Thirteenth Night (6 page)

We made Capodistria in a day and a half and anchored there for the night. In the morning, a boat came out to pick up the pilot, and we were off. The sailing master kept us within sight of the coast, directing the crew to raise and lower sails as the winds shifted. We were fortunate to have a calm passage. As night fell, I was surprised to see the ship continue on even though the stars were concealed by the clouds. I wandered towards the forecastle and found the sailing master and his assistant huddled by torchlight over a small box lined up with the keel. The sailing master nodded at me and beckoned me forward. I looked inside the box and saw a small metal needle mounted on some kind of pivot. It moved slightly every now and then, and the sailing master would issue commands to his assistant, who went running down to the steerage gallery to alter the course appropriately.

“An Arab invention,” said the sailing master. “I don't know how it works, but the needle points north. If you're brave enough to trust it and smart enough to know which direction you want to go, then you don't even need the stars.”

I expressed my amazement.

“We should reach Zara in another day,” he continued.

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” I said. “I'd actually like to go a little further than Zara.”

“Oh? Where?”

“Orsino.”

He thought for a minute. “That suits me. I hadn't intended to stay in Zara, and it's a difficult entry. Orsino's easier. I'd just as lief take you in by small boat, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind, but someone will have to break the news to my horse.”

He chuckled quietly. “I suppose your reasons for this are private.”

“Private but obvious. I have certain competitors who I'd rather be kept in the dark as to my whereabouts. Markets are so volatile nowadays.”

“Of course. You'll find that when you pay your fare, you also buy our discretion. Frankly, we don't care all that much what you do. All right, we should make Orsino by evening if the wind stays as it is.”

I looked across the bow into the darkness. Suddenly, a light flared up on the coast to the east, then another and another. A string of bonfires had sprung into existence.

“What is it?” I asked him. “Some kind of signal?”

He looked at me strangely. “Aye, it is. Have you so lost track of time that you don't know what it is?”

“I suppose I have.”

“There'll be bonfires all over Europe tonight. It's Christmas Eve.”

*   *   *

The next day, as the coastal islands slipped by us, the crew wished one another a joyous Christmas. The cook prepared a particularly sumptuous late-afternoon meal, with a bean soup filled with chunks of salt pork providing the main course. I followed the crew's example and picked through my biscuits for vermin before eating them. One of the sailors pointed to me and laughed. “He's an experienced traveler, this German.”

“Friend, I've been on voyages where the vermin were the best part of the meal,” I responded.

“Aye, we must have been on the same ship,” agreed the sailor.

Just then, the sailing master's assistant came down to advise me that we would be arriving at my destination soon. I hurried to collect my gear, then went amidships, where Zeus was being led onto the deck. The sails were lowered and several anchors dropped, and the
Ursula
was at rest. A small boat was winched over the side. I tied a scarf over Zeus's head so he wouldn't see his next mode of transport and maneuvered him into it. No small task, I can assure you, but somehow we got it done. I clambered in and was joined by three of the crew. I waved to the rest, thanked them, and the windlass was slowly turned.

We hit the water and released the ropes, then two of the men took up oars while the third manned a small tiller. We crested over the surf for perhaps a mile and came up on shore on the west side of the town. I removed the scarf from Zeus, who took one look at the solid ground and leapt from the boat with a neigh of relief. I distributed some extra silver to my most recent transport, hauled my bags out of the boat, and threw them across Zeus's rump. The boat pulled away, and that was the last I saw of the
Ursula
and its crew.

Zeus condescended to let me mount, and we trotted through the southwest gate into the town proper. The sun was beginning to set across the water. As we entered the square, I saw a large flag on a pole depicting a giant bear, fierce of expression, cradling the town protectively in its arms and staring out to the world as if daring it to attack. Little did it know that someone already had.

I was back in Orsino.

F
OUR

The toil of a fool wearies him, so that he does not know the way to the city.

ECCLESIASTES 10.15

 

The square was quiet as I trotted across. The market, normally bustling, was abandoned, its stalls shuttered, its banners furled. The true test of a religion is its effect on commerce.

