Prologue
1660 A.D.
Jacob looked down at the bag sitting between his outstretched legs, the drawstring stretched fully open. The hardened bread had disappeared two days ago, but the corners of the bag still had crumbs of cheese and bread, together with lint and dust. He concentrated on the powder, wondering if bile would rise in his throat if he tried eating it. In the end, he decided it didn’t matter. Two days before, upon entering a deserted village, he had filled his water skin at the town well and taken a hefty drink. Within six hours he realized his mistake – the town well had obviously been ‘purified’ with cow dung, and the little he had previously eaten had come up in violent fits since then.
‘Dear Jesus, why was I sent here?’ he said to himself, as he had done a hundred times before. He looked around again, and could see smoke rising from a number of areas. The upper range of mountains where the source of the Coleroon river was found looked beautiful in the distance, but they might as well be a mirage to him, as the heat rising from the plains surrounding Kanakapura added to his torment. The heat was brutal, almost as bad as what he imagined hell to be. And then there were the people – somewhat less of a mass of humanity compared to Calcutta, but a dirty, impoverished, desperate and poor mass nonetheless. Fortunately, they recognized him as more of a beggar then they were, and usually left him alone.
He thought back to his assignment. After spending thirteen years in Gujarat teaching in the new school established there by his three cum pane[1], he was recalled in a terse note that included no specific details, and more importantly, enough money to charter a ship from the port in Jamnagar to infidel territory in Guraine[2], and from there, on the treacherous road that led to Jerusalem where the Superior General was now temporarily located. At first it seemed as if he had done something wrong, though he couldn’t fathom what, but the money quickly told him otherwise. He had never seen so much money, let alone have it in his possession. But that wasn’t the most notable thing – according to the note the request, if you could call it that, came from none less than the pope himself. Now, after four months of travelling and by the grace of Christ, he had made it without being robbed, only to receive more terse, cryptic instructions from the Superior.
“You are to seek out the temple of the Hindu abomination called Sita, located somewhere on the Coleroon river, and you are to search carefully for an object of great importance on or near the idol.”
If it weren’t for the years of respect beaten into him, he would have laughed. Instead, with bowed head, he quietly waited until the words ended and asked, “Superior, the river is long, and the area hostile to Christians. How will I be able to find this object?” What he really meant to say was how he would find it without being killed.
“You are to disguise yourself as a beggar. Your skin is well tanned, and you look somewhat like them. You speak the language well, do you not?” The Superior looked down on the kneeling Jesuit, waiting for confirmation.
“Well, I speak Hindi passably well, sir. But there are many languages...”
“Excellent!” the Superior interrupted, clearly not wanting to hear more. “Ask. Tell people you want to worship at Sita’s temple.” The Superior could see that he was troubled, and guessed as to the reason.
“Did not Abraham lie about his wife, calling her his sister? Did not David clothe himself in madness in the wilderness? You are on a mission for Christ. We chose you well.”
“Yes, Superior,” he replied. It was true, although Abraham’s wife was really a half sister, and so, it technically wasn’t a lie. However, Moses did lie when he told Pharaoh he wanted to take the Israelites away for three days. Walk like sheep among wolves, said Jesus.
“And the object I am looking for?”
“The object...is astounding, and of immense value to the church. Use any means necessary to acquire it, and once in your possession, return as quickly as possible with the item. Tell no one, not even the company. You are being sent on your own, and if stopped, your only response shall be that you are on a pilgrimage to worship at the Shrine of Sita on the Coleroon river. On your return, you are to say that you have seen the mercy of Sita and want to tell others about it. That is all.”
“But how will I recognize the object?” Jacob cried, trying hard to control his frustration amidst Superior’s shortening patience.
Superior sighed. “I was told that if you look into the abomination’s eyes, she will tell you. Now go!”
He got up and as he turned to leave, he spied a cloaked figure standing in the shadows of Superior General’s meeting room. He hadn’t noticed him before, and felt somewhat embarrassed at his outburst now that he knew the man had been watching. Jacob sighed and continued walking, knowing there was nothing he could do. Although the figure was wearing the cloak of a monk with the hood carefully drawn over his head, Jacob noticed his expensive turned shoes, which clearly indicated he was either of noble birth or rich, and not the monk he was pretending to be. Jacob passed him without saying anything, and left the room.
