Chapter Ninety-six

 

 

Return to Genoa

 

 

Thus the great period of Christian oration within Western Europe began as the most persuasive and inspirational speakers that the Church could pluck from within their midst were unleashed upon the continent, spreading messages of fear, horror, and Christian destiny amongst the masses. And it mattered little to the spellbound crowds of Europe that nearly none of these messengers had ever been near the Holy Land, nor Byzantium for that matter. Nor did it matter that these harbingers of war were poorly educated about Saracens, Moors, Turks, the Koran, or the tenants of Islam itself. What mattered to the listeners was the lurid images these speakers conjured in their tales of Seljuq horror, and that Saracens were dark, foreign, and ungodly.

The talk of a holy crusade against the Saracen quickly spread with the inflammatory rage of wildfire throughout Italy and France, then extended south to Spain and west to England, even preceding at times the actual arrival of legates and messengers of the Church. As noblemen gathered at social functions, religious feast days, and formal events, the only topic of interest was the impending destruction of Byzantium at the hands of the Saracens unless knights from the west boldly made the arduous journey eastward to pull their fellow Christians from the fire. These conversations also centered on the fabulous wealth of those lands to the east, and the possibility of taking them over as prizes for doing the Lord’s labor. The heathen enemy was termed as the Saracens, and no differentiation was made between the Moors, the Turks, or the actual Saracens who had fallen to the sword of the Seljuk Turks decades earlier. And indeed, this imaginary war began to fire the hearts and souls of every man in the west, even the dispossessed peasants and the poor who envisioned themselves dropping their farm chores and charging to war with spades and pitchforks in hand to take back the Holy Land in the name of Christendom.

Tristan quickly became one of most arousing of the Pope’s messengers. He was by his very nature generally calm, rationale, and disciplined in presentation, which is why he had become such an extraordinary diplomat over time. Not even knowing from where this inner fire originated, he came alive with the Holy Spirit and delivered one impassioned speech after another throughout northern Italy, arousing enthusiastic masses of listeners and gaining their rabid support for a war against the Saracens. Beginning far to the east in Trieste, he moved westward to Venice, then to Verona, from there to Milan, south to Turin, and finally to Genoa where his mission in Italy would end and he would then travel to France to prepare the way for Pope Urban’s tour of southern France and eventual Council of Clermont.

As the furor in Italy grew over the Saracen threat, Duke-General Bertucci found himself becoming the object of military adoration in Genoa for reasons of his earlier successes against the Moors in North Africa. To his delight, he began to enjoy the revival of his exploits in Tunis as citizens related and exaggerated tales of Bertucci’s exploits there though they generally knew nothing whatsoever of the campaign. Nevertheless, the old general had beaten the Saracens, and was held up as a shining example of what the western knight could do against the heathens. Many even insisted that the octogenarian come out of retirement and lead Italian forces to the Holy Land. These miscreants, of course, had no knowledge of Tristan de Saint-Germain’s involvement in the crusade of Tunis, nor that without his help Bertucci would have bungled the entire effort. Bertucci knew, so he was quite happy to greet and welcome Tristan upon his arrival at the gates of Genoa. “Ah, lad,” he cried, “such happy days that have befallen Christianity! And with you at Pope Urban’s helm, we shall put these Saracens in their place!”

Mala and Duxia had come along also with Bertucci to greet Tristan. Mala embraced him, lingering there a moment, then looked up into his face and smiled.

“Tristan, you look more handsome than I’ve ever seen,” she whispered, “and your eyes are so bright with purpose. You are content, then, that your Odo de Lagery has taken over Rome and ousted the anti-pope from the Vatican?”

“Yes,” Tristan replied, his expression illuminating in Mala’s presence again, despite their last argument. The fact that she had shown up with Bertucci told him that she had put their vitriolic exchange aside, and now wished to see him again. “The generosity of others bought his entry into the Lateran Palace, and since then Pope Urban has only risen!”

“So I’ve heard,” Mala replied dryly. “Excellent, I am happy that your vision for Odo de Lagery has finally come to pass.”

During this exchange, Duxia stood to the side, staring at Tristan in his monk’s garb with complete disdain. And though her mouth and lips were moving about in little spasms as though she was about to speak at any moment, she held her tongue; to do otherwise would have invited a tongue lashing from Mala.

