Chapter Ninety-two

 

 

Constantinople

 

 

Though Tristan’s sudden departure from Genoa was of his own volition, it was both hurtful and confusing. He had wanted more than anything that night to take her in his arms, return her affection, and lose himself in her warm embrace. Something deep within himself had forbidden such action, something that even he did not understand. It may have been his conscience, it may have been his long climb back within the graces of the Church, and it may have even been the shadow of Odo de Lagery looming somewhere in the back of his mind. Regardless, as his ship sailed toward Lower Italy and he then crossed east from the coast to Monte Cassino, he could think of nothing else but Mala. With each day he admonished himself more, though on the night he had found her dancing within the patio, he had fought temptation and resisted her advances. Now he was asking himself why, and could not come up with any answers that did not fall directly in line with Mala’s accusations on that night.

I am a fool see-sawing back and forth with these hopeless emotions that possess me about Mala, he thought. I loved her no less in Genoa than I had in the Loire Valley and at Marseilles, yet I failed to act there in the secrecy of her inner courtyard, even though she made no demands and had no expectations. Will God never give me rest? Is this, indeed, my curse in life, or my trial?

He then tried to justify his stand on that last night in Genoa by recallling such things as integrity, his Benedictine vows, and his fidelity to Odo, but the more he stood pondering these precepts, the more Mala’s words pierced his defenses. This confused him more. At Monte Cassino, Muehler and Handel fortunately turned his attention to Constantinople.

“It’ll only be the two of you, traveling incognito as Merchants from Genoa,” said Muehler to Handel and Tristan. “Your contact there is a member of the Byzantine court, a commercial liaison officer working for Alexius by the name of Fantinus.”

“Looking like a merchant will be easy enough for Handel,” said Tristan pointing at his own hair, “but my tonsure will give me away as a monk.”

“You’ll wear a hat at all times until you arrive at Alexius’ court,” said Muehler.

“Aha,” mused Handel, looking at Tristan, “looks like you’re back to the old days of disguises, eh, lad?”

“Indeed,” said Tristan. Then he looked at Muehler. “Since Emperor Alexius does not wish Heinrich to know we are coming, the German-Byzantine alliance must still be in place. Are we to expect treachery, then?”

“No. Alexius has heard that Heinrich’s now on the run, that Mathilda’s taken back all of her lost territories in Tuscany and central Italy, and that Conrad has declared himself King of Italy and is in possession of nearly all of Lombardy and much of the rest of northern Italy. Nevertheless, Alexius also knows that Heinrich has rebounded more than once, so by keeping this embassy secret, he’s hedging his bets. In any case, we wish to re-open channels of communication with the Byzantines. This is an ideal opportunity. Obviously Alexius wants something from us.”

“I’ll tell you what that bastard wants,” said Handel, “help against the Saracens. They’ve already overrun Asia Minor and are now pressing against the western frontiers of the Byzantine Empire. God knows, Pope Urban has neither money nor troops to spare, especially for the Byzantines. This damn war against Heinrich has nearly driven him to ruin.”

“You’re correct, my friend,” Muehler replied, gazing at Handel over his veil, “so neither of you will make commitments of any kind. Also, Handel, don’t allow your hatred of the Byzantines to foil this embassy. Listen to what Alexius has to say and we’ll sort it all out when your return. Perhaps by that time we’ll have driven Heinrich back to Germany for good, and the Holy Father will be on more solid ground.” Then he handed Tristan a satchel. “Here are your documents, letters of introduction, and finances. The tailors have completed several fittings of merchant garb for you both. You’ll leave in two days for Taranto in the south, and from there cross the Ionian Sea into the Mediterranean and then into Constantinople.”

Tristan was a boy when he first met Handel, and was intrigued by him the moment he learned Handel was a papal spy. Tristan held him in even higher esteem now, knowing that he was the most highly regarded Benedictine agent within the underground. The long voyage to Constantinople, then, was pleasurable in Handel’s company as he reeled off story after story about both his past and recent exploits. Tristan was curious about one aspect of Handel’s character, so as they sat deckside gazing out at the sea one day, Tristan asked him, “Handel, how many people would you say you have killed during your time with the underground?”

