_An open letter from Fra Tomasso d'Aquino of the Order of Preaching
Friars to the Christian sovereigns of Europe, from Orvieto, 7th day of
November A.D. 1263_
Let us leave these wild beasts, Tartars and Muslims alike, to devour
each other, that they may all be consumed and perish; and we, when
we proceed against the enemies of Christ who remain, will slay them
and cleanse the face of the earth, so that all the world will be
subject to the one Catholic Church and there be one Shepherd and one
fold.
* * * * *
When Simon and Friar Mathieu climbed the stone steps into Fra Tomasso's
cell, pushing up a trapdoor to enter, he was bent over a scroll. He held
the two rolled-up ends apart with his fingertips, and as he read he very
gently pushed down the bottom part of the roll, allowing the part he had
read to roll up. The scroll looked very old, and the Dominican friar
handled it as if it might fall apart in his hands.
He did not look up at his two visitors. His large head moved ever so
slightly from side to side as he scanned the lines of writing, and Simon
could hear his loud breathing just as he had a week ago in the
cathedral. Simon and Friar Mathieu stood quietly and waited for Fra
Tomasso to stop reading and notice them.
It had taken Friar Mathieu's Franciscan superiors a week of delicate
negotiations after Alain's funeral to arrange an audience with the
Dominican philosopher for Friar Mathieu and Simon. Simon prayed, feeling
the sweat break out on his forehead, that their intrusion would not
annoy Fra Tomasso. He desperately hoped that they could persuade him to
change his mind about the alliance.
It was really up to Friar Mathieu, he thought. That Simon could have any
effect on such a brilliant philosopher was unthinkable.
Simon noticed a single deep crease between the great Dominican's
eyebrows. His forehead bulged on either side of the crease, as if the
muscles that made him frown had grown from much exercise. The brows
themselves were so fair and sparse as to seem almost invisible.
Fra Tomasso laid a broad right hand on the scroll to hold it open,
picked up a feather pen with his left hand, dipped the sharpened tip
into a tiny ink jar, and began making small, rapid marks on a piece of
parchment. Simon watched with interest. Since his university days, he
rarely saw people reading and writing, and could not remember ever
seeing anyone write with his left hand. When the pen ran dry, Fra
Tomasso happened to glance up as he dipped it again.
"Dear Lord, forgive me," he said, his eyes round with surprise.
"Friends, I did not hear you enter. Please pardon my rudeness." Simon
was gratified to hear him speak French and impressed by his fluency.
"It is we who are guilty of rudeness, Fra Tomasso," said Friar Mathieu,
"for interrupting your work."
"My brothers in Christ are more important than books," said the stout
Dominican, gesturing to them to take seats on his bed.
His cell was a circular room occupying the top floor of a tower in the
compound that housed his order in Orvieto. The curved walls of the room
were painted as white as Fra Tomasso's robe. A black wooden cross
surmounted by a white ivory figure of Jesus hung over the bed. Fra
Tomasso sat, his chair hidden by his great bulk, with his back to a
window, at a large trestle table with stacks of books and boxes of
scrolls on either side of him. His bed was a wide, sturdy wooden
platform covered with a straw-filled mattress and a blanket the size of
a galley's sail. A giant could lie on that bed, Simon thought.
"I must admit this scroll is a great treasure, and I am reluctant to
tear my eyes from it," he said. "A hitherto lost treatise of Aristotle
on the composition and movements of the heavenly bodies. This copy might
be over six hundred years old. In Greek. You are familiar with _the_
philosopher?" He looked from Friar Mathieu to Simon eagerly.
"I did study for a year at Père Sorbonne's college in Paris, Your
Reverence," said Simon. "We read the works of several philosophers."
Fra Tomasso smiled indulgently. "I always refer to Aristotle as _the_
philosopher because I can learn more from him than from any other
ancient or modern thinker. Do you not agree, Reverend Father?" He
turned to Friar Mathieu. "Or are you, like so many of your fellow
Franciscans, uninterested in philosophy?"
_Oh, God, he scorns Franciscans_, thought Simon with dread. _We're sure
to fail._
"I truly would like to find the time for it," said Friar Mathieu,
unruffled. "But I seem to be always traveling."
Fra Tomasso nodded. "You and that merchant from Trebizond are the only
two Christians in Orvieto who have traveled among the Tartars. I found
your testimony at His Holiness's council quite fascinating."
"But not persuasive?" Friar Mathieu leaned forward intently.
Simon caught his breath. Fra Tomasso had given them an opening.
"I presumed that was why you had come to see me," said Fra Tomasso with
a self-satisfied smile. "Let me assure you, good friar and noble count,
that until a little over a week ago I had tried to keep to a strict
neutrality, feeling that in that way I could be more useful to His
Holiness. Even after hearing the Tartars condemn themselves out of their
own mouths at the Contessa di Monaldeschi's reception. But then I
changed my mind."
