Текст книги "Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad"

Автор книги: Mark Teppo

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Mark Teppo
Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad

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 mountaintop.

The hermitage was home to a half dozen lay brothers of the Ordo Fratrum Minorum – Fraticelli, 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 Fraticelli 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 Fraticelli, they did not seek out such austerity; rather, they struggled every day to escape from it.

The Fraticelli 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 goatherd 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 Fraticelli 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 a hardscrabble area 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 that 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 Fraticelli turned their collective attention to the path.

Piro emerged from the cleft first, and he smiled and waved at the sight of the clustered monks. “Ho, Piro,” Cotsa called down to him, and Brother Leo frowned at his lay brother’s casual disregard for the order’s traditional greeting. Some of the others shouted down to the pair as well, asking questions that could not be readily answered before the two men arrived at the hermitage.

The stranger paused as he emerged from the rocky passage, taking a moment to stare up at the monks. A large hat, floppy from age and the heat, covered his head, and his tunic and pants were equally simple and unadorned. His boots were worn but solid – well-formed to his feet and legs. The man carried a sword on a baldric, and he stood with the practiced ease of a man used to the presence of a scabbard against his hip. His skin was darker than Brother Leo's, and his face was adorned with a neatly trimmed beard. Brother Leo estimated he had not seen more than two dozen winters, but there was a cant to his carriage that suggested he carried both wisdom and pain beyond his years.

“May the Lord give you peace,” Brother Leo called out to the stranger in Latin. He glared at the Fraticelli next to him, silently admonishing them for their failed courtesy.

The stranger looked up, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “And may peace be upon you as well,” he replied.

Brother Leo scratched the side of his neck. The man had replied quickly and surely – his Latin graceful, yet touched with an accent Brother Leo could not place. He spoke as if the greeting of the Ordo Fratrum Minorum was familiar, but his response was not quite in keeping with tradition.

Piro reached the plateau and dumped his satchel on the dusty ground. “Ho, holy men,” the young goatherd called out. “I bring one of your brothers.”

“One of us?” Brother Mante asked. He was the tallest of the group, and oftentimes his height made him the spokesperson. “How can that be, Piro? None of us carry a sword.”

“He has” – Piro offered a steadying hand to his companion who was struggling with the last few steps up the steep path – “what do you call it?”

The young man seized the offered hand and hauled himself up. “An Ordo,” he explained. He fumbled with his satchel for a moment as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. “I am Raphael of Acre. Forgive my unexpected arrival. Piro here said he would show me the way, and it would appear that he did so. Quite successfully.” The young man was slightly out of breath, but he hid it well.

“Which order might you be a member of?” Brother Cotsa inquired, still brusque with an indelicacy born of excitement.

“Perhaps we might wait to interrogate our visitor until after he has rested from his climb,” Brother Leo pointed out, mortified by the lack of decorum on the part of his fellow Fraticelli.

“No, no. It’s fine,” the young man said. “You are the Ordo Fratrum Minorum, are you not? Followers of Francis of Assisi?” When several of the monks nodded in response, he continued, “I belong to the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae.”

“See?” Piro said, proud of his command of Latin. “ Ordo.”

“No, Piro,” Raphael said, laying a hand on his guide’s shoulder. “It’s not the same thing.” He looked apologetically at the monks. “I am sorry for the confusion. Piro has been very helpful, and I fear I may have inadvertently taken advantage of his enthusiasm.”

“ Milites,” Brother Leo explained to Piro. “It means fighting men – soldiers.” He translated the name. “Knights of the Virgin Defender,” he said, pointing at the blade hanging off Raphael’s hip. “We are not Crusaders. We have no use for a sharp tool such as that.”

Piro scratched his head. “Crusader?” he asked, jerking a thumb at Raphael.

“The Fifth?” Brother Mante blurted out.

“Aye,” Raphael said. “That is the one.”

The last Crusade, the Fifth, had ended a scant few years earlier. Already the word from Rome was that it had been a failure and that another would be called soon. Rome had no appetite for the continued presence of Muslim infidels in the Levant. Raphael’s acknowledgment released a flood of questions from the monks, and even Brother Leo found himself leaning forward to hear the young man’s answers. The Fifth Crusade! Could he have been in Egypt at the same time as…?

