "Thank you sire, I am very strong. I can work hard."

The baker laughed, his big white teeth showing. "Well, first sit you both down and break your fast. These lazy goodwives don't do their shopping until the sun is right up and I have some mutton pies even the angels would fight over." And he handed them each a warm pie and small beer from his own jug, then left them to eat while he rearranged his wares. Neither could remember having a better meal.

Christian spent the morning shyly selling bread to the women of the town, blushing as they ruffled his fair hair or pinched his cheek, laughing to their daughters, who giggled behind their hands and blushed themselves.

Andre entered the small church and knelt at the altar, giving thanks for their safe journey.

They slept that night warmed by the bakery oven. The baker refused the offer of their free labour, telling them his wenches needed the work and filling them up with stewed meat and cabbage and big slices of cherry pie with dollops of thick yellow cream. Christian couldn't wipe the smile from his face. It had been a long time since his belly was full and his body warm.

Andre watched the boy fondly as he curled up on the sweet smelling straw. He was indebted to the baker's good charity. It would be a good memory for Christian to hold on to in the hard times ahead.

In the morning they bid their farewells and made their way through the town loaded up with loaves and eggs and good wishes. Andre was struck by how healthy and happy the people seemed. Everyone returned their greetings with a cheery smile; their round faces rosy and plump. The children skipped along gaily with their mothers, dressed warm and muffled from the cold.

He'd never entered a town where vermin infested middens were not piled high and reeking and no piss and shit ran in the gutters, yet there was no ordure in the streets, or rats gnawing on filth in the alleys. And he could see no signs of pox or disease. Perhaps the shadow of the glorious alpine peaks above protected the townsfolk from harm?

Then he remembered the surly gatekeeper and the thick stone walls surrounding them. Strict burghers and isolation kept them safe, for now. It saddened him that these good people would one day face the creeping evil of the plague. It was as if the very air of the world were rotten with its presence.

As they strolled through the well swept streets, a curly haired girl broke away from her mother and bounded up, holding in her chubby hand a posy of meadow flowers, which she solemnly offered to Christian. He took it with a courtly bow and a smile. "I thank you pretty maiden." and tucked it into his jerkin.

Andre noticed the attraction he seemed to have for the young ladies, seeing many peeping from beneath their bonnets at the tall, fair haired stranger with the noble bearing and gentle face. The baker said he'd increased his trade tenfold and begged him to stay as his apprentice.

He felt that if Christian wore fine robes instead of lowly homespun garb, he would have been treated like a prince. The sumptuary laws had been enacted all over Europe to keep each to his own station, but they did not apply to him. He had the right to wear velvet and weasel and embroidered lace. But Christian had never lost his serene contemplation of the world and accepted it all with quiet humility.

They walked on, stopping only to make an evening meal of the baker's fine gifts and reached the southernmost gate before sunset.

Here the shouts and whistles and haggling of commerce rattled through streets crowded with woolly haired moors, turbaned men and women swathed in layers of cloth, many with one red shoe and one black, the mark of a Jewish woman, determined by law.

Trent was a place through which many passed on their way to other lands, a melting pot of cultures and languages. Andre heard snatches of French and Italian as well as their own plain German and the aroma of exotic spices and unfamiliar foods curled around them, making their mouths water.

The Jewish merchants, Judenhuts perched on their heads and yellow patches sewn on their wide black robes sat together in earnest conversation, watching the crowd as they hurried by. Here was a world away from the rosy cheeked townsfolk of the northern part of the town.

With his wages of the morning Christian bought Andre a cup of steaming sweet tea from a laughing man with a bright polished samovar strapped to his back. For himself, milk taken fresh from a bellowing cow tethered to a post, the fine hairs from its udder floating in the thick warm cream. The doe eyed milkmaid blushed scarlet as she handed him the brimming tankard and smiled shyly when he handed it back, the white milk froth still standing on his upper lip.

Christian had no need to use his astrolabe to calculate their route.

The fat turbaned gateman informed them through a cloud of smoke from his hashish pipe that a fine road led from his gate to the great city of Venice, a city where anything could be had if a man had gold enough, even a pretty virgin boy. He winked lecherously at Christian and stretched out his sweating sausage fingers to touch his face.

Andre's hand went to the hilt of his hidden falchion but Christian stepped back warily and the gateman waved them away, coughing thickly and spitting brown gobs into a bowl in his lap.

*

That night they slept against the damp stone wall of the Southern gate, Andre staying alert and watching as dark shadows loomed over them, paused for a moment and then hurried on... perhaps seeing the glint of steel amid a monk's grey robes.

They rose before dawn, hearing the grumbling snores of the gateman as they passed through to the green plains beyond.

Before they had gone very far, Andre stopped by a brook to pray, leaving Christian to search amongst the low shrubs against the wall. Finding food had become the most difficult part of their journey and he lost no opportunity in its pursuit. He hoped to find rabbit warrens or nesting birds.

He found an open charnel house instead.

Bones, some weathered and bleached white, others still with flesh clinging, grinning skulls and matted hair, ragged scraps of cloth covering skeleton ribs, the smell of decay and the insistent, busy drone of flies. Small frames of children huddled against the wall, or scattered, pulled apart by scavengers. Some lay clutched together as if the closeness of the other could save them from their awful fate.

Christian wandered among the dead, the gentle sighing of the wind across the plain strange in his ears after the noisy bustle of the town. He wondered if this was why there seemed to be no disease among the people. Had the sick and infirm been forced outside to die alone against the walls? Or were they travellers denied entry and with it, hope?

He shook his head sadly, his stomach churning. He had much to learn about human nature.

*

They continued south along the wide, dusty road, meeting pilgrims and merchants and whole families coming back from the city or going onward to the Holy land. The nobles and rich merchants rode in fine litters, or on sturdy palfreys, veiled in muslins and silks to keep out the dust, complaining all the while, while the others walked, pulling carts laden with pots or cloth to sell in the markets and some, believing themselves sinners, prostrating themselves in the dirt with every round of their beads.

They passed a group of flagellants, white robed and dour faced, chanting and whipping their flesh as they walked on in a slow, mournful file. Since the pestilence had come upon them, hundreds of these penitents had taken to the streets, flaying themselves with iron tipped whips, praying to God that they could be spared by their blood and their sacrifice.

And a mother, struggling along behind her husband, carrying an idiot child on her back, a wide cross shaved into the hair on the back of its head in the hope of the Lord's blessing.

Many showed the scars of smallpox or the ravages of leprosy. It seemed as if the whole of travelling humanity were marred and weakened by disease.

And they made camp one evening with a ragged, smiling minstrel, who'd walked with them for miles, playing sweet tunes on a battered lute and singing pretty love songs, laughing all the while. His eyes were the sparkling blue of an alpine lake, his quiet, courtly manner belying his shabby appearance. Christian sat mesmerised as he spoke, in the gentle, lilting accents of the Languedoc, of the mysterious black Madonna adorning his church and the massacre in a time gone by, of many of his kinfolk, for the sin of holding to the faith of the Cathari.

Andre remembered the brothers speaking of the great purge at Beziers on the turning of the century, praising their sainted abbot Anaud-Amaury for putting twenty thousand to the sword... and ridding the city of the stain of heresy. They'd laughed as they recounted his famous words 'Kill them all, for the Lord knoweth them that are his.' Yet he had heard that their faith was one of compassion to all creatures and absolute devotion to God.

The troubadour left them in the morning, suddenly deciding to return to his home in Toulouse. Before his departure, he took from his pouch a small parcel wrapped in parchment and placed it smiling, in Christian's hand. And as his wide sleeve fell away in the offering, a small tattoo showed at his wrist, the same triangle and rose cross as the seal on his father's letter.

Christian gasped in surprise but the minstrel laughed and skipped away, his eyes flashing. He begged a ride with a wagon driver returning to Trent and waved gaily as they disappeared over the crest of a hill.

Christian walked along full of wonder at this chance meeting "We met only yesterday but it feels as if I have known him all my life."

Andre nodded. "Yes. He was someone of greater significance than he appeared, I feel. And to have a mark the same as your father's is a mystery indeed. It may be a dangerous thing to bear in these dark times."

Christian's eyes widened. "Do you think that's what father's seal was, a symbol of the Cathars?"

Andre shook his head "No, they had a simple philosophy I believe, one that denied the importance of this world. It would have been anathema to them to carry anything that looks like a crucifix." He'd heard that they'd held a belief in the innate evilness of all earthly things, that mans' body had been a creation of Satan and that even marriage was a vice.

Christian looked down at the parcel in his hand then suddenly thrust it toward Andre as a large hare darted across their path. In a flash, he'd whipped out his sling, grabbed a pebble from his bag and whirled it around to let it fly in a smooth arc toward the still leaping animal. It caught the animal full on and it dropped to the ground, unmoving. His skill with the small weapon was impressive indeed. In a trice it was gutted and skinned and roasting over a small fire, a fine breakfast for the journey ahead.

Andre suddenly remembered the minstrel's gift and sat watching as Christian fumbled with the twine that held it tight. It was a square cut prism of glass. With boyish delight, Christian tilted it to and fro, capturing its beautiful rainbow colours in the light. He handed the heavy glass to Andre and smoothed out the stiff yellow parchment, noticing a script written in dark sooty ink. A frown creased his smooth features as he read:

' _Nothing is as it seems...'_

And Christian saw truly, by the wondrous light flashing and winking through the glass, by the soft pink and yellow and bright, clear green and violet that would put a flower to shame, that even the very air he breathed and the plain light of day, was something more magical than he could ever have imagined.

*

They reached the walled city of Venice at midday on the fifteenth day of their departure from Trent, and stood watching in awe as the rays of the bright sun lit up the domes and parapets and fine civic buildings, bathing the city in a soft golden glow.

Other pilgrims had told them that the laws of Venice prohibited entry until forty days had passed to ensure that disease did not enter also, but there were no questioning gatekeepers here. The city gates stood open and a steady throng of travellers were passing across the bridge to disappear into its dark interior.

All were admitted. The leprous, the lame and those, who Andre could see even in the crush of a crowd, were stricken with fever and shaking with ague.

The overhanging roofs and balconies of buildings halted the sun's warm radiance and they felt the chill of stone and shadowed alleys as they made their way through narrow streets stinking of open sewers. They crossed endless stone bridges congested with donkey carts laden to overflowing with vegetables and freshly butchered meat and shouting, angry people, their eyes dark slits of suspicion as Andre's greetings went unanswered. The city had long been mired in wars with their neighbours and the people had become guarded and unfriendly.

Canals ran grey and stagnant between the crumbling buildings and small boats bobbed like corks on the oily water. And shabby, painted women, staring cold eyed from haggard faces displayed their wares, lifting their skirts to show scrawny calves and bony feet, calling out in ribald, wheedling voices. Christian's face was rigid with horror.

They stopped and bought bread with the last of his wages and found a tree beside the canal to rest. A drowned, bloated cow floated past, half rotted and covered with flies. Andre felt his stomach turn. He hoped they could make their way to the harbour and a swift galley. For all its brilliance from afar, there was something deeply unpleasant about this bustling, noisy place.

Yet there was beauty here also. The shining domes and spires of churches towered above the buildings and gardens filled with flowers made bright islands of colour among the seething waterways. And white regal swans lent a serene grace to the filthy canals.

Christian reached into his pouch to take out his glass, seeing the play of light on the water, but Andre stayed his hand. "Keep your treasures hidden, my son. The townsfolk here seem wary and over interested in two poor travellers. Indeed, I have felt their eyes like knives in my back since we crossed the bridge and the closer we get to that church, the more I feel them watching. See there, hidden by the pillar?"

He pointed to the beautiful mosaic covered building in front of them. As Christian turned to look, a large, roughly dressed man pulled his hood over his eyes and slunk away into the darkness of the doorway.

Andre's spine tingled. He pushed his travelling bag behind him to shield his back and free his arms. Christian reached for his small dagger and then thought better of it. They were entering God's house. What harm could befall them here? But Andre knew otherwise. Sanctuary was no protection from men bent on evil. The crusades had taught him that.

They entered through the magnificent arch of San Marco, into the narthex and through to a dazzling gold covered wonder filled with jewelled mosaics, gilded frescos and bright painted cupolas, all gleaming in the soft candlelight. Hushed, reverent voices echoed across the cavernous space as they walked slowly toward the altar; Christian's head swivelling in every direction, his mouth open in awe. They fell to their knees in front of the glorious altarpiece and bowed their heads in prayer, for gazing serenely down upon them, and glittering with a thousand jewels, were Christ the Saviour and all the saints.

A moment later Andre touched Christian's shoulder "Come, we should find the harbour before nightfall and secure our passage."

The boy's bright eyes shone gold in the reflected light "Just a little longer, I beg you. My heart aches to see such beauty. "

Andre smiled. Youth could be forgiven for being seduced by gold and pretty pictures. A prayer by a meadow pond was just as holy.

He caught a movement from the corner of his eye and looked round to see a priest lighting candles in the chapel beside them. He raised his hand and Andre rose to greet him, leaving Christian to contemplate the altarpiece, his hands folded, his face a picture of ecstasy.

The priest, wearing the black robes of St. Dominic was soft of features and gentle of speech. They talked of the beauty of the mosaics and the Pala d Oreo... the golden altarpiece taken as booty from Constantinople on the fourth crusade. He asked if they would like to see the relics of their blessed Saint Mark, kept in an ossuary behind the altar. It seemed as though he had turned his back for only a moment but when he looked back to Christian, he was gone.

He called out, his voice bouncing against the walls and echoing back, unanswered. He searched through the chapels; saw nothing in the vast expanse of the cathedral. He strode to the open door of the vestry and peered inside. He ran to the entrance and searched the piazza. Then he looked back to the priest who stood, pale and speechless in the aisle. His frightened eyes told Andre what he already knew; Christian was not the first comely youth to disappear from the golden sanctity of St Marks.

Then he turned a corner into a darkened recess and saw a box of remedies strewn on the floor and blood staining the tiles.

He felt his own blood turn to ice. He pushed aside his habit and pulled the falchion from his sword-belt, bringing it shining into the light. He followed the blood to a carved wooden door, out into a dark passageway choked with refuse from the morning markets and began to make his way slowly along the narrow, stinking alley, his sword held loose and ready. He could see light and hear merchants touting their wares at the end of the passage, but all else was shadowed in gloom.

Suddenly he heard moaning and the sharp, brutal bark of a man's voice, and although his conscious mind would scarcely recognise it, as he gripped the pommel of his sword, he'd promised himself that if any harm had befallen the boy, there would be death to pay for the price.

Then he saw them. Christian stretched out in the filth, unmoving, his eyes shut tight. And the man they had seen behind the pillar, bending over him, fumbling with his breeches. Blinding anger surged through his limbs, making his movements swift...and deadly.

Christian did not hear the sigh of the blade as it bit into the thick neck, nor feel the hot blood as it sprayed over his face. He did not see Andre's look of fury as he kicked the twitching body aside and knelt beside him. "Forgive me, my son, for exposing you to such danger. To take my eyes from you for even a moment..." And as he turned him onto his back, seeing the ugly wound on his head and his breeches tangled by his feet, he groaned "Oh, Christian, what wickedness breeds in men's hearts."

Tears came to his eyes; tears he thought had long since dried to dust in the harsh reality of his life.

The Dominican helped carry him to the hostel across the piazza and brought warm water and the boys scattered things. He hurried away again and returned shortly with a new tunic and breeches and sturdy woollen undergarments, paid for from the abbot's purse.

Andre washed the wound and bound it with linen. The cut wasn't deep but an angry, purple bruise showed the force of the blow. Except for that, he was unharmed.

Christian remembered nothing, waking up with a new set of clothes and a blinding headache. "I remember only the wonderful paintings and a kitten wandered from its mother." He eyed his bloodstained clothes, heaped on the floor. "Perhaps I fell, though there seems to be a lot of blood for such a small wound."

They spoke no more of it, the priest showing his generosity once again by bringing them bread and cheese and sweet, honeyed wine. They made their way to the docks at first light, not wanting to wake their friend to thank him.

*

Christian looked out over the wide lagoon and smiled. It was much more beautiful than he imagined, this pristine blue immensity that was the sea.

The water rippled gently, lapping at the walls of the pier, its blue the colour of the cloudless heavens, so that both the sky and the water blended into a soft, clean whole, divided only by the ocean laying just beyond the harbour, its white capped waves dancing on the horizon.

Galleys glittered in the water like jewels in a blue velvet crown, crewmen pacing their lengths and shouting orders. From the pier they looked like a nest of giant spiders, waiting. Those tethered to their moorings were crowded by stevedores loading bundles and rolling barrels, stacking goods in holds, pushing past each other on the narrow decks and cursing, readying the ships for departure.

Andre told him slaves and criminals manned the galleys of Venice, some for only a few months and some, depending on their crime, for the rest of their lives. He wondered what it must be like, to be manacled to an oar and whipped like a dog, knowing that most times the only escape is death. He could hear them singing, their voices undulating softly across the water, a unity of sorrow, their music a desolate, hopeless tune. But he pushed away the sound. For now he could feel excitement bubbling up inside him, smell the salt in the gentle wind and hear the song of the ocean beyond singing to him of freedom and wonders and unknown things.

He looked to Andre who stood at the water's edge, talking to a one armed man dressed in bright pantaloons and a wide peacock feather hat. He saw him hand over one of the abbot's gold coins and turn to point in his direction. Christian's heart leapt. They were taking ship at last.

His head still ached from the night before and he puzzled over his small injury. He looked down at his new tunic and breeches, the finest he'd ever worn. Why did he need new clothes, the old ones were still serviceable and it was only blood. Andre had been insistent, he would need finer garments for their journey and the priest hurried away with his old ones before he could protest.

Andre walked slowly toward him, looking weary and somehow sad. It was the first time Christian could remember that he hadn't a smile on his face. He promised himself that he would take more care of his beloved friend. He owed him much more than could ever be repaid. They were both glad to be away from this strange city where people of all races and colours walked but warily and money seemed to be the only currency of any importance.

Andre sat down on an empty barrel and smiled at last. "Well, are you ready?" Christian stretched out his arms. "Ready? I feel that I could take wing like those white gulls over there and fly to the Holy Land."

He laughed and pointed toward a stately galley moored alongside the pier, its crewmen busy on the decks. "Behold our noble falcon of the seas. The captain is an Englishman, and tells me he pilots the swiftest galley in the whole Mediterranean. We will be drinking sweet Turkish tea in Jaffa in twenty nine days, regardless of the weather."

Christian jumped up and ran toward the ship, whooping and jumping like an excited child. He stood fidgeting with impatience to board the bright painted vessel, but before they made their way across the wooden plank, Andre gestured to his pouch "I would know my boy, in which direction our destination lies?

He nodded and took the astrolabe from his bag. He aligned it with the horizon, adjusted the rule and noted the matching of the symbols and there, out to sea and straight as an arrow shot, lay the Quibla of the Arabs and Jerusalem. "Your eyes, were they stronger sire, would rest upon her shores already. I can almost hear the faithful being called to prayer and smell the spiced lamb in the marketplace." Andre laughed and put his arm around his shoulder as they boarded the softly rocking ship.

*

Christian stared miserably at the sparse contents of his stomach spread across the deck. Laughter rippled behind him and he turned to peer through bleary eyes at two sailors watching from the stern. The younger of the two grinned to his mate and pointed "Ah, the sea is a harsh mistress. Look you, yon son of Neptune there. The lad has the feeble stomach of a milkmaid with child." he snickered and pushed a wooden bucket toward him. But they were not unkind and fetched him water and a dried apple to chew on.

The first part of their journey had been blessed with calm seas and bright sunshine and Christian joined the crew in the daily life of the galley, mending ropes and scrubbing decks. When the men settled for the night, he made himself comfortable in their quarters, listening bright-eyed to tales of daring they exaggerated for his benefit. He was quite safe. None had failed to notice the quiet presence of the giant, steely eyed monk. They knew a fighting man when they saw one.

Most of the crew were Venetians, and Christian spoke with them in the simple Italian he had learned at the abbot's knee. There were several Germans also, who begged for news of their homeland and he obliged, sprinkling his narrative liberally with plump cheeked Rhineland maids for the benefit of those who had been away the longest. The truth was that the country had long since been bogged down in interminable wars between its feudal lords, and the Germany they remembered held little resemblance to the reality now. As in all wars it was those least able who bore the consequences of their rulers' conceit.

After those pleasant few days a squall had blown up that kept the galley dipping and bobbing in the water like a drunken horse and the smell from below, where the oarsmen sat chained to their planks, made him giddy with nausea and left him laying crumpled on the deck like a wet rag.

He'd kept no food down for more than a week and his skin stretched across his cheeks and his already thin arms. He was sure he could hear the rattle of his bones.

He saw little of Andre these days. Within days of leaving Crete many of the crew had taken to their hammocks overcome by the flux and he'd stayed below to tend them. He'd helped when he could between bouts of sickness, mixing sweet and salty waters for the voiding and holding bowls to trembling lips but as more and more succumbed to the disease, he found he could tolerate the stench no more and found a place on the deck to lie undisturbed.

Andre was grateful Christian had no stomach for the sea. It kept him above in the fresh air and away from the rotten stink below. He worried that Christian had more than just sea sickness... that the typhoid raging below had a grip on him too, but whenever he approached the boy, he'd made light of it. "It's just these accursed waves. I am but shaken to pieces and my stomach is in protest." He had no illusions about the devil that had taken hold of them all. The fresh water brought on board had been fouled and the fever rippled silently through the galley like a baleful tide. With awful regularity, the bodies of those beyond help were tossed over the side to the circling sharks below.

Andre remembered the woman in the forest, still beautiful despite her ravaged mouth, and the vision he'd seen by the touch of her hand. She'd given him a priceless gift: a glimpse of his future. He knew that before they reached Cyprus many would have been consigned to the waters and most would be afflicted. He staggered, ignoring the pain in his guts as he made his way below with broth for those well enough to eat. He stepped aside for a crewman carrying the body of a child, little more than seven or eight years old. The man was weeping, for the child was his son. Andre closed his eyes in prayer, seeing the pale face slack and damp with suffering and gave thanks for the peace of death.

*

Christian washed down the deck and looked up to see a man sewing a dead child into a blanket. The man sat quietly, wiping away big tears that rolled down into his beard as he worked with twine and a big gleaming bobbin. He plied his needle carefully, his shoulders shaking, as he covered the boy with the stiff grey wool.

Christian could think of nothing but to fetch the captain, who came at once and began reciting the comforting words of a psalm in his deep, clear voice, as the father stood clutching the tight wrapped bundle in his arms, weeping piteously. 'As for man, his days are like grass, as a flower of the field, so he flourishes. Till the wind passes over it and he is gone, and his place is remembered no more. But the mercy of the Lord is everlasting...' The crew stood silently by as his father lifted him gently over the side and let him fall into the welcoming arms of the sea.

He'd weighted the shroud with ballast taken from the hold and it sank quickly, becoming just a smudge in the clear blue water. One by one his shipmates walked up and placed their hand on the heaving shoulders and then quietly departed, leaving him to his grief.

Christian stood behind watching but somehow, for him this return to the bosom of the ocean, with soft words, the sighing of the wind and the creaking of the oars, didn't have the horror of the plague pits or the indiscriminate diseases of the towns. Here it was as if it was a homecoming, a return to a mother's womb by loving hands. He looked up from his musing to hear Andre speaking to the distraught man. "My mother always used to tell me that the Lord never gives us more than we can bear, but sometimes I feel that much has to be borne before He gives us rest. The loss of one's child must be the most unbearable sorrow of all." The sailor's head drooped and he sobbed into his hands.

Christian felt ashamed; he'd considered only the disposal of a corpse when he should have considered the pain suffered by those who grieve for a loved one. He hoped that with maturity he might be able to see beyond the bounds of earthly trappings.

Andre moved slowly to stand beside him and Christian noticed the dark lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "I have news, my boy. Have you felt the rowers quicken their pace? Land has been sighted in the East. They have turned the galley and begun their approach. Before sunset your feet will be dry."

A smile creased Christian's sun browned face. "That is good news indeed. I admit I thought this ocean infinite and I would be puking for eternity." He suddenly became serious. "Forgive me sire, I have done nothing to relieve your labour. So many have been sick and here I lay abed like a cosseted woman."