After a brief exchange of conversation outside the gates of the city, Tristan had his coach follow the others to Bertucci’s estate where it was agreed that Tristan would spend the week there while in town addressing the throngs of eager Genoans who had already received word of his spellbinding oratory skills. It was also determined that Mala would coordinate Tristan’s transportation from one speaking venue to the next, and as Bertucci was enjoying his own notoriety within his home city, the old general would actually introduce Tristan to the people of Genoa at each engagement.

“You’ve already become somewhat of a legend here in Genoa,” grinned Bertucci “They’ve been awaiting you with great anticipation!”

“Yes,” said Mala, “and it is with such pride that I hear your name bandied about the streets, Tristan. They say you are the very heartbeat of Pope Urban himself, and that you will follow in his footsteps as Holy Father of the Roman Catholic Church one day.”

“Oh, let us hope not,” Tristan replied with humility. “I have no wish to carry the crosses he bears. I very much lack that hard edge that is required to effectively wear the tiara and red cope.”

 

***

 

That next morning notices were posted throughout Genoa identifying times and locations for Tristan’s speaking engagements during his week at Genoa, and one day later he began. Speaking from wagon beds, within market places, squares, and cathedrals, people thronged by the hundreds at first, then by the thousands to hear and see this celebrated First Counsel of the Pope who had become so lauded. “He was called the Wonder of Cluny when but seven-years-old!” people in the know related to others. “Ay, and he stood upon the ramparts as a child with Pope Gregory himself as King Heinrich did his penance in the snow and ice of Canossa so long ago!” said others. “Yes, and even as a boy he served as papal ambassador to Pope Gregory and his successor, our blessed Desiderius! Indeed, God himself has sent this young saint down to us to warn of the impending Saracen threat!”

Tristan’s speeches drew such increasing numbers that by midweek those engagements that had been scheduled within cathedrals were forced to move outside. Mala accompanied him each day, as did Bertucci and the ever silent Duxia, whose sullen eyes seemed to darken even more with each passing day. Mala and Tristan also spent much time together in the evening, sharing conversation, dinner, and laughter. And though they shared many an intimate moment and touch, they both knew that their love for each other would now remain in check, regardless of the irresistible pull at their hearts. It was a wonderful week for both of them as each basked in the warm, comforting company of the other.

Duxia kept her distance as instructed by Mala, but at the moment Tristan finished delivering his final speech in Genoa, she caught him alone as Mala and Bertucci departed in search of the coach. “Oh, you slithering serpent of foul intent!” she hissed. “My prophecy appears to be slipping up behind you right onto your very shoulders, eh, Saint-Germain?”

With all that had transpired over recent years, Tristan had long since managed to set his trepidations over Duxia aside. As her dark eyes raked over his features, he gave her little consideration. “So, old hag, you continue to skulk about, like those filthy insects creeping about in the dark, feeding on the decayed underbelly of things rotting in the night. Peter the Hermit was right about you, you are a bitter, poisonous spider who sees no good on this earth, and wishes no good for its people. What is this nonsense you spew about your prophecy?”

“Oh, long ago in your mother’s blood I foresaw your destiny the moment your bright, evil eyes popped forth from her womb and cast their deadly shine towards this old woman. You were born with the curse of death, destruction, and doom for others. And even as you so eloquently spoke within the market square today, I saw you luring others to their grave with such silken finesse, like the Judas goat leading his own flock to slaughter, tinkling his little bell to make them follow all the way to their destination, only to fall prey to the ax.”

Tristan sneered and shook his head. “So colorful, your analogies, Duxia… or should I say Mielikki, Finnish sorceress of the deep northern wood? Yes, you are a sorceress just as Peter the Hermit charges, and I pray each day that Mala will one day be free of your witch’s grasp.”

“Don’t speak to me of Mala, Saint-Germain, for she’s mine. I love her and she loves me. You could have had her once, but you threw her away, destroyed her, like you’re doing now to these people all over Italy who you summon to war.”

“You know nothing of this matter with Byzantiun,” said Tristan, his neck reddening at the juncture of his neck and monk’s cowl.

“I know enough to see that you preach war, Saint-Germain, a war beyond all other wars we’ve ever seen on this blighted earth. I know that you cast one portion of the world against another, one breed of man against another, and one faith against the other… and I know that this earth doesn’t contain enough graveyards to hold such infinite piles of the dead as shall arise in the aftermath of such a war as you preach!” Then she started to turn and walk away, but she hesitated and gave Tristan a final look. “I will ask it one final time, and then you shall hear it from me no more… what is it you want, boy, and how many men must die as you strive to seek it?”