Here Follows a Brief Description of Our Procession to the Holy Places on and Around Mount Sion
After unloading our luggage at the Hospital of Saint John, a vaulted, ruinous building far more squalid than our accommodations in Ramleh, we joined the venerable abbot of Mount Sion’s Order of the Brothers Minor, Father Guardian, as we call him, for a tour of the nearby holy sites. If I told you of all we saw, my brothers, this account would encompass eight books, for every stone holds a story, every street a chapter and verse. I will take you with me, then, a little ways, at least until my hand cramps up and I am forced to set aside my pen.
THE PLACE WHERE SAINT THOMAS, BEING DOUBTFUL, TOUCHED THE LORD’S WOUNDS
Having heard mass in the noble Church of Mount Sion, built over the spot of our Lord’s Last Supper, we descended a flight of steps and came to the Chapel of Saint Thomas, who by his most profitable curiosity won the privilege of touching Christ’s wounds.
Many saints have taken their refreshment at Christ’s side: Saint Bernard, Saint Francis. Saint Catherine of Siena, that holy maid, was once changing the bandages of an ulcerous woman when, overcome by the stench, she vomited the contents of her stomach. Angry at the weakness of her own flesh, Catherine straightaway collected the pus and bloody bandages and, going off apart, swallowed the whole. That same night, Christ appeared before her and, laying His right hand upon her neck, guided her mouth to the wound in His side, saying, “Drink, my daughter, whereby thy soul will be filled with sweetness. As you have gone beyond your own nature, so I will give thee a drink beyond all that human nature is wont to receive.”
The iron spear with which Christ’s side was pierced is kept in Nuremberg; I have both seen it and handled it. I now stood on the spot where Thomas reached out his hand to prod that spear wound, and thereby received indulgences (††).
THE BURIAL PLACE OF DAVID AND SOLOMON
Outside the Church of Sion, but not outside its gates, we found a small door leading into what appeared another church. As it was shut tight and iron-bound, I asked the Father Guardian if it could be unlocked for us. No, he said, this is the burial place of Christ’s forefathers David and Solomon, yet it exists within the confines of a Saracen mosque, where you are forbidden to go.
We were quite saddened by this, for the place is often mentioned in the books of Kings and Chronicles. When we asked the Father Guardian how this place came to be covered by a mosque, he informed us that long ago the Jews and Christians had fought over the site so publicly that the Sultan, to thwart them both, seized it for himself. I understand the Jews are pleading for its return, even to this day.
We stood outside the door and prayed earnestly, and there received indulgences (††).
THE TABERNACLE OF DAVID, WHERE THE LORD JESUS PREACHED AND THE BLESSED VIRGIN LISTENED
We left that court and entered the old choir of the Church of Sion, which is utterly destroyed but still worthy of veneration. The Jews especially honor this place, because they believe, as we do, that here David deposited the Ark of the Covenant, amid songs and great rejoicing. Jesus, in his youth, preached here, which spot is marked with a stone, as is the place where the Virgin listened proudly to her intelligent son read from the holy book. We kissed these stones reverently and received indulgences (††). While the other pilgrims were paying their respects, I spied a crumbling staircase leading to what remained of the choir’s broken vault. I climbed these stairs and, by hoisting myself up, was able to sit atop the roof and thus look out over the mountain. Far below, in the courtyard, some Eastern Christians gathered around a square stone that juts out of the old choir, apparently rolling dice upon it. They would pick up four pebbles from the yard, roll them across the stone, and foretell the future by the pattern they formed: the nearer the figure is to the cross, the luckier they will be. I marveled at their behavior for some time until the Father Guardian yelled at me to come down or he would leave me behind.