"Nay, Christian, even the heartiest of men have no stomach for the sea. I remember Gaspard wasting away to a shadow on this same crossing. He wept like a baby when the ship docked and kissed the ground when we disembarked." He laughed softly "When he recovered he rampaged through an inn-keeper's larder like a wild boar at a wedding feast." Andre felt a stab of homesickness as he thought of his good friend and brother. He knew they would not see each other again. He offered Christian a twist of ginger root and they sat together on a coil of rope watching the white capped waves rippling across the water.

"Thankyou for letting me come with you, sire. I have learned so much."

Andre smiled "I know my boy. I know. And yet your journey has not yet really begun. Have you a plan for what you will do when you reach the Holy land?"

Christian hesitated, realising what he had said. "I will go to Jerusalem and visit the Holy Sepulchre like other pilgrims. Then I will seek out the wise men there and beg their instruction."

"A good plan...yes, a very good plan. And tell me again, what will you do with the knowledge you obtain?"

"For as long as I can remember, I have had a dream of carrying a light in a dark place."

Andre stifled a cough and smiled "Go on."

"And I think this dream is telling me to use this understanding to find a way to ease the suffering and despair that seems such a part of our lives, for it seems to me that the world would be a paradise without these two afflictions. And much can be attributed to ignorance also, so I would like to share my knowledge with all, not just the learned men but the labourers in the fields and the washerwomen at their tubs."

Andre laughed and clapped his back hard "Ah, my boy! I have been waiting for you to tell me of your dream since the first time I set eyes on you, wonderful, wonderful!"

Christian's mouth dropped open in surprise "How did you know?"

Andre's hand stayed on his shoulder "Because it's my dream too."

They heard the creak of the oars and the quickened drumbeat of the galley master as the ship ploughed through the water and paid it no mind. They sat companionably together, a gentle breeze blowing now, as Andre told him how he came to be at Bebenhausen when the wagon driver delivered his special cargo.

Christian chewed on the ginger and forgot his nausea, losing himself in Andre's calm voice as he talked of his rise from lowly page to knighthood in the Order of Hospitallers; a tribute accorded only the bravest of soldiers. He spoke baldly, with no pride. In Andre's mind there was no honour in the wanton killing, the pillage and arrogance that marked his time in the East. He could see clearly now that he had been a pawn in an endless political game dressed up as a holy war.

Christian rose to fetch him water as he began to cough again, trying to hide a stab of pain and the grimace that crossed his face.

He told of blood running in the streets and soaking into the sand of the battlefield. Of honourable and dishonourable deeds done, the looting, rapine and killing of old men and women and children and sometimes...quarter given and mercy granted.

And he told him of Yiola and the infants and their dismissal in disgrace from the Order and tears formed in Christian's eyes for the heartache his good friend had hidden behind his ready smile.

It was a harsh tale but necessary. As Christian craved knowledge so he needed to know what manner of man had been chosen as his guide, an ordinary man full of passion and earthly faults.

The sun lowered like a ball of fire into the sea as the galley pointed its prow toward the harbour and still they sat, the bustle around them unnoticed.

Then the green hills of Famagusta loomed up where before there was ocean and the captain bellowed to heave to, the oars stilled and lifted in readiness and Christian spoke at last "There must be many sad memories for you here. Yet you have come back?"

Andre looked directly into Christian's eyes. "I know not why. It all seemed so clear at first. I told myself that if I returned I may be able to make amends somehow. But it's as if I have been battling for the moon on the water." The galley bumped the dock and a cheer went up among the men. "I've thought on this these last months of our journey and now I feel... that my true purpose surely has been to see you safely to Jerusalem." He clasped Christian's hands "In my vision of you as a child, you asked my help only until you could carry your light alone. With God watching over you and guiding your way, you have grown to be a man worthy of your dream. So follow it Christian. I am honoured to have been a small part of it." And he flashed a beaming, bright and contented smile.

Christian felt heat in Andre's hands, saw perspiration beading his upper lip. He looked into his careworn face and understood now what it had cost him to make this journey. He felt his heart quicken. "Do you still carry your sword beneath your robe?"

Andre looked surprised, he hadn't realised Christian knew of it. For once he was lost for words. "Yes."

"Then relieve yourself of it sire, and worry no more on my account."

What Christian did next took all of his courage. He gently pulled Andre's habit aside, exposing the dark embossed scabbard and worn sword-belt that travelled with them unseen. The sight sent a shiver through him that he tried hard to suppress.

Andre did not move.

With slow, careful movements he undid the knot and pulled the sword and belt free, laying it beside him on the coiled rope.

Andre gazed steadily at Christian. "You have grown wise my boy. As you can see, evidence of typhoid is hard to conceal. You will make a fine doctor. Your hands are warm." Angry red patches lay beneath his fingers. He pushed the garment higher to see the extent and saw that the inflammation covered the whole of Andre's abdomen. Christian wanted to cry. The pain must have been agonising and yet he had said not a word.

"How long have you suffered this?"

Andre laughed and brought on another bout of coughing. He took a sip of water but did not answer. He sat watching Christian with his kind, twinkling eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. "I would like to see the burial place of my brethren." Christian nodded and went below to gather their things.

They saw the captain's peacock feather hat in the distance, roaming among the idlers on the wharf. Business did not bow down to disease and he was busy recruiting his new crew. They called out their goodbyes and made their way slowly up the hill through the town, past the beautiful cathedral of St Nicolas, to the preceptory of the Knights of St John.

*

It seemed to take an age to reach, Andre needing to rest every few minutes to get his breath and stem the coughing that became worse as the night cooled the still air. By the time they came to the heavy gates, Christian had his arm under Andre's holding him upright. He banged loudly and a priest hurried out, two others with him.

They carried him to the infirmary and laid him down on clean linen sheets, the priest seeing at once his affliction. His voice was gentle "Brother, I can see the flux has been upon you for some time. Is there pain?"

Andre tried to laugh but couldn't, his head hurt too much and the fire in his bowels made tears come to his eyes. He was well used to pain but not agony such as this.

He looked around the familiar sand coloured walls, lit by lamps set into niches in the bare stone. He remembered monks singing here and flowers in great pots lining the walls. His order had been famous for its healing methods, tending to the soul as well as the body. All he could see now was a sorrowful Christ upon the cross over the mantle, head hanging limp on His shoulder, sunken eyes cast down.

The priest brought him cool water to drink and removed his habit, lifting it gently over his head. Christian stood solemnly by, his face crumpled with concern.

In truth Andre felt much better now that he was lying down. He gestured to Christian to sit beside him and smiled "Thankyou, my boy. I could not have walked here alone." The priest came again with warm water and cloths and washed away the sweat of his fever. He made no protest but talked quietly as he accepted the gentle care.

"Tell me Brother, are there some of the Order of John of Jerusalem here?"

The kindly priest shook his head. "No my friend, they have long gone. I hear they are settled on the island of Rhodes now and have made it a fortress worthy of a fine army. I have heard that none dare dispute their sovereignty."

Andre smiled and winced in pain. "Aye, my brethren were ever haughty landowners. Since the Knights of the Temple ended in disgrace, they have thought it their duty to fill their shoes. But there are many among them worthy of honour."

" Yes, the townsfolk here tell many tales of their bravery and their skill in medicine."

Christian sat, listening to the easy conversation between the two men. Relief washed over him, knowing there were others here to help, that they would not be alone. The priest finished his careful ministrations and left them to scavenge in the kitchens for Christian. His stomach having settled since they landed, he was famished.

Andre slept fitfully, the boy by his side. During the night he woke and called out, groping for him in the dim light. He pulled him closer and whispered, his soft voice echoing across the vaulted ceiling. "Would I have been your blood father I could not have been more proud of you."

Christian felt heavy tears on his cheeks "You have been more than that to me."

Andre smiled but pain dimmed his eyes and he could see only an outline and shadow along the wall. "I have something to ask."

Christian bent closer to hear "Do you remember the salve given by the woman in the forest?" He nodded "When I can speak no more...When I can speak no more, my son, I pray you."

He felt a lump rise in his throat. He would have walked the length and breadth of the earth for him. He knelt beside Andre and took his hand as his eyes closed once again. He knew what the ointment was but not why he had asked for it. It was hen-belle, called henbane by the English and it was a powerful tool for pain, but it had other properties too and killed more often than it helped. Christian knew the risk he would expose him to. He looked for the small earthen jar among his remedies and tucked it into his tunic.

Andre slept all the next day and woke as the sun began to set. An orange glow filtered through the narrow window to lite on the mournful Christ, wreathing the twisted body in rays of gold. He lay still, watching the boy as he slept on the pallet beside him. He remembered the little frightened boy in the hide tanner's cart and his studious expression as he laboured over his lessons. And he saw once again the power, coiled like a seed ready to grow into a mighty tree, in the visions he had seen.

He felt sad that this innocent, extraordinary young man must continue his journey alone. He truly loved him like a son. He stretched out his hand to ruffle his hair but an agonising bolt of pain made him cry out and Christian jumped up in alarm.

He couldn't get his breath. Fire blinded his eyes and burned in his entrails. He thrashed wildly around in the sheets, straining to get up. He felt hands holding his wrists, others holding him down. Oh, what torture was this!

Then a gentle hand rubbing his chest...and darkness.

*

He was flying, soaring over a blood splashed desert, looking on as mounted knights fought hand to hand with Saracen warriors, their swords and scimitars flashing in the sun. He watched as a straight backed knight killed a man with a sword thrust through the throat and bowed his head for an instant before turning to the next. He heard the shock of contact as horses tangled together, armour and tasselled bells clashing, men screaming. And still the knight fought on, grim determination setting his jaw tight, lighting his blue eyes. He wore no visor, but a helmet with a strip of steel protecting his nose and the white cross of Amalfi blazing on his red surcoat. A thick plait of blond hair fell behind him as he manoeuvred his war horse into the fray.

Andre watched as he swung his blade and took a bright turbaned head from its shoulders, once again bowing his head in respect. There was youth but no pride; no over-weaning triumph marring his strong features.

Yet he knew this face. It was his own.

A caravan of pilgrims lay beyond the dunes. He could hear babies crying in their mothers arms.

The battle faded and he saw Yiola, her arms stretched out wide, the thin stuff of her dress billowing out in the wind as she wrapped herself around him.

And Gaspard, ever his friend, fighting back to back and laughing in the face of death and standing, his mighty sword between his legs, challenging those who would take up the lash against his brother.

Then, swelling his heart with joy, a man, wisdom and compassion shining in his eyes, holding a light more beautiful than the stars of eternity, smiling at him and lifting its golden beams high.

For all the world to see.

He heard the soft words of the priest, 'Blessed is our God, always now and ever, and unto the ages of ages...'

And drifted into peace.

PRO FIDE, PRO UTILITATE HOMINUM

For faith, and in the service of humanity.

###  BOOK TWO

'Methought a Being more than vast in size beyond all bounds called out my name and saith: What wouldst thou hear and see and what hast thou in mind to learn and know?'

Hermes Trismegistus

(Corpus Hermeticum)
Christian knew then what grief felt like. It sat like a cold stone in his belly, weighing him down. He felt numb and empty all at once, as if a hole had been ripped in his soul.

They buried Andre on the hill overlooking the ocean and before they made the place for him among his brethren, Christian took up his astrolabe and sighted it on the Quibla. He asked that his grave be directed toward it, to be with him in spirit on the next part of his journey.

It made him feel better this small token. He dwelt in heaven with his mother and father now.

He'd thrown the pot of henbane from the cliff, watching with satisfaction as it smashed on the jagged rocks below. He knew Andre's death had been hastened by it. He was also sure he'd suffered agonies at the last and the unguent had eased that suffering. But to shorten the beating of that magnificent heart by even a moment seemed to him a terrible crime. 'Primum non nocere?' He was not even a physician and already he was disregarding the basic tenets of a healer...Hippocrates' first principle...First, do no harm.

But brother Phillipe was a physician and he'd known by the smell what the ointment was. He'd whispered encouragement as Christian spread the foul concoction on Andre's chest, then ordered him to wash it from his hands. Even from that small exposure, Christian's heart had beaten loudly and he'd been overcome by the sensation that he'd risen from the floor and was hovering over them all, invisible.

Phillipe told him it was an effect of the nightshade, which was one of the bounties of nature to ease man's suffering. It was little comfort. What Christian had done, he'd done out of love for Andre, but he knew now that a doctor would pay a price with his conscience for the service he gave to others and it would take much courage to make of it his life's work.

He stayed at the compound for a month, helping the brothers tend the sick. Then he took stock of his few possessions; his astrolabe, the light glass the minstrel had given him, the quills and parchment and his box of remedies. He had Andre's medical book and instruments, his Rubaiyat and one gold sovereign from the Abbot's endowment.

He also took stock of the myriad gifts he'd been given that had no earthly form.

He knew his letters and numbers, he'd learned Latin, Greek and Aramaic passingly well, good plain Italian and some English and Spanish. He could read some Arabic but not speak it, hearing only Gaspard's curses and forbidden words that all soldiers learn in war. He might find employment as a clerk or scribe, anything to earn his passage to Jerusalem.

He was mannered, his health was good, if somewhat squeamish at sea. He'd never learnt to dance but he could play a lute and sing, at least until his voice had broken. He had some skill in physic. He was of noble birth for all the difference that made, all being equal in the eyes of the Lord.

On the other hand, he felt his looks were plain and his body awkward, although he attracted much attention from girls in the town, who made great sport of him as he walked along, stroking his hair and planting shy kisses on his cheek while their mothers were distracted by their shopping. He'd often have to scurry out of sight down an alley or behind a tree, to hide his red face and his bulging breeches.

He was virgin still. The abbot had told him something of the yearnings of men and the dangers of unbridled lust, so he tried hard not to think of those girls, tried not to imagine their small pink nipples and moist pouting mouths as he lay by the kitchen fireside after the brothers had retired. He longed to learn the secrets of the female anatomy, to breathe the smell of a woman's skin, to explore warm, responsive openings. He'd felt equal measures of shame and elation during these forbidden reveries but was wise enough to know that God had given him these feelings and time would find a remedy.

He harboured no ill to anyone. He was of an enquiring mind. He had a dream and a plan.

It was time to be on his way.

*

He spent his mornings on the wharf, watching the galleys and sailing ships that docked in the harbour.

They'd brought luxury goods from the East, silks and spices and wonderfully woven carpets, transported overland in caravans or on donkeys, across snowbound steppes and mountain passes and loaded onto the ships at ports all along the African coastline. Even watching as the bundles were unloaded gave Christian a tingling in his spine.

He took the astrolabe once again from his pouch. This, of all things, made him feel closest to Andre, as if some part of his spirit attached to it. He'd never gotten round to asking him how he came to own such a thing. Now he would never know.

He sighted the instrument, the engraved circles denoting the azimuth and altitude, showing the celestial bodies above the horizon, meeting with the gradations on the rim of the mater. This particular device had two interchangeable tympans so when they'd set sail for Cyprus, Christian had changed them to reflect the latitudes of the

East.

He was still engrossed in his calculations when he heard a gruff voice behind him "Old Simeon the Jew would offer up 'is soul and 'is only daughter for such a pretty toy as that." He turned around to see a young man about his own age and like himself, all knees and elbows and unruly hair. But where he was fair, this one was dark eyed and olive skinned and his stature was short where Christian's was tall. Ragged clothes of no discernable colour hung from his thin frame and he leaned against the pylon with an affected, insolent slouch. "What I mean is, you an' me could have a right old time at Madame P's, where the girls is clean and nearly always virgin." With this he smiled widely, showing broken, rotted teeth and hard, glittering eyes. "Then a puff of opium to send us off to 'eaven. Wot about it? You look like you could do with a friend."

Christian smiled warmly back "My name is Christian. And yours?"

The boy laughed and the sound was harsh and gravely "Call me anythin' yer want, Shit, turd and whore's beggar, that's me." He turned his head a spat thickly into the water, wiping his mouth on his frayed sleeve. "Well, let's go then...mmm...I can taste them chops already."

Christian placed the astrolabe carefully back in his pouch. He'd seen the craftiness in the boy's movements, the sly expression on his face. He felt a surge of pity for the youth. Everything about him spoke of deprivation and rejection. "The astrolabe is not for sale. I have need of it to find my way to the Holy Land."

The boy snorted "The Holy land? Holy, my arse...I hear the sailors talk in the tavern, about how them Arabs 'ave harems full of beautiful wimmen but only want to get their 'ands on good Christian boy's cocks."

He spat again and Christian felt his gorge rise. He'd had enough of crude language and bad habits. "I have nothing to sell that will get you what you want my friend." He instinctively held his pouch closer. "But if you would like to come with me, I will fetch you a meal. Also, I have been trained to draw teeth. I would be happy to ease your pain."

"Oh, yes? Ease my pain? Well, a bit of tit and a smoke will ease all of my pains. What else have you got in that bag?" His eyes narrowed into slits when Christian didn't respond. "I said, what's in that bag?"

Christian watched the boy's hand creeping into the folds of his sleeve. He saw the thin wrists, the premature stoop in the shoulders and dry, flaking skin on his cheeks and hands. He readied himself.

Quicker that he thought possible, the boy lunged forward and pinned him against the pylon, a sharp blade pushed against his throat. He smelt unwashed cloth and sickness as the leering face came close to his "Give me that bag...or I'll gut you like a fish." But he had decided that only death was going to part him from Andre's precious gift. He brought his knee up hard between the scrawny legs and as the boy jerked back in shock, grabbed the arm that held the knife, snapping the bone with a sharp twist.

There was a howl of pain and the knife clattered onto the wooden planks. Christian kicked it into the water, still holding him by his broken arm. "I am truly sorry. But you cannot take what is not freely given. Please, let me help you some other way."

He let him go and stepped away and the boy stared at him with shrewd, hostile eyes "Ow, my arm, you've broken my arm. By Satan's arse, I'll be starving in the streets like a beggar."

Christian thought if it were he, he would rather starve like a beggar than swing from a rope as a thief but he felt bad that he had caused such an injury to anyone. "Come with me, I will set the bone and get you some food." He wondered at the ease with which he had broken the arm. Rickets was a common problem in these hard times. If so, he knew that the softened bone would heal awkwardly and slow. Perhaps the brothers could assist him to find employment, if he could refrain from cursing and thievery.

Had Christian been worldly in the ways of men he would have realised that he was, to use Andre's expression 'Battling for the moon on the water.' After setting his arm, during which the boy screamed like a girl in childbirth, and filling him up with good meat and bread, he returned with wine from the kitchens to find the pouch that held his astrolabe lying on the floor...and the room empty.

His heart leapt into his mouth. He ran to the open doorway but saw no-one. He fought to keep the tears from his eyes. He called to brother Phillipe who came running, his face full of concern. He sat Christian down, poured him some wine and pointed out that Cyprus was an island and unless the boy tried to swim his way across the Mediterranean, he would be found soon enough. He sent the brothers down to the harbour, to ask the shipmen there to look out for the rogue and his ill gotten gains.

And then Christian mentioned a Jew named Simeon.

*

He'd never been in the Jewish quarter, but he relished the smells and noises of the marketplace, the laughter of children and the good natured banter of the shopkeepers ringing through the streets, familiar and comforting. The stares of passers-by seemed curious and not unfriendly, seeing the tall lad with the noble bearing and the short, rather portly monk with no tonsure, his bald head shining bluely, like an ostrich egg.

Phillipe had been there before and at last they came to Simeon's house, a low stone dwelling with a fine arched portico. They knocked on the brass studded door and it was opened immediately by an enormous dark skinned slave, who bobbed his head frantically as a pretty girl of about fifteen entered the vestibule and addressed them with downcast eyes, her thick lashes resting on her cheeks like obedient caterpillars. "Please sirs, enter you and welcome. My father will be with you shortly."

Her voice was gentle and flowing, like warm honey and Christian caught the scent of jasmine as she led them to a brightly lit anteroom. The slave walked quietly behind, watching them closely.

It was much bigger inside than it looked from without and this room was furnished with luxuriant palms, carved sideboards and soft ottomans, giving the whole an understated air of wealth and comfort. Christian seated himself and waited, trying not to fidget. He could not think of the future. It was as if, for him, the Holy Land could not be found except by the guidance of his precious astrolabe. A childish thought, he knew.

Brother Phillipe sat on a gold embroidered divan, his short legs dangling in the air, reading a book he'd picked up from the table in front of him... Maimonides...' Guide for the Perplexed,' handling it as reverently as he would a work of his own faith.

The girl entered again, carrying a tray of sweet cakes and fruit cordial in thin glass cups. She served Phillipe first and then Christian and he took the delicate glass nervously in his big hands. He was unused to handling such fine things. Her wide hazel eyes turned up at the corners like a cat as she smiled and she waited while he drained the cup and poured him another from a silvered pitcher.

Then the inner door opened and a man walked quietly into the room, his face solemn and his eyes attentive. He placed a gentle hand on his daughters head "Thank you Rebecca. You may depart." He moved a small stool to sit in front of them and smiled.

"Now Brother Phillipe, I know you have not come to sell me the treasures of your chapel. So what is the purpose of this visit that gives me so much pleasure?"

There was a deep, firm quality to his voice that demanded attention. Christian noted the plain blue robe and fingers bare of jewels or ornament. His beard and hair was long and neatly dressed and there were no Juden badges or mark sewn on his clothes.

Phillipe took the offered hand "Greetings to you Simeon, my friend. We are here because this boy has been robbed and we believe the thief intended to come to you to sell the goods."

The Jew sat straight upon the stool, his dark eyes sharp and penetrating. Christian stood, bowing his respects "Good day to you, Sire. My name is Christian, of the family Germelshausen and I thank you for taking the time to see us."

In the space of that few seconds the measure of the boy was taken, the German accented Greek, well made but worn clothes, the upright stance and the steady, bright gaze. He held out his hand and took Christian's in a firm grip "Guten Tag, mein junge. Ich bin Simeon Ben Abraham. Sie sind einenlangen Weg von zu hause aus?"

"Yes, I am a long way from home. I am travelling to Jerusalem in the hope I may be allowed instruction from the wise men there."

Simeon held a fingertip to his lips, seeming to ruminate on what Christian had said. "That is a perilous journey for one so young. You are alone?"

"Yes Sire, my guardian, a knight, resides now with the Lord, taken by the flux these five weeks past."

Simeon nodded, switching to Latin "Youi constitui te labor."

Christian responded immediately "I have set myself a heavy labour, sire? Perhaps, but it has been my dream since I was small."

"Vous avez de l'argent?'

"Money? I am left with but one sovereign, but I hope to gain employment and earn my passage to the Holy land."

"Si puo leggere e scrivere? Avete knw tuoi numen?"

Christian smiled "Yes, sire. The kind monks at the abbey where I grew up taught me my letters and my numbers."

Simeon's face lit up with delight. "And how came you to be at the abbey?"

Here Christian faltered, unsure how he would be seen once the truth was out "Both my mother and my father were consigned to the flames as heretics."

But Simeon spoke kindly and understanding softened his eyes "Ah, we Jews know all about heresy. It is a way of life with us." And he and Phillipe laughed like old friends at the joke. "But come, you are here for a reason. You said you were robbed?"

"Yes, Sire. I met a boy on the wharf and took him back to the infirmary to ah... set his broken arm."

The wise merchant tutted "And who is so foolish as to allow a stranger into his home and show him his treasures?"

Christian hung his head in shame "To my regret." And Simeon laughed. He clapped his hands and Rebecca entered once again, bending for him to whisper in her ear. She went to a chest at the other end of the room and returned a moment later with two packages, one square and thick, about the size of the book still resting in Phillipe's hands and the other wrapped in plain muslin, round and familiar.

He grinned "Is it this that you seek?" Rebecca placed it in Christian's hands and he uncovered it carefully, revealing his astrolabe, gleaming in the lamplights. Then he became serious, a merchant at last. "Of course, the item was traded in good faith. The urchin said he'd been given the instrument in compensation for the loss of his livelihood. He said a German sailor attacked him on the pier, breaking his one good arm.

I paid him a goodly sum."

Christian couldn't hide his shock, or his embarrassment. "Sire, I had no wish to hurt him. He held a knife to my throat."

Simeon smiled again, enjoying the game "But he has told me in language a bordello slave wouldn't repeat that you had the advantage of him and he was fearful of his innocence." Both men laughed heartily and he blushed scarlet, trying not to look at Rebecca standing quietly beside her father.

"It is untrue, Sire."

The merchant decided it was time to end the jest, he could see the light shining around this unusual young man. "I know. But like all cities, we are plagued by vagabonds and thieves. You are lucky to be alive. He was a very unsavoury fellow.

