Arthur's Dream

It was Arthur’s dream of a Round Table before which chosen knights of his realm would sit as equals to their King. Camelot, the city—the Kingdom—to which all others aspire. Camelot the castle, set as crown jewel to the city of the same name. It’s towers, glorious fingers reaching for Heaven’s heights.

It was Arthur the boy, who built the castle, and then the kingdom. It was Arthur the man, who battled Mordred and Morgana le Fay and conquered the ill of their intent. In the end it was as an aged King that sought—and failed—to discover the Holiest of Holies, the Holy Grail.

Proclaimed throughout the land—and extended to all neighboring lands until the lands of Christendom shook with the hoofbeats of Christian knights—was King Arthur’s quest for the Grail. He offered land, gold, honor, and glory to any man or woman who discovered the chalice of Christ’s lifeblood and delivered it to Camelot. 

He knew it not, but it was another’s duty to find the earthly proof of Christ’s willing sacrifice. That perilous duty would fall to a man without a noble upbringing. A man with the blessing of Heaven as his talisman. A man born in a land far from the castle of Camelot and the Kingdom of England.

“Grace and peace to you, My Lord.” Sahle Selassie said to the passing knight, who sat high above the normal world on his destrier.

Sahle afoot, noticed when stepping off the road that the young knight’s gilded spurs were not yet burnished from daily use. The young knight did not turn or return Sahle Selassie’s courtesy other than to offer the faintest of nods without looking directly at him.

“Praise God.” Sahle Selassie said in greeting and nodded courteously to the few retainers which trailed the novice knight as they followed their lord on foot.

Few Europeans paid him much notice, but he was used to the occasional odd stare or cautious glance once they did.

He was far from bothered by it. I am far from home, he would say, but Heaven looks down upon us all the same.

He would explain to anyone who bothered to listen, that he was a common man of the Kingdom of Aksum. God speaks to all in their heart of hearts, it is up to us and to me to listen.

“Praise God, brother.” He said as the last of the retainers trudged past him, his sandaled feet ill-protected from the pebbled road.

“To you as well—brother…” The man said, the top of his head a crater of flesh within a ring of hair, his modest robes marked him as a friar mendicant. He stopped in his tracks and looked around for somewhere to place his meager pack and possessions, but finding none he instead shifted the uncomfortable burden from shoulder to shoulder.

“Your look is unfamiliar to me brother. Where is it that you hail?”

Sahle Selassie introduced himself and bowed humbly. “I am of the Kingdom of Aksum, and I was born a seventh son of Sahle Sharissa Selassie in the town of Axun.”

Sahle then made the sign of the cross, chuckling at the look that crossed the mendicant friar’s face.

“God is great.” Sahle said humbly, “So great that my home is not so far when seen with His eyes.”

The friar made the sign of the cross, mostly a reflexive action.

“Yes, He is great. Oh my!” The friar stopped himself. “Where are my manners? My name is Francis of Genoa, of the Franciscan Order of Friars Minor. Forgive me again, but do many in your Kingdom worship our Holy Father?”

Sahle’s smile was beatific, and the sunlight glistening from his eyes gave him a warm mien.

"Yes, my mendicant friend. My people have worshipped Him well before you Latins had heard tell of his name. Much as a fat flock of sheep, we have been blessed and have prospered in his name.” Sahle paused; his face expressing concern. “Brother, I am enjoying our conversation, but will your earthly lord not wonder at your absence?”

“Pardon?” The friar said, as he too noticed that the rest of the knight’s retinue was not in sight, having disappeared over a distant hilltop some few minutes past.

“Well, that is inconvenient. I was rather needful of the security ensured by his companionship.” He sighed. “These roads are unsafe after dark, and there are bandits, and other dangers aplenty."

Sahle's smile was polite, but sparks of merriment danced in his eyes as he hefted a mildly curved sword from his homeland. “Am I not so harmless?” He asked the friar.

“You are a Christian man; this I can tell. God would not allow…well, he would not tempt you beyond your ken. “

“God is great indeed.” Sahle replied sagely and nodded his agreement. “I have a thought. If you are willing to trust my company, we can travel together and thus benefit from one another’s presence on this road. Does that not satisfy you?”

The friar hesitated. “I cannot say. What is your destination brother?”

“I seek the Citadel at Antioch and an…” Sahle delayed but a second, “artifact.”

The friar pursed his lips in thought. The lines marking the corners of his eyes the first indication that he might be older than he first appeared.

