Post #10.5, Thursday, July 9, 2020

Historical setting: 563 C.E., on the western shore of Gaul

         Nic has met an old friend, another who is retired from the Imperial Navy.

         “Hey, Brother Lazarus,” Nic calls me into the reunion. “This is Buff; he was once a rower for the fleet also!”

          “I just figured Old Nik was ready for dry dock when I saw his helmet here for trade.” Buff offers me his weapon’s hand for the handshake — gesture of peace. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Laz. If you’re his friend you’re my friend. And like they say, Mi casa, su casa.  I’m having a pig roast tonight. There is plenty for all.”

         He gives directions to Nic to find this great party in the wood.

         Nic is keeping a watchful eye on the maneuvers of small boats around the moorings. He points out to me that one such small boat was just lowered from one of the merchant ships at a mooring, and … He recommends we go to the wharf where the goods are stashed bound toward Hispania.

         Indeed, he meets with the captain and the mate of a ship bound for Iberia. He pays our passage, so we have assurance that we will be riding the next northeast wind across the wide Bay of Contabria to an Iberian port.

         Buff’s pig roast in the wood provides a welcome chance for Nic to see some of his old friends from his many years in the Navy. It gives me a bit of a view of a community I never knew existed. These older men are lone, like Nic, having no wives or families after all their years at the oars. I don’t think these veterans of the Navy have taken a vow, as one would find among monks. Rather their life pattern may have been something of the happenstance of years at the oars with so many ports and rarely a home.  (Footnote)

(Story continues Tuesday, July 14, 2020)

(Footnote) Fiction allows assumptions based on nothing more than logical conclusion. So this blogger concluded some who completed their years in the military might have been alone in those later years. But in our world of fingertip facts how can a blogwright resist scouring the internet for actual studies on the lives of ancient soldiers in retirement?  With less clarity for 6th century rowers, 110509.pdf was retrieved 2-26-2020: Scheidel, Walter, “Marriage, families, and survival in the Roman Imperial Army: demographic aspects Version 1.0” Princeton/Standford Working Papers in Classics, November 2005, Walter Scheidel. scheidel@standford.edu

Post #10.4, Wednesday, July 8, 2020

Historical setting: 563 C.E., on the western shore of Gaul

I climb the cliff alone for a vantage point for my prayers.

         Dear God, Please help me as I’m trying to loosen myself from deep prejudice I once thought was a virtue.  Amen.

         “…Perfect love casts out fear.” It serves me well in the practice of love to look instead for fear when I feel a need to identify a hurt as a hate. And most often it seems possible to dispel hatred by facing a fear.  But it’s quite another thing to let go of an obstinate valuing of this hurt, identifying myself as a hater (for me, of soldiers), as though hate were a virtue. It is maintaining an enemy, even when it is destructive to both the one who fears and the one who is feared. That’s what hatred must be: Hate is claiming as personal virtue, the ownership of fear.

         I promise again and again not to be one who could nurture hate. And yet, for centuries now, it’s been my habit when I am passed by on the road by plumes of glory pretending to be powerful, I draw my spit and spew it purposefully on the ground wherever I’ve seen the soldiers  pass. I relish the skill of targeting the spittle to make my statement, but always behind them so not to cause trouble. Now I’m suddenly aware that under each plume of glory is a human being – the hollow armor shields the heart of one whom God created and loves — the same kind of human creature as am I. First I argue by saying this man is nothing like me. I am good and beloved, and he has fallen under the imperial powers — sold out to the enemy. He is surely something other than my kind of being.

         Just now from this vantage point on the high cliff I see Nic near the market. Several other soldiers are milling through the merchandise.

         Dear God, forgive me for mistaking Nic for a Roman soldier. Or…         Maybe God is expecting me to notice a wider notion of “enemy love.”  Maybe God expects me to love the whole army of them, as though they were each God’s own beloved creation also. I swallow spit. Thank you God for Nic. Amen.

         One of them has picked up Nic’s helmet from the vendor’s table, then places it back as Nic also notices and is rushing toward this other old soldier.  They greet as friends. I had best go back now. My quietude is lost to spying on my new friend.

(Come again tomorrow)

Post #10.3, Tuesday, July 7, 2020

Historical setting: 563 C.E., on the western shore of Gaul

The vendor seems cautious about Nic’s helmet for trade. He’s noticing the grimy leather at the neck edge, the slight bend in the cheek plate and particularly, he frowns at the fade and wilt of the tattered plume. Nic yanks the plume from it’s fitting.

         “I choose to keep my plume of glory.” Nic announces.

         Then the vendor offers his assessment of the helmet.  “It’s very old, before the time of the emperor’s refurbishing of the troops.”

         “It was my father’s. It is hammered from bronze and inscribed with the flourishes of our tribe by the hand of a true artist. You don’t see this kind of workmanship in the Roman conscription helmets.”