“Twenty-five or thirty through assassination,” Handel replied matter of factly. “I’ve lost exact count, but that’s a close number I imagine. Then probably another nine or ten incidentally, you know, like the Byzantine who showed up in the nun’s room at the Inn of the Sparrow.”

“You do not seem the least bothered by such a thing whereas I cannot bear to even think of killing anyone, though I have a time or two. Does your conscience never bother you on this matter?”

“My conscience? Hell no! I kill for the Church, lad, not for pleasure. There is a Godly purpose to my actions, violent as they may be.”

“Yes, but are you so certain that God condones killing, even on his own behalf?”

“He led the Hebrews out of Egypt and into the Promised Land, did he not? How many tens of thousands of the enemy were slaughtered by his Chosen People, at his own direction? Let me ask you a question. How many men do you suppose your brother, Guillaume has killed? And your fierce kinsmen, the Danes? Don’t be fixated on my small numbers. Then, too, there is face-to-face killing, and there is indirect killing through politics, intrigue, diplomacy, alliances. And that, lad, is your specialty. Whether you acknowledge it or not, your hands have filled graveyard after graveyard with dead soldiers as well as civilians who got caught in the middle. Oh no, you are far more efficient at decimating the population than old Handel here! You don’t like the smell and sight of blood at your table, lad, because it offends your sensibilities, yet you don’t think anything of feasting on the butcher’s handiwork afterwards in the form of roasted lamb and hog.”

This remark cut Tristan with the precision of a razor, and though Handel’s words disturbed him, Tristan knew there was certain merit to them, ugly as they were. “There is still a difference,” he said to Handel, shaking his head. “Thrusting a dagger into a man’s heart is one thing, intrigue is quite another.”

“If it helps you sleep at night, then so be it, there’s a difference. But the difference exists only to you, not to the dead. Their fate is the same regardless, whether by way of assassin or some diplomat’s scheme. Let’s talk of more pleasant things, my head’s not as complex as yours, fortunately, and such talk overburdens my small brain.”

As their vessel finally approached Constantinople, a city famed for its massive defenses, Handel and Tristan were both immediately overwhelmed at the sheer size and beauty of the vast city as it unfolded before them. Built on seven hills as well as on the Golden Horn and the Sea of Marmara, its impregnable walls enclosed magnificent palaces, cathedrals, domes, and spires that extended from one edge of the horizon to the other, then as far back up the hills as the eye could see until finally disappearing in the distance. Originally founded as a Greek colony under the name of Byzantium in the 7^th century BC, it later took the name of Constantinople under Roman emperor Constantine who moved the capital of the Roman Empire there in 330 AD. The site was especially strategic militarily and commercially since it lay astride the land route from Europe to Asia and the seaway from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean, possessing in the Golden Horn a superb and spacious harbor.

“By God!” cried Handel gazing beyond the seven hills and the massive double walls enclosing the city, “I’ve never witnessed such splendor!”

“Nor I,” Tristan answered. “Such architectural masterpieces! Rome and Paris are but pastoral communes in comparison, and poorly outfitted at that!”

Disembarking, Handel and Tristan spent three full days moving about the city, circulating within the harbor, visiting marketplaces, scouting shipyards, and walking the arcaded avenues and squares. Their purpose in this was to generate conversation with various elements of the citizenry in order to put a finger to the political pulse of the general population before actually meeting with the Byzantine emperor. “Such damned wealth and opulence,” commented Handel with suspicion, “strange that the Emperor should want anything from us.”

On the fourth morning they then reported to the palace of Emperor Alexius Comnenus under the guise of shipping business from Genoa, and after exchanging code words with a commercial liaison officer by the name of Marcus Fantinus, they were led into the inner sanctum of the palace and presented to the Emperor who sat alone with a single advisor upon his gilded throne. That advisor was Patriach Nicholas III, holy pontiff of the Greek Orthodox Church.