THE KITCHEN WHEREIN THE PASCHAL LAMB WAS ROASTED AND THE WATER HEATED FOR THE LORD’S SUPPER
We wandered a little farther until we came to the spot where the disciples roasted the Paschal lamb, pounded the bitter herbs, and heated water for washing the dirty dishes. This place is not without holiness, for as we read in the twenty-second chapter of Saint Luke, Saints Peter and John were the cooks of that sacred Passover feast. We pilgrims merrily pictured these two worthies burning the meat and overboiling the water, fighting between themselves over seasoning and technique, arguing over who had to do the dishes. Here, also, Peter and John heated water with which Christ washed his disciples’ feet. Granted, nowhere in Scripture does it say that Christ washed his disciples feet with warm water, yet warm water takes away the dirt better than cold and refreshes the feet and legs. Warm water also shows greater piety, for it is no great proof of friendship to wash a man’s feet in cold water, just as it shows no great affection to offer a man lukewarm water to drink. We cannot suppose Christ would withhold any sign of perfect love, whereby we can also assume, though it not be in Scripture, that his water was not only warm but steeped with fragrant herbs, strong-smelling roots, and aromatic cordials as well. Profiting by this pious conversation, we knelt and here received indulgences (††).
THE PLACE WHERE SARACEN WOMEN SUPERSTITIOUSLY WORSHIP JESUS CHRIST
After walking about a good deal more in the heat, we caught our breath at a spot outside the Brethren’s cemetery, where Saracen women had set up a heap of stones stuffed with prayer rags they rip from their linen clothing to display piety. Around this altar they bury loaves of bread and claim that here, not in the Holy Sepulchre, our Lord Jesus is buried. These women say that the man hung upon the cross, whom the Jews call Jesus, was not Jesus but some other man put in his place. Jesus, the Son of God and Mary, was able to escape and lived a long holy life, dying peacefully here, where they now propitiate him with sandy loaves. This is to be added to the list of the Saracens’ many errors. They also believe Mary to be the sister of Aaron, putting her a thousand years before she was born! Though not believing in the Seven Sacraments, they still often bring their sick babies to be baptized, thinking Christian priests can perform the same magic with water that Thetis did when burning off Achilles’ mortality in the fire. I made sure no one was looking when it was time to leave this place and with my foot scattered the women’s stones, rooting out the offending loaves, and so left signs of my vengeance there.
Lunch
“Felix, may I bring you more water?”
“Yes, thank you, Lord Tucher. Would you mind fetching the bread? And salt?”
How satisfying it is to order my patron about for the good of his soul! When he realized several other nobles had volunteered to wait on the pilgrims and humbly serve them lunch, he leapt up from his place beside me and grabbed a water pitcher. Ursus takes even greater pleasure in the situation than I, purposefully dropping food on the ground for his father to pick up.
As we had eaten nothing since our arrival in Jerusalem, the Father Guardian kindly invited the pilgrims to his Minorite convent before we returned to our lodgings at Saint John’s Hospital. We sit crammed together around three long boards, shaded by an embroidered cloth depicting the Descent of the Holy Spirit. Where the sun comes through its loose weave, I feel my scalp as much on fire as the twelve stitched apostles, each capped with a tidy orange flame.
“Friar”—Ursus fidgets, anxious for sunset—“tonight I am made a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre.”
“Yes, that’s true, son.”
“None of Count Eberhart’s other pages are likely to be Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, are they?”
“Not likely,” I say.
He sits across from me, his too-long arms awkwardly bumping Conrad every time he reaches for his food. I can hardly imagine what it must be like for his father, knowing our pilgrimage will soon end, leaving him only a few more precious months with this boy. Whenever Ursus brings up his apprenticeship, I’ve noticed my patron inevitably steers him back to some shared funny mom
ent from his babyhood: how Ursus once put a spider in his mouth or fell asleep in the chicken house and had the whole manor searching for him. They will laugh together, and for that moment, at least, Lord Tucher has Ursus for eleven more years.
“If only we could have crossed the desert to Saint Katherine’s Monastery. Certainly dying for Saint Katherine would count for more than a knighthood of the Holy Sepulchre.” Ursus Tucher sighs.
“Listen to me.” I reach across the table and grip his arm more tightly than I mean to. “I don’t ever want to hear that sort of talk again. Saint Katherine is nobody compared to the One who died upon the Cross to save your soul. Now I want you to say thirty pater nosters for insulting our Lord in His own city.”
“Friar!” Ursus cries. “You are the one who told me Sinai was the holiest spot on earth!”