Taken aback by the enthusiasm of the Fraticelli, Raphael held up his hands to quell the torrent of voices. “Yes,” he said, ducking his head in mild embarrassment at the mix of confusion and fascination offered by the group of monks. “Yes, I was at Damietta,” he admitted. “I was there when Francis came on his mission to convert the Sultan, Al-Kamil.”

DAMIETTA, 1218

“Pull!”

The crier was a haggard Frisian named Edzard, a bald man with a tangled beard and a voice that reminded Raphael of surf battering against a cliff. He limped, and sitting on a horse pained him, but aboard a ship, he moved with a supple grace. He stalked up and down the line of the massive raft, howling at the men.

“Don’t stop, you miserable sons of tavern wenches,” Edzard shouted at them. “This river hates you. The infidels hate you. God even hates you for being weak. Pull!”

The company – three hundred strong, a mixture of Frisian Crusaders, Templars, Hospitallers, and Shield-Brethren – huddled beneath a canopy of waterlogged skins, their only protection from the Greek fire hurled at them from the walls of Damietta. Their vessel, a ponderous construct created by lashing two boats together, moved sluggishly in the violent waters of the turbulent Nile. The sheer size and weight of their floating siege tower was the only reason the river had not already claimed them.

The city of Damietta sprawled to the east of the eastern fork of the Nile. Seizing the city was a critical goal in the conquest of Egypt – it would give the Crusaders a much-needed stronghold in Muslim territory – but the assault was complicated by the difficult terrain that surrounded the city. From the north, east, and south, Damietta was protected by the sprawling saltwater lagoon of Lake Manzala – an impenetrable maze of shallow pools and shifting mud. Attacking from the west was the most prudent route, but any force had to cross the Nile in order to assault the thick walls. In the past six weeks, the river had gone from a turbid impediment to an inchoate elemental fury.

The Crusaders were not without means. They had crossed the Mediterranean to assemble an army on Egyptian sand, and they had a number of boats at their disposal. The captains of the boats were loath to brave the river, though, for not only was the channel treacherous and mercurial, but they also had to weather a storm of stones and fire from the mangonels and trebuchets atop the walls of Damietta.

As a final deterrent to any crossing, the Muslims filled the river with a swarm of their own rafts and boats and barges. This argosy was restrained by a number of heavy chains strung from the walls of the city to the foundation stones of a narrow tower that squatted on a spike of rock jutting from the river. The islet stood close to the western shore, though not close enough to effect a crossing from the western bank. The only way to reach the tower was by boat.

The Crusaders had already lost several ships in an effort to storm the river-based citadel. The boats were too exposed out on the treacherous river as they struggled to maneuver into a position where they could mount an assault. The defenders of the tower had a ready supply of Greek fire, and the catapults atop Damietta’s walls had a seemingly endless supply of heavy rocks.

After battering themselves against the stronghold for two months, the Crusaders had finally devised a new solution – one that was either more catastrophically foolhardy than their previous efforts or a stroke of divine inspiration.

The floating siege tower had been the idea of Oliver of Paderborn – a slender man who was more a scholar than a soldier. He had been quietly observing and recording the previous efforts, and it was his opinion that the crux of the Crusaders’ trouble was the upper level of the tower. When the boats off-loaded their assault force at the base, the defenders simply poured Greek fire and a rain of arrows on the men below. In order to give the men on the ground a chance, the Crusaders had to take the upper floor first. Oliver’s solution was a two-decked raft – a floating siege tower that could be grounded against the islet. The force on the upper deck could lower a makeshift bridge and attack the battlements directly.

“Port oars back!” Edzard screamed, and the men on that side strained with all their collective might to shift the boat. They were floating sideways in the river, a wallowing pig carcass caught in the heavy rush of the Nile. They had to get the boat turned or the bridge on the upper deck would not reach the tower. And in order to do that, they had to hit the tiny spire of rock head-on; otherwise, Oliver’s design would be a deathtrap. Those who weren’t burned outright by the Muslim’s liquid fire would likely drown in the raging river.

The last time Raphael had been in water this tempestuous had been during his order’s initiation trial. The Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, the infamous Shield-Brethren, remembered their Grecian origins. They still held dear the symbol of the shield and the goddess whom they protected with the same. When the young initiates were ready to prove themselves worthy, they were taken down into the stone caves beneath Petraathen, the order’s mountainous fortress. Handed an aspis – the heavy shield of their forebears – and directed to swim in a swift underground river, they were presented with a choice.

The ones who chose swiftly and without fear became knights of the order.