“I welcome our good Gregorian friends!” exclaimed Emperor Alexius with great fanfare as Handel and Tristan bowed, then dropped to their knees in deference to the emperor.

Patriarch Nicholas said nothing, but only stared vacantly at the two visitors. as if displeased.

“Good friends we are now, eh?” whispered Handel, gritting his teeth. “How many of my Benedictine friends have his agents killed these past years?”

Formal introductions were made, gifts were exchanged, and Alexius then launched into the purpose of his request for dialogue with Pope Urban. “I have been embattled here in Constantinople since taking the crown. First, bitter wars against your allies, the vicious Duke Robert Guiscard and his Normans of Lower Italy. Then disturbances in Thrace against the heretical sects of the Bogomils and Paulicians, followed by raids by the Pechenegs who made league with Tzachas, brother-in-law to the Sultan of Rum. All of these threats I have managed to counter, but I am fighting the Cumans in the Balkans while at the same time the Saracens are moving west across my borders and eyeing Constantinople.”

“When you say the Saracens, Majesty,” said Tristan, “you refer to the Seljuq Turks, do you not?”

“Yes, the most foul and violent breed of Islamists to ever populate the earth. These vermin originated among the Hsiung-nu tribes on the northern edge of the Gobi Desert and the Altai Mountains in Asia, but after a time moved west off the steppes of Central Asia.”

“Yes,” said Tristan, “it happens that I am familiar with the Seljuqs through a certain Lord Abdul Azim whom I met while assisting during negotiations with Pope Gregory in 1079.”

“You met Abdul Azim in 1079?” sniffed Patriarch Nicholas, a look of doubt slipping across his face. “Judging from your youthful appearance, Brother Saint-Germain, you couldn’t have been but a boy at that time, and you claim that you were assisting in the Pope’s negotiations?”

“I was fourteen at the time, Holiness. I possessed a good deal of knowledge about the Arab and Persian tongue and culture and was able to assist Pope Gregory and the Cardinals of Rome despite my youth. Anyway, as I was saying, I am familiar with the Seljuqs. A century ago they adopted Islam and established themselves around Bukara in Transoxania under their khan, Seljuq. Then one branch moved into India while the other struck west and entered the military service of the Abbasid caliphs of Baghdad, the spiritual leaders of Islam at the time. The Turkish horsemen, known as gazis, eventually turned against the Abbasids and occupied Baghdad in 1055 under their leader, Tugrul Bey. From there they began to make incursions into Anatolia, Armenia, and eventually your territories.”

Alexius sat back and placed his hands in his lap, impressed. Handel was also impressed by Tristan’s recitation of Seljuq history, and it reminded him why Tristan had as a boy so quickly come to the attention of the Black Monks of Cluny.

“Knowing what you know, then,” said Alexius, “you well understand my concerns. I seek assistance against these Muslim locusts before they march in full array against Constantinople itself.”

Tristan nodded and said, “Certainly, Majesty and we in Italy have ourselves led a recent expedition against a certain faction of Muslims in North Africa.”

Then Handel spoke. “Sire, with all due respect, I must inquire… in light of the contentious past relationship between the Gregorians and the Byzantines, have you also requested assistance from King Heinrich of Germany?”

“Yes, I have sent embassies in the past to Germany for the purpose of probing his sentiments on the issue. The truth is, we feel that Heinrich is finished in Italy, and he never had France, Spain, or England who have from the very start of the Investiture War steadfastly refused to recognize Heinrich’s anti-pope. Therefore, I see Pope Urban as the sole spiritual light in the West.”

“You are correct, Majesty,” said Tristan. “We, too, feel that Heinrich’s days in Italy are coming to an end.”

“Majesty,” said Handel, “again, with all due respect, I must inquire in the interests of our Holy Father, Pope Urban, to what advantage would he provide assistance to the Byzantine Empire in light of the long-established schism between Roman Catholics and Byzantine Catholics of the Eastern Rite?”

