The Mongoliad: Book Two
Neal Stephenson & Erik Bear & Greg Bear & Joseph Brassey & Nicole Galland & Cooper Moo & Mark Teppo
Dominus det tibi pacem.
—personal greeting of Francis of Assisi
Verna, 1224
The oratory and two other buildings of the hermitage were built along a ridge of mottled rock near the peak of La Verna. The upthrust of smooth basalt served as the back wall for one of the two dormitories. A small garden was delineated by a hedge of jumbled stones, a makeshift barrier that mainly served to keep the capricious wind from stealing the soil. Several goats and chickens wandered aimlessly about the grounds—the goats, with their thick coats, were not terribly disturbed by the wind that blew through the rocky terrain of the mountain top.
The hermitage was home to a half-dozen lay brothers of the Ordo Fratrum Minorum—Fratricelli, as they referred to themselves. The mountain had been a gift from the Count of Chiusi, who had, some years prior, been witness to one of the spontaneous sermons offered by the titular head of the order, Francis of Assisi. So impressed by Francis’s rhetoric, he had bequeathed the territory on the spot. It is a barren place, La Verna, he had said to Francis, and once you climb past the thick forest that cloaks the lower portion of the mountain, there is little to sustain a man among the naked rocks of the peak.
To many, this gift would have been an insulting bequest, but Francis of Assisi and his Fratricelli had a relationship with God that eschewed property and goods—in that sense, the hermitage atop La Verna suited them perfectly. Other than the buildings themselves, which had been constructed by local tradesmen at the command of the count, there was nothing of value atop the mountain. The view—a dizzying panoramic of the Tuscan countryside—was impressive, and a constant reminder of the sublime beauty of God’s handiwork, but it was ephemeral. Pilgrims marveled at the vista, and some even attempted to capture the enormity of the landscape in song and art, but for the local people who lived down in the valley, a hike to the top of La Verna did not aid them in their daily labors. They might return refreshed of spirit, but their hands would be empty. Unlike the Fratricelli, they did not seek out such austerity; rather, they struggled every day to escape from it.
The Fratricelli did not go down into the valley very often, nor did many visitors brave the long hike. The only one who came with some regularity was Piro, a wiry goat herder who habitually brought a meager assortment of supplies. The odd time when Piro brought someone else with him was a cause for celebration among the lay brothers. Simply because the monks eschewed owning property and goods did not mean they did not enjoy a decent meal now and again, and an increase in visitors meant a commensurate increase in fresh supplies from the village below.
There were several holy days that the monks celebrated, and around those days, the Fratricelli looked forward to Piro’s visit. On the morning before the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, the monks began to find excuses to wander close to the old pine tree that clung to the edge of the bluff. The upper half of the tree had been blasted by lightning years before the monks had arrived, and it had never offered them any shade, but it was both a notable landmark and a convenient vantage point from which to observe the trail.
Brother Leo, having been at the hermitage since its buildings had been erected, no longer paid much attention to the younger brothers’ eagerness, but on this warm September morning as he worked the hard scrabble of the garden, he gradually realized all of the monks were clustered around the tree. Brother Leo set aside his hoe and joined the group, where he learned not only had Piro been sighted, but that he had a companion. The monks were engaged in a frenzy of speculation as to the identity of the other visitor. Listening to them, Brother Leo was reminded of the flocks of starlings that used to chatter in the shrubs around the decrepit old building near the Rivo Torto, where he had first become one of Francis’s followers.
The sharp-eyed lay brothers—Cotsa and Nestor—had already determined that both pilgrims carried satchels.
Brother Leo listened to the prattle of the others with detached amusement. He had grown accustomed to the serenity afforded by the seclusion of the hermitage; he did not yearn as readily as these youngsters for these passing dalliances with the decadences of civilization. Most of the lay brothers had only been following the letter of Brother Francis’s Rule for less than a season. The mystery of an unexpected visitor—and the possibility of extra rations!—made them unbecomingly giddy. He could not fault them, however; he remembered the first few years in the order—back before it had been officially recognized by the Pope—and how any respite from strict piety was eagerly embraced.
“There,” said Brother Cotsa. The tall monk pointed over the heads of the others, and all chatter ceased as the Fratricelli turned their collective attention to the path.