They began searching the pilgrims. After Brother Jean’s death, nobody dared protest. The Mamluks divided into pairs and took the pilgrims aside, one by one. Those who had been searched were ordered to move to the head of the caravan. Habit and experience were palpable in the Mamluks’ approach to their work. They first rooted around in bags, then moved on to body searches. The Mamluks knew well where coins were hidden. They ripped open linings and the double bottoms of bags, turned cuffs inside out, and tore off boot soles. Money was not made of paper in the Middle Ages and it was not at all simple to hide.
Arseny’s turn came. The Mamluks took only his money, which they cut out of his caftan’s lining with one slice of a knife. What lay in his traveling bag did not interest them. They motioned to Arseny to move forward with his camel. Arseny did not move because he saw Ambrogio’s severed head on the ground. The head’s eyes looked intently at Arseny. The tongue was visible in the half-open mouth. Blood oozed from the nostrils. Arseny was nudged forward with a kick. Arseny made several wooden steps. He went forward, even as he continued looking back. Powerless to tear his gaze away from Ambrogio’s head.
A pair of Mamluks now took Ambrogio aside. They made him raise his hands and searched him. (Arseny pushed away the Mamluk who was escorting him and took a first step in Ambrogio’s direction.) Ambrogio calmly observed as the golden coins were cut from his caftan. They checked his traveling bag, like Arseny’s, with no particular thoroughness. They had almost let Ambrogio go when an Arab came over, exchanged glances with the Mamluk, and nodded at his traveling bag.
The Mamluk pulled the icon lamp out of Ambrogio’s bag. Its embedded stones blazed in the midday sun. Ambrogio grabbed the lamp from the Mamluk and said something to the interpreter. (Arseny moved in Ambrogio’s direction, shaking off the arms that twisted around him.) The interpreter translated, watching sunbeams play on the stones. The Mamluk reached again for the lamp but Ambrogio drew his hand away, not allowing the Mamluk to touch the lamp. Ambrogio did not see that the Mamluk in the embroidered sash had ridden up behind him, and that he raised his sword, and that Arseny kept pace with the Mamluk and grasped onto his leg with all his strength.
Ambrogio saw an angel with a cross slowly lowering himself onto the bell tower of Peter and Paul Cathedral in Saint Petersburg. The angel hovered for a moment, gauging how to make a precise landing, then slowly submerged the base of the cross into a gilded ball on the spire. The angel was returning to his usual place after renovation and restoration work. An Mi-8 helicopter spread its blades over him, creating a downward air current. It was under these less-than-simple conditions that industrial climber Albert Mikhailovich Tynkkynen affixed the base of the cross with bolts of a particularly durable alloy. The mountain climber’s long hair blew in all directions, getting in his eyes and mouth. Tynkkynen regretted that he had forgotten his cap in the helicopter—he always put it on when installing something under a rotorcraft—before descending onto the cupola with the angel. Annoyed, he reproached himself for his forgetfulness and reproached himself, too, for the long hair that he always promised himself to cut when he was in the heavens, breaking the promise back on earth every time because he was secretly proud of his hair. He scolded himself with sincerity, though his choice of utterances did not overstep certain boundaries: he was, after all, constrained by the presence of an angel. Despite all the interference, Albert Mikhailovich could see a lot from the height of 122 meters: Zayachy Island, Petersburg, and even the country in its entirety. He could also see that an ungilded but absolutely real angel in distant Palestine was raising the Italian Ambrogio Flecchia’s soul to the heavens.
The Book
of Repose
It is generally held that Arseny returned to Rus’ in the mid eighties. It is known for certain that he was already in Pskov by October 1487, since that was the beginning of the great pestilence the city suffered. Some people had already managed to forget Arseny before he returned to Pskov. That happened not because so much time had passed (not that much had really passed) but due to the weakness of human memory, which retains only those near and dear. Those considered not near and dear (as was true of Arseny) rarely remain in the memory. People lose sight of one who has gone away and do not usually resurrect his image under their own power. In the best case, a photograph jogs the memory. But there were no photographs in the Middle Ages, so oblivion became complete.
Many residents of Pskov did not recall Arseny, even when they saw him, because they did not recognize him. The person who had returned did not resemble either the holy fool who had first arrived in the city or the pilgrim who had left the city. Arseny had changed. Alongside his dark face, tanned in a way that was not Russian, was light hair that had become even lighter. It might have initially appeared that his hair had faded under the hot Eastern sun but upon closer scrutiny it became clear that Arseny’s hair was no longer light: it was white.
Arseny had returned gray-haired. A scar above the bridge of his nose stretched along his entire forehead; it looked like a deep, bitter wrinkle. Coupled with the real wrinkles that had made their appearance, the scar lent his face the dolefully impassive expression of an icon. And it might have been that expression, rather than the gray hair or the scar, that meant the people of Pskov did not recognize Arseny.
He did not tell anyone anything after he returned. He generally spoke very little. Not as little, perhaps, as in his time as a holy fool, but his words these days rang with a quietness that was not characteristic of even the deepest silence. When he came to see Mayor Gavriil, he said:
Peace be with you, O mayor. Do forgive me.
Mayor Gavriil saw Arseny’s entire difficult journey in his eyes. He saw Ambrogio’s death. And he asked no more about anything. He embraced Arseny and wept on his shoulder. Arseny stood, not stirring. He could feel the mayor’s hot tears on his neck but his own eyes remained dry.
Do dwell in my home, said Mayor Gavriil.
Arseny bowed his head. He placed little importance now on where he stayed.
Arseny wanted to go and see holy fool Foma but by this time Foma was no longer of this earth. Foma had predicted his own death shortly after Arseny’s departure, and he had managed to say goodbye to everyone. Wearied by the burden of his approaching death, Foma found the strength within to make one final round of the city and pelt the most shameless of the demons with some last stones. Everyone knew Foma was dying so the whole city went along behind him, accompanying him on that final round. Foma’s legs were unsteady but people helped him move them.
The dark of death has taken me, and the light wente awaye from myne eyes, Foma began shouting as he circled half the city.
They placed the stones in his hands since he could no longer see anything, and he used his last strength to cast them at the demons; he circled the second half of the city that way because his physical blindness had only sharpened his spiritual vision.
When the city had been cleansed of demons, Foma said, reclining in front of the church:
You don’t really think I drove them out forever, do you? Maybe about five years, ten maximum. And what will you do then? you might ask. Well, write this down. A great pestilence awaits you but God’s servant Arseny will help you, when he’s back from Jerusalem. And then Arseny will leave, too, for he will need to leave this burg. And then you’ll have to display some spiritual fortitude and internal focus. You’re not children anymore yourselves, after all.