Alexius reflected on the question, then smiled. “Ah, Brother Handel, you do not waste your arrows, do you? Let me propose a simple concept. Divided as Byzantium and the West may be, we are both still Christians, albeit now Roman Catholic and Eastern Greek Orthodox. The Moslems are all dark heathens, whether from Africa, Asia, or the Middle East, and will not be content until they have forced their heathen faith upon the entire world by sword and fire. And I assure you, if they overrun my realm, they will then look further west to Italy and France, and beyond.”

“The Spaniards have checked the Moorish advances in Spain,” replied Handel, “and are reconquering much of the Iberian Peninsula as we speak. Furthermore, as Brother Saint-Germain mentioned, we have recently completed a successful crusade against the Moors of North Africa who were kidnapping Christians for their thriving slave trade. The Saracens have not enjoyed success against us to the west as they have here in Asia Minor and Eastern Europe.” Then he looked at Tristan and said, “We don’t fear them in Italy as Byzantium fears them here, do we, Brother Saint-Germanin?”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he glanced back at Handel. You are doing exactly as Muehler instructed you not to do, the glance said. Turning back to the emperor, Tristan said, “Majesty, I have found that the Saracens are not actually this monolithic, unified race that we so often describe within Christian circles, but more akin to a loose confederation of feuding races and tribes who spend most of their time attacking each other. I have long thought, therefore, that an attack against them before they unify would be a strategic necessity. The very thing you propose may, indeed, be the moment of which I speak. Also, I must agree that the Seljuq Turks are the most aggressive, dangerous, and populous of these races.”

“But the Turks are your neighbors, Majesty, not Italy’s,” interjected Handel. “Pope Urban has no quarrel with them.”

“Strange talk from a Benedictine monk, Brother Handel,” sniped Patriarch Nicholas.

“Yes,” agreed Alexius, displeasure seeping into his voice. “But then I would not expect a monk to embrace the military view, so let me focus on the spiritual aspect of this dilemma. Let us consider that Jerusalem and the Holy Land have been under the foot of the Saracens for many years now, which in itself is an assault on Christianity and should be considered anathema by any good Christian. Worse yet, the Seljuqs are abusing, murdering, and raping western pilgrims along the route to Jerusalem. The Abbasids, when in power, at least respected the right of Christian pilgrims to travel back and forth to the Holy Land in safety, but these goddamn Seljuq’s are a different breed.”

Though Alexius had not raised his voice while making this last statement, the entry of profanity into his otherwise dignified manner signaled to Tristan that the emperor’s demeanor was elevating.

“We hear everything you are saying,” said Tristan with a respectful bow, “and vow to you that we shall convey it to Pope Urban in a precise and unbiased manner. As for my cohort, Brother Handel, he merely carries out his solemn duty, which is to question and analyze all that is proposed to our Holy Father, the Pope. No good servant would do otherwise.”

“Certainly, I cannot argue with that, Brother Saint-Germain,” said Alexius, his frown still settled with Handel who stood there unrepentant. “There are several things I ask that you and Brother Handel do while here in Constantinople.”

“Anything you request, Majesty.”

“First, I ask that you meet with my generals and review with them the recent activities of the Seljuqs. I then ask that you speak to our bishops and archbishops who, unlike yours in faraway Italy, now feel the heat of Islam’s approach. And finally, I ask that you visit the infirmary and hospice of the Church of Hagia Sophia. You will find there a good number of pilgrims who, while in the Holy Land, fell victim to Seljuq handiwork, Brother Saint-Germain. These followers of Christ respectfully wished to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and walk the paths taken by their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, but encountered the intolerance of Muslim fanatics. Then, when you have completed these three things, I will then ask you a final time before returning to Italy whether we should surrender access to the very cradle of Christianity, or must we as Christians form an alliance and hold back the bloody tide of Islam?”