Quest of Hope(172)
At Anoush’s insistence, Vincenzo charitably pronounced the man’s sins forgiven in heaven and remitted on earth. The priest let his words ring with the authority of the Church, but Heinrich’s heart was now cold to things of the order. To the baker of Weyer, it—like he—had failed.
With a bow and a final mumble Vincenzo disappeared from the nave, leaving Anoush a few final moments with her friend. Heinrich was sullen, though he did not complain of his unhappiness. He quietly slipped away from Anoush to the crypt below the altar, where he stood before his mother’s medallion. The relic had been draped gracefully over the neck of an olive-wood crucifix standing alongside a small painting of the Virgin. The man knelt alone in the candlelit chamber and recalled many moments of his former times. It was a bittersweet respite. Suddenly weary of such recollections, he sighed, then rejoined Anoush. He wrapped an arm lightly around her frail shoulders and bowed his head.
Anoush stood by her weary friend and would have stayed there all the day had not she heard the man draw a deep breath. She knew the time had come. She turned him toward her face and bade him to kneel. She laid her hands gently on his head and smiled. “Ah, dear, dear Heinrich. I shall pray you fly free from your cocoon.” She smiled tenderly. “In the meanwhile, I have stuffed your satchel heavy with cheese and fruit, some dried fish and vegetables pulled by my own hand. The children have stuffed your rucksack with bread and some preserves.” She stopped to fight back tears.
“Now, if you would allow, I should like to send you with my blessing.” The wise woman closed her eyes and tilted her head upward. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Attend to my cry: for I have been brought low indeed. Deliver me from my persecutors; for they are stronger than I. Lead my soul out of prison, that I may praise Thy name.” Her eyes blurred and her voice trembled. She embraced Heinrich, then walked him to the door.
Heinrich could barely speak. “I… shall always remember you, Sister Anoush. You saved my life; please pray for my soul and that of mine household.”
Anoush nodded, unable to utter a sound.
“And I shall think of you always and of what you taught me … and of this mosaic.” Heinrich turned to gaze upon the sparkling field of flowers one last time. He embraced the woman, then turned quickly away.
The man hurried for the door, but before he reached it he heard the old saint’s trembling voice calling after him. “I shall lift up mine eyes unto the mountains, from where shall my help come? Mine help comes from the Lord God, who made heaven and earth. To you, O God, I lift up mine eyes to you who are enthroned above the sun. As the eyes of servants look to the hand of the master, so our eyes look to the Lord until he is gracious unto us.”
Heinrich could not look back. His eye was blurred and his heart was filled with grief; he would never see the good woman again. Yet leave he must. Confused and ashamed, he was too weary to think. No longer could he weigh the perils of his soul, nor consider his plight. He needed to go home.
Heinrich chose a circuitous route out of the city in order to linger along the shores of the Tiber River one last time. He arrived at its mucky banks sometime past sext and paused to watch the bluishgreen waters ease through its wide bends. He set his back against a thick, scaly-trunked pine and stared into the patches of seaweed and the scattered white rocks along the river’s muddy bottom. “What tales those rocks could tell,” he mused.
Heinrich stood and followed the Tiber northward, past the bridge leading to the ancient, round fortress known as the Castel Sant’Angelo. The man hastened along his route, past scurrying clerics and their acolytes, merchants, pilgrims, men-at-arms, misfits, castoffs, fugitives, and beggars. The sunbaked brick and broken marble of a former time now barely drew his notice, for he began to dream of the spruce-scented air of his own northern forests.
He hurried by the home-fortresses of Rome’s elite—the walled villas guarded by well-armed soldiers as if they were miniature empires in danger of a siege. He passed churches and abandoned temples, gardens and neglected orchards. At last Heinrich arrived at the Porta Flaminia, the northern gate in Aurelian’s ancient wall. He paused for barely a moment and gave one final look to the tile-roofed city. He wiped the sweat gathered across his brow, then shook his head and drew a deep breath.
Heinrich of Weyer was now thirty-eight years old. Most of his generation had passed into their graves, but those who yet lived were now likely to survive another seven or even ten years, and a few fortunates, like dear Anoush, might live three score and ten or beyond. Thanks to the old nun, the baker had regained much of his former bulk and he now walked with a healthy stride. Remarkably, he still retained a good deal of the red in his hair, though his freshly trimmed beard was nearly all gray. His shoulders were thick again and broad. His face was full, even fleshy, and his blue eye keen. His back was straight and his legs muscular. With his dagger in his belt, a patch over his right eye, and a stump for a left arm, fellow travelers were apt to keep a wary distance. Despite his physical health, however, the man’s mood was still somber and devoid of hope.