***
The cloaked figure approached into the light cast by the oil lamp. “Do you think he will succeed before being plagued by self-doubt?” he said with a smile.
“Only time will tell. If not, no harm is done. He is of little consequence, albeit sincere in his efforts. His sincerity will drive him, and Ignatius will protect him,” the superior general said.
“And if not?”
“Well, our Lord did tell us to send them out two by two. That’s where you come in.”
“I doubt he meant that!” the cloaked figure said laughing, but his laughter was cut short.
“It is not your place to tell me what our Lord meant!” the Superior hollered, and the cloaked figure stepped back in fear. “Of course not, Superior! I meant no disrespect. Please accept my apologies.”
A silence ensued, and the superior general stretched it out until the cloaked figure squirmed. He needed the upper hand for the next part.
“And your fee? Standard, I assume?”
“In this case, no, I’m afraid. If the rumours are correct, both the object and the risks are monumental. I suggest this: If the object does not exist or if I cannot retrieve it, then my fee is nothing. However, if I bring it back to you, my fee is four times the usual.”
The Superior General was about to complain, but stopped himself short. He thought about the issue and decided to agree, knowing that the value of the object, if real, would be incalculable. Under those circumstances, anything less than a good payout ran the risk of the object never arriving. Yet, he couldn’t let it pass without some argument.
“Four times the standard amount is a wealthy sum for someone who is already travelling to the region on his regular diamond purchase trip.”
“I am a businessman after all, Superior. These are the terms of any humble service I may perform in addition to the means I use to put food on my table.”
The superior smiled. “Of course. I have nothing against making a living. Very well. Your terms are accepted. However, I do expect either one of you to succeed.”
***
Jacob was given a package containing enough funds to pay for the voyage back, but no more. He looked at the funds and gave thanks to Ignatius, but it was obvious that the Superior was keeping the costs down for fear he might not succeed. Perhaps the Superior was even in doubt as to the object itself, its value or even its existence...
‘Find...an important but non-descript object. I’ll know it when I see it, or then I am to look into the abomination’s eyes, and she will tell me.’ The task seemed impossible. And now, as he looked into his almost empty food pouch, he was more convinced than ever. He had travelled from the southern branch of the crocodile infested Coleroon river where it was called Kaveri, and worked his way northwest, through the ramshackle city of Anicut, on through the Tiruchirapalli district, asking everyone he passed where the Sita’s temple was so he could worship there. He had gone to many Sita temples along the way, but none held any sort of astounding object. When he asked for the temple, the one that was unlike any other, vague references were made about the holy temple somewhere else.
It’s up river, but distant...on another river, one we haven’t seen...at the source of the holy Coleroon river, in the mountains...it’s where you cannot go, in heaven...a great distance... I worship Siva here and you should too...it is but a story...
Each one with a different response. Everyone knew where it was, even if they didn’t know.
But he could feel it in his bones now. He was close, thanks to the grace of Christ and the help of his patron saint, Ignatius. A number had reported the existence of a ‘sublime’ Sita in Kanakapura, and he was now sitting on a small rise on the eastern side of the river overlooking the town, looking at the shrine as it glowed in the morning sun.
‘Saint Ignatius,’ Jacob prayed, ‘give me the strength through our Lord to fulfill my mission. If I fail, remember that it is through this weak body that I attempt to serve you, to the glory of our Lord and Father.
He got up painfully and made his way to the shrine. People were already preparing their morning meals and drawing water from the river to bathe in. He ignored them all, as he did the hunger in his stomach and pain in his guts, and made his way carefully to the shrine. As he approached, he looked at the structure, apparently unscathed from the Muslim advance that had destroyed so many shrines in the last few centuries. The front doors were already opened, and he could see an initial line of pilgrims already coming in to do their morning prayers. This was good, as he could hide among the devout and search for whatever it was he was supposed to find.