         The vendor doesn’t argue. He asks what trade Nic wants for it.

Nic asks to see caplets and cloaks suitable for an Iberian journey in the summertime. The vendor presents an array of fabrics, and I am aware that Nic’s helmet was something of great value. Nic is not surprised. But clearly he is grieving this loss.

         Nic carefully chooses a caplet broad enough to span his shoulders even while wearing his iron shirt. It has lacing loops on the inside to secure a cloak under the caplet, in case he should choose to wear the cloak in the soldier’s style.

         My thoughts and my eyes are on Nic, feeling with him the grief of his sacrifice. He notices my concern and brushes it away with the quip. “To Old Nicodemus Jesus said, ‘ye must be born again!’ (Jn. 3:7 KJV)”

         Nic and the vendor bartered away his Roman cloak and shield, all the while the vendor eyed Nic’s chainmail and sword. The dagger was hidden away in his new pack. The trading ended this day with new britches and tunics for us both – the kinds of tunics with a bit of length to give us a look of scholarship or wisdom. And I now also have a girdle and a pack.

         And furthermore, my pack is large enough that I may carry a heavy load; for example, that weighty shirt of chainmail. Should I be walking a mile with a Roman soldier and I offer to carry his load the next mile. So we are both fit for travel and Nic still has his iron shirt and his sword.  As we are walking off the vendor shouts his “final offer” of a gold coin for the sword. Nic doesn’t turn back.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #10.2, Thursday, July 2, 2020

Historical setting: 563 C.E., on the western shore of Gaul

         It’s easy to identify when it is someone else’s random hate. But when it is my own, I have so little clarity. When I see the crazies of wrath in others I simply mouth the Christian slogans, “hate is not the opposite of love — fear is.” “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. (1st John 4:18)” But now my own taunting hatred of Roman soldiers needs the sermon. So what is my fear?

         My empathy offers excuse after all; it was the Roman military that executed Jesus. I saw it. I remember it. I was devastated by it. No wonder I want nothing of Roman soldiers. Yet I can see also that this soldier is my new brother in Christ, Nic.

         As I ponder a wrong in my own depths, Nic has been standing here next to me with his helmet tucked under his arm, starring across at the vendor of tattered war bronzes.

         “Brother Lazarus, I think I am ready to trade this now.  Why don’t you go on ahead and look at the fine tunics and girdles he is selling.  And they have britches there of finely knit wools. Go ahead and have a look at what you want me to trade.”

         “You should have a new cloak of your own.” I suggest. “One that is light in the day, and shields you from the sun and the wind, and at night is a comfort for you.”

         “It seems wrong,” Nic ponders his answer. “It seems wrong to trade a fine helmet for an old man’s cloak.”

         “Maybe you aren’t old enough for an old man’s cloak. Maybe you can choose something for a man of your age as you are now, just barely silvering. Maybe a caplet with a hood would suit you, so you wouldn’t think of the need for a helmet because the hood would save you from the wind and the sun? Let’s see what is over there.”

         Nic comes with me to the vendor’s booth and sets the helmet firmly on the counter.

         “For trade” he says.

         The vendor examines the helmet thoroughly and with a critical eye.

(Story continues Tuesday, July 7, 2020)

Post #10.1, Wednesday, July 1, 2020

Historical setting: 563 C.E., on the Western Shore of Gaul

Before we are in sight we can smell the fragrant cooking fires, the wafts of plenty along the pathways of these wharves. Everything that was taken from Constantia after the fire is relocated here in this place.  Ships of both navy and merchant are moored in the bay and on the quays merchants have their booths.

         I would’ve looked for someone to ask but Nic knows these landings on this edge of Gaul and he goes immediately to survey the wares and examine the heaps and roped bundles along one of the open wharves. He is looking for shipments that might be bound for Hispania; northern pelts and leathers, amphora and wood barrels of Gaulish wines and mead, things that are common here but valued more in warmer regions. He can guess by observing the cargo going we will find the ship to take us where we want to go. We do find the right cargo but there is no ship at this moment, so we’ll be watching for whatever merchant ship ties here and on-loads these heaps of goods. We will need to keep this place in our sight. Nic has the means now to pay for our stay at an inn with this view of the harbor. They have a sleeping floor in a loft for travelers. The main floor is an alehouse for any thirsty souls both traveled or stayed. Such are the comforts of plenty.

           From this distance at the Inn’s doorway Nic points out the merchant’s booth where trades happen with soldiers. In the display of wares hanging from the canopy over the bric-a-brac there are other worn and cast off military accoutrement. I know he has heard my prodding, and is imagining his own armor hanging there for sale — things his father wore after his tribe sided Roman; then for all the decades of his adult years these were the things that clad him also, with safety and identity. 

