She left at about two in the morning, when duty called him up to the deck because the weather was worsening. She had drunk more wine than usual, and she felt so close to weeping as she closed the door of her own cabin that the tears actually spilled over her cheeks, hot and painful. Had she been less exhausted, she might have given in and sobbed until she had nothing left inside her. But when would she stop? What end was there, except to treasure friendship, or laughter, trust, tolerance, and the will to share? She would not sacrifice that for some momentary indulgence in self-pity or grief for what she herself had closed the door against.
The following day the weather was bad, a storm driving down from the north forcing them to stand farther out than they would otherwise. Giuliano was fully occupied with navigation and keeping the ship from drifting onto the dangerous troughs where she could lose sails or even a mast.
The next time they spoke it was the morning watch as dawn was rising from the east, where Cyprus lay far beyond view. The sea was calm and there was a slight breeze, smelling sweet and exquisitely clean, the pale light barely tipping the crests of the water, too delicate to be touched with foam. In the silence, they could have been the first humans to see the earth or breathe its air.
For a long time they stood at the rail almost a yard apart, staring across at the radiance spreading over the sky, melting the shadows between one wave and another. She did not need to look at him; she was certain his thoughts were also filled by the enormity of it. It was not frightening to be alone on the ocean’s face; in fact, there was a curious comfort in it.
On other occasions snatched in moments here or there, she and Giuliano spoke of memories, experiences good and bad, sometimes matching tall stories. She pulled many from the tales her father had told her that she could identify with well enough. At times when she was embroidering rather a lot, he would realize it and they laughed together. It was a joke with no ill will. She had no need to explain her inventions.
One night when they were on deck, watching the sun sink, squandering fire beyond the black outline of Cyprus, the wind cold in their faces, the conversation turned toward religion and the union with Rome.
“Pride and history apart,” he said seriously, “is separation from Rome really worth dying for? Do you think it is?” He was direct, a personal question, not a general one.
She stared at the fading light, changing even as she watched. No two sunsets were ever the same. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how much I am prepared to have anyone else tell me what to think. But I also know for certain that I am not prepared to demand anyone else sacrifice their lives, or the lives of those they love, because I’m certain of the differences between the Roman and Byzantine faiths.
“Maybe any Church can only take us so far, provide a framework in which we can climb far enough to see just how much farther there is to go, and that the journey is infinitely worth it. Sooner or later we outgrow it, and it becomes a shackle to the spirit.”
“Then how do we do the rest?” There was no banter in his voice. She could hardly see the outline of his head and shoulders against the darkness of the sky, but she felt the warmth of him near her.
“Maybe we have to want it with such a passion of hunger that no one can hold us back from reaching it,” she said quietly. “We cannot be led, or commanded. We must labor with our own strength, seeing with the light of the mind, even if it’s only a short space ahead. That’s enough.”
“That’s hard.” He let out his breath slowly. “I would like to believe it, difficult and lonely as it sounds. Your heaven would be worth looking for, and creating out of my own mistakes, building out of forgiveness, and seeking in every new place.”
He leaned back a little and looked up at the sky. “We had better weave some ladders, Anastasius.”
Fifty-nine
AFTER CALLING AT FAMAGUSTA IN THE EAST OF CYPRUS, they sailed through rough weather, tacking across the wind, coming about hard. The huge lateen sails were heavy, creaking as they fell slack then filled and billowed out again. Every time she marveled at the skill of the men, her hands clenching as she saw the precise judgment and timing and knew how easily a mast could break.
They worked their way steadily south along the coast of Palestine, putting ashore at Tyre, then at Sidon, and finally at Acre, a wide, busy seaport. It spread out from the high, magnificent old crusader walls into trading quarters-Pisan, Genoese, and of course Venetian-quays busy, water dotted with ships.
This was the gateway to the Holy Land and the beginning of the six-to ten-day journey overland to Jerusalem. Anna stayed on the ship while Giuliano went ashore, ostensibly to see to unloading his cargo and obtaining another shipment for the return journey.
She stood on the deck looking at the sun-bleached land, pale docks, and landing piers above glittering bright water. She realized sharply that Giuliano would be judging it all with a military eye, as had generations of men before him from the far, Christian corners of the world, thinking to conquer it-for what? For God? For Christ? Some, perhaps. More probably for glory. It was a land of milk and honey, perhaps, but also of blood.
On the third day, she and Giuliano went ashore. He had sent the ship off down the coast with cargo to return in two months’ time, when he and Anastasius would meet them here again. If they were late, then his men would obtain the best cargo they could and wait.
They were dressed in the recognized costume for pilgrims: a gray cowl, scrip, and scarf, a red cross on the shoulder, a broad belt to which was attached a rosary and a water bottle. They each wore a broad-brimmed hat, turned up at the front, and carried over their shoulders a sack and a gourd. Anna also had a small case of medical supplies, a knife, needle and silk, a few herbs, and a pot of unguent. She felt untidy, anonymous, and uncomfortable. She was glad there was no glass in which to see herself.
She looked at Giuliano. At a glance he seemed like anyone else, gray, one of scores of travelers weary, footsore, and a little crazy, a light in the eyes and repetitive songs on the lips. But when he moved he still had the easy gait, the slight swagger of the mariner.
She would have liked to stay in Acre for longer, to walk through the streets of this last stronghold of the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem and see where the men of the past, crusaders, knights, kings, and even queens, had lived; but she knew there was no time.
“We must join with others,” she urged. “We need guides.”
“Ahead of us.” He pointed. “We leave in just over an hour. It’ll be hard. And cold this time of year.”
They formed a group of about twenty pilgrims, most of them dressed in gray, as Anna and Giuliano were. More than half of them were men, but Anna was surprised how many women there were-at least six. One old woman with a windburned face and gnarled hands clutched the staff she used to support herself. She never stopped muttering the names of all the holy places she had been to, like an incantation. Canterbury, Walsingham, Lourdes, Compostela, and now the greatest of all, Jerusalem. They all had the pallor of a long sea voyage, cramped in ships that gave them barely enough room to lie down and no privacy at all.