"Let me ask you a rather delicate question, Your Reverence," said Friar
Mathieu.
Fra Tomasso leaned back and rested his hands, fingers laced, on his huge
belly. "Any question at all."
"Did Cardinal de Verceuil's behavior toward you have anything to do with
your change of mind?"
The crease in the Dominican philosopher's forehead deepened. Simon
winced inwardly. What if, now, they had truly offended Fra Tomasso?
"Surely you do not suggest that I would let personal pique determine my
position on a matter so important to the future of Christendom?"
"I am not surprised, knowing Your Reverence's reputation, that you grasp
just how important the matter is," Friar Mathieu said.
Neatly sidestepping Fra Tomasso's question, Simon thought.
"Exactly. Thus it was that when Cardinal de Verceuil went to Fra
Augustino da Varda, my Superior General, demanding that he order me to
change my position on the Tartars, I realized it was time for me to come
to a conclusion."
"I made a terrible mistake," said Friar Mathieu as much to himself and
Simon as to Fra Tomasso. "May God forgive me."
"What mistake was that?" asked Fra Tomasso.
"Not trying to discuss this with Your Reverence myself, as I am doing
now. To be honest, I feared you would not care to meet with a poor
Franciscan."
"Again you do me an injustice," said Fra Tomasso. "_The_ philosopher
tells us that we acquire knowledge first of all through the senses.
Therefore, if you would know about something, ask of those who have seen
it firsthand."
"Then perhaps you have new questions," said Friar Mathieu.
Simon felt despair pressing on him like a mail shirt that was too heavy.
Fra Tomasso was a man whose whole life was argument. How could Friar
Mathieu hope to persuade him to change his mind about anything?
His chair creaking loudly, Fra Tomasso leaned forward and rested his
elbows on the table in front of him. "I am so sure of my conclusions
that I have written to Emperor Sigismund in Germany, King Boleslav in
Poland, and King Wenceslas in Hungary--all lands that have suffered from
the depredations of the Tartars, urging them to beg His Holiness to
repudiate this scheme that will bring the frontier of Tartary so much
closer to us. I have written to King Louis of France, your liege lord,
too, young Count de Gobignon, even though he is said to be eager for a
pact with the Tartars. Furthermore, Father da Varda is considering my
proposal that the Dominican order all over Christendom preach against an
alliance with the Tartars."
Hearing in Fra Tomasso's words the ruin of all his hopes, Simon could
not contain himself. He burst out. "_Why?_"
Fra Tomasso looked surprised, even a bit affronted. "For all the reasons
you heard in church last Friday. They are not simple savages, my young
friend. They are diabolical."
It was hopeless. Simon's heart sank lower and lower. The great
preacher's mind was made up.
"Yes, but, Your Reverence"--Simon felt driven by desperation to debate
with a man whom he knew was invincible in argument--"we all know of many
times when Christians and Saracens have been just as cruel."
Friar Mathieu gave a little grunt of agreement.
Fra Tomasso looked down at his thumbs, the tips pressed together as they
rested on his wide belly. There was a moment of silence. He was
thinking, Simon realized. Hardly ever had Simon seen a man stop to
think before speaking in an argument. He began to tremble inwardly,
expecting to be crushed.
Fra Tomasso raised a fat finger. "Yes, I know that Christian knights
have also committed barbarities. But they did so in mindless rage, and
afterward they were ashamed. Even the Mohammedan faith teaches the
Saracens to wage only just wars, to be compassionate, to spare the
innocent and helpless. I stipulate that neither Christians nor
Mohammedans live up to these laws. But they _profess_ them. The Tartars
have no such laws. In their bottomless ignorance they think that it is
_good_ to commit deeds of unimaginable horror, and they do it with
calculation. Exemplum: As David of Trebizond has told me, when they wipe
out the population of a city, they know there will be a few survivors.
So, weeks later, they return to the ruins when the remaining few people
have emerged from hiding, and they slaughter them all. That is the worst
sort of evil--evil done with utter deliberation."
_David of Trebizond, may he roast in hell!_ thought Simon.
"With respect, Your Reverence," said Friar Mathieu, "the Tartars have
lived isolated in their prairie homeland since the beginning of time.
But I beg of you to believe that they can be won to the mercy of Christ.
I have seen it. I have _done_ it."
_We are gaining ground_, Simon thought. If Fra Tomasso really could be
swayed by the testimony of a person who had seen with his own eyes, they
had a chance.
A hammering from beneath the floor made Simon start. Someone was
knocking on the trapdoor. Friar Mathieu nibbled at his mustache in
vexation while Fra Tomasso smiled broadly and called, "Come up."
The heavy door creaked upward, pushed by a hand in a white sleeve. A
shiny, tonsured scalp reflected the light from the tower window.
The young Dominican who emerged was almost too breathless to speak.
"Reverend Father! News from Bolsena! Un miracolo!"