Even more concerned—he’d never seen Marcoaldi demonstrate even the slightest degree of hesitancy—Thomas tightened his hand on the banker’s arm reassuringly. “He’s dead?”
Marcoaldi did not immediately reply. His eyes had taken on a peculiar look, as if he was staring back into the depths of his soul.
“He died in this pass, Brother Thomas.” Marcoaldi drew in a deep, shaky breath. “He slipped on the treacherous footing, and tumbled down a ravine. Thomas,” Marcoaldi lifted his eyes to gaze directly into Thomas’, “he was terribly injured by the fall, but not killed. We…we stood at the top of the cliff and listened to him call for hours, until night fell, and the ice moved in. He died alone in that ravine, Thomas. Alone. I could not reach him, and I could not aid or comfort him. He died alone.”
“Giulio, he died unshriven? Unconfessed? There was no priest with you?”
Marcoaldi did not reply, but his expression hardened from pain into bitterness.
Thomas shook his head slightly, appalled that Marcoaldi’s brother had died unconfessed.
“He must surely have gone to purgatory,” Thomas said quietly, almost to himself, then he spoke up. “But do not fear, my friend. Eventually the prayers of you and your family will ensure that he—”
Marcoaldi jerked his arm away from Thomas’ hand. “I do not want your pious babbling, priest! Guiseppi died screaming for me, and for his wife. He died alone. Alone! None of his family were with him! I care not that he went to the next life priestless, only that he died without those who loved him and could have comforted him!”
“But you should be concerned that—”
“I know my brother does not linger in your purgatory, brother. Guiseppi was a loving husband, father and brother. He dealt kindly and generously with all he met. He has gone to a far better place than your cursed purgatory!”
And with that Marcoaldi was gone, striding across to where the guides readied the oxen teams.
Thomas watched, grieving. Marcoaldi was lost himself if he did not pay more attention to his spiritual welfare, and if he persisted in his disbelief in purgatory. He was a lost soul, indeed, if he did not take more care.
Perhaps his brother Guiseppi had gone straight to hell if he had not confessed or made suitable penance for a lifetime of luxuriating in the sin of usury. Ah…these bankers…
Thomas sighed, and walked away. If a person filled his life with good works, penance for his inevitable sins, and confessed on his death bed, then death should be a joyous affair, and family members should rejoice that their loved one had passed from the vale of pain into an eternity spent with God and his saints.
A death like Guiseppi’s, alone, unconfessed, and probably, if he was like his younger brother, unrepentant, was the most miserable imaginable. Thomas hoped that eventually Marcoaldi would see the error of his ways, and spend what time was left to him in repentance and the practice of good works to negate the burden of his sins.
Thomas knew he would have to talk to Marcoaldi again…but best to leave it until they left the painful memories, and the harsh fears, of the Brenner Pass.
At mid-morning they set off in a single file, led by two of the guides, each leading a team of two oxen yoked to a cart.
Christoffel Bierman and Giulio Marcoaldi sat in the second of the carts, their faces resolutely looking back the way they had come, refusing to look at the chasm that fell away on the left of the trail. One of the guides had offered Thomas a ride in the cart as well, but he had refused, and the guide had walked away, a knowing smirk on his face.
Behind the carts walked Etienne Marcel, Johan Bierman, who had also refused to ride the carts, and Thomas himself. Behind them came more guides walking the blindfolded horses—Thomas could hear them snorting nervously, and occasionally heard the rattle of hooves on the trail as a horse misplaced a step and fought for its footing—and behind them came the guards, grouped in front of and behind Marcoaldi’s preciously laden packhorse, and then yet more blindfolded horses and their handlers.
For the first hour the way was not particularly treacherous, nor frightening. The trail wound about the eastern side of the pass, black rock rearing skyward into the cloud-shrouded mountaintops on each man’s right hand, and sliding into precipitous, misty depths on his left. There were small patches of snow-melt on the trail itself, but the footing was generally secure, and as long as he kept his eyes ahead, Thomas found he had no trouble.
Save for the black ill-temper of Marcoaldi’s gaze as it met his every so often.
Johan kept up a constant chatter, largely to tell Thomas just how difficult and frightening the way would become later in the day.
“And tomorrow,” he enthused at one point, “for we must spend tonight camped in the pass, you realise, a man must confront his worst fears, and conquer them, if he is to survive.”
“Then I admit I find myself more than slightly puzzled by your cheerfulness, Johan. Surely you regard the approaching dangers with dread?”
“Well, yes, but also with anticipation.” Johan threw a hand toward the mountains now emerging from the early morning mist and cloud. “I enjoy the thrill of danger, the race of my blood, and the rush of pride each time I manage to best my fear.”
Thomas was about to observe that Johan would be better served if he used this time of mortal danger to look to the health of his soul, but just at that moment he happened to lock eyes with Marcoaldi, and he closed his mouth.
Should he have better spent his time consoling the man’s lingering grief at the loss of his brother rather than preaching to him about the dangers of dying unconfessed?
And how could he castigate Johan when he had himself screamed with the joy and thrill of danger in the midst of battle?
But he was not that man now. He was Brother Thomas, and one of his duties in life was to guide the souls of the weak towards—
“Thomas,” Marcel said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “you are looking far too grim. There are dangers ahead, certainly, but there is also time enough for a smile and a jest occasionally. Hmm?”
And so Thomas wondered if he was too grim, but then he thought about the mission the archangel Michael had entrusted to him, and that made him even grimmer, and after a moment or two Marcel and Johan left him alone, and they walked forward silently into the pass.
By late morning Thomas was concentrating far more on keeping his footing than on introspection about the sins of his companions, or his doubts about his own ability to fight evil incarnate. The way had slowly, so imperceptibly that Thomas was hardly aware of it, become so treacherous that he now understood why the passage through the Brenner was regarded with so much fear by most travellers.
The path that clung to the cliff face not only became much narrower, scarcely more than an arm’s width—the carts ahead seemed to spend more time with their left wheels hanging over the precipice than on the trail—but it also began to tilt on a frightening angle towards the precipice. Thomas found himself clinging to the rock wall on his right with one hand, while keeping his left splayed out to aid his balance.
Small rivulets of ice-melt running down the cliff face made the going deadly—they not only made the footing slippery, but they had gouged out weaknesses in the path, so that rocks, and occasionally, large sections of footing, suddenly slid away, making men cry out with fear and hug the rock face, pleading to God and whatever saints they could remember to save them.
The horses, even blindfolded, were terrified. Thomas could hear their snorting and whinnies above his own harsh breathing; underlaying the sounds of the horses’ fear were the murmured reassurances of the guides. Thomas had wondered previously why the mountain guides had bothered themselves with leading the horses when the task could have been given to the guards