         Maybe I’m asking a large sacrifice of one simply willing to be my patron. I wonder if my anathema of every soldier is rooted in virtue? Am I driven by the cause of pacifism that Jesus taught, or am I simply rekindling my own warring prejudices against Rome?

         Dear God, Let me be thoughtful of this hard thing I may be asking of Nic — to give up his armor. Guide me, and lead me toward one day discovering wisdom. Amen.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #9.13, Tuesday, June 30, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

I know people move from one age to the next in slow stages, maybe with the exception of birth and death that always seem to take us by surprise. Yet, I guess I had been expecting Nic to step off the dromon and immediately transform his useful life as a Roman soldier into an imaginary image of an old and wealthy benefactor sponsoring this heretic.

         Dear God, thank you for giving me a gentle thought of forgiveness for Nic’s need to wear armor. Amen.

         “I didn’t mean to sound so much opposed to your armor. I can get used to it.”

         “Not to worry Brother Lazarus. I can see that these scarlet plumes and cape of old Rome make you uncomfortable. And now I hardly require a legionnaire’s shield to hang on the shipside. When we reach the market where I found your sandals I can trade these Roman accoutrements. They trade with the soldiers all the time and they will be glad to take these things that mark me as a soldier. We can get you your own pack then.  The leather worker there does fine work for the soldier’s trade.”

         “That is thoughtful of you, Nic. I have to admit I was bothered by the Roman Soldier style, even though you surely wear it well. So many years ago I was witness to a horrific execution of a dear friend by Roman soldiers, but perhaps now, even if you choose to wear your armor I may be able to forgive in my heart and one day make peace with my hate, simply by having another good friend who wore that same uniform.  It’s a hard lesson to let go of my old bias of hate but I need to do that just to set my heart right with God who loves everyone.”

         “It’s okay.  I will trade off the Roman gear.  But Brother Lazarus, you need to know since I was a young man with nearly ever step I’ve taken on land I’ve been clothed in the colors of Rome and looking out at the world through the window of soldier’s helmet. I don’t even know who I am now as this old and worn man mingling into the civilian milieu as though I were no one special. So you must become my shining reason now.”

         Dear God, help us not to fail at all the forgivenesses needed for friendship. Amen.

(Continues Wednesday, July 1)

Post #9.12, Thursday, June 25, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

         On this new day Nic and I are walking the seaside cliffs back the way he came just two days ago. We are going to a harbor that merchant ships frequent with the hope to find passage to Iberia.

         Nic provided me with leather sandals and a cloak of finely carded wool colored with a rich dyes. For as long as my memory reaches, which is really only back to the rescue in the woods by the River Loir, I have not had shoes or a cloak, so these fine things are a most welcome comfort.

         Nic still dresses in his tunic, heavy leather gambeson, shirt of mail, girdle with sword and dagger, wool bracca (britches) on his legs, laced over with the long tines of his Roman shoes. And he still has the Roman cloak of scarlet, the shield and the helmet. And now he carries a pack. Surely no arrows will pierce him, but it is a considerable weight for a man of age and I would guess a bit too warm even for summer in these northern reaches. What will he do in the sun’s heat in Hispania?

         I suggest. He argues. I accept my circumstance. My companion for this journey is an old soldier and so it is.  Or maybe he has someone waiting to receive this inheritance?

         “Have you a family, brothers perhaps, who may receive your father’s armor when you choose to pass it along?”

         “I was my father’s only child. My half brother wouldn’t care for my father’s gift.”

         “This cloak and shoes you have chosen for me are light and comfortable. Maybe when we find the marketplaces where the merchant ships land you will want to trade for new things for yourself as well.”

         “No.”

         “Very well.”

         It is a long and silent walk, and maybe I’m not even considering his comfort and well-being. Maybe I just don’t want to take a long journey by sea shoulder-to-shoulder with a Roman soldier of the exact variety that nailed Jesus to his death tree. But surely thinking of him, he isn’t safer this way. If he is thrown into the sea he will sink straight to the bottom in all this armor.

         Dear God, help me to be considerate of Nic’s need to dress as a soldier – whatever may be that need. Amen.

(Continues Tuesday, June 30 starting the next chapter, “The Soldier and the Jew”)

Post #9.11, Wednesday, June 24, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

         The guard at the garrison gate tells me the older soldier with the shirt of mail is staying here in the servant’s quarters of the officer’s barracks. He is not in his quarters just now. I can wait on this bench at the guard station.

         At this waking Nic has found me asleep on the bench. “Nic! My Brother, Nic, so sorry you caught me napping, I’m still in the habit of fourth watch. I meant to stay awake.”

         Time doesn’t mark our greeting hands, grins, this amazement from both that we could find one another again. Dear God, thank you.