Many of those who failed to decide drowned. A stern reminder of the swift brutality of the battlefield.

Raphael and two dozen of his fellow Shield-Brethren had been chosen to lead the initial assault on the top of the tower. As soon as their floating barge struck the islet, the pair in front were to cut the ropes holding the bridge upright. The bridge was a series of planks lashed together. Two men, crowded together, could go abreast. They would have very little room to swing their swords. Once the boat grounded against the islet, they would have to rush across the bridge quickly. They had to reach the tower before the defenders could knock the bridge away. Or burn it.

There were gaps in the hide cover on either side of the bridge, and as the barge turned laboriously in the river, Raphael saw the mottled stone of the tower swing by.

The Templar and Hospitaller commanders had argued with Calpurnius, the master of the Shield-Brethren company, as to the membership of the team that would lead the upper-floor assault. Calpurnius had listened calmly to both men’s arguments and then asked one question. “There will be no horses on this boat. How will your knights fight?”

Edzard screamed at the men on the starboard side, threatening to throw them overboard if they didn’t match the pace of the port team.

The man crouching next to Raphael shivered and looked like he was about to vomit. His name was Eptor and he was a year younger than Raphael. A farmer’s son, his family lived less than a day’s travel from Petraathen, the stronghold of the Shield-Brethren. He, Raphael, and a dozen others in this company had all taken their oaths together. The Fifth Crusade was their first fielding as knights of the order.

In addition to the sword and shield carried by each of the Shield-Brethren, Eptor had a flail to which he had added several extra lengths of chain, as if to mirror the chains that spanned the river. It was a farmer’s weapon, more useful for threshing grain than killing infidels, and Raphael was more nervous about being struck by an errant chain than a Muslim sword. Eptor clung to it, though, like a child hanging onto a protective totem.

The boat swung back to port, and the stone wall of the tower hove into view once more. The barge shuddered as the Nile lifted the heavy boat and hurled it directly at the tower.

Calpurnius had blessed each one of the Shield-Brethren, loudly proclaiming that God would protect each of them from the arrows and stones of the Muslim infidels. As he had clasped each man to his chest, he had whispered a private evocation of the Virgin in their ears. She will be waiting for you, he had said. As she does all of those who take up arms in her name.

The boat quivered beneath them like a horse about to expire. Overhead, something struck the hide roof, and the water-soaked leather hissed and steamed. A roaring noise like the howl of angry demons made the men flinch, and long black fingers of ash began to smear through the protective cover.

Eptor started to moan, his face slick with sweat.

Raphael shook his head, trying to catch the other man’s gaze. Eptor, caught up in the shame of his terror, refused to look at Raphael.

Raphael grabbed the chain of the other man’s maille and hauled him close. They were going to cross the bridge together. He needed Eptor to not panic. As the hide roof began to smoke and crumble to fiery ash, he put his mouth close to Eptor’s ear and began to shout the Virgin’s Prayer.

The deck lurched beneath them as the boat collided with the rocky spur that supported the chain tower. Wood splintered far beneath them, and the tenor of the river changed as water began rushing into the shattered hull. “Attack!” Edzard screamed.

The ropes holding the bridge were cut. The narrow crossing fell, bouncing as its end collided with the rough ramparts of the tower. The men surged forward, eager to cross the exposed bridge.

There was no more time for prayer.

Take up your arms, my brothers, and fight.

She will be waiting for us.

VERNA, 1224

Raphael’s admission of being in Egypt did little to diminish the lay brothers’ enthusiasm. Welcoming the young man as an honored guest, they practically dragged him to the oratory, where he couldn’t escape their queries. Initially reticent to talk of his experiences in Egypt, Raphael finally relented after some earnest coaxing from Piro and the younger men. At first he spoke hesitantly, clearly having trouble settling on a story, but after a few minutes of haphazard storytelling, he fell into an oft-told tale. He spoke plainly and easily, with a natural oratorical grace that reminded Brother Leo of a young Brother Francis.

Brother Leo had at first assumed Raphael to be nothing more than an itinerant student, a minor son of a wealthy Ghibelline family from Arezzo who had joined one of the military orders. After listening to Raphael speak, Brother Leo was struck by the similarity between who this boy had become and who Brother Francis might have been. Francis, eager to wear the mantle of chivalrous knighthood, had taken up arms along with many other sons of Assisi against Perugia. When the battle had been lost at Collestrada, Francis had been captured and held for ransom – a captivity that was to last a year. If God had not chosen Francis, would he have become like this man? Brother Leo wondered.