Coming in through the impressive doorway, the guard asked for the fee of 5 paise, but Jacob was ready. He had already rubbed onion oil under his eyes, and by the time he looked up at the guard’s face, tears streamed down his.
“Sir, I have nothing. I have not eaten in two days. Allow me the privilege to thank the goddess before I die! Have mercy on me, dear sir!” Jacob said between sobs. The pain from his guts fuelled the sobs, and the guard either sympathized or was accustomed to the begging and allowed entry in the large structure. He walked in head bowed in respect to the abomination as he had learned to do, removing his slippers before entering. The line shuffled forward slowly and spread out, forming a semi circle at the feet of the idol. The dimly lit chamber allowed little light through, and the few candles helped little to clear the gloom which was perfect for what Jacob had in mind. Having been avoided by the mandir[3], he shuffled over to the side as far as he could go and kneeled down in a position of prayer, as did everyone else. Carefully looking up, he spied the tremendous feet of the abomination. He figured it must be huge with feet this large. Looking around, he noticed he was ignored by everyone else as they looked up at the idol’s face. Venturing that the move was acceptable, he looked up too, and the shock of what he saw made him fall back. Beautiful, glittering Sita stood there in all her glory staring at him, staring through him, directly into his soul. Her robes shimmered and sparkled, her eyes glinted in the little sunlight that entered the tiny window, but all he could do was cry under her cold blue glare, grovelling on the floor.
He now understood. Here was the object, and thanks to his St. Ignatius, he had found it. He was astounded that such a thing could exist, and even more astounded that it would be his very soon.
***
“It was stolen, right from under their very noses two weeks ago!” the innkeeper said as Tavernier did everything he could to avoid the horrendous beer.
“No! Someone desecrated the temple? And what was the reaction of the mandir?” he replied in bad Hindi.
“Not the temple sir. Worse! They desecrated Sita,” he said in a whisper, as if mentioning the words aloud would bring a divinely sent lightening strike. “And the mandir proffered a most terrible curse, sir. Once the mandir discovered that Sita had been...had been desecrated, why, a tremendous cry arose. The mandir said...” and at this point the small crowd in the inn stopped to listen to the account as the inn keeper puffed out his chest and raised his arms, “Cursed be anyone possessing the glare of Sita! He shall die a horribly, and cursed be his family, his children and grandchildren until the 20th generation!” The innkeeper looked smugly at Tavernier.
Tavernier did his required shocked expression, and finally got to the question he wanted to ask. “Was the thief ever found?”
“No sir. Never. But then, it is no surprise, as he is likely dead because of the curse.”
“Of course, of course,” Tavernier replied. He raised his voice and added, “Let that be a lesson to all thieves attempting to desecrate, not only Sita, but all the other hindu gods!”
So, Jacob escaped with the object and somehow made it out of the area alive. He was already masqueraded as a beggar, and he likely had no money. Tavernier was at a loss as to how he hadn’t been recognized as he fled. Perhaps he did die, but then, nothing was ever mentioned of the object being found. 60,000 people worked in the mines not too distant, and although the land was less populated in this area, no one could die and not be found, no matter where it happened. He thanked the innkeeper and asked for horse drawn buggy, and the innkeeper raised his eyes.
“Have you concluded your business at the mines, sir?”
“Yes. The pickings are poor this time, and I’m afraid I found little useful. Please have the buggy ready, together with the usual four guards.”
“Of course, sir.”
Tavernier set out in the only direction he expected Jacob to go – west. Figuring Jacob would avoid all roads and towns in the vicinity, he figured he could make better speed and eventually lie in wait at the port in Jamnagar, if he didn’t cross paths with him sooner. There were three months left before the winds became unfavourable for sailing, and travel over land would be impossible. India was big, but Tavernier knew where Jacob was going. ‘It’s only a matter of time ‘till we meet, my friend.
***
Jacob sat near the dirty, muddy road in the place he now called home, the port area of the city of Mangalore. His mind raced from one extreme to another, conscience warring against heart as he mumbled my Bathsheba over and over again. He refused to hold out a cup – his mind was lucid enough to know that if he had coins, he would be robbed, and if he was robbed, well, there was no use in living then. Instead, he held up a plate to those walking by as they hurried to work at the Tile factory.