It was much as I had remembered, with one notable exception. Next to the church was a massive portico, surrounded with scaffolding, with marble columns and an impressive flight of steps that upon closer inspection led nowhere. Behind this imposing facade was a huge pit, lined with stone and dotted with ladders and ramps.

So they got the bishopric at last. It had been the subject of much debate and outright envy when I last lived here. The local merchants, as they grew ever more prosperous, sought validation for their good fortune from Rome. Apparently, the Pope's blessing had been obtained, although I shuddered to guess at what cost. The cathedral in progress looked decades away from completion.

As Zeus carried me past the old church, which despite its Byzantine dome looked cramped and squat next to its grandiose shell of a neighbor, I saw the Bishop himself emerge and squint into the west, surveying the square for lost sheep. He frowned when he saw me, and I hastened to salute him.

“Greetings, holy Father, on this holiest of days,” I said, dismounting. “Blessings upon a weary traveler.”

“Blessings upon you, my son,” he replied. “You're a stranger here, I believe.”

“Indeed I am,” I agreed. “May I humbly present myself. I am Octavius, a merchant of Augsburg.”

“Ah, I thought from your speech that you hailed from that part of the Empire.” Score one for the accent, I thought. “What brings you so far?”

“Business,” I replied with a vague wave. “But I won't bore you with details. I seek lodging for a short period. Does your worship know of an inn where an honest Christian soul may find safe haven?”

“If you were a pilgrim, I would direct you to the monastery. If you were a student, there is a hostel maintained by the town. But if you are like every other honest Christian merchant I have met, I would put such holy endorsements aside and recommend the Elephant. They set a good table and could accommodate both you and this fine steed of yours. You should bring him by the church tomorrow, by the way. It's Saint Stephen's Day, and we will be blessing the animals.”

“I would be delighted,” I responded sincerely. “He could use a good blessing.” I patted Zeus on the muzzle, and he nearly took my hand off.

“Indeed,” said the Bishop, moving a safe distance away. “And if that doesn't work, I also perform exorcisms.”

I got a better grip on Zeus's reins and pulled his head down. “Thank you,” I gasped. “I regret missing services this morning. May I make a small donation in honor of my safe arrival?”

“Of course,” he replied, and the transaction was completed. He gave me directions to the Elephant, and I led Zeus toward the southeast gate.

As I approached it, I heard hoofbeats behind me. I turned to see a soldier of some kind, modestly armored but with a gaudy red plume decorating his helmet. “Hail, stranger,” he said quietly, his right hand resting near his sword.

“Hail, good soldier,” I replied.

“That would be Captain to you.”

I espied the insignia. “My apologies, Captain. I am unfamiliar with the symbol of your rank in this town. No offense was intended.”

He studied me closely. He seemed to be about forty, and boasted a magnificent mustache that curled up at each end. His bearing was somehow both erect and relaxed, as if it took only a small amount of his strength to maintain that posture even under the weight of his armor.

“Your garments are German,” he commented. “Your speech as well.”

“Correct on both counts, good Captain. I am from Augsburg. My name is Octavius. I am a merchant.”

He continued to stare at me. “You're a bit late for the fair,” he said. “It was in July. But as you have no goods to sell, perhaps you are here to buy.”

“Perhaps,” I replied, and then decided to match his silence.

“You come by way of Zara, I assume?” he said finally.

“No. I came by sea.”

“I saw no ship in our harbor.”

“I was brought in by small boat. The ship's destination was farther south. I was let off on the shore west of the town.”

“And where did you board this accommodating vessel?”

“In Venice, some days ago.”

This elicited an arching of the eyebrows but no further comment. This time, I broke the silence.

“I will be staying at the Elephant, Captain. My whereabouts will be evident at all times, and I expect to leave once my business here is concluded.”

“And that business is?”

“That business is business. And as you are no doubt a busy man as well, I will take my leave of you.”

I led Zeus away and felt the Captain's eyes marking a target on my back the whole way to the gate.