“Since when do you listen to what I say?” My anger comes out of nowhere, brothers, and I am ashamed of it. Have I really filled this boy’s head with such nonsense? “Speak no more of Saint Katherine, she is a weak, irregular saint.”
The boy pulls away, and I cannot blame him. I have been an irresponsible, besotted friar, unworthy of entering this majestic city, as cheaply as I’ve held it. The Archdeacon John, having witnessed the scene, looks over worriedly. I am saved his concern, however, as Father Guardian is about to speak.
Father Guardian thanks us all for dining as his guests and reminds us that, should we feel inclined to leave a donation toward the church’s upkeep, we might find the Brother Bursar standing within the cloister. He offers our thanks to Calinus Elphahallo, standing regally beside him, and blesses him as a friend to all devout men who wander far from home. Once more, the Father Guardian stresses the sixteen articles we heard in Joppa, adding to them rules for our upcoming night’s visit to the Holy Sepulchre. Every pilgrim must buy for himself a candle to take, pilgrims should not waste time within the church trafficking with Eastern merchants, the priests among us should not wrangle over who gets to celebrate mass inside the Sepulchre, we must not lie down or leave our property about because of theft, etc., etc. We listen attentively, and when he is finished, those who are of the means to do so set off to find the good Brother Bursar. Elphahallo approaches me and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“I hope to see you at my house when your stay in Jerusalem is over, Friar Failisk.” He smiles. “I only have a few more desert crossings left in me, but one belongs to you.”
I return his smile uncomfortably and thank him again for the melons I ate, even as my intestines rise up against them. Behind the Saracen, my patron waits anxiously, signaling me to hurry Elphahallo off.
“Lord Tucher, how may I help you?” I ask, after I’ve shaken the Saracen’s hand and wished him good day. I have celebrated mass for my patron as a dutiful friar, but, between the Tongue and the Temptress Priuli, we have lost the easy familiarity we had on setting out from Ulm.
“We are keeping vigil in the holiest church in Christendom tonight,” he says, not looking at me. “I have a serious sin I cannot take into that sanctum unconfessed.”
Abbot Fuchs warned me of two things when he allowed me to become Lord Tucher’s confessor: first, that my patron was easily whipped into frenzies of faith, and second, that these paroxysms passed as swiftly as they hit. Lady Tucher’s confessor, who, by rights, should have had my place on this pilgrimage, flat out refused to come. He claimed it was impossible to know when his lady’s husband might fancy to outfit them all with chains and hair shirts for a day, and he didn’t want to risk the rash. Clearly, this holy city has tweaked my patron’s conscience. Lord Tucher still holds the heavy water pitcher with which he humbly served the pilgrims. The red cross on his chasuble needs to be restitched where it is peeling back from the fabric; without thought, I smooth it into place before leading him into the church.
We settle ourselves inside one of the six wooden confessional boxes set into the wide aisles for use by the pilgrims. Three were already occupied and I could hear soft murmurs of Spanish, French, and Italian as we passed, worried men sharing their private sins, saving themselves from future shame by present shame. I sit upon an embroidered purple pillow and face Lord Tucher through a trefoil-patterned grate.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” says he, his thin voice shaky and self-conscious. “I have not confessed since the night of the storm.”
“What sins do you have on your conscience, my son?” I ask.
“I know you think I committed adultery with the woman Emelia Priuli, but I swear, Felix, I did not.”
“I am not Felix in this confessional, my son,” I remind him. “I am the Ear of God. If you want the Lord to know you did not sin with the waiting woman, He already knows.”
“I did not commit adultery with her, but I am responsible for her death, which is even worse.”
I observe my patron through the flimsy grate. He sits erect behind the water pitcher he forgot to put down and directs his confession straight ahead. Surely Lord Tucher had no part in setting that fire?
“What was your role in her burning?” I ask evenly, trying not to betray my mounting concern. “Did you strike a flint?”
“No,” he says miserably. “But had she not found this among my things, she would have slept beside me, and her assassin would not have dared to touch her.”
My patron digs into his pocket and pulls out a carved ivory comb. A perfectly formed tiny Dionysus extends his hand to diminutive Ariadne, left behind on the shore of Naxos. Why is he showing me a woman’s comb?