Nevertheless, we have the difficulty of the money I will lose, should I return the item to you uncompensated." Simeon examined him intently, at the earnestness and longing in the boy's eyes, the astrolabe clutched to his breast "Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?"

Christian's heart missed a beat. He had nothing to give in return for his astrolabe.

"I have need of a clerk, one who is conversant with the many languages spoken in the course of my business. What others do you have?"

"Some Turkish, Sire and Brother Andre taught me a little Spanish on our way here."

"Do you have the Arabic?"

"No. But with all my heart I wish to know it. It is beautiful, like poetry to my ears."

Simeon nodded "Well, a bright boy like you will learn quickly enough. This is my proposal.

You will work for me as clerk for six months. The astrolabe will remain locked in that box until your tenure is ended. If you leave before your time is up, it will be forfeit to me." Christian's head bobbed about in agreement but Simeon held up is hand "Wait, there is more...You will continue in the evenings and when the brothers have need of you, to aid them in the hospitium, taking instruction from brother Phillipe here, in physic." Christian wondered how he knew. Simeon picked up the package Rebecca had placed in front of him "This is the payment for your education. Mind you learn its uses well. In the right hands it is a gift from God, in the wrong; it can become a nightmare worthy of the terrible pen of Dante." He passed it to Phillipe, who handled it as carefully as he had the book, his eyes wide.

"If you do your work diligently and cause me no trouble, I will see you are given safe passage aboard a vessel to the Holy Land, with payment for every month of your service and your instrument returned. What say you?"

Christian had to stop himself from jumping to his feet and wrapping his arms around him. "I am humbled, Sire. It is much more than I deserve. On my oath I will serve you well." He turned to brother Phillipe "And you also Brother, who has shown me such kindness."

Simeon held up his hand once more "One more thing...you will reside in my home as part of my family and see what it means to be a Jew."

*

The parcel contained a thick yellow block of opium. Phillipe told him it was worth more that the bricks and mortar of the hospitium itself. He promised to teach Christian how to husband the precious paste to make it last and how to combine it with other ingredients to lessen its bad effects and enhance the good. It was a wonderful gift to the poor of Cyprus, one that Simeon had given before, secretly.

Christian was provided with a room at the back of the warehouse, a straw pallet and blanket and an unexpected gift...a writing table and stool. He was also given a bowl to wash in, a tallow lamp and a sturdy lock and key to secure his door. It was the first time he'd had a space to himself and he arranged his few possessions several times before he was content. His writing quills and parchment sat proudly on his desk, his precious books beside it. The remedy box he used as a table by his bed, nails in the walls held his pouch and jute bag.

There was no window in the small space and in the evenings the smoke from the tallow made his throat sore and his eyes water, so he took to sitting outside in the moonlight, when the noise and bustle of the market stilled.

His duties were not onerous, his nimble mind grasping the intricacies and nuances of commerce quickly. For the most part he accompanied Simeon on his trips to the warehouses and ports of Limmasol or Famagusta, sometimes travelling in a plain open wagon, mostly on foot, inspecting, buying and cataloguing items that the merchant had already memorised with uncanny accuracy. It was no wonder to him now that Simeon knew of him before they met. He made it his business to know all the happenings of Cyprus. He was a buyer of gold and gemstones and well known as a fair and generous moneylender, so Christian had to keep account of moneys owing and moneys paid, writing it all in the heavy leather bound ledger he carried on his shoulders.

Simeon told him that in these times, Jews were not allowed to own property and so usually the only way to survive was trading and money lending. It had made him a wealthy man but still he longed to feel the soil of his own land trickle through his fingers.

When he went to pray in the synagogue, Christian sat in the marketplace, listening to the traders' spruiking their wares, or begging a few moments instruction from elderly men sitting alone while their wives shopped and gossiped in the town. Always he was treated with courtesy and helpfulness, their polite greetings touching his heart with its sincerity and in this way slowly, he learned the language of the Holy Land.

He sat with the family at mealtimes, observing their customs and strict observances. He ate unleavened bread and no meat at all lest he should offend his host by flouting any of the six hundred and thirteen commandments they kept.

He saw Rebecca often. He learned that she had been betrothed to the son of a rabbi since she was three years old and was soon to be wed. Her mother eyed him with suspicion every time he spoke to her and flapped and fussed over the girl, who lapped up the attention like a spoilt kitten to milk.

Her two brothers, merchants in their own right, were grown men with families of their own and visited often, bringing their wives and children to share in noisy, cheerful dinners that lasted well into the night. They were a virtuous, devout and loving people and Simeon treated him with much kindness. His only sadness was the empty place in his life where Andre should have been.

His work day started before dawn and at sunset he walked up the steep hill to the hospitium, to continue his studies with Brother Phillipe, who taught him how to watch the phases of the moon, the tides and the orbit of the planets to determine the auspiciousness of a cure. Phillipe had been trained at the great school of medicine in Montpellier and sent to Cyprus on the order of the Holy Father when the Hospitallers abandoned the island, and although Christian had been instructed in bleeding and purging, he learned now how to perform these operations with finesse and little pain or discomfort to the patient.

His rest came late in the evenings, in his hour of contemplation under the stars and then to sleep, to start again in the morning. The Sabbath was his own and he spent in exploring the island or sitting, with his bag filled with apples and books, on the cliffs near the burial ground of the Knights of St. John.

Of the Jewish faith he learned much. And of the hatred of the gentile citizens of Cyprus toward it, he learned even more. Often Simeon ventured afar to attend to his business and these times were always fraught with worry for Christian. The townsfolk would jeer and hiss at him as he walked proudly along, greeting them politely. He carried a paper, signed by the city fathers, stating his right to wear his garment without the badge of shame attached and many times paupers and ragamuffins and surly traders demanded sight of it before allowing him to pass, for those who disobeyed this law must forfeit their garment to the one who accused. Sometimes, he would be pelted with rotten fruit, or spat upon, but always he conducted himself with dignity and patience, as if this intolerance had always existed for him and he was above it.

And then one day it wasn't a rotten piece of fruit or cabbage that sailed through the air to splatter against his turban or foul his robe but a rock, wielded by youths and thrown hard in bitterness and spite. It caught Simeon in the soft place beside his eye and he was dead before he fell into Christian's arms.

Christian had worked for this man for only four months but he was given a small bag of silver and two richly bound books on his departure. Simeon's eldest son, Israel, a man as sensitive and as upright as his father, called him to the families' private apartments and gave him a ticket of passage to Jaffa and a letter of recommendation to his cousin in Damascus.

Rebecca stood quietly by as the family said their farewells, then thrust the astrolabe into his hands and ran from the room in tears.

While the brothers offered up their prayers for Simeon's soul, Christian's dream came another step closer.

*

The journey across the sea was difficult. The weather fouled and kept up a steady, strong wind for most of the voyage and his stomach burned with retching. But he had chosen his vessel well, a flat bottomed sailing cog flying the flag of Denmark on its mast and with the wind at their back they reached Jaffa's crowded harbour in less than a week.

He sat in the prow as the ship pulled alongside and those on the wharf swarmed aboard, all chattering and shouting.

He saw darkly veiled women sitting quietly under tattered awnings, platters of oranges, peppers and dates heaped around them, while others roasted food over smouldering braziers. And wonder of wonders...camels, richly caparisoned in brightly plaited tethers and tassels and jingling bells, standing with soft eyed patience or sitting with their bellies in the sand and their long legs folded under them, their strange humped backs impossibly laden with bales and boxes and rolled up carpets.

Exotic aromas wafted across the prow, saffron, turmeric and unfamiliar meat sizzling on burning charcoal. He heard the cries of the beggars and the shouts of the shopkeepers and the bright sun overhead lent a sharpness to the light, so he saw it all in perfect clarity.

He'd brought with him only his astrolabe, remedy box and medical tools, his money and letters, leaving the books Israel had given him with the good brothers in Cyprus.

His skin burned and his clothes became clammy and damp and he realised now why everyone wore flowing garments and soft shoes. Excitement bubbled inside him. He gathered his things, bid a hasty farewell and bounded down the gangway to the wharf.

The dusty streets rang with the raised voices of the shopkeepers, haggling and bargaining, wheedling and shouting. He waved to a sailor from the ship who sat drinking ale under a striped tent, his arm draped around a beautiful, dark skinned woman. He winked and beckoned and Christian smiled and shook his head.

He allowed himself to be lured into a shop and purchased a plain shirt and mantle, a pair of cork soled sandals and a long length of fabric to wrap about the head or to keep the sun from his face. He stood in front of the merchant's bronze mirror, admiring his tall frame swathed in the garments of the Holy Land. It felt right, in this place, in these clothes, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to him.

Plums and sage and bunches of mint had been laid out for sale on the sides of the road and ragged children sat fanning the flies from piles of raw meat, calling out in pitiful wails as he passed.

For two pennies a woman offered him a pomegranate and flat bread filled with spiced lamb and he found a place under a date palm to eat. The tastes were pleasing and the cool, tangy taste of the fruit felt clean in his mouth. The warmth of the day spread over him and he dozed under the swaying palms in peaceful contentment.

Then he felt a tug at his sleeve and looked around to see a small boy, his skin the colour of burned honey, his eyes dark liquid pools of innocence. Christian smiled, attempting a greeting in the Turkish manner "Assalamu Alaicum." Peace be upon you.

The boy bowed solemnly back "Wa Assalamu Alaicum, Lord" then stood, almost to attention, looking over his shoulder into the distance.

He watched him for a while amused, wondering what was expected. "Have you come for food?" He broke off a piece of the pomegranate and offered it but the child stayed unmoving. He didn't look like a beggar. His tunic and pantaloons were clean and neatly made. He face was scrubbed and his hair shiny and well oiled. A small, curved dagger rested in a tooled scabbard about his waist.

Christian got to his feet and moved to walk away and the boy jumped forward quickly "Please Lord, I beg of you. You must remain. I am to guard you until my father has finished his noon- time prayers. I will look shameful in his eyes should I fail in my duty."

"Well then, if it is your duty, I am bound to obey" And he waited in the shade while the child stood to attention in front of him.

Presently an elderly man leading a flea- bitten camel approached and the boy bowed low "Father, I have done my duty, as you ordered."

The old man grinned toothlessly and patted him on the head. "Well done Ahmed. Your years are few but your bravery is already apparent. You will make a fine warrior." He bowed to Christian "Peace be upon you, Good Sir. I am Ahmed abu bin Rasa and I am at your service."

"Peace be upon you also, Ahmed, but I am sorry to say that I require no service."

"Are you not journeying to Damascus?"

Christian lifted his foot "Yes, but I have a sturdy pair of shoes and strong legs to take me there."

Ahmed's dark eyes twinkled as he lifted a scrawny arm and pointed to the scrub covered dunes in the distance. "The great city of Damascus is many leagues hence by swift camel, young sir. And you must beware the evil Jinn that guards this land and has been known to rend a traveller limb from limb with his devilish fangs and cast him into the swarming scorpion pits that are hidden beneath the sand. Only one who has spent his entire life..." He bowed and placed his bony hand upon his heart." I am licensed, young sir, as an agent of transportation. For the price of a few coppers and by the grace of Almighty Allah, Giver of all things, my faithful beast shall willingly convey you in princely comfort and good speed to your destination." He waved his other hand at his camel, quietly ruminating with yellowed, worn down teeth.

Christian eyed the motley animal. The hide shone with careful grooming and its impressive harness dazzled the eye with polished bells and coloured tassels but bald patches were showing on its flanks and its nobbled knees were cracked with age. He looked down at the child gazing up at his father with pride and smiled. "In that case, I thank you for your generous offer, Ahmed. I would be honoured to have you conduct me to Damascus. A few coppers you say?"

They haggled and bargained for most of the afternoon until both were almost satisfied, one feeling he had paid too much, the other feeling he'd been paid too little.

They sealed their business with a glass of strong tea and arranged to meet at dawn of the next day.

He spent the night above a shop sleeping three to a stained and bug ridden mattress, the two others with him snoring and farting loudly all night. He kept one eye open, his back to the wall and his pouch clutched to his chest. But he had no need to worry.

Crime in these lands was punished so severely that his possessions could have been left in plain sight and remained untouched. He staggered out bleary eyed at dawn to hear the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer and stood in the doorway listening, his scalp tingling. He bowed his head in prayer also and gave thanks to the Lord.

Little Ahmed was waiting for him, standing in rigid attention by the door. They threaded their way through the crowded, noisy streets to where old Ahmed waited with not one, but two camels.

Christian was assigned the elder, balding one, due to the other's habit, according to Ahmed, of spitting and biting all in the one breath. It felt strange sitting atop the unwieldy beast but once he'd gotten used to it, found it fleet footed and quick to respond.

They set off, Christian full of excitement and anticipation. They should be in Damascus by sunset of the next day, by the grace of Allah, most loving, most merciful.

*

Christian was sure that by the time the pitiless sun reached its height, it would have boiled the marrow in his bones but Ahmed was solicitous of his comfort and reminded him often of the water-skin tied to the camel's side. "Drink, my friend, else the demons of the sand will enter through your mouth and nostrils and turn your innards to dust." and he pointed to the sun bleached skull of a horse half buried in the sand "You see, even the proud offspring of Saladin's mighty steeds do not have the strength to resist them."

He wrapped his cloth tighter about his face. His eyes felt burned and sandblasted and flies buzzed annoyingly around them. He'd finally become used to the camel's loping gait and stilled the bile that rose in his throat every time he looked down and he began to enjoy the journey through the endless landscape of the desert, seeing a timeless beauty in the immaculate dunes sculpted by the wind driven sands.

Ahmed was a good companion, keeping up a steady commentary of their surroundings, sprinkled with round eyed warnings of evil genies and quicksands and venomous serpents that slithered sideways, their flickering blue tongues tasting the air for the sweat of their next victim.

They galloped on until the sun reached its zenith and just when Christian felt he would topple from the saddle with exhaustion, Ahmed stopped and erected an awning from poles and cloth he'd carried on his own camel's back. He produced, as if by magic, sweet oranges, flat bread, spicy goat meat and a leather flask of tea, warmed by the sun. They slept in the shade till the sun began to set in golden rays, then Ahmed gave him cakes sweetened with honey and more tea and helped him to mount once again.

The evening had cooled and he shivered in his thin clothes as the camels kept up their steady pace. Ahmed threw him a rough blanket smelling strongly of goats and he rode on through the darkening night, warm and grateful for the kindness.

When the way ahead became an inky blackness and the sand shimmered with ghostly light, he looked up at the sky, at a blazing glory of starlight and laughed with joy. Never had he realised there were so many stars in the sky. He threw back his head, craning his neck to take in the wondrous sight. He felt small...and humbled. And yet, he was an entity also, a tiny speck, less than a mote of dust, but with a purpose and a reason, a microcosmos in the great macrocosmos of being. He had his place in this great immensity too and the unimaginable force that guided this wonder, guided him.

A distant memory came to his mind, of his father and bedtime tales and scorching deserts travelled by the light of the stars. Had his father marvelled at these same sights, wondered at his place in the universe also?

They stopped to rest at dawn and Christian was again amazed at his guide's munificence, more food appearing from the old man's voluminous saddlebags, salted fish and sesame cakes and plump, juicy dates. As he sat in the shade of their makeshift tent, he watched Ahmed as he rolled out his prayer mat and knelt to pray, his head touching the sand. On an impulse, he took up his astrolabe and sighted it on the horizon and the Quibla and was surprised to see that the old man faced that direction exactly. He determined to ask him how he knew but when Ahmed returned he saw Christian with the astrolabe still in his hand. "Young sir, you carry a star-taker. How came you to have such a thing?"

A star-taker? He liked the sound of that name. "It was a gift Ahmed. One that I cherish."

Ahmed examined the brass discs carefully, running his fingers reverently over the raised symbols. "I was not always this dried up bag of bones. I spent my youth in the house of a great lord, in service to his wise astrologer Artephius, may Allah grant him joy. I was bound to him as a servant and carried his instruments of divination and magic. One of those instruments was a device such as this."

At the mention of this Christian's eyes lit up "Magic... divination? Oh Ahmed, tell me more. I have journeyed here for knowledge. I must know more... I beg you."

The camel driver laughed, his eyes disappearing in heavy lidded folds "Knowledge is a heavy burden. Why not aspire to be a warrior like my sons and dream simple dreams of glory and long limbed virgins and fountains flowing with wine? The possession of learning can bring you nothing but sorrow."

"But Ahmed, without it, life is not worth the living."

The old man fixed his eyes on Christian. "Then beware, young lord, do not be deceived by magic tricks and signs and portents. It is true, my master often used these guiles, but to mystify and bedazzle. Their real purpose was to gain trust so that his true knowledge may be employed. The healing of the sick, the finding of sweet water in the wells, the best times of the moon to plant, these are the real magic."

He gazed at Ahmed...and remembered the parchment wrapped prism and its thickly printed words 'Nothing is as it seems.' Had he not youth's disdain for the wrinkled skin and faded eyes of age, he would have seen the reality of the man sitting quietly in front of him. Ahmed had left little Ahmed in the care of his mother, one of three young wives he'd taken to comfort him in his old age, three others having gone to their rest. He had sixteen children, two of them younger than Ahmed. He was strong still and had produced from his baggage a veritable cornucopia of riches and shared then generously with a stranger. Once again he determined to evaluate his impressions more carefully.

Ahmed went on "I watched my master rid a whole town of the pestilence once. He climbed the minaret in his starry robes and waved his staff, thundering incantations over the heads of the people, then ordered the killing and burning of vermin that prowled the streets and the washing of garments and bedding. He told them his powerful magic would not enter an unclean dwelling. Within the space of two moons the sickness was gone. The people declared him to be a great magician and raised up their arms but he would have none of it."

He sighed "That was a very long time ago. Magicians and soothsayers crawl over the land like maggots now, preying on the gullible and greedy. But the light does not shine around them and true adepts are not fooled by their sleight of hand."

Christian sat, mesmerised. He felt that he was entering a new world, where magic was real and the taint of heresy mattered little. "True adepts? Ahmed, you speak in words that glitter like gold and jewels. Please, tell me more."

He laughed "No young Lord, we must continue on, for if all is well, we will be in Damascus by sunset."

At the mention of Damascus, Christian realised that Ahmed had already known his destination. "Ahmed, who told you I was bound for Damascus?"

"No-one Lord."

He felt the tingle of the mysterious. Had this old man the power of divination? Had he known by some unearthly knowledge of his intent? "Then how did you know? Are you an adept also?"

"You did not see me on the ship, talking to the sail-maker? I asked if there were any who wished transportation. He pointed to you and told me you spoke of a great city of learning." Then he burst into peels of good natured laughter while Christian climbed sheepishly on to the camels back.

*

That day, they did not stop when the sun reached its height, but galloped on. His camels hump was growing limp, it needed to drink. A young camel could travel the desert for a week without needing water but age softened animals as well as people. And their own supply was dwindling now. Signs of other travellers also appeared, tracks from a passing caravan, smoke from a fire in the distance, a discarded sandal. Within the hour all would have disappeared in the wind blown sand, but Christian knew that it meant they were close.

Then they topped a dune and saw Damascus arrayed before them like a garden of golden flowers in the desert.

He let out a whoop and spurred his ungainly mount on but Ahmed called him back before he reached the gates. "Come, young Lord, let us take a glass of tea before you enter the city." So they sat in the shade of the hobbled camels, sharing the last of the tea and cake his favourite wife had made for their journey. "Where will you go, when you are within?"

Christian spoke through a mouth full of crumbs "I have been given a letter of introduction to a merchant. I hope to gain employment there and when I have the means, make my way to Jerusalem."

Ahmed seemed to think on this for a while, closing his eyes as if asleep and then he said, quietly "My master still lives..." and Christian's head jerked up in surprise.

"The passing of the years seem to wither him not, for it is said that he has in his possession the magic stone of the philosophers to keep him young."

Christian's heart began beating loudly, he'd read of the fabled stone that brought the heart's desire to those who knew it's secret. "I must speak with him. I must know. Will you take me to him Ahmed?"

"Alas young Lord, I cannot. He dismissed me from his service. I had become unclean, unworthy to touch even the hem of his robe." He hung his head in shame at the memory. "I chose a wife, you see...a beautiful girl of twelve years, chaste and full of life. On the eve of our betrothal she was pulled form her mother's arm by a stranger and carried away. After the brute finished with her, he cut her throat and left her to die in the street.

I hunted him down and made him pay for his crime. He begged me to kill him in the end and I did...gladly." Ahmed grinned and Christian saw a glimpse of satisfaction in the dark eyes. "My master knew I had blood on my hands as soon as he set eyes on me and turned me out.

I did not understand then, my heart was full of wrath, but I understand now. Revenge destroys the avenger. It stains the very life blood with evil. It was many years before I felt clean again. Ask in the town for Artephius and seek his advice. He is a good man and will direct you wisely. You will not find him in a palace, for he has cast off worldly things but with those who are suffering and the poor."

Christian clasped Ahmed's hand in gratitude "I thank you, my friend. I am overwhelmed by your generosity. This fine journey, I will remember all my days.

Assalamu Alaicum."

As he gathered up his things to walk the short way, Ahmed held up a hand in farewell.

"May the mercy and blessings of Allah be upon you also, young Lord. And beware the honey- tongued rogues in the marketplace and the painted serpents of the night, who will coo in your ear like doves and relieve you of your purse as you sleep."

*

A rivulet of sparkling water flowed softly down from the mountain bordering the city's eastern side and bubbled through an aqueduct running under the stout walls. Pretty wild flowers and grasses grew on both sides of its banks and small trees trailed their branches in the clear, clean water. He walked behind a family of Bedouins, crossed the sturdy stone bridge and through the open gates.

No guard stood sentinel or questioned his business there and he followed the others, walking narrow roads, through thickly planted orchards of apples, nuts, apricots and plums, the ripe fruit hanging heavily on the branches.

It seemed to Christian that he was walking in the Garden of Eden after the parched journey through the desert and he relished the damp, cool feel of the leaves on his face. He could see golden domes and cupolas shining above the trees and low buildings of sun- baked clay. He drank cool water from a marble fountain by the side of the road and rested in a rose covered arbour while others gazed in rapture at the sight, loudly exclaiming the beauty and peacefulness of their surroundings.

Men tended the gardens and swept the paths, others perched on ladders quietly picking the ripened fruit or pruning the branches with sharp curved blades. A man in a dusty turban and mud splattered pantaloons offered him a handful of walnuts as he passed and Christian smiled his thanks.

He walked on, passing small shops selling ironware, pottery and woven fabrics and stopped to examine a sword-smith's beautifully wrought blades glinting gold in the setting sun. He saw a mosque topped by a glittering cupola, with row after row of sandals and pointed toed slippers set neatly on its steps and over the doorway of a dun coloured building the Arabic sign for 'pilgrim' and help. He made his plans.

After he presented himself to the merchant who might grant him employment, he would return to this place and offer assistance in accord with the decision both he and Andre had made; to heal the sick and that gratis. Then he would seek out Ahmed's master the soothsayer and beg for instruction. He would tarry here a little while learning what he could, then make his way to the Holy Sepulchre, in Jerusalem.

The shadows of the trees lengthened as the sun began to set. He could smell the smoke from the cooking fires as the women began to prepare the evening meals and hear the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer, gave thanks once again, and curled up under a softly rustling tree to sleep.

*

He didn't see the snake until after it had bitten him. He came awake in an instant, knowing he was in danger, pain searing his leg. Then he saw it coiled at his feet and blood trickling from the wound. He lay rigid, too frightened to move, watching its glittering eyes, its diamond shaped snout. The horn on either side of its head told him it was a viper and he thought of Andre's tale of many a knights' deadly encounter and the horses bolting in terror at the sight. The sun had just risen and he could see no-one who might help.

He lay still until his eyes grew dim and the buzzing in his ears became a rushing torrent of noise. It seemed as if his mouth was filled with wool and a heavy weight lay on his chest, crushing the breath out of him. He knew he should do something before his dream came to nought and he went to heaven with nothing to make his mother proud. At the thought of this he stirred, took hold of a rock that lay nearby and flung it hard at the reptile which was rearing up to strike again. It whipped away and slithered off through the trees while he pulled himself slowly to his feet and staggered toward the pilgrim's rest.

He passed others walking or setting out their wares for sale but no-one seemed to notice the young man stumbling along the road. Perhaps they thought he was mad, or overcome with sickness. He banged on the door and fell to his knees, his apothecary box and pouch and unbearable burden in his effort to breathe. He knew no more until he awoke next day, his leg aflame and his eyes swollen shut.