A cough racked his thin, sickly body, this time accompanied with more blood, but he didn’t notice. A well dressed man was approaching, and this was the perfect opportunity to ask for food. As he came closer, Jacob could see the man carefully navigate the puddles, hoping to keep the mud off his shoes. Something was familiar, something he couldn’t put his finger on, and it troubled him that he couldn’t remember as he watched the man with the fine shoes approach.
“Bhōjana for the belly?” Jacob said, partly in English and partly in Hindi.
“Hello Jacob.”
Jacob stared up into his face, and looked back down to the shoes again. He broke out into another fit of coughing, coughing that eventually turned to wheezing as bloody spittle trickled down his lip. Those shoes. “Hello, shoes,” he said as he stared at them. “I know you. The last time we spoke, your person was wearing a cloak.” He broke out into a maniacal laughter that was cut short by more coughing.
“I am he,” Tavernier said.
“And I am, well, I am...” This time, Jacob started sobbing as tears freely flowed down his mud caked face. “I am failed, I am,” he sobbed, “but Father understands. He does, I tell you! He’s spoken to me, you know. Spoken to me and told me he’s forgiven me, and to tell me about her.”
“Who is her, Jacob?”
“HER! My Bathsheba, my devil. He forgives me, you know. He’ll be a saint soon, and he says I’m forgiven...” Jacob broke into tears again as he mumbled the words over and over again.
Tavernier looked at the pitiful wreck dying of consumption and wondered who the Bathsheba was he was talking about. He hoped the wreck was lucid enough to answer his questions. “Jacob, do you have it? Did you complete your mission?”
“My Bathsheba...I am here, are I not? So it is obvious I did not complete it. But Father Ignatius said I was forgiven. He said that, you know?”
Tavernier looked him over, disappointed that everything had come to this – a dying wreck with nothing in his possession except a hunchback. As he turned to leave, the thought struck him. Turning back, he bent closer and looked at the lump on his back. “Jacob, why is there a hump on your back? You weren’t cripple when I met you last.”
Jacob looked at him and smiled. “My Bathsheba, to keep her safe, you know. She’s just as close to my heart from the back as she is from the front. And this way, she can’t persecute me with her glare,” he added, and winked.
Tavernier looked around, but there was no one in sight. He pulled out an iron dagger as Jacob watched. Tavernier was surprised to see relief instead of fear in Jacob’s eyes. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he said.
A second passed before he replied. “Yes, Mr. Shoes. I am so tired. I have been nothing but cursed, just as the Mandir said.”
“Perhaps it’s time to rest, then.”
“Perhaps it is. Thank you.”
Tavernier couldn’t believe he was being thanked for killing him. He carefully opened Jacob’s tunic and cut the straps holding the back pouch, and then he quickly slipped the knife into his chest. A desperate grip, one final wheeze, and it was all over. Tavernier pulled the well padded pouch out and opened it, only to find a thin book closed around a thick piece of paper at it’s very top. He pulled out the loose paper and looked at the Latin words:
Meus Bathsheba , meus errores!
Incendia of vestri puteulanus obtutus agitet mihi dementis per rabies.
Quam Volo EGO had nunquam seen vos , meus meretricis, meus diabolus
ut vos sensim drove gelu chalybs of vestri perturbatio per meus pectus pectoris
Inviso mihi iam! A moestifer pessum do
bellator bestia pro victus , ut Porto vos dilgenter iuxta meus pectus pectoris.
Quam EGO contemno vos
Quam EGO can non secui vobis!
Abbas Ignatius , indulgeo vestri vernula Jacob!
Sanctus Nicholas, oro meus theca!
He shook his head at Jacob’s resourcefulness, masquerading himself as a hunchback and hiding the object in the perfect location, the place people would be disgusted to search if they tried robbing him.
Moving the paper aside, his eyes widened in stunned shock once he took a look inside. ‘My god!’ was all he said.
[1] Lat. for ‘Eat Bread,’ referring to a group of people who eat together regularly. Eng. - Company
[2] Kuwait
[3] A Hindu religious leader or teacher.
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