I stare out into the sea, biting the other side of my lip he can’t see.
“When I feel lost or alone,” he starts, softer than before, “it helps to distract myself with my surroundings, perhaps make up a story about a person I see or an old building.”
In response, I concentrate on the retreating Port of Messina. My attention focuses on what I first mistake to be a lighthouse. Squinting , I see it for what it is: a golden statue of a woman posed on a thick pedestal. She sits at the curled tip of the port, encased by a retaining wall at the base. The wall is marked with white tile letters that readvos et ipsam civitatem benedicimus. We bless you and your city, if I recall my Latin correctly.
I marvel at the way she glows in the rising sun.
“Who is she?”
His shoulder brushes mine as he shifts toward me to see what I’m looking at, answering me in fluent Italian, “Stele della Madonna della Lettera.”
I suck in a breath. I shouldn’t be impressed by his ability to speak Italian, but I am all the same. I particularly enjoyed the way his tongue rolled the ‘r’ inlettera. And unlike when he explained what OVRA stood for back in the graveyard in Alexandria, there’s little hatred in these words.
“It was blessed by the pope,” he continues.
“The pope blessed a statue?” I eye the white, blocky letters and grime-streaked stone. “Why?”
Doubt taints his next words. “Supposedly, the Apostle Paul traveled to Messina about fourteen-hundred years ago to convert the Sicilians to Christianity.”
“Of course, he did,” I say, not attempting to leach the bitterness from my voice.
There’s a long bloody history of religious zealots who believe they have the right to force their beliefs upon others, often innocents, attempting to convert them to their cause. To persuade foreigners—often by force—that their beliefs are superior. It’s one of the many reasons I no longer attend church.Besides the idiotic belief that saying some words over bread crisps and old wine will turn them into the actual body and blood of an ordinary man who lived and died nearly two thousand years ago.
Bes continues, “The locals weren’t exactly keen on renouncing their old gods, but enough were persuaded. Some even insisted on accompanying Paul on his journey to Palestine. It was there where they allegedly met with Mary, the mother of Christ, and persuaded her to write a letter to bring back to the citizens of Messina. The letter, written in Hebrew, was rolled and tied…” he grimaced. “…with a lock of her hair.”
I grimace. “That’s horrific.”
“Can’t disagree with that,” Cec chimes from the helm. I flinch.Good Lord, his hearing is practically supernatural.I wonder if he heard our more hushed conversation before. “Though the ancient Egyptians did much worse than that.”
“In the letter,” Bes continues as if Cec hadn’t spoken, “she wrote some rubbish about how she cherished their devotion and would grant them eternal protection. As if it were within her power to promise such a thing.” Bes points to the disappearing base. “And she signed it with those words.”
I stare at it until I can no longer see the words and the tiles start to blur. Bes remains silent at my side. I try to imagine the celebration in the town that day: the cries of joy ringing out through the streets, people falling to their knees to praise the will of a god they’d come to accept but wouldn’t have known anything about if it weren’t for the apostle who left his home to spread the “good” word. Were there those who cried for their lost gods? Who hadn’t accepted this new god but knew they’d be persecuted if they didn’t falsify their devotion?
It reminds me of a quote from the German philosopher Karl Marx: “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heartof a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.”
Nonna would call me blasphemous—or worse, a communist—but Marx was right. Religion is like a drug to the oppressed, the downtrodden, and a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands. Considering Germany lost the Great War… perhaps Hitler and his brand of religion are a kind of opiate to the German people after suffering the consequences of the Treaty of Versailles.
Or, maybe the Third Reich is more like a salve for the wounds that refuse to heal?Perhaps a bit of both.Nations throughout time have sought to use war as a remedy for their ancient, festering wounds. There were undoubtedly some of the German elite whowelcomedthe idea of starting a war in the name of expansion.
Yet, it wasn’t the elite who fought and died for it, only to end up losing anyway. It was the ordinary people. The poor and oppressed.
And now, they’re being promised redemption.
Bes was right—that distracted me well enough.
Peering over at him, something else occurs to me: as interesting as that little history lesson was, how the hell does he know so much about it? This has gone well beyond common knowledge. Does he often visit Messina? Did he read an entire set of encyclopedias, having memorized the section where this tidbit might be kept?
My gut continues to nag at me that something here isn’tright—and even though I’ve decided to trust them, I trust my gut more. Bes outright admitted to me that the two of them are lying to me, that those same lies protect me. Protect the amulet.
How many of them are simply… lies?
Before I can question him directly, Bes turns wordlessly and heads back to the helm, relieving Cec and effectively closing the subject.
I find I’m trembling too hard from shooting one of the God Men to push the subject.
For now.
The second leg of our journey is shorter, and I’m awake for most of it. Not because I want to be, but because I slept over a days’ worth the night we left Alexandria.
