Among these was one young woman who on the very first day had aroused my curiosity. Both her dress and her graceful bearing distinguished her from the rest. Her silken gown was adorned with silver brocade and pearls, and she wore jewels also, so that I marveled how she could have fallen among such grimy company. An enormously fat serving woman was in constant attendance. The strangest thing about the lady was that she never appeared unveiled. Even her eyes were concealed. At first I fancied that vanity impelled her to protect her complexion from the burning rays of the sun, but I soon found that she retained her veil even after sunset. Yet one could discern enough of her features to be assured that they were neither disfigured nor ugly. As the sun gleams through thin cloud, so did her youthful charm gleam through the filmy veil. I could not imagine what grievous sin had brought her on this pilgrimage and induced her to hide her face.
Seeing her stand alone at the rail one evening, just after sunset, I felt impelled to approach her, but at my coming she quickly turned away her head and dropped the veil over her face, so that I had no time to glimpse more than the curve of her cheek. But her hair fell in fair curls from beneath her round headdress, and as I contemplated this hair I felt a weakness in my knees, and was aware of such attraction as a magnet exercises upon iron filings.
I stood at a seemly distance from her and, like her, surveyed the fading wine color of the sea. But I was keenly conscious of her presence, and after a while she turned her head slightly as if expecting me to speak. I therefore summoned up my courage and said, “We’re fellow voyagers, bound for the same goal. In the sight of God and in expiation of sin we are all equal, so don’t be offended with me for addressing you. I long to talk to someone of my own age-someone different from all these cripples.”
“You interrupt my prayers, Master de Carvajal,” she said in a tone of rebuke. Nevertheless, the rosary disappeared between her slender fingers, and she turned toward me readily. I started with pleasure on finding that she knew my name, for it was a sign that she took some interest in me. But in my humility I was frank with her.
“Don’t call me that, for I’m not of noble birth. In my own language the name is Karvajalka, and it belonged to my foster mother, who died long ago. She gave it to me out of pity, because I never knew who my father was. But I’m not quite penniless, nor without education, for I have studied at several learned universities. You would give me most pleasure by calling me simply Michael, the pilgrim.”
“Very well,” she assented cordially. “And you must call me Giulia, without asking about my family or my father’s name, or even my birthplace. Such questions would only revive painful memories for me.”
“Giulia,” I asked her at once, “why do you veil your face, when both the sound of your voice and the gold of your hair hint at its beauty? Is it to prevent the thoughts of us weak men from straying into forbidden paths?”
But at these indiscreet words she sighed deeply, as if I had inflicted a mortal wound, turned her back upon me, and began to sob. In deep dismay I stammered apologies and assured her that I would die rather than cause her the least distress.
When she had wiped her eyes under cover of the veil she turned to me again and said, “Pilgrim Michael, just as one man bears a cross upon his back, and another hangs iron fetters upon his limbs, so have I sworn never to show my face to a stranger in the course of this voyage. Never ask me to uncover it, for such a request could only increase the burden God has laid upon me from birth.”
She said this so gravely that I was deeply moved. Seizing her hand I kissed it and gave my solemn promise never to tempt her to the breaking of her vow. I then asked her to take a cup of sweet malmsey with me in all propriety, from a cask which I had brought on board. After some modest hesitation she accepted on condition that her old nurse might be of our company, for fear of ill-natured talk. We therefore drank together from my silver goblet, and as we passed this from one to the other, the light touch of her hand sent a thrill through my body. She on her part offered me sweetmeats, wrapped in silk in the Turkish fashion. She would have given some to my dog, but Rael was waging war below against the rats, and so Andy joined us instead and to my satisfaction engaged the serving woman in animated conversation.
When we had been drinking for some time, Giulia’s nurse Johanna began to regale Andy with questionable stories of priests and monks, and I too ventured to entertain Giulia with a gallant anecdote or two. She was in no way offended, but laughed her silvery laugh and under cover of darkness let her hand rest more than once on my wrist or knee. So we continued until far into the night, while the dark seas sighed around us, and the heavens, filled with the silver dust of stars, soared in splendor overhead.
Andy took advantage of our new acquaintance by setting Johanna to mending our clothes, and we also pooled our provisions. The garrulous nurse at once took possession of the ship’s galley and thenceforth cooked for us, for we should otherwise have fallen sick, as many other pilgrims did, from the wretched fare provided. But Andy was beginning to observe me carefully, and at length he said to me in a tone of warning, “Michael, I’m an ignorant man and simpler minded than yourself, as you have all too often remarked. But what do we know of this Giulia and her companion? Johanna’s conversation is better suited to a brothel keeper than to a decent woman, and Giulia hides her face in so sinister a manner that even the crew are uneasy. So be careful, Michael, lest one fine day you should discover a crooked nose behind that veil.”
His words cut me to the heart, and I wished to hear no more talk of crooked noses, and so I rebuked him for his suspicions. Next day we sighted the southern point of Morea, now held by the Turks. The weather conditions and the treacherous currents of these waters compelled our convoy to make for the sheltering harbor of the island of Cerigo, which was defended by a Venetian garrison. There we cast anchor, to wait for a favorable wind. No sooner had we done this, however, than our escorting war galley put to sea again in pursuit of a suspect sail or two that had just appeared on the horizon. For in these waters, Dalmatian and African pirate vessels were often known to lurk. Rowing boats swarmed about the pilgrim ship, offering fresh meat, bread, and fruit for sale, and the captain sent our own boat ashore for water, being unable to berth alongside the quay without paying harbor dues.
Brother Jehan, a fanatical monk of our company, told us that the island of Cerigo lay under a curse. It was here, he said, that one of the goddesses of the idolatrous Greeks was born. The pock-marked captain bore him out in this and declared that the ruins of the palace of Menelaus, the unhappy king of Sparta, were still to be seen here. His wife Helen had inherited her disastrous beauty from the goddess who had been born of the foam on the shores of the island. Forgetful of conjugal duty, this Helen had eloped with a divinely handsome youth and thus brought about the terrible Trojan War. I understood from the captain that it was the goddess Aphrodite who had been born off this island, which the ancient Greeks called Cytherea, but I found it hard to understand why the loveliest of all pagan deities had chosen this bleak, rocky, inaccessible isle for her birthplace.
I was therefore filled with a burning desire to go ashore and contemplate the relics of a former age, and discover whether indeed there were any grounds for the tales the ancient Greeks had told. And when I had related to Giulia all I could remember of Aphrodite’s birth, Paris’s golden apple, and Helen’s unlawful love, I found no difficulty in persuading her to accompany me. Her curiosity was, if possible, more intense than my own thirst for knowledge.