Was he blind? He felt panic rise inside him. Please Lord... not blind. How could he obtain knowledge without sight? How could he tend the sick? Was he destined to spend his life in darkness when all about him was light? He groped for his leg and touched where the skin burned and cried out in pain. He heard himself whimpering and could not still it.

Then a firm hand grasped his and a deep, calm voice whispered in his ear "Be at peace. Almighty Allah, in His infinite mercy has spared you." He quieted and the voice went on "The wise serpent kept back her venom in the knowledge you meant her no harm. It was merely out of fear that she struck. And are not all beings thus, who strike out in fear, we more than the asp or the viper?"

He tried to sit up.

Again the whispered voice "Nay, young sir, rest, I have covered your eyes lest the light damage them further but the flesh of your leg is much swollen and it will cause you more pain should you move."

Christian wanted to speak but his tongue had cleaved to the roof of his mouth and no words came. He felt a cup of cool liquid pressed to his lips and drank thirstily but before he could utter a sound, fell back, exhausted. By the evening he was alert and listening to the steady bustle of people around him. He heard soft voices and tinkling laughter and the smell of roasting meat made his mouth water and his stomach grumble in anticipation. There were other odours too, the astringent tang of poultices, the pungency of herbs and the earthy smell of blood. These comforted him, for they were the scents of home...and Andre. So he lay back, content to rest.

And then a warm hand on his arm and that voice again, serene and clear "Ah, the strength returns to the limbs! The flush to the countenance! What magic resides in the sweet soul of youth?" He longed to see the face that belonged to that wondrous, healing voice. Blind or not, he was still learning. It was not just medicine and salves that could heal but joyful words and kindness.

The voice went on "Young sir, I beg your pardon but I have perused the contents of your magnificent box and prepared a tincture for you from your own medicines. We have very little here to offer the many who seek comfort and you carry such riches, they fill my eyes with wonder."

Christian spoke at last, his own words croaky and ill formed "You are welcome sire, to all that I have, and I thank you humbly for your kindness."

There was a laugh like softly babbling water "It is you who are to be welcomed. We have been waiting for you for some time."

What did he say? Were his ears playing tricks? Or was he still asleep and dreaming?"

"I must say, your theriac was most impressive. Did you know that Nero's favourite physician Andrommachis enhanced its potency by adding the flesh of vipers, aged it in golden caskets and then sold it for five hundred times its value in the palaces of the East? Ah, such are the conceits of the rich and the wiles of the learned.

But alas young sir, I have others to attend. Rest now and later we will talk and perhaps remove the covering from your eyes. Are you hungry? I will order a pretty girl to prepare you some food." And after another pat of the hand, the voice was gone and Christian had never felt so alone in his life.

Soon a warm hand touched his and the delicious smell of mutton cooked in dates teased his nostrils. He ate hungrily, asked for more and wolfed that down too. Then he was given a cup of pomegranate juice and believed he had never tasted a drink so wonderful. He turned his head toward the quiet presence by his side "I thank you mistress, for the food." He received no answer and realised she had gone. It saddened him to think that women here were regarded as such little worth, they moved like wraiths in their own land.

He needed to make water and pulled himself to the edge of the pallet but pain flared in his leg as he tried to stand and left him weak and trembling. He lay back and slept and awoke only when he felt the bandages round his eyes unwinding. At the last turn, a blinding flash of light made him jerk his head away but the gentle voice calmed him once again "It is a good sign. Illumination is always overwhelming at first. Then one becomes accustomed and delights in its presence. Open your eyes and behold. The sun has risen just for you."  
Christian forced open his swollen eyelids and looked about him. He peered as if through a haze, until his eyes became adapted to the light and then he smiled at the marvel before him.

The morning light gleaming through the grilled window shone upon a young girl standing at the foot of his bed, holding a spray of brightly coloured flowers. Her eyes were demurely cast down, her delicate hands a soft frame for the blossoms which paled in comparison to her beauty. Her unveiled hair fell dark and lustrous as a bat's wing to her waist, and the thick fringe of her lashes rested on cheeks the colour of ripe peaches. She opened her eyes and it was if the sky had settled in them, so azure blue was their colour. Then she smiled and her small teeth gleamed white and perfect from rose coloured lips.

He heard laughter, deep and rumbling "Is she not a better medicine than all the elixirs and potions in Damascus?" Christian could not take his weakened eyes from the girl, so lovely was her face and fair her form. "But enough, lest you are drawn to the light like a moth and burned in its flame." She lowered her eyes once again, laid the flowers at his feet and departed, leaving Christian staring after her like a homeless puppy.

The voice beside him came closer. "The child is lovely and a panacea for many ills. Her name is Leah and she is a slave of the wise Sultan Omar. She is greatly loved by the people, who treat her as if she were an angel descended from heaven to ease their suffering. She graces our presence with the kind permission of her master, for just a glance at her makes many arise from their beds, renewed."

Christian turned and saw the owner of the voice at last.

The man was tall, taller than Andre and slender as a willow branch. Wide brown eyes shone from a face shiny with good nature and his generous mouth was smiling still. He wore a plain brown robe and turban with incongruously, a rose tucked into one of its folds. It had the effect of making him at once comical and approachable and Christian knew instantly that here was a man to be trusted.

"Yes, she is very beautiful. I am overwhelmed sire, by the trouble you have taken for my comfort. I hope that somehow, I will be able to repay your kindness."

"Just seeing you recovering is payment enough. Ah, forgive my rudeness; I am Ishmael Hamid Al-Ghazali." The physician bowed low with a flourish of his hand "Lately from the great city of Cairo, in Egypt. Actually, I am a wanderer on the path of life myself. I was on my way home until I decided to stay. But enough of me, what of your eyes, is there soreness?"

Christian screwed up his eyes and opened them again "Better than before." Then he looked down at his leg, at a large patch of suppurating flesh where the viper had bitten him and felt a rush of fear. He had seen many rotted limbs. Since the Holy Father had forbidden the monks to perform a surgeons' duties, it had been left to the farmers, who hacked away with sharpened wedges and blades and white hot irons to cauterise, the patient often dying in the process. "My leg too, feels less painful but I fear there may be some necrosis in the wound."

The physician bent to examine more closely, his fingers probing the area, determining the extent. Christian wanted to cry out but kept his lips pressed tightly shut. He had been enough of a burden already.

Ishmael did not look up but carried on "I believe you are right. What, in your land is the treatment for such?"

He forced himself not to tremble as he answered "Excision...and if that is not successful, removal of the limb."

He nodded "Yes. It may be that such an operation will have to be performed. The infection is progressing swiftly, only last night I examined the wound and it seemed little changed. But we shall see. There are other remedies we can try." He applied a handful of maggots and bound the leg in the hope they would eat away the rotted flesh and Christian spent a restless day and night full of nightmares and fearful squirming.

In the morning the wound was much cleaner but also larger, so Ishmael decided to consult with his friend Ali, principal physician to the Caliph of Damascus.

Christian was worried. He hadn't enough money to pay and tried to make light of the injury, but Ishmael guessed his concerns and put his mind to rest. "All those who carry the rod of Asclepius in this great city have sworn to ease the sufferings of all. It is a thing understood. Payment is not a necessity.

If one is able to recompense, it is well. If not...then Almighty Allah will provide."

He lay back and marvelled at the enlightened and generous place to which he had come. He thought of the brutality of the crusades and how these good people must have suffered and was ashamed.

The doctor came early. Richly attired in the Turkish manner, with rings glittering on every plump finger, he strode regally through the modest doors like a king to his throne, leaving a waft of expensive perfume in his wake. Yet he was kind, his voice gentle "Young man, my friend tells me you have been bitten by a viper and while you have overcome the poison, the wound does not heal. This is so?" He nodded and the physician clapped his hands for warm water and cloths. He washed away the pus and carefully examined the wound, seeming not to notice the sickly sweet smell of putrefaction issuing from it. Then he straightened up and looked into Christian's eyes, his own dark and penetrating. "I am told you have some knowledge of medicine?" He did not wait for him to reply "Then you know what must be done."

Christian's body felt instantly cold and his head swam. He wanted to run from the room and make his way home to Germany, to be safe behind the cloistered walls of the monastery. But he knew he would not live past a week with his leg festering and putrid. He had no choice.

Ishmael came to stand beside him. "Ali is the finest surgeon in all of Syria. You are fortunate. He will work swiftly, with great skill." He offered a small cup "Drink,

young sir. It is but a thimbleful of poppy but it will help with the pain." He drank the foul tasting liquid and lay back, watching them prepare for his ordeal, bringing basins and cloths, laying out sharpened knives and serrated blades.

Both physicians washed their hands thoroughly in a bowl set aside for that purpose, Ali removing his rings and placing them in a small bag about his neck. Then a brazier was brought in, two small irons glowing hot in its centre.

He felt a little ripple of fear at the sight. But soon the numbing draught began to work and it was as if all his trepidation had fallen away and his body had grown lighter. He watched them standing together, heads bent, whispering and then he was floating peacefully in a soft world of carelessness, unmindful of the preparations being made for the removal of his leg. They came to his bed. Ali patted his hand and said quietly "You are a man now, with a man's courage. All will be well. Inshallah....If it be the Will of God." Through bleared and heavy eyes Christian saw him take up a curved blade and bend silently to his task.

Then suddenly it seemed that his leg had been thrust into boiling water or frozen in ice. He could feel the skin being flayed and torn, smell the revolting stench of burnt, rotted flesh and from somewhere deep in the past, quietly at first and then spiralling into a crescendo of agony, the howling of wolves and the cries of a small boy, galloping alone and frightened through a cold winter's night.

*

Again he slept for a day, perhaps two. He had no way of knowing. He pulled himself up from the depth of a dreamless sleep to the sound of laboured breathing and turned to see a child asleep in the crook of his arm, shivering and feverish. He reached out and touched the smooth face, hot and damp, the eyelids almost transparent over sunken eyes. He noted the flushed and spotted complexion, hiding greyness beneath it, the jerky rise and fall of the small chest. He brought his arm out gently from under the limp head and sat up. There was much in his remedy box that might help; febrifuges and salves, also poultices and creams. He pulled the thin blanket up over the narrow shoulders and rose to fetch it.

A blinding jot of pain shot through him, reminding him sharply why he was there. He looked down at his leg. Even wrapped in thick layers of linen it looked thin and deformed, most notably where the muscles of his calf should have been. But they had not cut it off. No wonder Ali was famed for his skill. He said a silent prayer of thanks, ignored the pain and searched for his remedy box.

He found his belongings neatly piled in a corner and set to work mixing a draught. He did not stop to wonder at the phases of the moon or which stars were auspicious. The medicine was the important thing.

He patiently dropped the tincture between the boy's teeth. He'd mixed it with honey to mask the bitter taste and the child took it willingly, licking his lips clean of the sweetness, his eyes still tightly shut. Then Christian heard a baby cry and noticed the others. Lined against the long, narrow walls were pallets of clean straw and in each were several children, some asleep, some staring blankly ahead. All seemed feverish and poorly. He picked up a snuffling baby and held it while mucus bubbled thickly from its nose, feeling the rattle of the tiny chest against his own. He limped between the beds, spooning medicine into small mouths, playing the jester to coax the unwilling.

Then Ishmael was beside him, doing the same. He consulted with him about the ingredients of his tincture and what yet could be done. He didn't treat him as a child or as a patient but as one of his own, a man concerned with the care of the sick. A bedraggled caravan of pilgrims had trundled through the city, its children blotched and blinded with measles. The townspeople slammed and bolted their doors in disgust, believing that the plague had followed them, so the Vizier ordered their quarantine in the hostel and their mothers stood wailing outside, begging to be let in.

It was ten days before the fevers abated and for Christian, it was a confirmation of his life's commitment.

After the children had been returned to their mothers, Ishmael and Christian sat together in the shade of an apple tree, drinking strong Turkish coffee and talking of their lives. Ishmael told him of his home and the wise priests of the temples there, who instructed the few in the mysteries and clothed their knowledge in fearsome deities and dark warnings for the rest. He was a member of that sect known for their mystical devotions as Sufi and all he did; he did with loving kindness, humbly and of good cheer. No boon could be too much to ask of him, no thing too much to give, for all was one in the eyes of Allah, most infinite, most loving.

He told Christian of arriving in Damascus a year since, to await the coming of a great sage from the West, one who had been foretold by the astrologers and magi of his own land. And for one who had barely reached his sixteenth year, Christian also had many tales to tell. He talked of his journeys by sea and the great city of Venice and he told him of the camel driver's instructions to find Artephius.

Ishmael's face grew solemn "Yes, yes. A visit to that one should be very valuable to you, if only to learn what not to learn."

A week later he woke early, took a sturdy stick to lean on and begged directions in the town.

Two small boys led him, with rolling eyes and awestruck whispers to a dirty, overhung doorway at the end of an alley. He banged on the wood and waited. Then he heard the bad tempered bark of a dog, grumbling and muttering and a sharp voice behind the door "What ill bred oaf comes at this devilish hour and disturbs my sleep?"

He was so unprepared for the gruffness of the response, he stumbled on the words "I...I am a traveller in search of knowledge and... I humbly beg an audience of one who is spoken of with much honour by his servant." There was the slow creaking slide of a latch and a narrow chink of light gleamed through the opening and then framed in the doorway an apparition, swathed in tattered brown robes and head-cloths, bent and twisted, fierce of countenance, with a hooked nose more befitting an eagle than a man. At first he thought he was looking at a shaggy dog until a gnarled hand snaked out from under the mantle and thrust toward his face. The boys fled shrieking back down the alley.

"And this is of concern to me?"

Christian bowed his head and flushed in embarrassment. He had presumed too much. He should have sent a messenger and asked an audience like a gentleman, instead of banging on the door in the early hours like a ruffian. "My sincere apologies Sire. It was thoughtless of me to accost you like this. I will depart and leave you to your slumber." He could feel the burning intensity of the doleful eyes as he stood waiting quietly at the door, while the dog sat obediently at his master's feet, its ears up and tail thumping the ground. Christian held out his hand and the animal pushed his head under it to be stroked.

In his imagination a magician was upright and robust, uttering incantations with blazing eyes, a fiery wand hurling lightening at the sky. Not this miserable, shrivelled wretch. If this was the boon of the philosophers' stone, a man would be a fool to seek it. The bundle of rags uttered one word "Good!" and slammed the door in his face.

Christian was stunned. He hobbled away, grateful to stand in the sun, breathe the good air of the morning. He made his way back to find a man sitting by the door, holding a cloth to a deep cut in his hand. It was the gardener who'd given him the walnuts on his first day in Damascus and he hurried to help, bringing linen bindings and sweet tea.

The gardener sat quietly while the wound was bound, watching him with the muddy, cataract clouded eyes of those who spend their lives under the fierce desert sun. Then he smiled, put his hand in a cloth bag at his waist and brought out another handful of walnuts. "My master offers these as a token of welcome."

Christian took them reluctantly, his instincts warning him to beware. "Be not unsure in my presence, young sir. I am but a lowly messenger."

He did not like this game playing and stage-acting. He had learned to speak plainly and expected the same of others. For the first time in his life Christian employed the advantage of his noble birth. He stood upright and looked hard at the seated man.

"And who is your master?"

The man stared at him frankly, a broad smile creasing his dark face. "It is he whom thou seek."

Christian kept the hard edge to his voice "I seek no-one."

"Art thou not seeking a man of learning to guide thee?"

"I have found no-one in this city more fitted to teach me than my friends here. In any case, I shall shortly take my leave and journey on to Jerusalem."

The gardener nodded "Even so, my master, Artephius would have thee attend upon him."

He gaped in surprise. Artephius? Had he gone to the wrong house? "I...I will think on it. Where is his home?"

"Thou hast been there already this morning. Pray, disregard the hour. He sleeps little." He departed, placing a coin for the hospice in Christian's hand.

What to make of this? He felt deeply uncomfortable returning to that unwholesome place but he pushed all thoughts of it out of his mind as the insistent throbbing in his leg began again. Ishmael soaked the linen to loosen the dried blood and removed the bandages carefully. Most of the muscle of his calf had been cut away and neatly cauterised, leaving good, pink flesh to scab over and heal. Though the wound was ugly and frightening in its rawness, Christian marvelled at the surgeon's skill.

That he had not lost his leg or even his life was truly a miracle.

*

His eyesight took longer to recover. He did not seek out the Jewish merchant, his vision too poor to make good letters, so he stayed with Ishmael and did what he loved best. They criss-crossed the city, feeding the hungry, bringing the most needy back on a donkey donated by the Caliph, Ishmael all the while laughing and joyful. He would greet even the lowliest beggar with loving words "Thanks be to Allah that you are still with us! How poor the world would be without you in it." And eyes would light up and pain and hunger fade. And Christian, though Damascus like all cities was filled with suffering and human tragedies, lost some of his earnest seriousness and learned to laugh.

Life was good. The plentiful food put meat on his bones and the company of clever, cheerful men gave him such satisfaction that he imagined spending his life here, tending the sick. Perhaps he could meet a pretty girl, start a family, become a respected physician like Ali and have riches heaped upon him. His astrolabe remained in its pouch. And as young people do he began to forget, the monastery and its kindly brothers, the abbot, even Andre's face became indistinct in his memory.

He watched the shy, doe eyed maidens in the bazaar, tantalisingly covered, attended always by brothers and fathers and uncles and wondered what it would be like to lift a flimsy veil to kiss soft, parting lips or move his hand up a slender thigh to rest on the warm, moist deepness between. These thoughts took hold of his daytime and haunted him into the night, so that his dreams were turned into lustful imaginings, all else fading into unreality.

And one day, as he sat furtively watching the women gliding by and listening half-heartedly to the instruction of the mullah, an old woman tottered toward him and dropped a handful of walnuts in his lap. His stomach sank. He could not have been more horrified had a scorpion fallen there instead. Though the morning sun shimmered on the hard packed ground and flies were drinking from the perspiration standing on his brow, he shivered with dread.

When he looked up, he saw the shrewd eyes of the mullah fixed on his. He readied to leave but a hand was raised in a gesture of command. "Stay, young traveller, and listen to the story of the ant-lion, for I tell it just for thee." The teacher held up a long, bony finger to still the murmurings of the children gathered at his feet and went on, his high, reedy voice carrying clearly across the square.

"Such a sorry being is the ant-lion. He, of all God's creatures, is the most to be pitied, for he has the face of a lion and the body of an ant." He illustrated with his hands the features of a lion and the small body of an insect, and the youngsters giggled. "And although his father the lion is a mighty hunter who relishes the flesh of his prey, his mother the ant is a gatherer of crumbs, a dweller in low places. She can eat only grain.

But alas, the ant-lion cannot eat flesh because of the nature of his mother and he cannot eat grain because of the nature of his father. So, this wretched mistake of nature...starves to death."

Once again he stilled the exclamations of his pupils but the wise eyes never left Christian's as he spoke. "Thereby every double-minded man, unstable in all his ways, perishes."

Now he understood. He had lost sight of his dream in the comfortable life he'd found. He stood, humbly bowed his thanks and departed for the house at the end of the lane.

This time, the door opened swiftly to his knock and the same bundle of greasy rags stood on the threshold, haloed by the dim light. He did not look as fearsome as at their first meeting but still Christian hesitated.

"Praise be to Allah, you have come! Welcome... welcome to the home of Artephius." He laughed and guided him through the door and Christian imagined he was being drawn by a will that might not be his own, into a poisonous spider's web.

*

He had never entered such a place. Soot blackened pots and clouded vessels, bulbous alembics and twisted retorts bubbled on stoves, giving off eye watering, pungent fumes. Scrolls and books and rolled up charts piled on rickety tables had begun to spill over into the rushes on the floor. Compasses, callipers, scales and writing implements jumbled together on wooden benches and tools hung from hooks from the roof beams. A furnace blazed in one corner inside, an earthen vessel glowing white.

Christian's head swivelled from the walls to the ceiling and back again. Crossed and recrossed on the stained stonework were stars and planets and astrological markings, with words and mottoes scribbled around the walls. A legend written in some tarry substance over the mantle of the furnace caught his eye...'Sapere aude...Dare to be wise' and V.I.T.R.I.O.L. was painted in thick dark lettering across the doorway. Jars and bottles lined narrow shelves, each neatly labelled and clothed in thick dust and cobwebs ' Hyle...Ras Celi...Azoth...Sanguis draconis...Primordial Matter...Dew of the Heavens...Dragons' blood.'

Unfamiliar names tingling with mystery.

Bones lay strewn among the cinders, some he recognised as animal, some other, making his hair stand on end.

Yet this place did not have the cloying smell of an apothecary's workroom, or the fierceness of an ironmonger's or sword-smith. It was something in between.

The heat from the furnace seared his skin and the whole vast space flickered and wavered in the firelight, giving it an unreal, dreamy quality, confounding his eyes.

He wished he had not come. It reminded him of stories the brothers told of Satan and his infernal dwelling place.

Artephius brushed the dust from an ornately carved chair. "A noble chair for a nobleman's son... be seated." He saw Christian's brow rise in astonishment and smiled. "Yes Christian of Bebenhausen, there is much about thee I know...I know that the blood of princes runs in thy veins, yet life has been meagre and full of hardship. And I know that the knight who came with thee across the waters dreamed of thee before thy father's seed took root in thy mother's womb."

Then his eyes became fixed and staring and the words came out dully, without expression "The book is hidden with the jewel. Such treasure is not for the eyes of the profane but for those who have partaken of the bitter draught of knowing. Soon thou wilt understand and know their value and only then will thee be able to light the dark places."

Christian felt a shiver of apprehension as Artephius placed before him a bowl of plums and a jug of wine. He wanted to stop his ears to the words. How did this man know such things? His own voice echoed back across the room. "What manner of place is this?"

Artephius smiled again "It is a place where men turn base matter into gold."

He couldn't hide his disappointment. He'd expected another kind of knowledge.

"I see disapproval in thy eyes. Dost thou not wish for gold?"

Christian shook his head "The abbot said the Lord places it deep in the earth, for it is worthy only to be trodden underfoot. I value other things."

"Yes, yes, learning and truth and upright ways. Have we not all yearned for that ideal...when we were young and wanting in wisdom? The truth is man is base and greedy and would cut his mother's throat for a circlet of gold around his own. Take that small ingot there." He pointed to a block of gleaming metal atop a worm eaten book "What wouldst thou have, that mould covered tome...or enough gold to feed all of Damascus in a famine?"

He hesitated and Artephius laughed "I see thee cast aside simple philosophies when thy ears prick to the voice of reason. Good! Thou art ready to learn."

Christian did not want the plums or the drink. In fact he wanted nothing this man offered. He stood to take his leave and reached out a hand to the door but Artephius' voice boomed out in the hollow space.

"Be still!"

His dark eyes bored into his own. "Where is thy courage? Dost thou not know that we of Damcar claim knowledge that no others possess? Angels fly to us on gilded wings to instruct us, demons cower at our feet! Our amulets cure all diseases; our elixirs prolong lives through generations. What arrogance possesses thee that thou refuse such riches?"

Christian did not answer. He felt as if his arms had been bound, his feet fixed to the floor. He felt panic at this unholy bondage and struggled to move. Artephius towered over him, clutching a weathered staff, his eyes blazing. He was every inch the magician now.

"Stop thy quivering boy. I will allow thee to remove thyself, for mine eyes do not wish to rest upon thee more this day. But take heed...before the cock crows in the morning, thou wilt return... and hearken to one who would open thy eyes to the truth." There was madness in the eyes now...and threat. "If thou do not, I will send to thee a nightmare such as thou hast never known, one that will leave thy childish eyes awash with tears and trembling for thy mother. Dost thou hear?"

Christian still strained against his invisible bonds, twisting and turning in a futile effort to break free. And then he remembered Andre's constant instruction, that anything could be overcome by the strength of the will. He took a deep breath and willed himself to action. His feet came free and his arms unlocked. He reached for the door, flung it open and hobbled outside, hearing Artephius' ominous words ringing in his ears. "Before the cock crows..."

When he reached the hospice and related his experience to his friend, the soft eyes grew grave "Yes, I admit I was disquieted. A man cannot hide his true nature behind clever tricks. I have heard that he was once a man of shining virtue, that he spent his days offering aid and comfort to the suffering. I have also heard that he was seduced by the power of magic. He is possibly very dangerous, if you believe in such things."