“This fire you speak of,” Brother Cotsa asked. “Greek fire. What is it?”

“It is an alchemical mystery,” Raphael explained. “It is water that burns. It was the Byzantines, I believe, who mastered it first. They used it against the Persian Empire, and since then their alchemists have been attempting to create their own version. Naft, they call it. They put the liquid in a flask and wrap the flask in leather and cloth, which they set alight. The mangonel hurls these flaming flasks with enough force that they shatter upon impact, spreading a large wave of burning liquid.” He held up his hands as if he were cradling a skull. “Something not much larger than this” – he spread his arms, indicating the sparse space of the oratory – “and…” He faltered, suddenly at a loss for words, realizing what he was implying with his gesture.

This entire room, Brother Leo realized, filled with fire. “Let us speak no more of these atrocities of war,” he interjected quickly. He fumbled for the wooden cross attached to the loose strands of cord around his neck.

He said this more for the benefit of the others, but it was clear that his words broke through whatever spell had come over the young man in the telling of his tale. “I am sorry,” Raphael stuttered suddenly. “I…That is not why I came here.” His eyes widened as he seemed to realize how small the oratory was, how hemmed in he was by the others. The frightened face of a trapped animal.

Brother Leo shoved his way through the crowd and inserted himself between Raphael and the lay brothers. “Enough,” he said. “We have been neglectful in our hospitality. Did our guests not bring victuals? We should investigate as to the possibility of a bottle of wine. And some cheeses perhaps. Those would be a proper cause for celebration, especially in this house of God.” He glared at Cotsa and Mante, the two who had been most vocal in their desire to hear the young knight’s stories.

Brother Mante was already fleeing for the door, Piro at his heels, eager to retrieve the forgotten satchels. The other lay brothers nervously made the sign of the cross as they tried to make themselves less noticeable to Brother Leo’s baleful eye. He was not without fault, he knew. He too had been caught up by the young knight’s tale.

He turned and sat down heavily next to Raphael on the rough-hewn bench that served as the room’s pulpit. “I have been a Fraticelli, a lesser brother, for many years,” he said, “and I have lived here since this oratory was first built. I should be more accustomed to the life I have chosen for myself – for the devotion I have given myself over to.” He smiled at the contrite man sitting next to him, a fatherly smile meant to reassure and comfort. “But, as God continues to remind me – to remind each of us – we remain fallible, easily led astray. We crave the company of others. We delight in stories of outrageous adventure.” He shook his head. “We forget the burden laid upon those who tell such stories.”

Raphael said nothing. His hands fumbled over each other, and more than once his right hand strayed toward the hilt of his sword.

What atrocities has this young man experienced? Brother Leo wondered. Brother Francis had railed many times about the lack of faith in those who sent young men to die in Crusades. Are we not shepherds of a flock? Francis had preached more than once since returning from the Levant. And does this flock not seek guidance and humility and sanctuary from us? This young man had been trained for war, and he had survived a Crusade known for its brutality. What was left? Brother Leo wondered.

“During the Crusade, I saw many whose faith in God failed to sustain them. On both sides,” Raphael said, his voice soft enough that Brother Leo had to lean his shoulder against the other man’s in order to make out the words. “Do you know the Muslims believe in the same God as Christians do? They have a different name for him – Allah.”

“I have heard Brother Francis speak of the Muslim beliefs,” Brother Leo replied, happy to be speaking of a different topic, even if it was one he was not well versed in. “I have not had the opportunity to study them myself,” he admitted.

“Do you know their traditional greeting?” Raphael put his hands together as he had when he had first arrived. “ As-Salamu ‘Alaykum,” he said. “It means ‘Peace be upon you.’ That is not dissimilar to the greeting you offered me. I have heard Brother Francis use it as well.”

“He finds it suits his mission – our mission – quite well,” Brother Leo said, nodding.

“My father was a German soldier,” Raphael said. “He fought for Frederick Barbarossa and went with him to the Holy Land for the Crusade. When Frederick died in the river crossing, my father completed the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He ended up fighting for King Richard of England against Saladin. However, when Richard returned to England, my father stayed in Acre. My mother told me he became a Knight of the Teutonic Order, but” – Raphael shrugged – “when I got old enough to ask of him, the master of the order claimed to not know my father.”