         “I feared I would never see you again, Brother Lazarus! I wasn’t even sure you would get my message and know to come here; and then I learned the centurion was taking us on to a different port for my pay and exit because there was no more harbor here at Constantia. I had no idea how I would ever find you again.”

         “How did you come? I thought I was keeping careful watch at the old harbor.”

         “I came here by land. ‘tis a long walk on the cliffs above the beaches from the next town with a harbor.”

         “I’ll bet so.”

         Nic yammers on. “I got here yesterday and went straight to the church looking for the monk with a scrambled mind. But the priest said they had no monks at all, scrambled or sane, so I came back and slept on my worry. Then I realized God may be calling me to care for others, and I had so selfishly withdrawn the gift that the priest thought I was giving. So immediately, this morning I went to find the priest again, and give my true alms at the church. I waited what may have been an eternity at the church then the priest came up from the beach with a group of parishioners and orphans, singing and celebrating like they’d been to the next coming of Jesus! The priest said he recognized you, and sent you up here to find me.  Thank you Jesus!”

         So, this night our thanksgivings to God are aloud in antiphony. Nic is snoring before I even get to say, “And thank you for saving my feet for the new sandals I’ve been given this day. Amen.”

(So now what? Come again Thursday.)

Post #9.10, Tuesday, June 23, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

The priest might have met Nic last night, and it may be that Nic remembered his promise to be my sponsor, and that we would meet in Constantia. I asked Father Silas if he heard where the man was staying.

         “Funny, you ask how to find the man with the gift and not simply ask for the gift.” The priest is curious. “I realized after he left that you may actually be this Brother Lazarus he is seeking — ‘the monk with the scrambled mind.’ I simply hadn’t noticed you were a monk and that your mind was scrambled.”

         “When he met me I was tonsured as a monk. I was left by the roadside, naked and bleeding.  I still have memory only in glimpses. I don’t know what I had that was stolen and I have only moments of memory of a wife. There might be others who are waiting for me, but I don’t remember who they are or where they are. I think I was once in Iberia, so my hope is, if I return there I may remember more of this. Nic has offered to be my sponsor and take the journey with me. Did he happen to say where he could be found?”

         “He said he is staying at the garrison on the hill. But he was feeling doubtful he would find you because the ships of the fleet are no longer stopping here. He was going to continue his search so I don’t know how long he plans to wait here.”

         “Thank you Father Silas. Thank you so much!”

         Dear God, thank you.

         I guess my urgency to go to the garrison immediately was obvious. Father Silas told me to go on my way. He said there is already a plan to take the orphans to live with a family very soon and I need not worry for them.

         “Will they be able to come here to visit the graves?” I asked.

         “They will be no further than the church. Matthew is surely old enough to bring his brothers here, and of course, I will be glad to come with them if they ask.”

         “Of course.” Why would I worry over them? They have already spent a winter and trained the wild beasts to keep guard over them but we all know the ration of rotten roots is nearly gone and the children themselves will starve here. They have to go now.

         Dear God, stay close. Amen.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #9.9, Thursday, June 18, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

         Tentacles of light prod promise unto paths of bright day through treetops trumpeting the grand entrance of the sun.

         The children conclude their grief ritual as Father Silas leads six of his followers onto the beach. They come with baskets of bread and fishes, fruits, dried and fresh, and a block of cheese. They bring a skin of goat’s milk they say is for the “baby” but it is plenty for all. I know the children have had nothing like this for a very long time. One woman has an armload of little blankets and cloaks all knitted warm from wools.

         “She knits,” I’m told by Father Silas, “for her own lost children for whom she grieves. So giving her gift to others who grieve is a worthy bond.”

         I seem to be relegated cook for the group, so I start fanning embers to flame for the pot. The fire crackles to the music of the psalms sung at the shore. This is what the children practiced among themselves all through the night. They know this song. Dear God, let me savor this and truly, I do love you and yes, I will feed your lambs.  Amen.

         So we eat together and the talk is not of grief and poverty, but of the plenty, the love, the hopes and fearless prayer. Father Silas is clasping firmly onto every morsel of joy, smiling and wringing his hands together in unspoken but bold prayer of thanksgiving. He tells me of a man he met last night.

         “When I sent my gossip afloat into my parish to tell of the needs of these children people showed up with alms of plenty for these children. One man came who is a stranger to me, and when I saw his gift I thought surely this is the amazing and holy synchronicity of God at work, supplying even the need for a man’s sandals and cloak. I thought you would have these fine things given you in this celebration, but when I told him I knew of someone who could use his gifts, he withdrew them and told me his gift was only intended for a particular need. He said he was looking to give it to ‘a certain young monk with a scrambled mind.’ I told him we have no monks here at all. We are only a church with one priest assigned. So he took his gift and went away.”

         “Did he tell you where he was going?”

(Come back again, next Tuesday June 23)