He took up a metal fleam and bowl and moved toward a fat man snoring on a pallet by the door "Come, assist me to bleed this worthy gentleman. I fear he has overindulged in the delights of this fair city and looks as ready to burst as an over-ripe melon.

Christian put the events of the morning out of his mind, until the early hours when he began to toss on his mattress, conjuring myriad horrors visiting him in the night. He rose, rubbed his face with his sleeve and hobbled out into the dark. He walked on through the great gates, toward the mountain standing like a giant in the moonlight and sat down on the banks of the stream, allowing himself a quiet moment of contemplation, and the sweet, earthy scent of forget-me-nots surrounded him, bringing a sharp unexpected memory of home.

Artephius had made him uncomfortable and wary but what had caused this fear? He'd travelled all this way. Now he was being offered knowledge beyond his wildest imaginings and he was frightened. He heard again the mullah's lesson of wavering and inconstancy and made up his mind. He would visit Artephius again, listen and sift his teachings as if through a sieve of reason, keep the good, wholesome kernels and discard the chaff. Even if one tenth of it could be used to aid others, it would be worthwhile. He made his way back through the gates, down the gloomy laneways and in through the open door.

A figure moved suddenly by the furnace, poking at the dying embers. Artephius did not turn around though he knew Christian was there. "Come, boy and see the glorious wonder arising from the fire that Prometheus stole from the sun." He took a set of long tongs from the wall and clamped them around the neck of the vessel resting on the coals. "This is the first firing. There will be six others." His voice seemed softer now, almost reverent as he gently placed the pot on the bench, resting it on a thick pad of goat's hair, which steamed with a rancid stink from the heat. Then he perched on a narrow stool, took up a quill and ink and began to write, mumbling to himself "Negrido, albedo, citrinas, rubedo. Ah...dragon, thou must shed thy obscurity... for I wouldst clothe thee in heavenly garments."

Christian watched and stayed quiet, noting that the hand was steady and the Arabic script neat and precise. Without looking up Artephius pointed to the tools over the mantle "Bring me that mallet, boy." He fetched it and the tongs were placed around the vessel's neck again. "Now, knock the top off! But have a care. Should the bottle explode, it will flay the skin from thy face and boil thy eyes in their sockets. Many a clumsy workman has been turned into food for worms by the capriciousness of the genie that guards this treasure." Christian began nervously, using tentative taps with the hammer, standing well back.

The ash encrusted top flew off and he moved closer as a waft of steam escaped.

"Stand back! The vapour of heated mercury is deadlier than the metal! Have thee no grounding in the sciences? Alchemical sublimation is fraught with danger. Sit here, where I can see thee and try not to meddle." Christian smiled. He was not so frightening after all. He watched as Artephius wrapped his face in a stained muslin cloth, donned heavy mittens and poured the grey sludge into another earthen jar, nodding approvingly. He plugged the opening with new clay and buried the vessel in a tub of sand sitting over a slow fire. He had a question he wanted to ask but Artephius seemed to have forgotten him, shuffling from worktable to bench and back again, lifting glass vials and examining their contents, grinding and sifting powders and salts, then writing it all in his book. He remembered Gaspard mixing herbs and seeds, counting and weighing, measuring precise amounts into folded parchment packets and saw the same concentration, the same sense of purpose.

"Are...are you making gold sire?" There was no answer. "I have no interest in the making of gold. I will be on my way."

"Be still!" The command came clearly and Christian obeyed, though he knew he could move if he desired.

Artephius spoke again, gentler now "The making of gold is of no consequence. It is the transmutation that is the important matter, the changing of the one into the other. Have thee not thought on this miracle?" He could see Christian did not understand. "Wouldst thou not wish to change the sick into the well? A heart shrivelled with hate into one glowing with love and pity?" he put down the quill and rubbed his eyes with the back of a grimy hand. "I have spent my whole life, given my blood, my very soul in search of the magic stone of the philosophers. I would have that men could see what glories surround them if they were not struck blind by the sight of gold. I would return my dust to the sands and be done with it, but the world is in dire need. I have only what was left to Pandora when she opened her golden jar and all the evils of the world fell out...a shred of hope."

Christian hung his head in shame "Forgive me, sire. It is a great failing of mine that I do not look deeply enough."

"Nay, it is I who must ask forgiveness." He waved his arm, taking in their strange surroundings "For hiding my true purpose under this...this sham...and for my lack of courtesy at thy first knocks at my door. Alas, it was necessary. Always there are those who would not understand, who would twist and make ugly and use this knowledge for ill. It is as the Holy books say 'Cast thee not pearls before swine' and I must guard it for the great treasure it is." He moved again to stand at his workbench. "It is not gold I wish to make but a panacea for all ills, a balm for all cares. It is so close; I can feel it calling to me from heaven. Yet all that I have brought forth is this accursed metal." He wiped at his eyes again "Let us talk of other things." He uncovered a small table set with bread, fruit, a dish of yellow butter and a jug of milk. "Forgive me also, for my threats and fearsomeness. Thy rectitude and lack of awe for the golden metal made me fearful thee would not return."

Christian smiled "Were I able to put my fear of night terrors out of my mind, I would not. Though I am very glad now sire, that I have." He bowed his head briefly in thanks as he broke off a piece of the still warm bread and spread it thickly with butter.

*

They sat together through the day and Christian became enthralled by Artephius' learning; Euclid and Pythagoras, Plato and Democritus, the politics of civilisations, the true age of the moon, Egypt and its mysterious beacons in the desert, enshrining knowledge, disguised as tombs. There was no thing that Christian uttered that Artephius could not provide him with more of it to think on. He pulled out tattered books and parchments in illustration of his words, traced the outline of the skull on his bench as he talked of man's place in the universe and the impermanence of all things.

This was the knowledge Christian craved and he fell on it like a starving man to good, wholesome food. By the time he took his leave at sunset, his head was reeling from wonderment and his face ached from smiling. Artephius asked that he come again, every day if he had a mind to and slake his thirst in the deep well of his knowledge.

So he divided his time, helping Ishmael in the hospice, just as he had at Cyprus and at night making his way through the dark, winding laneway, for never again would he think of the wizened man who stood waiting patiently by his door as a wretch worth only pity.

One night he took up his astrolabe and showed it to Artephius, who examined it carefully, admiring the workmanship. "Indeed, I have one similar but not so finely wrought as your own. Come, we will go to the roof and take down the heavens."

They ascended the stairs together and stood gazing out over the sleeping city, while Artephius sighted the instrument with expert care. He smiled contentedly and whispered to Christian "Long ago, the kings of the East were led by the light of a new star; even to the cradle of Him thy people call the Sun of Righteousness. Soon my friend, new stars will again be sighted in the heavens, in the constellations of Cygnet and Serpentaria and they will portend great things, perhaps even an explosion of wisdom or a burst of compassion for others. Who can tell?"

And Christian blossomed and grew wise for one so young, yet Jerusalem was not so much in his mind now as Damcar, in Arabia, the source of the knowledge the alchemist possessed. His hypnotising effect on others, his amulets and charms, his understanding of the properties of metals and uncanny insight into the nature of man, all these Christian could turn to the service of others. Combined with his knowledge of medicine, the despair and hopelessness he saw around him, especially in the dark valleys of his homeland, could be relieved.

Artephius told him also, of the men of Fez, who conjured up the elemental inhabitants and used them for scrying and fore-telling or coaxing the clouds to bring forth rain, to breathe life into a death rattled child or strike down an enemy. Christian picked out the words he wanted to hear, not seeing the double edged sword implicit in the rest.

And the more time he spent in his presence, the more knowledge he craved. It was like a drug, lifting his mind to lofty heights, leaving his body tingling with delight.

The quicksilver turned the colour of blood and Artephius mixed it with magnesia and sulphurous powders and added a pinch of yellow dust from a tiny silver bottle he wore around his neck, mumbling prayers and incantations all the while.

They sat through the night, husbanding the fire, teasing the embers to just the right heat and firing it again. Then the last, and Christian's trembling anticipation as the earthen crucible was smashed apart, leaving a bright, malevolently glowing substance behind. Gold.

And he stood mute with awe, not for the metal that twisted men's souls but at its transmutation and the good that could be accomplished by it. He determined then to go to Damcar and Fez and learn from the wise men there.

So he took his leave of his friends, who shed tears at the parting and Artephius gave him a precious gift, the gold they'd brought to birth with their own hands. "Use it wisely and it will serve thee well, for the years of a man's life are too few to waste in this vile pursuit. There is loftier work to do." He'd melted the gold into small slivers and placed them in a tooled leather purse set with sapphires.

The physician Ali, whose kindness and skill had saved his leg gave him a set of surgeon's knives, bright Damascus steel and glinting with sharpness and Ishmael, a mandolin with a long neck and an other-worldly note that lifted the spirits as soon as its strings were plucked.

Before he made his way to the gates, he stopped at the bazaar and bought wool carpets and blankets for the hospice and paid for fresh fruit and bread to be delivered.

Then he looked for the mullah, who accepted his gratitude with a nod and a friendly clasp of hands.

*

Ahmed and his flea bitten camel were not among those who milled about the gates waiting for customers and Christian felt a frizzle of disappointment that it would not be he that transported him into the Yemen where, according to Artephius, Damcar lay hard up against a low grey mountain. Instead, he handed double the fee to a surly Arab whose muscular, youthful camels promised a speedy, if joyless trek across the desert.

He'd taken instruction from Artephius in the setting of his astrolabe, for many an adventurer had been swallowed by the sands in their hunt for that elusive place, which was spoken of only in whispers by the learned of Damascus.

They set off and after he overcame his ticklish stomach, rode the stately animal like he was born to the desert, his robes flying in the hot wind. The driver spoke only to harangue his camels to greater speeds and to Christian not at all. Prayer times were strictly adhered to and when they stopped, sat apart to break bread. He refused the food that Christian brought with him and when he offered it, would not share his water-skin.

The camels were indeed swift and after two days hard riding through the blazing days and freezing nights, they came to a small town at the foot of a slate coloured ridge, hardly to be called a mountain at all. Damcar.

It looked to be a town like any other, with white minarets dominating its squares and small, dun coloured houses but the looming grey peak seemed to absorb all the light around it, leaving the buildings awash with gloom even in the light of a fiery afternoon sun.

Christian's head ached and the hollow gouged from his leg felt raw and open as if the flesh had just been flayed and not months in the healing and as he sat looking down from the camel's back, he began to feel a deep sense of foreboding. The camel driver would go no further and as soon as Christian dismounted, turned his beasts' heads for home, without farewell or good wishes, a rare breach of manners in this polite and generous land.

There were no gates and he walked into the city as the sun began to go down behind the mountain, leaving only dismal shadows on mud daubed walls and empty streets.

He wandered along, seeing no-one, hearing nothing but the dry rustling of the trees standing like half fleshed skeletons at the edge of the roads. He turned down deserted laneways, his ears pricked for any sound, any movement but even the birds seemed to have fled this strange place. He reached for his water-skin knowing already that it was empty. He'd found no water in the wells and his mouth tasted ashy with thirst.

Then he heard it clearly, a high pitched pitiful wailing, carried on the wind, growing louder, changing to howling, rising to a screech as it came closer, an eerie, primitive noise. And then it began to whirl around him like windblown sand.

All his life he had heard screams, of pain and terror and in the depths of despair but nothing like this anguished, unearthly sound. It filled his ears, rippled the dry air. He felt his hackles rise and sweat begin to trickle down his spine.

Since he had been a small boy at his father's knee, in times of fear and uncertainty, he had asked of the Lord, His guidance and he asked for it now. He knelt in the dirt at the side of the road, bowed his head and began to pray..."Oh, Lord protect thy faithful servant..." And the words of a psalm came to him, soft and comforting "Yea, tho I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me..." and slowly his heart stopped its hammering and his mind stilled. He heard the screeching now as from a distance, retreating further as the heartfelt words formed in his mouth and went flying into the wind.

He stood, unsteady and carried on. No-one showed their face at a window, no familiar smells of cooking teased his nostrils. He walked through arches festooned with the dry, brittle canes of roses, the flowers long since gone, the hips shrivelled to acorns on the vines. Dusty fountains and broken marble hinted at the pretty place it must have been but now it was desiccated and lifeless, a place for wraiths and djinns and unformed beings.

As darkness descended he huddled in a doorway and listened as the wailing began again. The screeching rose in pitch and volume until it became a mournful cacophony, surrounding him. He put his hands over his ears to shut out the sound but it was as if the noise came from within him as well as without, chilling his blood.

The strings of the instrument Ishmael had given him thrummed at a chance touch of his elbow, sending its soft vibrations up his arm. He took it up. He'd learned to play a lute in the monastery and he strummed on the strings. Instantly the air was filled with sound, a deep, melodious hum, of no discernable pattern but flowing and ringing all at once. He fingered the long neck, experimenting with the sound the strings made, each one distinctly different but coming together in a soft harmony.

Christian's dry lips cracked into a grin. It was the sound of the marketplace and the mosque and children laughing. It was the church bells in the town and the tinkling songs of girls and Andre's deep, calm voice, all mingled together. He fell asleep holding it to his breast, willing the music to go on. And in his dreams it did. He was home, with Mistress Berta and hot, steaming dumplings and Andre's good natured smile and the gentle voices of the monks rising to heaven in homage to God.

He woke to a harsh dawn, the mountain a black shadow across the town and the wind still rustling in the trees. But he was refreshed and able to think more clearly. What had happened here?

Artephius told him the magicians of Fez conjured elementals to do their bidding. What of Damcar? Was that unearthly howling a being from the otherworld conjured up and set free to wander? He decided it was all too fantastic to be believed. Perhaps tales of Damcar had been embroidered and exaggerated to hide its decay.

He wondered where those who remained would abide in this desolate place. There were no footprints or wheel tracks on the roads. It was as if everything had been swept clean by the wind. He found a well in the square but when he dropped a pebble down, no sound came back.

A new fear began to form in his mind, of wandering alone with no food or water, no travellers passing. How long could he last without water? He could not believe that Artephius, good Artephius would send him to such a lonely, fearful death. He reached into his pouch and took out a small parcel of dates and ate them slowly, with no spit to swallow them.

He looked for an inn or a hospice and finding none climbed the minaret to look out over the houses. Still he saw no movement, no animals grazing. He stumbled on the loose stone steps and almost toppled over the edge in his haste. He felt sad to see this magnificent tower fall into such ruin. It must have been many years since the beautiful chants of the muezzin had been heard calling the faithful to prayer.

And then far in the distance, on the side of the mountain, he saw a large cave and a path leading up.

Had the people abandoned the town and taken refuge in the cave? Perhaps the plague had come? And as Christian's eyes focused on the yawning black maw, he fancied he saw a man standing at its entrance, beckoning.

He hurried on through the town and upward, slipping on the crumbling shale. He felt again that dismal heaviness, as if the mountain itself threatened to crush him. The closer he got to the cave, the more leaden his limbs felt. His leg flared and burned with pain, his eyelids scraped against his dry eyes.

He reached the entrance just as the grey light disappeared into darkness. It had taken him the whole day to climb that small distance. It seemed as though time had slowed under the heavy pall of dread that enveloped him. He put down his remedy box and mandolin and peered down at a set of stone steps neatly laid one upon the other, ending in pitch blackness below.

There was a small hollow beside the cave and he stowed his belongings there, taking only his fathers' satchel, the astrolabe and empty water-skin. He'd heard travellers' talk of finding cool running streams in the depths of caves.

The steps were precisely cut into the rocks and once he'd lost sight of the opening, surprisingly easy to descend. As he made his way down, he realised that while he could not see his hands in front of his face, or the tiny bats that fluttered against his cheeks and tangled their claws in his hair, he could see the steps, lit as they were by a glowing crystalline substance in the rock itself. Excitement mounted with every step that he took, his thirst forgotten. Then the stairs ended and he found himself in a vast grotto, the same twinkling crystals lighting the walls and rock ceiling far above, a soft breeze blowing against his skin.

He could see quite clearly. It was a beautiful natural formation...but it was empty.

Christian slumped against the wall. He'd been moving all day and the day before with no water and little food and he did not have the strength to climb back up. His skin felt stretched across his face, his teeth catching on his dried out lips. He began to shake, wanted to cry, but no tears came.

He was going to die here, his dream would end and for the first time, he did not care.

Let another bear this burden. There would be others, men and women who would live in other times and places, searching for truth and reason, offering their light to the world. What was he, an orphan boy with his head full of fantasies? Where was the loss to the world if he should pass into the Lord's care? He thought with painful longing of his mother and father. If his mother were not proud of him, he would beg her forgiveness. He'd tried so hard and he was so tired, so worn from the journey.

Then he heard it again, at first from afar, then closer. He stopped his foolish sobbing to listen to the howling screeching wind. Or was it the wind? It came nearer, surrounding him and shrill, mocking words formed in the maelstrom. He could hear whispers hidden in the turmoil, muffled cries and jeering taunts "Puny being...did you think the devil would not find you?" he heard it in the language of the street vendors, then his native German " You are nothing...die!" now in the Latin of his schoolbooks "Pray to your God now...coward!"

And a woman, her lilting, soothing tones so different from the others "Come child...I know what ails thee...Thou art almost a man...come... and a man's pleasure shall be thine..."

Then another, scornful deep and sly "Yes, boy...become a man in the arms of Lillith and surrender to the queen of misery!" and laughter, sharp and cruel washed over him.

This time he was too weakened to fight them with prayer. He covered his eyes with his hands in childish terror and the multitude carried him away.

*

It was cold, colder than he had ever been. Blackness enclosed him and silence, deep as the grave. He could feel nothing, except the icy stiffening of his limbs.

Had death visited him at last? He lay still and waited. For angels to bear him to heaven on softly feathered wings? Or for the leathery feel of demon claws grasping and dragging him down to hell? His imagination painted pictures on the black of the darkness. He saw eyes watching him, spiders scuttling up his arms to disappear inside his clothes, small animals and other, stranger things creeping across the floor.

He wrapped his arms about himself and marvelled at the good, simple pleasures the Lord had given him, the blue sky and a warm hearth, a snatch of music, a cup of cool water or a juicy pear. Things he took for granted until they were missing.

He was not dead. He still longed for the comforts of this world.

He pushed himself to his feet and felt his way carefully until he touched the rock. He must have run in his fright and lost himself somehow, although he'd seen no other openings in the cavern walls. The air smelt fresh and he could feel a breeze ruffling his hair. He inched his way along the wall until his eyes grew accustomed to the dark.

It was a tunnel with a low ceiling and smooth walls. No light emanated from the rocks but he could feel the tool marks left by workmen and the unnatural angles of the roof. He decided he would find his way out and persevere in the town. Water now, was the important matter.

He wended his way through twisting, endless passageways for what seemed to him an eternity, despair beginning to drag him down, slowing his pace. He was lost.

Then he turned a corner and another and saw light...a lantern set into the wall, illuminating a heavy wooden door. Hope spurred him on. He banged on the wood, calling out, his voice rasping "Please, I beg you. Open the door! If there is someone there...please!"

There was no answer. Christian hammered until his strength was gone, called until no words came. He turned wearily and began again to feel his way back, to look for another way out.

And the door creaked and groaned on its hinges as it slowly opened inwards and a brilliant light blinded his dark adapted eyes.

*

He heard voices, cheerful, friendly, speaking quickly. Sweet familiar aromas wafted round him, cloves and garlic, cinnamon and the sharp tang of burnt butter.

Hands guided him through the door and led him to a stool, a cup of cool water placed in his hands. He drank greedily, begging for more. Another was offered and he drank that too, not wasting a drop.

More hands grasped his shoulder or gently patted his head and though his weak eyes were still unable to focus, he listened to the words being spoken around him.

"It is he. At last!"

"Such a young man...such a journey."

"Yes...Yes Hassan. I see the light. It burns like fire around him!"

"It is as foretold in my dream Omar, here on his chin, the lash that left its mark 'ere he was delivered unto our brethren."

"Pity...pity for the poor child to be treated so, when such as he are all the hope we have."

"No, dearest, we must wait until he regains his strength. Pray, allow him to rest. His ordeal has been long and without let. He is but a child."

And another, deeper, stronger "We have awaited thy coming for some time now, Christian."

He could not fix in his mind the inflections in the smooth, well formed words. It was as if the strains of all nations could be detected there. The voice went on "It is by the grace of the Great Immensity that you are delivered safely unto us." He allowed himself to be led to a couch but could not rest, his mind was reeling. How had they known? What was this magic? He sat up and opened his eyes.

And there they were, arrayed in a circle around him, watching him intently and smiling, robed and turbaned men, others in shirts and mantles and wide pantaloons and some in sombre coats and plumed hats. He saw the flattened cap of a scholar, the conical hat of an astrologer and the shaven tonsure of a monk.

And a woman, dressed in pristine white robes, her grey hair coiled in intricate plaiting, sitting in stately majesty in the midst of the rest. She reminded Christian of a painting he'd seen in Cyprus, of the oracle at Delphi atop her golden tripod. He watched them as they watched him and he felt the glowing warmth of their regard.

He spoke, his voice still hoarse and feeble "I thank you all for your solicitude. I am very glad to be back in the light."

He looked around. He was in a large cavern, with arched roof beams towering above. Great torches set into the rock lit up bright frescos adorning the walls, one a picture of emerald trees and twisted vines, flowers and soft grasses, a Garden of Eden.

On another, a city, its gilded buildings set like jewels between green valleys and azure skies. And beside it, that same city, broken and rent by a massive fissure in the earth, tumbling into the abyss, the ominous mountain behind spewing fire and ash into the air.

And on this wall a man, a winged helmet on his head, wings on his heels, holding the twin serpent staff of Hermes in one hand, in the other a green, clear slab of stone, etched with hieroglyphs. And crushed under his feet cowering like a dog lay the monstrous Typhon, destroyer of souls. If Christian could have seen his own face, he would have seen the childlike wonder shining there. But those seated around him saw it plainly and rejoiced.

One by one they presented themselves; a laughing, dark eyed man in a starry robe of midnight blue, bowing low "Salaam Beloved. I am Omar Billah, come from the great city of Bagdad to impart to thee the wisdom of the sages."

And another, a white shawl edged in blue about his shoulders "Shalom, friend. I am Rabbi Jacob and I have journeyed from Jerusalem, to teach thee the mysteries of Cabala and the language of the angels, for thou wilt need converse with the messengers of heaven."

And another stepped forward, plump, pink, tonsured and beaming with joy "Welcome friend. I am John, of Norfolk. I am to instruct thee in the good governance of nations, for this lack is the cause of much misery to the common people."

Next, a giant of a man, shaven bald and rippling with muscle, "I am Zosimos. I will teach you the sacred knowledge of Al-Khem, which to you is known as Egypt, and the science of Chaldea, India, Persia and Babylon. To you will be given the art of transmutation and the secret of the stone."

Then the woman glided toward him, her head held high, serene and smiling "I am Theresa. I will show thee the magic of numbers for, according to wise Pythagoras, it is mathematics which brings order to the universe.

And another, upright, bearded and grey, his plain brown robe girded about with a white cord. He took Christian's hand firmly and held it as he spoke, gently and without the usual hesitance of age "I am Doctor Johannes. It is my task to reveal to thee the wonders of the human form. Then together we shall build thy foundation on the four pillars of medicine."

And on until the last, tall, brown skinned, his eyes piercing bright and resting steadily on Christian's. "I am Althotas." his was the voice he had heard above the others. "When my brethren have instructed thee in the mysteries, I will unveil to thee a greater mystery still...the power of Mind.

Moses' staff became a serpent in the mind of Pharaoh and the Master known as Yeshu'a wrought miracles by his command of it. It will be thine also." He pointed to the painting of the ruined city "When the great lands of Poseidon sank below the sea, its high priests brought knowledge of its arts to Egypt, then on to other lands. Tho' this knowledge lifted men out of the mire of ignorance, it could not save Atlantis, for its people had sunk into superstition and unclean ways. Wisdom is a flower from which the bee makes its honey and the spider poison, each according to his own nature. It must be guarded closely."

Althotas came to stand beside him "There is another, one who would teach thee the virtue of compassion. It is this one who is to be honoured above all others, for she represents the multitude, which thou hast offered the days of thy life to serve." And their heads bent in reverence as an old woman shuffled forward, dressed in rags, her feet wrapped in bandages, most of her nose and part of her lip rotted away. A leper.