Brother Leo nodded. He continued to fiddle with his cross, playing the well-rehearsed role of listener.

“I grew up among Muslims,” Raphael continued, winding his way toward the confession he sought to make. “I played in the shadow of Muslim minarets and mosques. Their call to prayer – the azan – was as much a part of my childhood as the shouts of the merchants in the market or any oratory from a pulpit. More so, in fact, for it happened multiple times each day. How could I become a Christian warrior and treat these people as my lifelong enemy?”

Brother Leo shrugged as if the question was mysteriously opaque to him as well.

“When I was old enough to think I knew something of the world, I stowed away on a Venetian merchant ship. The captain found my audacity not without charm, and instead of hurling me into the Mediterranean, he put me to work. I stayed with him for several years, all the while yearning to set foot in Christendom – the land where my father had come from. Finally, when the ship was in Trieste for repairs, I managed to escape. I went north, hoping to find the Teutonic knights again. They had gone to Transylvania to fight against the hordes from the east – an enemy of which I had no knowledge. I could kill these infidels, I thought, because they were strange to me. During my journey, I fell in with a party traveling to Petraathen, the citadel of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. They took me in instead, and after years of training, I took their vows – pledging myself to serve the Order and the Virgin.”

Brother Mante returned, a bottle in either hand. “Ho,” he said. “A bounty has been provided.” Piro crowded behind him, carrying an armful of wooden cups.

As one of the bottles was opened and the cups were filled, Raphael sighed. “God is testing me, isn’t he?” he asked.

Brother Leo hesitated. God tests all of us was the thought he had, but he feared such language would not assuage the young man’s despair. He wished Brother Francis were with them. He would have words that would soothe the knight; he could tell Raphael of his own trials as a knight of Assisi. He had been commanded to fight against his own people when Assisi went to war with Perugia.

But Brother Leo had not had such experience. Nor, he quickly admitted to himself, will I ever know what it is like to take up a sword against another man. Battle changed men; that was part of why Francis preached so strenuously for nonviolent resolutions to conflict. Fighting your fellow man was bestial behavior – worse than beasts, in fact, for no wolf or bear assaulted kin for the specious reasons many nobleman and king clung to as their rationale for going to war.

He accepted a cup from Piro and swallowed a mouthful of the warm liquid, wincing at the bitterness of the young wine. “God is inexplicable,” he said, moving his tongue around his mouth in a vain effort to clear the taste. “He gives us both anger and compassion in equal portions,” he continued, trying to recall one of Brother Francis’s sermons. “Which of those two we choose to live our lives by is how we demonstrate whether we are worthy of His grace.”

Raphael had accepted a cup from Piro as well, but he rested it on his thigh as if he was unaware of its presence. Brother Leo could not entirely blame him. A cup of wine was a rare luxury at the hermitage, but even his dull palate could tell this wine could have benefited from another season in its barrel.

Patience was a virtue, especially among vintners.

Brother Leo waited for Raphael to continue. The young man’s burden had been carried a long distance, and it would take him a little while to shrug it off his shoulders.

“I killed men in Egypt,” Raphael said, finally stirring himself to speak again. “Shortly after I took my vows, we were ordered to join the Crusade to take Egypt from the Sultan, Saphadin. I went with my brothers, eager to make the right choice. I had been instructed, over and over again until it was the only thing I seemed to know, that the Virg – that God – wanted me to defend Him. I must uphold God’s law, and to do so, I must defeat those who wish to subvert His law. And that is what I did. I killed men in the name of God. Men, who, in another time and place, might have been kind to me as a child. Why were they my enemy? Because they believed that Jesus Christ was just a man and not the Son of God? Does that make them any less deserving of my compassion?”

Brother Leo tried to think of a suitable response, but nothing came to mind.

“I arrive at your sanctuary, and even though you do not know me, you greet me with affection. ‘May the Lord give you peace,’ is what you said.” Raphael twisted his body so that he could look at Brother Leo. “And how do I return your blessing? Your lay brothers ply me with requests to tell them of my exploits, and I agree to their request.” His voice was agitated, rising from deep within his throat. “The Crusade was a failure, and yet I am looked upon as a hero for what I did. I speak of my actions not with shame and revulsion but with pride. How can my spirit be so…so broken? How can a man suffer to live with this desire to please God – to train and take up arms in His name – and yet still live a compassionate life?”