*   *   *

The town was situated on the north bank of a river that widened as it entered the Adriatic from the northeast. An old Roman wall encircled it, rebuilt many times since the first pensioned soldiers settled here, broken by three gates to the harbor, one to the riverside, and two more for the main roads leading to Zara and the interior. The Elephant was outside the southeast gate, situated equally close to the barge landings that accommodated the river traffic and the wharves for the oceangoing trade.

The old sign still hung from the second story of the inn, badly needing paint. On it was an enormous elephant, purportedly one of Hannibal's, crossing the Alps while dark-skinned men dotted its back like ants. I remembered, as a boy, reading an illustrated account of the Punic Wars that included a similar drawing, with the men dangling from the side of the beast and a small town perched on its back. The creature haunted my imagination for years. When I was in my early twenties, on a mission in Alexandria, a traveling circus came to town, and their criers proclaimed an actual elephant in captivity. I immediately threw all my responsibilities to the wind and hurried to the outskirts of the city to buy my admission. Upon entering the ratty tent, I saw, rather than the monster of my nightmares, a large but pathetic creature, flies buzzing around the scabrous sores caused by the iron shackles imprisoning it on the platform, its tusks sawed off, its skin hanging in folds. It cast a bleary, yellowed eye in my direction, then managed a feeble bellow after being prodded by a small boy with a stick who then held his hand out to me, expecting to be paid again for the favor. I hurried out of there. That memory replaced the fierce, heroic one in my dreams, and I've never been able to recapture the original.

The inn was a two-story log structure, tavern below and a few rooms above. It was hung with laurel wreaths on the outside in honor of the season, and a fire beckoned from within. I tied Zeus to the rail, removed my bags, and entered. A Christmas cake with a cross carved on top was placed on a small table by the door. Three long tables filled the front half of the room, while the rear was taken up by a stove and several casks mounted in a frame against the wall.

I didn't recognize the tapster, and fortunately he didn't recognize me. He was a stout man of florid complexion and wore an ancient apron of uncertain fabric and color. He was certainly surprised to have a stranger come in at that time of day. Or year, for that matter.

“Any room at the inn?” I asked.

“Come in, good sir,” he said, recovering quickly. “Welcome to the Elephant. And a joyous Christmas to you. Is it dinner or lodging you want?”

“Both,” I replied. “And stabling for my horse.”

“Newt!” he bellowed suddenly behind him. I looked past him to the curtain separating the tavern from the family's living quarters, and a small boy of about ten years dashed in, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Take this gentleman's horse and put it in the second stall.” The boy looked around the room uncertainly, and the tapster cuffed him gently. “Outside, Newt, outside.” The boy brightened and dashed past me. I heard a yelp of fear, but somehow he got Zeus under control.

“Well, sir,” said the tapster, turning his attention back to me. “My name is Alexander. Let me show you to your room, and then you can come back down for dinner. It's a long ride from Zara, and I'm sure you must be exhausted.”

“I didn't…” I began, but he had already seized my bags and was tromping up the stairs, humming to himself. I followed him into a short, dark hallway.

“As you can see, sir, we do have room,” he said with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “No need to send you to the stables. You'll sleep in better accommodations than Our Lord on His first Christmas Day. It's lucky you arrived at such a slow time of year. You can have your choice of rooms. A view of the harbor or a view of the town?”

“Harbor, please, as long as the shutters keep out the wind.”

“Oh, they do, sir. And a good thing, too. There's snow coming tonight. You can see it on the horizon. Fresh from the Marches, and who knows where before that. You may have to stay with us more than the one night.”

“I was planning on it.”

That brought a pleased grunt. He opened a door to the right, revealing a space with a bed and enough room to pace beside it. “Here's your pot,” he said, gesturing under the bed. “And I'll send up my daughter Agatha with a washbasin. We have a nice stew cooking if you're hungry. And there's wine, ale, cider, perry, and some mead brewed special for the holiday. How about I heat up the cider? That's best for a winter traveler.”