Christian stood as she came closer and bowed also. She was so small her head came only to his shoulders. Between the withered stumps of her hands she carried a small parcel wrapped in linen and she offered it to him, smiling crookedly, her deformities grotesque to look upon, the rank odour of her affliction permeating the space between them.

He knew what it was before he'd lifted the spotless cloth and his eyes welled with tears. Warm dumplings, soft and fat and oozing with honey. How had she known? What pain had she endured to make this precious food for him? He knelt on one knee before her, in a noble-man's acknowledgement of her generosity.

Later, Althotas walked with him to the mouth of the cave. As they stood looking out over the town, he told him of the Damcar of long ago, before a djinn had taken to haunting the streets. It was a city famed for the magnificence of its gardens and the fairness of its wise governors, who had a different politic order from the rest of Arabia, until one by one the citizens fled, spreading word as they went of howling and screeching and strange happenings in the night. The conjuring of the elemental was necessary, he said, for the Great Work to go on.

Christian's face showed only puzzlement so Althotas seated himself on a step, gesturing for him to sit also and explained..."From the time when men watched in awe as lightening sent fire from the skies, from Greece, Egypt and India and the great civilisations before them, from hidden lands beyond the seas and the icy waters, a great body of learning has been built up...and hidden from the profane.

For only little by little can man stand in the clear light of Truth.

Moses and Solomon, Plato, Aristotle and those who came after were initiated into these mysteries, all avowing silence. But these worthy men were ready and willing, under the veil of secrecy, to impart their knowledge to others, for the benefit of mankind.

Here in this hidden place, we meet and learn from each other, what is new and what can be discarded in the light of that new knowledge, and what can be done to ease humanity's plight. We travel here in secret and go forth to our own lands to disseminate this knowledge, in medicine, the arts and sciences and the contemplation of the Divine in all things. It is for thee also, my brother, to perpetuate this heritage."

Christian knew it was true, he'd spent his whole life nurturing this dream, hearkening to his inner voice. He felt it tingling in his blood.

"There is something I wish to show thee." He led him again, through dark passageways and upwards by more narrow steps, up until it seemed they must reach the very peak of the mountain itself. Christian's leg began to ache and he longed to rest but Althotas seemed unwearied by the climb. Then they came out into the sunlight, to a vast plateau hidden from the ground by grey, wind blasted rocks.

And in the middle a golden wonder, a giant circular device, rings set within rings, with symbols and lines engraved on its edges. At its centre and fixed in place by an ornate spindle, an orb, cast in gold and set with precious stones. Christian could not take his eyes from it; the burnished surfaces reflected the light, turning it into a glittering ball of cold fire. "What is it Sire?"

"It is an invention of Eratosthenes, from the time before Ptolemy. An armillary sphere. Men of science use it to calculate the passage of time."

Christian thought of his astrolabe, an instrument much more complex in its design. "How does it work?"

"A device such as this is set outside to catch the sun's rays, for shadows to be cast upon it. It was a gift from the noble Salah-al-Din, may songs be sung for him in paradise. Splendid, is it not?" He pointed to the glittering globe in the middle "Many would have us believe that the universe revolves around our world, for the benefit of man alone. This instrument contains a little truth. But its beauty blinds men to the lie.

We must lift the veil of ignorance from those whose pride and covetousness holds humanity back from its rightful place. Were they united they might, out of the great gifts that God has bestowed upon us, collect a perfect method of all arts and make this world a paradise." Althotas paused, looking at Christian's squinting, weepy eyes and deformed leg. "First, we must consult with Doctor Johannes, to strengthen that which is needed.

Then the instruction will begin. Madame Theresa is a follower of the famed Hypatia, who was scraped to death with oyster shells in the Caesarium for the sin of holding to pagan gods. She is most learned in mathematics and astronomy. We will start with the creation of the universe."

He stood and took Christian's hand, his face solemn "What thee has chosen to do is full of danger. You must beware the Old Enemy. By subtlety and craft he hinders every good purpose with his instruments and contentious, wavering people.

Whatever is in my power to do... however I may aid thee... I will."

*

Christian stayed at Damcar for three revolutions of the earth around the sun.

Here he learned his mathematics, music and astronomy under the stern tutelage of Theresa, who treated him as a son. And he learned better the Arabian tongue, translating into good Latin, the book 'M' which was held in such reverence by his learned friends that they could not speak its name, to take with him on his journey.

He spent long months with Doctor Johannes and marvelled at the breadth of his understanding, of disease, of anatomy and medicine. Every bone, every nerve and sinew, muscle and organ, all the secrets of the human body were revealed to Christian's nimble and receptive mind. And he soaked up the knowledge, as a sea sponge soaks up its life giving brine. Under his ministrations, Christian's leg regained its strength and his eyes began to sparkle with health.

Natural philosophy, astronomy, alchemy and virtue...of the doctor, the herb or the metal, these were the foundation stones of healing and he grew in knowledge and confidence as he was guided toward an understanding of man's place in the great wonder of nature.

Omar took him further into the depths of the mountain to a vast repository, shelves upon shelves, books, parchments, etched clay tablets, chiselled stones and carved figures, some old and decaying to dust, others pristine and newly bound. He allowed Christian to take a lantern and lock himself away among these undreamt of treasures. And treasure it surely was. Most written in language he could not read but some in Greek, others in Latin. He found dusty manuscripts written in Old German on the properties of metals and others, in the treatment of disease and the birthing of infants.

The further down the shelves he went, the older were the works. Much was written on cloth and parchment or wood in strange characters, part of a great hidden library that was smuggled piece by piece across the icy mountains by the monks of Thibet, in fear of its discovery, for the Mongol hordes had overrun the country and plundered it's monasteries.

And deeper still were the remnants of works even older, from India and Babylon and the cold ashes of the library at Alexandria. And some, so far back in time that even the legends of their origin was lost. The hours he spent in solitary reading in this wonderful place were a source of untold pleasure and learning.

But Christian was no longer the frightened youth who'd thrown himself at their door, begging admittance. His teachers understood the importance of his calling. Europe had become rotten with disease and ignorance and beaten down by its overwhelming reliance on the church.

There were others daring to part this mysterious Veil of Isis, offering glimmers of truth in the darkness. But they were few, working alone and in terrible fear, and as Plutarch saw carved on the shrine to Minerva at Sais, 'I am all that hath been, and is, and shall be, and my veil no mortal hath yet uncovered.'

Christian must build an edifice that would shine its light into the centuries to come.

He woke one morning sweating, jarred awake by a vivid dream of time going backward and the world tumbling into its swirling vortex and realised it was time to leave.

*

They followed him to the mouth of the cave, walking slowly through the twisting tunnels. No jinn screeched and railed at him now, he'd learnt that it was his own fear that followed him that day, conjured by his imagination and made stronger by his weakened state. It would not happen again. At the entrance, one by one they said their goodbyes, Theresa standing in rigid self possession, tears glistening in her eyes. She laid her hand on his head and sighed, and Christian felt the tremble in her strong fingers "Ah, I will miss thee, boy."

"And I, you Madame. You have taught me so much. It was more than I could have hoped. I will remember you all my life."

She laughed "Bah, thou wilt forget me the instant thy roguish eye sets upon a pretty maiden."

His face reddened like a beacon.

With the help of a willing servant, Johannes had instructed him in the parts and forms of the female and the diseases to which they were prone. The girl had come with him from Zurich and could neither hear nor speak, but sat quietly, gazing up at Christian with eyes the colour of deep water, and he'd had to stop himself from shaking and his manhood from rising as he laid his head on the girl's heaving breast to listen to the womanly heart beating within. More than once he'd broken into a sweat and retreated to compose himself, embarrassed, but Johannes just laughed and sent the girl away. "How many are thy years, my boy?"

Christian had hung his head in shame "Nineteen, I believe, sire."  
"Well, no wonder thy blood is up, trapped here with dusty books and even dustier teachers. Promise me that thou wilt find a clean girl and know her fully. It is unbecoming a physician to slaver over his patients." And he'd roared with good natured humour, making Christian wish he could crawl under the crack in the door and flee.

Now his much loved teachers were solemn... grieving already. The doctor wiped a tear from his eye and grasped his hands. "Remember always thy calling, my boy and hold it above any other consideration. To heal is the greatest gift a man can offer."

Zosimos stepped up, his strong oiled body glistening in the sunlight "Thou art well learned now, in the science of alchemy and the properties of the stone. Of this keep silent. Death follows he who boasts of gold making. And many will lure thee from thy path should they hear of it. Journey now to Khem, to the House of Wisdom. Follow the crocodile and the water beast and begin where the lotus lies at the water's edge, for those who wait in the darkness of the temple, wait for thee.

Althotas stood patiently until they had bidden farewell, then moved to stand at his side. Christian was gain struck by the brilliance of his eyes, his dark, polished skin.

"Your journey has been hard. What lies ahead, will be harder."

"This sire, I know. But by your generosity, I carry with me the knowledge I need."

Althotas went on "It is not the common people who will refuse your gifts, it is the learned, who will laugh and scoff at your presumption and deride you publicly for exposing their ignorance."

Christian smiled and Althotas saw the determination in the set of his jaw. "Then I will dazzle them with wonders."

He stood in the bright sunshine, dressed in the fine, sky coloured tunic that Madame Theresa had made for him, his fair hair hanging in long curls, his skin shining. He'd packed his belongings in his father's satchel, his astrolabe and beloved book 'M' in his pouch, his remedy box and instruments ready to be taken on his back.

He was surprised to find six camels waiting, saddled and braided with tassels and gaudy ribbons. One snorted, spat and pulled away and Christian moved forward to reassure it, seeing an animal too old to traverse the open desert, its flesh sunken on its bony frame, its thick fringed lashes shading pale, watery eyes. He laughed. He knew this camel...and the wiry driver who stood nearby, grinning toothlessly.

"Ahmed! By all the stars in the heavens!"

Ahmed allowed himself to be swept up and kissed on both cheeks. "It is a joy to see you also, young lord. But pray, have a care. Such a display of affection has its dangers. My bones now are as brittle as those of a turtle dove. Would you have my wives widows and my children orphans?" Little Ahmed was there also, grown into a strapping bronze skinned youth, a shining scimitar now added to the dagger at his waist. He stood gravely to attention holding the tethers of the other camels.

Three were piled high with boxes and bundles and strange shaped parcels, gifts from his friends.

He turned to Althotas "Sire, there are no words to express what my heart is longing to say."

Althotas smiled "No words are necessary, my brother. No words at all. Go with the blessing of those who love you.

And may the Great Immensity hide you under the shadow of His wings."

*

The journey to the coast took three days and this time he rode in comfort, his small caravan ablaze with colour, joyful with softly tinkling bells. Their saddlebags had been filled to overflowing by Ahmed's wives, nuts and dates and spicy lamb, aromatic rice and juicy oranges, boiled goats cheese and flat, golden bread. A feast fit for a prince.

And he saw the pride now in the old man's eyes as he watched his son following quietly behind, alert and watchful.

When they reached the port at last, they loaded his goods into the hold of a vessel sailing the coasts of Africa with precious oils to trade and stood quietly on the dock as he boarded the waiting ship. They were to return now to Jaffa, and take up their work again.

He held up his hand in farewell and Ahmed called out, the warm gusts that filled the sails taking the words from his mouth, though Christian heard them clearly enough. "Young lord, think sometimes of your friend Ahmed, when you hold your star-taker aloft and bring down the heavens, for soon my flesh will be but a grain of sand in the desert.

But we will meet again in paradise.

Assalamu Alaikum!"

*

The sea was clear and filled with life, flying fish, porpoise, long finned sharks and giant floating beds of kelp. When the ship neared the shores, he swam among pretty corals teeming with silvery darting creatures and golden fan-tailed carp. He brought to the surface shells and starfish and tiny hard skinned water dragons and dried them in the sun to add to his collection.

The sailors told him of Egypt's great river and the beasts that lived by its waters, poisonous serpents and crocodiles and the fearsome hippopotamus, known for its evil temper and crushing jaws.

And soon they were there, sailing on a vast waterway, the outlines of wind-blasted ruins far in the distance, the fields along its edge an improbable green framed by the bright, barren sands behind. He saw brown skinned children splashing in the shallows and women beating clothing on the wet rocks and lay back on his carpet covered divan contentedly watching the sailing boats as they scudded quietly across the softly rippling water.

They continued on until the river reached its greatest width and hove to beside a temple crumbling to sand on the banks, giant serried columns of hewn stone, in imitation of the lotus blossom.

He asked the captain to keep his precious cargo in the hold and meet the ship on its homeward voyage, seven days hence, promising a king's ransom for its safe return.

He had ample money, Althotas insisting that he be provided with gold sufficient for his needs. About his waist hung a small bag of farthings and when he stepped ashore, was soon surrounded by laughing, boisterous children. He pressed one into each small hand and the crowd grew larger, carrying him along through the noisy, dusty streets.

Then they reached the steps of a temple, carved with majestic pillars and set with golden statuary and the children stopped and drew apart, silently. A man was standing at the top, dressed as Zosimos had been, with a wide collar of lapis beads around his neck.

Christian ascended the steps, meeting the eyes of the guardian, who greeted him as a brother would greet another. And gratefully, he relieved himself of his burdens... and followed him into the cool, quiet darkness.

A week later, the boy he'd set as watch banged on his door to tell him the ship had berthed and was awaiting his return. He hurried to the wharf. So profound had been his experience, so overwhelming the honours given, he prayed earnestly that none of it would be lost to his memory. He was to speak of it to no-one, nor write of it in books. He must keep it hidden, as the others had before him.

He was to journey now to Morocco, to take instruction there in magic and the conjuring of elementals. And as the noon sun beat down and turned the water into glittering silver, he glimpsed in the distant haze three giant stone pyramids and wept at the sight.

*

Christian sailed the whole coast of Africa until he came to the quiet port city of Rabat, and from there he employed two camel drivers and their strong sons to carry his precious cargo across the desert and over the mountains to Fez.

His caravan had swollen now to ten camels, all piled high with riches; rare books of astronomy, mathematics, medicine, lost inventions and philosophies, maps and instruments of navigation, collections of rare plants and precious gemstones and small devices he'd made in the quiet hours, looking glasses of diverse virtues, little burning lamps and chiefly wonderful artificial songs.

He carried also the crushed stone of Amianthus, the same mineral that glowed in the rocks in the mountain of Damcar, to be used in the making of ever burning lamps.

It was by these treasures and his profound learning that he hoped to open minds to the possibilities of a reformation in the sciences and arts, a new axiomata...and a new beginning.

He purchased a fine Arab stallion from the best horseflesh dealer in Rabat and his heart rejoiced in the freedom it gave him, galloping and whooping over the dunes, his hair flying, the young animal's strong muscles untiring in the desert heat.

And soon enough they reached the walls of Fez, a city bigger than any he had seen, spread out in light and shadow across the sands.

They entered through a beautiful arched gate into a square crowded with market stalls and shouting shopkeepers. Christian brought a drink from a water seller wearing a red feather hat, his goatskin strapped to his shoulders, silver cups jangling from a chain around his neck.

The camels became skittish as they tried to wend their way through the narrow streets, so he sought out a donkey carter and his train of sturdy beasts carried the load the short way to a Jewish merchant willing to warehouse them. As was expected, they haggled over the price but Christian left satisfied that the old man was trustworthy and his treasures were safely locked away until his return.

Fez was celebrated for its great schools of learning and its beautiful madrasa, lovingly decorated with cedarwood panelling and marble pillars, and it was here he stopped, to ask directions to the house of Neiliman, the Cabalist, spoken of with honour by Artephius of Damascus.

They warned him away. The Jew was a charlatan, ignorant, trafficking in misery, cheating the unwary with talismans, bogus charms and spells. Why was one such as he, a learned man they could see, seeking a duper of fools?

Stay... and be instructed in the intricacies of the law and the Holy Qu'ran.

Christian thanked them for their kindness and rode on and a pretty barefoot beggar led him to Neiliman's house, a pink stone building with lush palms shading a fountain splashing in the middle of a courtyard filled with flowers. He'd handed her the sapphire purse that Artephius had given him, full of gold, and pulled her up onto his horse, enjoining her stunned mother to use the money wisely and it would provide all that they needed. And to use some of it for a worthy dowry for her daughter, so her beggar's life could be forgotten.

He returned to the pink house and walked to the entrance, admiring the beauty of the roses, savouring their soft sweet smell. And in the doorway stood a woman, covered all over in pale gauzes, only her coal black eyes showing through a slit in her veil.

She gestured with a sweep of her arm and drew him into the cool, dark house.

He marvelled at the richly hung tapestries and thick carpets underfoot, the bright cushions arranged around tables etched with the signs of the zodiac, the heady scents of jasmine, rose and frankincense.

She pushed him down onto the soft pillows and glided into another room, returning only a moment later with a tray of fruits, a loaf of bread, a dish of honey and a jug of wine and placed them on a table in front of him. She left again and came back with a water-pipe and a bowl of nut brown hashish and prepared it for him in silence, her movements practiced and without haste.

He waited patiently, noticing the impressive shelves of books lining the walls. There was no sign of his host and he wondered whether he was to be granted an audience. And when he turned back to the woman, she was gone.

He took up the pipe, inhaling the fragrant aroma, filling his lungs with the rich, resinous smoke. He was tired from the journey and his eyes fluttered closed in peaceful contentment. Then suddenly he was woken by angry shouts and a woman's frightened, muffled pleadings.

"Please, my master...Thy guest has been offered refreshments as the teaching of the prophet decrees...Have pity!"

And a deep, scornful voice, echoing through the rooms. "And wouldst thou give a prince for his supper, worm eaten fruits, weevilled bread, wine only last week from the presses?"

And the woman again, whispering "One such as I exist only to serve thee...Master

...I fall at thy feet in shame."

Christian pulled himself up, he had been treated with the utmost attention and the woman did not deserve this tirade. Perhaps what the Imams had said was true and this man was unworthy. He walked unsteadily through the low doorway, into another room and then through another, his head spinning, his eyes heavy with the effect of the drug. The shouting seemed far away, the whispered pleading urgent and close. The walls rippled and shrank from his outstretched hand, the ceiling closed in over his head.

Then he pushed aside a heavy curtain and saw a bearded man standing in the middle of a circle, symbols painted on the floor in a pentagram inside it. He was pointing a wooden staff at the woman who had welcomed him, kneeling in abject misery in the corner, her slender arms held up in supplication.

"My master, I beg you...thou art my life as the flower is to the sun, my breath as the seed is to the wind...do not send me back!"

Again the contemptuous, booming voice "Begone... foul disobedient creature!" and he lifted the staff into the air and swung it in a wide arc toward her.

To Christian it seemed as if a bolt of lightning had flashed and rent the space in front of him. He felt the electric hum and crackle of it about his ears, tasted it on his tongue. He lurched forward to stop the murderous intent of a madman as a shattering squeal pierced the air. Then the man turned his face to him and shouted across the room "Nay...do not approach! If the seal is broken, the elemental will slay us both. Thou art deceived...look again!" And Christian turned to the crouching form in the corner, which was crouching no more.

He gasped. The fine garments lay in a crumpled, smouldering heap and the woman had transformed into a thing almost beyond imagining, risen up and towering over them both.

Its skin was grey and scaled, the body long, sinewy, without arms, the forked tail writhing and lashing the ground. The same fathomless eyes bulged out of a head covered with greying hair. He felt vomitus rise from his stomach. Surely this abomination could not be real? And it turned toward him and spoke, in the sweet, feminine voice he had heard as it pleaded for its life. "Wert thou not pleased with the victuals I prepared thee, young traveller? Was the herb not to thy liking?" Its head swivelled back and a stream of bile shot from its mouth toward the old man in the circle, landing just at its edge.

The creature looked to Christian again and laughed, pulling back its fleshy lips to show the rows of blackened teeth lining its mouth. "Pray...allow an embrace then...thou art fair...and I did not fail to notice the lust in thy eyes at our first meeting." It loomed over him, leering. And as he stepped back, the thing laughed again, hollow and rattling "Ah...am I not pleasing to thine eyes... I, who exceeds even the salamander in beauty?

No matter...we will have eternity to sate our desires."

Then another bolt of lightening threw it back against the wall. He heard the old man shouting but could not make out all the words.

"Under the rule of the Inferior Governors...

By the command of the Guardian of Death...

In the name of Him who created us all...

Begone!...

Back to the North...Into the dark!

And the shrieking peeled as the lightening flashed again and again, searing its flesh, the stink bringing tears to Christian's eyes.

Was it all a dream? He watched the old man, hurling thunderbolts, uttering incantations. His back was bent almost double now, the wrist that held the heavy staff weakening. He called out "Tell me what to do...let me aid you..."

And the thing in the corner mocked and reviled them. "Not long now ungrateful beings...a lifetime for me is as the birth of a star...but for thee...the fall of a single tear."

Then, without taking his eyes from the creature, the man shouted out "Take yon stick of alum and draw about thee a circle. Do not lift thy hand from the floor. There can be no breaks." Christian grabbed up the soft stone and drew a circle an arms length around him. The elemental screeched again, its tail lashing wildly. "Now quickly...Draw within it the pentagram and the mark of the daemon as you see here." And he moved a little so Christian could see the pattern under his feet. He made the figure and stood upon it. Then the floor began to shake as if the ground were opening up and the wizard shouted again, his voice becoming lost in the din as the creature hissed and writhed and coiled around itself. "Now...hold up thy hand to me...and the power of the heavens shall be thine!"

Even before Christian could raise his arm, his fingers began to tingle and pain like a thrust into a blazing furnace pulled a scream from him that he could not stifle. And there in his hand was a glowing ball of white fire, pulsing and flashing in the darkened room.

"Now, pray to thy God and strike!"

He hurled the fireball and another formed in his hand as soon as the first one left it as the monster screamed and beat the floor with its tail. He threw that one too and another, bolt after bolt, feeling himself growing in strength as the elemental weakened under the fiery onslaught. The old man too, threw his thunderbolts and between them they reduced it almost to ashes in the corner.

And then, a mewling like the cry of a newly birthed kitten, soft and without menace...and it was gone.

*

Earth, Air, Fire and Water.

The clay of the Potter.

For the mountains, the trees, the animals, for man. And for the elemental inhabitants of the aether, neither of the earth, nor of the heavens but in-between, soulless and without immortality.

This was the creature Neiliman had brought forth and clothed in the dust of the earth. For twenty years it had served his needs, shared its wisdom and obeyed his commands. But the Old Enemy has its minions.

He'd seen the danger, the way it watched and waited patiently for the boy who was amongst those who would bring light to the world. He'd been resting when his guest arrived and the elemental neither informed him nor obtained permission to welcome him. Suddenly he'd lost the iron willed control he'd exerted over it since he'd summoned it all those years ago. It had to be banished before it could do more harm. Already the drug had the potential to destroy all that the boy had built. His mind must be strong to carry on the Great Work.

He'd lured it into his workroom, regaling it with complaints about the meal. But it did not know his mind. Until he'd stepped back inside his magic circle and took up his wand. It pleaded for its life then and when it realised that its true intent had been discovered, sloughed off its earthly form and revealed to him the true nature of its being. His heart had almost failed him but the young man appeared in the doorway, a light shining around him...and joined his courage to his own.

Afterward, he'd tottered to his couch exhausted, leaving Christian still standing in the midst of his circle, his innocent face blanched with horror.

There was much he needed to teach and much perhaps that must be left to lie fallow, to be lost to a time when all men have the strength to be master of themselves and thus command the beings who inhabit the spaces between.

*

Neiliman was a mathematician and an astronomer as well as a magician and it was these sciences that brought them close, keeping them huddled over the light of a sputtering candle, measuring the earth, the deeps of the oceans, the distance to the moon...and searching for fabled Antichthon, earth's dark twin.

Christian learned to draw magic squares to be used as talismans and never failed to be astounded at the way the numbers tallied up, down and across, always adding up to the same, for there was a deeper meaning there, alluding to order and reason, as Pythagoras had taught.

And he was instructed in the conjuring of elementals, though now he had no desire to do so, seeing all at once its dangers.

But Neiliman missed his creation. As he pointed out to Christian when he regained his strength, Socrates had his daemon as did Iamblicus before him and they had become wise and respected...until the great man could not hold his tongue after the water jar was filled at his trial and he was sentenced to death for corruption.