“It is Emelia’s,” he says, holding it against the grate. “The one she lost her first day aboard ship.”
“You took it?” I stammer, remembering now all the petty thefts, the incidental items that disappeared at sea, where they could not be replaced. Lord Tucher magnanimously substituted his own gold rosary for his son’s lost silver one; his wife’s costly Venetian comb for Emelia’s ivory ornament; a fine nibbed pen for the humble instrument I had as a gift from dear Abbot Fuchs! Why steal in the first place? My patron was the richest man on Lando’s ship.
“I don’t know why I took those things,” Lord Tucher moans. “I didn’t need them. I wanted so badly to be generous, but no one has seemed to need my help.”
“You know theft is a serious sin,” I say, inwardly marveling at the tangle of this man’s deception. To what lengths may a man rationalize theft, brothers? Tucher steals from his fellow pilgrims so he may be known as a giver of gifts; Arsinoë steals the identities of the dead so she may survive to feed her mad mission; it is truly only a matter of time, as Ser Niccolo says, before we are baldly stealing from God, taking away His creative force and shaping it for ourselves. Is this not what I have done? Is that not what this new Age of Man is all about?
“I am ready to accept my penance,” Lord Tucher answers, “however severe it may be. Let me be bowed under a great weight when I pass through the doors of the Holiest Sepulchre.”
My patron looks upon me expectantly. How best to handle the man who takes pride in his own punishment? Will I make him fast on bread and water? Will I encourage him to buy that black scourge I saw him eye covetously today, that he might cut a fine, remorseful figure before Christ’s grave?
“In the Alcoran,” I say at last, “Mahomet commands: ‘As for the man or woman who is guilty of theft, cut off their hands to punish them for their crimes.’”
Lord Tucher hugs his pitcher and sputters. This is not what he was expecting.
“But that is the Devil’s book,” he says.
“Then be thankful we are happy Christians!” I cry. “For Proverbs tells us, ‘There is no great sin in theft.’ Your confession is its own punishment, my lord. Say three Hail Marys and an Our Father, and go about your way.”
Frustrated tears spring to my patron’s eyes. He has no penance with which to accessorize his pilgrim’s garb. He goes practically naked before Christ tonight.
“You are indeed a merciful priest, Felix.” Lord Tucher turns away from me chastised. “
It is more than I deserve.”
He slides back the grate and leaves with a weak shake of my hand.
Into it, he slips my stolen pen.
The Holy Sepulchre
The tomb of our Savior sits at the heart of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; the church occupies a square on what was once the Mount of Golgotha; the mount rises now in the center of the city of Jerusalem; and from Jerusalem, brothers, the entire world radiates. The miracle of Christian faith, and its ultimate paradox, is that the center of our world is hollow. Jesus Christ rose from the dead; his tomb is empty. We have no physical relics of our most precious Savior to fight over and steal. He exists as pure love, everywhere and nowhere, a corona of light from this dark, buried grave. To this eternal tomb, the pilgrims who boarded Lando and Contarini’s ships—in fact, the pilgrims who for the past one thousand years have set sail to this place—bring the sins they’ve carried from the ends of the earth. Centuries of trespasses—adultery, fraud, regicide—find their way into Christ’s tomb, and yet it is never full. There will still be plenty of room for the sins of our grandchildren’s grandchildren’s grandchildren.
Before you can enter the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, however, you must run the gauntlet of merchants that feed off it. One bustling candle stall features an emaciated wax Christ, tall as a church door, dripping crimson wax blood from real thorns pressed into the taper; a Mary-in-agony candle worked with gold leaf beaten so flat it would melt like the sacrament on your tongue; thin tallow-yellow tapers that clump together like a fistful of underdone spaghetti, a dozen of which Lord Tucher buys to light inside, blow out, and take back to Swabia, believing, like many, that if his wife holds a lighted candle from the Holy Sepulchre in childbed, she’ll be delivered safely and without pain. Next to him, the Greek proprietor measures Ursus with string and snips the string to use as a wick, pouring hot wax into a mold to match his height.