The oriental sages taught that a corner of creation was given to each of the four kingdoms, the gnomes and the goblins of the earth were given the North, to live in darkness and toil, the undines the water, to sing their mournful songs to the Western winds, the salamanders fire and the South, and the sylphs of the air the East...and the land of the fairy-folk. At one time the elemental inhabitants were revered as gods and to them still, are altar fires kept burning. But beings with no heart and no soul must be subject to greater will and Satan had need of an instrument to stifle the emergence of light.

Christian knew that if it was not for him, Neiliman would summon it once again and live out his days in its company, for ordinarily an elemental was no danger to the man who gave it flesh.

He made his plans to leave.

Though he confessed that the magic of those of Fez was sometimes impure and their Cabala was often defiled by their religion, still he had learned enough in the alchemical laboratory of Artephius and the conjuring circle of Neiliman to make good use of the kernels of wisdom he found there.

In fact, the two years he spent in Fez taught him the value of all he had learnt and brought him closer to a deeper understanding of not just the half part of the world, one that the eyes could see, the hand could touch but the celestial and elemental realms, a wondrous creation too profound for mortal man to comprehend.

Now, he collected this knowledge into a cohesive whole, to take with him on the final part of his journey...to the city of Seville, in Spain.

It was here that the learned of Europe gathered.

And here he must begin.

###  BOOK THREE

'But now, draw near and pay heed: take this cross unto yourself, for the one who increases knowledge increases sorrow, for in much knowledge is much grief, as we know from experience...'

Robert Fludd

(from Ecclesiastes)
January.

In the Year of Our Lord 1400

Seville.

Christian dressed carefully, as befitting his rank, in a black velvet doublet and silken hose and around his shoulders, a heavy brocade cape lined with satin and edged with filigree and black pearls. His hat was of simple design suggesting the cap of a scholar but with a sweep of black feathers trailing behind. He'd sought out the finest tailor in all of Seville to make these clothes for him, the quality evident in workmanship and fabric, not in its ornamentation. To be thought frivolous and vain would be detrimental to his cause.

He'd arranged to meet the masters of the General School of Seville, before the Hora Sexta, the sixth hour after dawn, when it seemed that every citizen of Spain lay down, sheltered from the blistering sun.

He rode his stallion through the cobbled streets, the horse tossing its fine head as if it understood the weighty mission entrusted to his master. No faded harlots lurked in alcoves to accost him; no open sewer assailed his senses. The people he met were mostly stocky and dark eyed, well dressed in muted colours, with only small flourishes of lace and ribbon to distinguish them.

He felt a flutter of excitement. Now at last, his dream would be fulfilled. He had brought with him wonders and marvels...and new knowledge. The humanist dreams of the abbot, the longed for Trygono igneo of Artephius and the lofty ideals of his teachers were to be coalesced into a new axiomata, for the benefit of all.

He wanted to gallop the rest of the way, shout his joy to the rooftops. But he must carry himself with solemn dignity or he would not gain the ear of the learned. His youth would count against him.

People watched from every window, eyes glittered in the shadows. He lifted his head higher and cantered on. There would be no spectacle today.

He entered the gates of the university and ascended a wide flight of steps into a long hall, built up on either side in tiered rows. When his eyes became accustomed to the dim interior, he saw that each seat was occupied by a silent dour faced scholar, his black robe blending with the others into a dark whole, swallowing the light.

A frowning, grey haired man dressed in the same dark robes pointed at him with a crooked finger "Approach young man." He squinted along the length of his nose, peering down at him with undisguised disdain. "Our informants tell us you have spoken out against the educated men of this city, calling them ignoramus...calling them disreputable, accusing them of greed and evil doings." Christian stood quietly, puzzled by this icy reception.

He had said nothing against anyone.

"We hear also that you are encouraging unnatural practices among the people, exhorting them to bathe, eat food meant for their betters, to disregard the humble station decreed for them by God. Well, insolent pup, we would hear your reply...or would you prefer to explain before the magistrate?"

Murmurs of outrage trickled down as Christian doffed his cap and bowed low. This contempt had not been expected. Althotas was right.

"Sire, my name is Christian von Germelshausen, from the forests of Thuringowa, near Hesse. My family is an old one. And noble." He stood up straight and met the cold eyes of the masters.

"Gentlemen of Seville, for years I have been travelling, across the whole of Sinus Arabica and beyond. And I have gathered knowledge as a bee gathers its nectar.

Now I wish to share its divine sweetness with the learned of Europe."

The murmurs grew to muttering and sneering laughter. The old man's face grew purple with anger "What... a boy barely out of his swaddling bands? And a German at that!"

He waved his hand imperiously at the increasingly hostile crowd "What could you possibly have to teach these most educated men of this most civilised land? What further knowledge could you offer that our blessed Saint Isidorus has not already provided by his Etymologies?"

Suddenly an inkpot flew through the air and splattered against Christian's shoulder, leaving a wet patch of rusty ink on his dark cloak. He stood still, waiting for another volley and when none came spoke again, his voice stronger. "Sires, I know what you see before you is but a callow youth but I take oath before God... I have come to you with goodwill. In the city, I asked to be directed to the most erudite, the most profound.

And I was told it was here.

It is true, I will offer these treasures to others, for it is not just for princely men or wise scholars but for all, poor and rich, common and noble.

I bring knowledge such as Adam after the fall received it and as Moses and Solomon used it. And I bring the learning of the ancients of the true nature of men, for just as an acorn contains the whole great tree, so the body of man contains the whole great world, vibrating in harmony with God, heaven and earth. So now can be revealed to him an understanding of man's nobleness and worth and why he is called micro-cosmos... and of the deep knowledge of nature that has been entrusted to him."

An outraged shout from the tiers cut through the silence "This is blasphemy! You speak of science, not God! Reason without faith is heresy! I will not hear more." and a large man pushed his way through the rows and swept up the aisle, catching against his arm and almost toppling him over.

Christian spoke again "The Lord has sustained me through many trials. What I have learned has brought me closer to an understanding of His wonders. I am no heretic." He wondered if his mother and father had pleaded their case before ones such as this, whose ears and eyes were closed and only their mouths opened. "Good sirs, the search for truth can bring only enlightenment. I do not rejoice that I can transmute metals, or that the devils are obedient to me but that the heavens open up and I see the angels of God ascending and descending and my name written in the book of life."

And now the gallery roared and thundered with shouting and tumult. The old man held up his hand and quieted them. "Ah, the lad is an alchemist then? And a sorcerer no less? Can you turn lead into gold...water into wine? And of course, you sit with Our Lord and the Virgin at the right hand of God, with the Pope at your feet."

He waved his hand in dismissal. "The boy is mad. Give him a few piastres and shove him out the door. Its time for our siesta."

Then a tall, bearded man rose from Christian's left and called out, his voice steady over the clamour and noise. "Wait, I wish to hear what this young princeling has to say." and the men became quiet again. "Tell me...Do you not understand the penalty the church may impose if you speak words of heresy? You could be put to the torture, or left to rot in the dungeons, or tied about with faggots and burnt at the stake. And your noble birth will not save you."

Christian looked to the speaker standing with his head bent toward him, intent on his reply. "Thankyou sire, may I answer your question with another?" the man nodded and Christian went on.

"Would it not be a wonderful thing to overcome disease and poverty, hunger and old age? And what if, there was a realisation so profound that if all other learning were lost, it would be possible to build from this again a great storehouse of truth? And to read in this one book all the books of the world from the time that is past and the time that is to come?

And would it not be a desirable thing to have an understanding of all the countries of the world and the secrets they contain?"

The man smiled and shook his head "What you speak of is utopian idealism, expounded by Plato and Plutarch and many after them. It has been the hope of man since Eve tempted Adam and God cast them into the wilderness. It is unattainable. We must be punished for our sins."

Christian shook his head. "No, it is possible...and with the joy and blessing of the Creator...If the pride of the learned was not so great that they could agree together, they could, were they united, collect a perfect method of all the arts. But they are loath to leave the old course, more esteeming popery and Aristotle and Galen, who if they were still living would soon see the error of their ways and rejoice, for it is not that which has the mere show of learning but that which is manifested in the clear light of truth...in mathematics, medicine, reason and the natural philosophies." Grumbles and muttering began again but he went on, his voice rising.

"Sires, we must beware the Old Enemy who is the first, middle and last cause of darkness and strife in the world and unite for the good of mankind."

The old man was incandescent with rage and shouted to Christian standing with his feathered cap in his hand. "What you say is impudent and without grounds. Let him who loves unquietness be reformed. We have done our best!"

And the man on the left spoke again as the room fell silent "Young man, in what school have you attained your understanding?

By what authority do you stand before us today?"

Christian thought on this for a few moments and answered with a firm voice. "I have gained my knowledge in the mystery schools of the East.

I come with the authority of the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross." Then the noise in the hall became a clamouring as they all began to talk at once.

The old man raised his finger and sneered. "Brotherhood, eh? Strangely enough, we are very familiar with brotherhoods." And he waved his hand at a slim, effeminate man in the first row of the gallery. "Senor Castelentor here says he is a high adept of the brotherhood of Alumbrados, though we are all sure he clings so tightly to his office so he can fuck his mistress and tell himself he's doing it for God!"

Ribald laughter rippled through the room as he pointed to a hawk nosed man in the back row. "And Professore Cortez believes he is the reincarnation of Horus and spends his nights inventing rituals to perform in the catacombs under the city, though the only brethren he has gathered so far are the rats that gnaw on the putrid flesh of the dead."

And again to a fat man who smirked at Christian and made a lewd gesture with his hand. "And here sits Pietro Diaz, the cream of Castilian aristocracy, who belongs to the brotherhood of Procurers of Virgin Boys. But these days we know very well he is more interested in the brotherhood of Gluttons and Evil Gossip."

The laughter pierced the air with its harshness, making Christian's stomach turn. He knew that today was not the day to be heard. He addressed them again, now employing the power of speech he had been taught in the mountain at Damcar.

"Learned gentlemen...With the permission of the mayor of Seville, I have installed myself in the Golden Tower by the harbour. And I have brought with me from the East great wonders and precious things. I would be honoured if you would attend me there, perhaps on the day before the feast of Corpus Christi, and partake of these riches."

Stony silence greeted him but the man who had been kind stood once more. "I will attend your home Christian Rosencreuz. I would know what knowledge you bring."

And he nodded imperceptibly as Christian bowed low with a sweep of his cap and walked quietly from the hall.

*

The city was abuzz with talk of the mysterious stranger so lately arrived.

For months, a steady procession of wagons and carts had wended its way through the streets, driven by silent liveried servants. Drays filled with fresh cut grasses, slabs of quivering meat and baskets of fish all disappeared into the palm shaded courtyard, the big wooden gates closing swiftly behind them. Barges docked in the harbour, only feet from the great doors, the same wordless men unloading in the darkness, strange shaped bundles and barrels and covered cages. Workmen pounded and sawed and animals could be heard in the night, filling the air with fearful howls and grunts, whistling and roaring.

He must be a nobleman, they said. Such riches! Such food! Such magnificence!

But now, an incredible thing was happening.

By the meanest huts, the darkest alleys, where the sick, the leprous and the hungry cowered in misery, wonderful smells would waft out, of new bread and spicy soup and roasted meat. And there would be a man, dressed simply in dark robes, beckoning.

Those who were too weak to feed themselves, he would feed. And those who were sick, he would tend. And he would press a sliver of gold into the palms of all who came, placing his finger to his lips to beg for silence. Then disappear into the shadows.

Night after night.

*

'Come and behold! The glorious wonders of God!'

Notices had been nailed up in the squares and the cryers paid to spread the news among the people. And before the sun came up on the eve of Corpus Christi, the ragged poor of Seville gathered in their hundreds outside the gates. It was all they had been talking about for days. And now they stood in shy uncertainty, for the doors had opened and scarlet clad servants were emerging with pots of steaming food to place on trestles standing under the trees.

Golden loaves of soft, white bread, whole roasted fowl, basted lambs and suckling pigs, barrels of sweet orange nectar and platters of fruit. And a wild boar trundled out on a dray, baked honey brown and surrounded by fragrant onions and garlic and peppers. They waited with haunted eyes and open mouths as the old and the young were led to the tables, then the rest, assured by the smiling servants that there was plenty for all, were invited to eat their fill. And more people came, clutching their rosaries and exclaiming in awestruck whispers. This was a glorious wonder of God indeed!

Of the noble stranger there was no sight, until the devil and his wife poked their horned heads over the outer wall and sent people screaming in panic, knocking over the tables in their haste to flee. Then he walked down the wide stone stairs, a fair haired man dressed all in black, reassuring them that the impossibly tall beast that stood quietly ripping the new leaves from the trees were not devils, but magnificent wonders of nature.

"Good people, what you see are giraffids, from the grasslands of Africa. God has provided them with long necks and soft mouths, to eat from the treetops. There is no danger.

Today, I will show you many wonders.

I have brought a crocodilus from Egypt and a hooded serpent from Arabia. There are flowers that hang like a cluster of golden stars from their stems and berries, one bite of which and the sourest fruit becomes as manna from heaven, for it is your right to see what marvels exist in the world."

'Right? We have no right,' they said. 'We are peasants, less than nothing. Even the leavings from the tables of the nobles and the priests are given grudgingly, with well aimed kicks and spiteful jests. Who is this lord who would provide a feast fit for kings and give it to the common people, who would care that their eyes beheld the wonders of God?'

Christian would hear no protests. His servants gathered up the children and carrying the halt and lame on their shoulders, entered the courtyard, the soft trill of bird-song and playing fountains welcoming them in.

Mothers and daughters stood wringing their hands outside. What if their loved ones did not return? But soon they could hear something that had never been heard in the sombre streets of Seville, squeals of laughter and joyous sounds. And the children came out smiling, carrying tiny monkeys on their shoulders, or pretty lizards, or clutching bright tinkling bells and delicate flowers. And the older folk held gifts too, miracle berries and liniments and soothing unguents.

And the people jostled each other to be next to enter the golden tower of wonders.

*

It was nightfall before the crowds began to thin outside the gates.

The boar was eaten down to the bone and the scraps wrapped in cloth to distribute among the people and the giraffes were now standing contentedly watching as the last of the curious emerged wide eyed, from the tower.

Christian waited quietly on the steps, overwhelmed by disappointment. He'd searched in vain for the one face he truly thought he would see. The joy and exclamations of the people made his heart glad but it was the learned and the noble who had the power to change the world for good.

And they had not come.

He turned to the door to gather the instruments and simples for his evening ritual, and stopped as a carriage drawn by two dappled horses rattled to a halt outside the gates, a dozen black robed clerics riding donkeys, pulling up behind. He watched as a pink flushed face appeared at the window and a nervous page hurried to open the door, receiving an ill tempered cuff around the ears for his tardiness.

Then his visitor stepped down in a flutter of red satin and a glitter of golden chain and crucifix, a cardinal's wide brimmed hat jammed tight on his head. He held a pomander against his nose, screwing up his eyes in distaste at the few stragglers standing by the gates. And when he sketched the sign of the cross hastily over them and waved his hand in dismissal, they covered their heads and scuttled away.

Christian felt a moment of unease. An aura of power and derision surrounded this man, a dangerous combination in a minister of the church. He walked down the path and knelt to kiss the ruby ring on his hand. "Your Eminence, It is an honour."

The cardinal's eyes were pinpricks of black in pouches of wrinkled flesh, they held no smile. "Do not believe we are here for amusement, young man. We have heard rumours in the city...of heresies and sorcery...and also of one who has the arrogance to question that which Holy Scripture has already declared to be perfect!"

The cold eyes moved up and down, taking in Christian's fine clothes, his unflinching gaze. It was clear that this young man was not easily intimidated. No matter, there were many ways to frighten heretics into bowing to the will of the church.

Christian straightened up, a broad smile showing his white teeth. "Even so, Eminence, you are very welcome." He stepped off the path to give the cardinal and his entourage room and looked up to see the kindly man from the university walking toward him. This time his joy was genuine and unreserved as he grasped the other's hand. "I bid you welcome, friend." And the man smiled back.

"Thankyou Christian Rosencreuz, I am Enrico Mendoza, professor of Laws at the General School. I am very curious about what is behind your doors."

He bowed to the cardinal, stooping lower to kiss his ring. "Your Eminence, how good to see you again!" and turned to Christian and laughed "What a stir you have made in the city, to warrant the visit of such an important man as Cardinale Roelas. I hope you have wonders enough to impress him."

Christian waited until the others had walked ahead and whispered "It is not a cardinal I wish to impress, Professore Enrico." And he beckoned to the page standing quietly by the carriage. "Come, child, see the world that God has made for you."

*

It was the ceiling that elicited the first gasps of surprise from his guests.

As they passed through the ornate inner doors, their eyes were drawn upward by a riot of movement and colour, to see a multitude of stars in a midnight sky, all twinkling and flashing in soft hues of red and purple, rainbow pinks and blues. They watched fascinated, as a tiny orb of fiery light flew in a gentle arc across the void, only to disappear in a wink for another, brighter and bigger to take its place.

"Sorcery" murmured the cardinal as he kicked away the page clinging desperately to his robes.

But Christian was unconcerned. He intended to show his guests the workings of the marvel his artisans had toiled day and night to set in place. "I bid you look closely. Can you see through the coloured glass to the wheels and cogs behind it as they strike at the flints and spark? It is merely a shadow play of the true miracle that lies above us in the heavens." and he pulled aside a wooden panel to reveal a large metal disc attached to a rod which in turn moved smaller wheels and rods high above them. "It is moved by the flow of water in the harbour." The cardinal grunted but Enrico clapped his hands and laughed.

Christian turned to Cardinal Roelas "Your Eminence, within these walls are clockworks and musical inventions and unfamiliar animals and plants which concur with old philosophies. There are also manuscripts on mathematics, medicine and instruments of navigation and astronomy that may interest you. There is a relic from Constantinople... the fingernails of St. Sebastian, and an excellent painting of Our Lord and His Blessed mother.

And I have gathered stones from the depths of an Arabian mountain for the making of everlasting lamps. But there has been no sorcery."

They looked around the circular hall, at the marble floor sparkling with reflections of the starlight above and in the centre, the magnificently jewelled armillary sphere that Saladin gave to the wise men of Damcar.

There were several large rooms leading from this central space and he led them to the first, for here was the icon he had promised. And now these pious men were moved, crossing themselves and taking up their beads, for it was rendered in such brilliant living colour, it seemed that the blood could be seen pulsing beneath the Saviour's pale skin and the soft folds of the Madonna's blue robe might be lifted to kiss. And so finely executed were the eyes, their glistening tears might be brushed away with a trembling hand.

The cardinal took a moment to regain his composure and turned, eyeing him with suspicion "The stink of the supernatural surrounds you, young man. Be warned. The Lord's justice will be swift... and terrible in its execution. There will be no mercy."

Christian said nothing, but walked to a golden ossuary set upon white damask, the Holy relic of St. Sebastian. He took down the small casket and placed it in the cardinal's hands, then waved his arm to take in the whole room, hung with other precious paintings and lined with marble statuary "Your Eminence...for the people of Seville." He gestured to another doorway. "Come, there is much more to see."

Professore Enrico said little as he stepped over the threshold, until he realised what he beheld...books...from the floor to the lofty ceiling, continuing round in dark unbroken rows. Low divans were placed here and there upon wine red Turkish carpets, giving the large space a warm cosiness, enhanced by the soft glow of candlelight and the moon shining through the tall windows. He threw up his arms in amazement "By the blessed saints! It would take lifetimes to amass such a wonder."

He let his fingers linger on an illuminated manuscript open upon a table...a work of Cicero. "Ah...can you not hear it whispering?" Christian smiled...and led them to another room.

And the child clutched at the cardinal's robe again as a life-size clockwork knight mounted upon a prancing clockwork horse raised his arm in a salute as they passed through the door.

Here were small machines and inventions, all clicking and humming and turning, machines for pressing grapes, kneading dough, churning butter and another for spinning flax and wool and weaving it into cloth, all meant to ease the lot of the common people. And against the walls, musical instruments playing soft melodies, little ringing bells and water filled vessels that sang when touched.

Here also were unguents to ease aching joints, powders to preserve meat and sweeten water and medicines to ease the pain of broken bones, rotted teeth, childbirth and...death.

It seemed that his guests would linger but Christian guided them to yet another room, its shelves displaying measuring tools, hourglasses, instruments of navigation and curved enlarging lenses, to see lice on the skin or fleas in the mattress. And tethered by cords to the roof beams, wooden birds flew slowly around, whistling and chirping. They saw the skeletons of strange beasts and fishes and alone on a high carved chest, grinning blindly out at them, the skull of a full grown man.

This time Christian took them, not to another room but to a wooden gate leading to a walled enclosure and he waved them through, into a glorious garden...giant lilies hanging like church bells from painted arches, exuding a perfume that made them giddy with its intensity, and tiny white blossoms spread like an exquisitely woven carpet under their feet. And high above them, branches of golden flowers, cascading and tumbling down like falling stars into a pond alive with glittering, splashing fish.

Night eyes peered at them through the leaves, owls and small animals melting away into the darkness as the small procession carried on along the path. And the ground rumbled beneath them as they approached a roaring lion, its tawny mane flaring out around its head as it fixed them with its golden, wary eyes.

Christian showed them a leopard, its pelt glowing ebony in the moonlight, a cobra in a wicker basket surveying the world outside with black, bead-like eyes, and a knot of white faced monkeys, asleep in each others arms.

And suddenly someone screamed as a truly terrifying creature lunged from a dark pool, gnashing and hissing as it threw itself at the iron bars.

It was fully the length of three men, its gaping jaws filled with long, pointed teeth, its hide grey and plated. As it swung its long tail around in fury they could see two rows of serrated armour standing up along its length. If ever the devil were embodied in this place, it was not with the gentle, long limbed animals nibbling at the trees but here, in this nightmare dragon.

The cardinal tottered and Christian moved quickly to support him, guiding him to a bench under a flower covered arbour. Mopping at the sweat that ran down his face with a fine lace cloth, he shouted over the commotion made by the unsettled animals. "Enough, young man. I have had enough! Summon my carriage."

A servant was called to escort the page to his master's horses and bring them to the gate. "Will you take some wine, Eminence?"

The cardinal looked at him with sour, accusing eyes "This is the way you would treat your guests, by frightening them with fiends from hell?"

Christian was astounded by his ignorance "They are God's creatures. Were it not for this reptile, the clean waters of the Nile would be rotten with carrion, also the lion, known as a king among animals in his native land."

The cardinal grunted "You are a showman, a charlatan...and not to be tolerated. Take these trifles...this menagerie...and leave. Be gone before the Sabbath. If you are not, I will order the city guards to take you to the dungeons...and your claims to 'arcane knowledge' will be investigated further.

We will see if the Boot and the Maiden will rectify your impertinence."

The message was clear and there were no words to assuage his anger. Cardinal Roelas waddled out through the gates, surrounded by his retinue, all flapping and chattering like a murder of crows. As he stepped into his carriage, he turned to the man standing beside Christian. "Professore Mendoza, it seems to me that you are overfond of novelty and diversion.

Perhaps your position at the General School is too burdensome a duty, one that leaves little time for entertainments?

I will arrange a replacement for you in due course."

Enrico paled and spluttered "But Your Eminence...the books...the wonderful instruments...surely?"

And the cardinal smiled "Ah, yes, the gifts for the people of Seville. I will send my men in the morning to take possession of your generous endowment, Herr Rosencreuz. Be assured, they will be kept safe in my private apartments until a worthier place is found for them." And his red robe billowed round him as he seated himself and waved the driver on.

The professor sat down heavily on the recently vacated bench and lowered his head into his hands "Ah, my friend. I have worked so hard for my position at the university. And I have my family to think of. What is to be done?"

Christian did not hesitate "I am truly sorry for the situation I have placed you in. I beg you; do not endanger your livelihood. Visit the cardinal tomorrow; disavow your interest in these things. Tell him you are here to report back to the conclave. He will reconsider, I am sure. Come, there is one more thing I wish you to see before you leave." and he led him to a hidden door behind the veil of golden flowers and down, by slippery, mould covered steps, down, winding and twisting to the very foundations of the tower itself.

*

The air was musty here and the light dim, illuminated by only a single smoking lantern.

They moved slowly, feeling their way along a narrow corridor until they came suddenly to a dark stone wall. Christian pressed a small latch hidden in the corner and an opening appeared, bathing them in a brilliant golden glow.

Enrico stepped back, surprised "Have we come out into the daylight? It seemed that the night had just begun when I arrived."

"Nay, sire, look again." And he pointed upward, to a shimmering, fiery light hanging by an iron chain from the ceiling. "It is an everlasting lamp."

The professor's mouth stood agape as he craned his neck to see "Everlasting?"

Christian nodded. "It has learned its light from the sun. As long as the sun shines upon this earth, it will never be extinguished"

Enrico looked around the small, strange room. It was a vault, of seven sides and corners, each side about five feet in length, its height perhaps eight feet, all brightly coloured and clearly decorated with symbols and figures.

Of the upper part, the ceiling, it appeared that these decorations were divided according to the seven sides of the triangle, running from the walls to the bright centre, but the intensity of the light obscured the pictures, leaving him to wonder what they meant.

And the same for the lower part, which was again parted in the triangle and painted with the inferior governors but winding through the whole and hiding the most part, was a twisted, evil faced dragon, spreading its talons across the floor. For just a moment he thought the serpent lived and recoiled with fear, so realistically was it made.

Of the middle, every side or wall was parted into ten figures, each with their several sentences and characters and into every wall was set a door or chest.

They moved along opening the doors, finding old books and small devices, looking glasses of diverse virtues, little bells, burning lamps and exquisitely made singing instruments, finer even than that which were displayed in the tower above.

And a fine golden astrolabe, too beautiful to touch.

Then Christian guided him to the centre, to a magnificent round altar covered with a brass plate, which was all over etched with writing.

The outer edge had been engraved in Latin; 'This compendium of the Universe, I made in my lifetime to be my tomb.' Inside was another circle and written there; 'Jesus...all things to me.'

In the middle were four figures, enclosed in circles and round about each were also inscriptions; "A vacuum exists nowhere, the yoke of the Law, the liberty of the Gospel, the whole glory of God.' The professor bent over it, frowning, as he examined the strange tableau more closely, then straightened up and Christian could see that there were tears in his eyes.

"Who are you, that you show me this?"

Christian stood quietly, saying nothing.

"Why build a tomb and fill it with such knowledge?"

Still Christian did not speak. Enrico Mendoza searched his face for the answer...and found it.

He rubbed at his eyes and sighed "You are in grave danger, Master Rosencreuz. Cardinal Roelas will not forget what he has seen here tonight. He will not be satisfied with the gifts you have given. You must leave now." He stopped, as if suddenly realising the enormity of what he had witnessed. "But there is no place that will be safe for one such as you."

And Christian smiled sadly "I know Professor Mendoza... I have always known."

He grasped the other's hand with affection "Let us walk together to the gates, friend.

For you have truly been a friend to me."

*

Christian journeyed on, each year upon the other until decades had passed. And the same song was sung to him by other nations, which hurt him all the more, because it was contrary to his expectations. He travelled now in secret, loading and unloading his wonders by night, carrying them hidden, in hay wagons and meat carts and coffins. He walked alongside, dressed as a plague doctor, a stone mason, a tinker, a minstrel.

And he crossed the seas again, to Britain, in the merchant ship he'd purchased with the gems he'd brought from Arabia, filling the hold with his treasures and finding his crew among the Barbary pirates. And they'd sworn fidelity and protection to the fair German prince who'd spoken to them in their own tongue and promised them more gold than the two Indies gave to the king of Spain for their reward.

He sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar, and on to Bristol where the ship was docked and disguised as an empty merchantman in need of repairs. Then he took his fair and sturdy horse and carried on alone.

Here, he found the people base and steeped in dark superstitions, of devils and goblins and eternal damnations, their roads and public buildings still attesting to the yoke of Roman rule long since ended but their religion and politics in upheaval and ripe for revolt. They were surly and warlike and grim, endlessly feuding with their neighbours and cruelly careless of life.

But they were lovers of freedom and willing to fight for it. And everywhere was told in whispers, a legend of a Scottish lord, William Wallace, who'd gathered an army and dared to fight for the right of Scotland to rule itself, dying a traitor's death for his crimes against the English king.

Christian had pondered on this dilemma, knowing that there were other ways than war. Perhaps a society could be formed in Europe, for the education of wise governors and kings? In this way the gold that was everywhere if man could but see it, would be put to good use for the benefit of the masses.

The people were thin and hollow eyed; the plague leaving the country diminished and further oppressed by unjust laws, and he'd heard grumbling in the taverns and bakeries and market fairs as he wandered through the towns. Great swathes of verdant pastures and thick forests was given over for the private use of their feudal lords, and tithes and poll taxes had left them wallowing in poverty.

He made his way to Oxford, to the great university there, but was turned away for a fraud at the gates and laughed out of the city. So he made his way up through the Midlands, to Northampton, to Leeds, to Carlisle in the hope of finding the kind of brave men who would have the courage to stand for the truth.

And everywhere he journeyed through that damp and dismal island, there were rotting cadavers by the sides of the roads, bound in chains, or heads spitted on pikes at the city gates and gibbets in the squares. And witch burnings and hangings and drownings, attesting to the ignorance of the people and the iron hand of the church.

Then, in the rolling purple flowered hills of the Scots, he was waylaid by a ragged band of fearsome men, with braided beards and woaded cheeks, bearing great broadswords and axes and spiked maces. They'd pulled their shaggy mounts in front and behind his stallion, who shied and whinnied in fright as the little horses pressed in against him.

His treasures remained in the ship but he still carried gold enough in his purse.

None seemed superior to the others but when the younger of them grinned wickedly, drew his dagger and pointed it at him, the others had all laughed, unsheathed their own and did the same. He was sure he was to be killed, for though his garments were deliberately poor, his horse alone was worth a murder. And who was there on these lonely moors to see?

He'd nodded solemnly to the laughing men and shifted aside his heavy travelling cloak to untie the purse that was hidden beneath his mantle, but as he did, a short, heavy set man with cold grey eyes gave a start and cried out, seeing the talisman that Neiliman had given him to ward off evil.

Christian was surprised. He'd known that the bright silver token held no magical properties. It was merely a depiction of two knights riding the same horse, a symbol of the poverty and brotherhood of Knights of the Temple. He'd worn it nevertheless, because he'd felt a strange kinship with this long suppressed order, perhaps only in its relationship with the Hospitallers, and Andre.

The man had sheathed his dirk and pulled back his horse, speaking quickly to the others in rolling, unintelligible words and they'd put away their knives and backed their ponies away. Then they'd gestured for him to join them for a meal, lighting a fire and roasting the fat buck they'd poached from the laird's dark glen. And Christian thanked them humbly and offered them his purse, but they'd shaken their heads and ridden away.

It was a mystery to him until he'd reached the next town and entered the chapel to give thanks for his deliverance, for in the tiny churchyard were two high stone crosses, with the same symbol carved into the stone at their base and another with a skull and crossed bones laying nearby.

Yet even here, he'd found no man willing to hear him, and he made his way slowly back, to his ship.

*

One by one his faithful servants departed, wearied by age, but Christian was hearty and full of hope. His thoughts turned at last to the green valleys of his homeland, to plan for the future.

He made the long journey back through the passes, moving quietly through the towns, offering aid and then melting back into the darkness of the forests, drawing no attention to himself, offering no gold. And a great sadness overcame him, because through every country he travelled, every town and village he passed; he could not help but to be struck by the misery of the common people.

There was no food, no aid for the suffering. The monasteries and convents had been shut up tight, the priests and nuns hidden behind their sturdy gates and iron grilles.

They hoarded the food that was paid to them in tithes, leaving the peasants to scrabble through the middens in desperation.

A change must be wrought from this tyranny, he knew, from the masses as much as their oppressors. The heart of every man must be free to choose and live his life as the Lord intended, equally and with understanding.

He made his way back to Germany, to the lands of his forebears and built a wonderful house, hidden in a glade of oaks. And there he pondered his life and his philosophy.

This home, he filled with the treasures he'd accumulated, books, instruments, inventions and memories. A garden was established, bright flower beds, an orchard and a wonderful herbarium, full of useful plants. And he constructed an alchemical laboratory, for the transmutation of metals. He spent a great deal of time in the study of mathematics and the making of instruments but he did not forget his duty, riding out at night with nourishing food, his medical tools and his remedies, to alleviate the wretchedness of the people.

And five years went by, until as it must, the reformation came again into his mind, for Europe was swollen with the child of discontent and would soon stand in need of a great godfather's gift.

There was another journey he needed to make, to Bebenhausen, to take possession of the jewel and book he now knew to be something other than they seemed. And to bring together the great Order of men and women who would spread the light of knowledge and understanding to all the corners of the earth...and into the centuries to come.

*

In the year of Our Lord 1484.

Frater Christian Rosencreuz summoned the last of the brethren to his side.

For a long time now there had always been with him two brothers, so that in his later years he would not be alone, the rest having been dispersed throughout Europe for the purposes of the Order.

He sat quietly, stroking his long grey beard, lost in thought as he rubbed at the brass plate with a wad of soft wool. At last it was finished. It had taken him the best part of a month to engrave the names on it and now he smiled with satisfaction as the golden metal reflected the sunlight shining through the long windows of his workroom. He touched his fingers fondly to the familiar names, feeling the tears in his eyes as their memories came flooding back. But his reverie was soon disturbed as his companions hurried through the door, their faces tight with worry.

Brother Raymond pulled a stool toward him and took his hands in his own, anxiety making yet more creases in his wrinkled face. "You are ill, cousin?"

And Brother Inigo bustled around with the confident air of his profession, feeling his brow for fever, his pulse for fluttering. He'd brought with him his medical bag, his jar of leeches and his bleeding tools. Christian laughed, his bright eyes twinkling "Now Doctor Overmeir, I pray you keep your devilish instruments to yourself. I am perfectly content. Come, let us sit down and share a meal. There is a matter of some import we must discuss."

His own needs were few, being in the habit now of eating only a porridge of grains and nuts, but he'd ensured that his guests were well provided for with a small brace of pheasant, a smoked ham, winter berries and a round of rich, creamy cheese.

And now that they could see their beloved Frater was vigorous and cheerful, their anxiety eased. They sat before the softly crackling hearth, enjoying each other's company, discoursing on any and every subject, as clever men were wont to do, especially with the help of good food and plentiful wine.

Then, in Christian's good natured and gentle way, he showed them the brass plate engraved with all the names of the brethren and instructed them in what must be done.

When finally he'd finished, they pleaded with him, holding back their tears 'Surely the Lord will allow a little more time?' But Christian only smiled. Although his body remained sound and his mind still retained its sharpness, nevertheless he could not pass the time appointed by God.

He was 106 years old.

He embraced his treasured companions, comforting them in their anguish. Then he thanked them for the love and fidelity they had borne him, made the sign of the brotherhood...and retired to his bedchamber.

Raymond and Inigo would not leave his door but stayed outside it, lest he be distressed in the night. But Christian felt no distress, none at all.

He felt rather excited.

He washed his face and hands, drank some water and lay down to sleep. He thought of the names he had etched for posterity on the brass disc and of his return to his cloister in the hope of finding those who would help him in the work ahead.

He allowed himself a small moment of pride. What fine and upright men they'd been, what joy he had felt in their company.

He remembered his return to Bebenhausen, entering without ceremony and standing silently in the chapel, listening to the familiar chanting of the monks as their voices drifted round him like a soft mist and upward he imagined, up through the arched roof, through the rain laden clouds, upwards through the blue skies and darkened heavens, to God.

He'd stayed unnoticed in the shadows and pulled his hood over his face, using the power of his will to summon the three brothers who had already come to him in his dreams. And the first to turn his head had been Gaspard, who was standing head and shoulders above the others, his upturned face aglow in the candlelight. He was hearty still, only his snow white hair attesting to his age.

Then Brother Ignatius turned also and Christian remembered him as the kindly monk in the scriptorium whose task it had been to teach him his letters.

And another, with a delicate, open face and penetrating eyes who, he learned later was a novice, Inigo Overmeir, a doctor of medicine, who had offered himself up to Holy Orders to better serve the needs of the people.

He'd acknowledged them one by one and then walked out into the frosty morning to wait until they had finished their prayers. Then suddenly it was as if a bear had crushed him in its great paws, squeezing the breath out of him, lifting him up and spinning him around. He'd turned his head to see Gaspard, laughing.

It was a welcome that still warmed his heart when it came to his mind.

And he'd told him of Andre's fate and the big tears rolled down his cheeks, unashamed. There was no thing that could be said to lessen his grief until the others came, offering words of solace and manly comfort and he knew immediately that these were the men he had been waiting for.

Later, when the moon was in its ripeness and the signs in the heavens attested to its portent, he'd sworn them to secrecy, to be faithful and diligent and to commit to writing all that he should instruct them in, so that in the years to come not even a syllable of Truth should be lost.

In this manner by four men only, began the Fraternity of the Rosie Cross.

They worked hard, setting down a magical language and writing, which had been carried in secret through the ages from the time of Adam and Enoch. And they made a large dictionary, full of wisdom, which still made Christian stand in awe at the magnitude of it.

They'd tried also to write the first part of a book 'M' but the overwhelming concourse of the sick hindered them, being the more important, for its relief was the true reason for the Order's existence.

And when the great construction was finished, Christian declared it to be a wonder and named it 'Sancti Spiritus' in honour of the love that had gone into its making, resolving then to draw yet others into the Fraternity.

To this end was chosen, in the same manner as the first, Brother Bacon, a skilful painter, Brother Georgio, the alchemist, Petrus Dominensis, the secretary, and joy of joy and wonder of wonders, his cousin Raymond, his father's brother's son, who had searched for him for years, travelling from monastery to monastery on the strength of a rumour; that the son of the heretic Germelshausen had been spirited away from the world to save him from the flames of hell.

When the greater portion of the work had been done, the brothers dispersed, to discourse on their learning to other parts of the world in the hope of small successes and to learn like the adepts of old, some new thing that might be helpful, for the betterment of all.

And they made an agreement... that they should have no other profession than to cure the sick and that freely and without reward.

They would draw yet others into their fold, from every condition of life and every faith, men of science and understanding and passion. And some would be learned men, advisors of kings, wise governors and profound thinkers, like the great philosophers of old, agreeing not to keep their knowledge hidden, but offering it to all, with proofs and demonstrations.

He knew that the strength of the Brotherhood would swing like a pendulum through the years, that there would be times that its message could be shouted from the rooftops, pinned to the gates in the public squares and printed in books. And he knew there would be other times when even the name Rosicrucian would send a chill through the blood of the ignorant. A hundred years from now, a thousand. It would make no difference. The spirit of man evolves slowly and each must gauge his own readiness for the truth.

But the Order would endure.

And now, his part in the Great Work was over.

He closed his eyes and offered up his thanks for it all.

And it seemed to him that the whole room had filled with light. He sensed it beaming through his eyelids, felt it warming his face, tingling against his skin.

He laughed with joy and contentment.

And soon he heard it...

The faint swish of his mother's skirts against the bed...and his father's deep, strong voice...

Calling him home.

*
March

In the year of God's Good Grace 1614

Tubingen, Germany.

Monsieur Naude sat with the crumpled letter in his hand, gazing with unseeing eyes out of the window at the snow that had settled like a virgin fleece upon the ground. He was deeply saddened.

Brother Andrew was dead.

He knew he'd grieve the loss of his fine company, miss their cheerful discussions, his laughter. There was not even a corpse to weep over. Andrew had passed into the Lord's care tending the lepers in Montpellier and he'd been interred secretly, with scant regard for ceremony. It was left to himself who succeeded in his place, to build for him a fitting memorial.

A chapel, a garden, a gilded statue made in his honour?

No. It was not the way of the Brotherhood.

An earthly memorial would not do.

It was to Andrew he owed the privilege of acceptance into the Order and to him that he'd taken his solemn vow of secrecy and fidelity. He'd told him that the Fraternity would remain not long hidden, that soon the whole of Europe would rejoice in the treasures it held. He hoped with all his heart it was so. The plight of the sick and downtrodden had become unbearable, ignorance still weighed heavy on the people and the Old Enemy still whispered silkily into the ears of the willing.

He swallowed the sour bile of guilt. Many a time he'd spoken against the Brotherhood, written long tracts condemning it, denied even its existence. It had seemed to him to be the only way to deflect attention from its activities, and keep himself safe.

The witch burnings had become an obscene testament to the ignorance of the people. Thousands upon thousands of poor souls had been condemned to hang or burn and the church had encouraged its parishioners in the denunciation of their neighbours, frightening them with tales of spells and storms, still born babies and blighted crops.

Great men too had gone to the flames for having the courage to speak the truth. The learned Dominican Giordano Bruno, not too may years ago, gagged lest he utter another word of truth and burnt at the stake for daring to speak of the plurality of worlds and the infinity of the Universe.

And there was Copernicus, so terrified of the inquisition's torturers that he dare not publish his works till he had taken his last breath.

And Paracelsus, so full of compassion and wise remedies, called 'Cacophrastus' by his enemies and hounded out of his homeland for tending to the poor and refusing to bend his knee to fools.

The longed for reformation begun by Luther when he nailed his thesis to the door at Wittenberg was disappointing in its narrowness and slow in easing the poor conditions of the people. These were still dangerous times to declare a heresy.

He sat, his head in his hands, listening to the sputter and hiss of the damp logs in the fireplace as the afternoon wore on, the white fog rolling in under the long window making it seem as if he were sitting high above the clouds, alone.

At length he decided. He would journey to Montpellier and take up the work Andrew had started. His place of refuge had become a beacon of hope in the darkness and finally for lepers, a home where they could live away from the jibes and taunts of the ignorant. It was fitting that he should continue this work.

He looked around the shabby room, at the crumbling stonework and faded tapestries. Why had he not noticed that it had fallen into decay? It had always seemed to him to be filled with light. He did not know how old the house was. Those who had gone before were all dead and its history had been lost.

It was well hidden, surrounded by high walls and wizened oaks, their branches tangled together as if to protect it from prying eyes. And now it was he who saw to its invisibility, keeping the townsfolk away with tales of ogres and imps and evil spirits. Because it was the meeting place of the brethren.

He decided that before he left he would make it worthy of its heritage.

It had ever been his duty to provide for the unfortunate and his medical training had fitted him for further service, which he gave freely. But still it was as if he had been provided with Fortunata's purse. He was a wealthy man. He could obtain the finest woods, the palest marbles and the greatest works of art. Though for the sake of secrecy, the work must be done by the brothers, it could be again as it must have been at its creation, full of beauty and life.

He would begin here; in the very room he had taken his initiation. The paint was peeling badly and the beams across the high ceilings were beginning to sag. And there were burns on the floor and along the walls as if it had been used as a workroom or laboratory. No matter, he would make of it a hall more beautiful than those of the greatest palaces of France.

As his eye moved from the floors to the wide inglenook, they caught upon the large brass plate that had hung in the same place since he'd first stepped across the threshold, thirty five years ago. Though much importance had been attached to it, no-one could remember why, its purpose lost in the verdigris that covered most of its surface. He decided to clean away the corrosion and examine it more closely, to make a better place for it in the newly restored room.

The plate was wide and heavy and one man could not lift it, so he called for some of the others to help. They strained and pulled, prying it out little by little. And then they saw that there was a nail, somewhat strong that was keeping the plate in place.

So they wrapped a pitchfork in a woollen cloth and used it as a lever to urge the nail out of the wall.

And suddenly it gave way and took with it a large stone and great deal of plaster, leaving them all enveloped in clouds of dust and cobwebs and when the air cleared they saw with astonishment that a wooden door had been uncovered by their labours.

With many exclamations and expressions of wonderment they pulled away the rest of the plaster and exposed the whole of the door. And brother Joseph, whose eyes were better than the rest, let out a whoop of excitement, for there was writing carved in the wood at the top.

'Post CXX annos patebo'

'After 120 years, I shall be opened'?

They all began to talk at once, but Naude held up his hand, he was the more senior and respected by all. "My dear brothers, time has fallen away...and the poor are waiting. These freezing nights are an ordeal for those with little means. Let us leave our discovery till the morrow... and attend to our duty." And they all nodded in agreement and departed till the morning.

*

The next day, they assembled early; having made their way through the twisting, secret labyrinth leading from a hidden door in the tavern to this very room.

They began with a prayer of thanks. And a hope of protection should the door reveal something beyond their understanding.

Joseph used his young strength and put his shoulder to the door but the wood had been sealed with pitch and it took many blows before the door gave way and opened, creaking inward on its rusted iron hinges. They stared at each other in dismay. There was only a set of dark stone steps leading down into blackness.

What could it possibly be... that must be locked and sealed behind a wall for one hundred and twenty years?

Naude's sinister warnings to the townspeople had taken on a life of their own and their imaginations were supplying the rest. Nevertheless, they took a lantern and followed each other down the stairs.

It seemed to take an age to reach the bottom; the ground was slimy with mould, the air damp and fetid. Long strands of dusty cobwebs brushed against their faces, tugged against their wigs. The lantern began to flicker, filling the air with smoke and making their shadows long and menacing in the dim light. And then they reached another door, fashioned from oak and carved with symbols and strange signs. They held their breath in anticipation as Naude grasped the latch and pulled open the door.

And suddenly they were standing in a brilliant, golden light, with all around them colour and movement and strange, glittering ornaments.

On the floor beneath them was painted a terrifying dragon, its eyes gleaming with menace, its talons poised to strike. And above them, a planetary heaven lit by an impossibility...a small glowing sun.

Every bright wall was made with doors and cabinets and in the centre, a great altar, made of brass and etched with mottos and figures.

And they knew, as they looked around the wonderful seven sided room, at the love that had gone into its making, that they had found the resting place of their beloved father, CRC...

And Europe had at last given birth to the child of Enlightenment.

*

SUB UMBRA ALARUM TUARUM JEHOVA

'Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings, Jehova'
ONE MORNING in 1623, Parisians were hailed by mysterious placards on the streets of the city:

'We, the deputies of the Higher College of the Rose Croix, do make our stay, visibly and invisibly in this place, by the grace of the Most High, to whom turn the hearts of the just.

We demonstrate and instruct without books and distinctions, the ability to speak all manner of tongues of the countries we choose to be, in order to draw our fellow creatures from the error of death...'

*******************

During the middle ages, the Church's stranglehold kept the masses in a twilight realm between the practical realities of survival, the hope of heaven and the threat of hell.

At a time when most of humanity was beaten down by misery and suffering, interminable wars were being fought in the name of religion and the rich held the power of life and death over the common people, social reform, the healing of the sick and religious freedom seemed unattainable.

Yet, from the mystery schools of Egypt, Chaldea, Persia and India, there has been carried through the ages, a gnosis, grounded in nature and informed by the highest ideals of service to humanity.

It was brought to Europe with the traders from the East, the alchemists, by the crusader knights in their contact with the Arabs, with the troubadours in their love songs, hidden in the monasteries and religious orders.

This knowledge had always been proclaimed heretical and brutally suppressed.

With Europe mired in this bigotry and ignorance, it is the tenacity and courage of the few who fought to disseminate the truth that shines through the centuries...men like Copernicus, Galileo, Paracelsus and Giordano Bruno.

The great Dominican, Bruno was burnt at the stake for holding to the infinity of the universe, the possibility that there could be life on other worlds.

Copernicus was so terrified of the Church's reaction to his discoveries that his works were only published after his death. And Paracelsus wandered from one land to another, healing the sick, taking no fee, showing ordinary people the power inherent in nature... because the learned would not listen.

Christian Rosencreutz was expounded as a myth by his supposed creator, the brilliant theologian Johannes Andreae, one time abbot of Bebenhausen, who years later blamed it on the depravity of his sixteen year old imagination. At a time when the stake and the rack were very real possibilities, denial was the only form of defence. He said he was a ludibrium, a joke, and it kept him away from the prying eyes of the inquisition.

Two strange documents were published in Germany in the early seventeenth century, the 'Fama Fraternitatis' published at Kassel in 1614 and a year later the 'Confessio Fraternitatis,' elaborating on the former, together with the "Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz,' they were regarded as the "Rosicrucian Manifestos.'

And they caused a sensation throughout Europe.

They told the story of an august fraternity, the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross, and one erstwhile wanderer Frater CRC, whose search for knowledge brought him into contact with the wise men of Damcar, in Arabia.

His attempt to share the knowledge he'd acquired with the learned of Europe in the hope of a humanistic reform was unsuccessful, so he gathered together this gnosis and founded a fraternity, based on the ideals of tolerance, the welfare of humanity and the right of every man to find his true place in the great wonder of nature.

It survives to this day.

### Authors note:

I owe a great debt to the manuscript 'Fama Fraternitatis.'

It is for the spirit and love of humanity embodied in its simple allegory that this work was written.

M.G.