“God is great!” He exclaimed with a broad smile. “Sir Sebastian sought our holy city of Jerusalem, but Antioch was my destination same as you. Praise God that our paths have met.”

And so it was that they joined together sharing the road and one another’s company, to the city of Antioch. An Aksumite and a Greek walking harmoniously in the same land – and on the same roads as their Christ before them.

************

“The aroma of spice is thick in the air.” Brother Francis said, sounding excited. “Praise God, how I have missed that scent.”

Sahle Selassie bowed his head. “Praise God that we have arrived safely.” He sniffed, his face wrinkling in faint distaste. “I cannot say the same for the scent. My nose notices little beyond the smell of camels and the odor of the sea.”

“Brother,” Brother Francis said with a slight smile, “the sea is almost six leagues from here. I have no doubt that our Lord has blessed you with a powerful sense of smell, but it begs credulity to suggest that even such a large instrument could work with such distances.”

They gazed at one another, neither saying a word. Then Sahle Selassie broke eye contact laughing uproariously. Brother Francis was quick to follow suit.

“Thank you for this. It seems that the stresses of the road have lent me an ill-humor,” remarked Sahle Selassie. 

“I too have been tested by the road. It will be a blessing to rest, if only for a short time once I arrive at my Monastery. Ah, there it is now!” remarked Brother Francis.

The structure that Brother Francis indicated was a small, squat domicile that appeared humble and without frivolity.

“How many of your brethren reside within?” Sahle Selassie asked.

“Twenty or so at one time. It is but a roadhouse for my brothers as we rarely stay in any one place for very long.”

“God is good.” Intoned Sahle Selassie.

Brother Francis nodded. “I regret that we must part. You have been a boon companion on the road, that is for certain. Are you certain that you will not change your mind and accept our hospitality? I am certain that the brothers will have food in plenty. Our benefactors are laymen, but we rarely starve.”

Sahle Selassie, sighed, “Alas, I cannot Brother Francis, as I find myself bound to another task. May God bless you upon your travels.”

“You as well, brother.” The monk proffered his arm in friendship, and they clasped hands as friends.

At the dinner table that day, while breaking bread with his brothers, Brother Francis regaled his brothers in faith with tales of the strange friend that he had made.

Years later he would recount the story to all who crossed his path of his friend Sahle Selassie of Aksum and the grand discovery he had made.

************

“God bless you stranger.” Sahle Selassie said in greeting to a man riding a camel.

“Salaam, to you.” The camel riding man replied.

“Where does your path take you?” Sahle Selassie asked out of curiosity.

“Wherever Mumuk deigns to travel.” The man stroked the camel’s head fondly. “Together we have seen the scalding sands of Numidia, Arabia, and the deserts of Syria. We have traveled far and seen the Sun set upon many distant lands. We have seen your kind before. What brings you to the Holy Land, infidel?” He asked, eyes glinting dangerously. Sahle Selassie did not fail to notice the stranger’s hand moving threateningly towards the tulwar sheathed at his saddle.

Sahle Selassie could have reached for the blade sheathed at his side—a blade forged in the smithies of his home Axun with the hands of his uncle and cousins—but he did not. Instead, despite the danger, he proffered a wide smile, warm and without ill-intent.

“God.” He said simply.

“God?” The man on the camel, a Berber, scoffed. “Does God even see Aksumites?”

If Sahle Selassie was insulted, he did not show it. Instead, he splayed his hands to indicate the wide rocks near them, and then the distant pastures, and finally to the Sun above.

“God sees us all. Believers and unbelievers alike.” He commented, cordially. “Though it might be said that he especially sees the unbelievers.” He said this last with a smile, so wide that any but the most hostile of people could not fail to see his sincerity. The slow blinking of the Berber’s eyes was the only visible response.

“Maybe so infidel. Maybe so…” replied the Berber after a time. He held the reins loosely as if contemplating an abrupt violence. His body was tense, as was that of Sahle Selassie—but subtly so. Less a bowstring held taut, and more the loose confidence of a cat of the safari.

“Well then, stranger,” Sahle Selassie said at last. “You seem to have a decision to make. Is there any way that I can assist you in choosing one of lesser violence?”

“There is.” He said simply, effortlessly sliding off the back of Mumuk. “My apologies. For I carry an item very precious, one which many men would seek, and so I must exercise violence wherever that I go.” He hefted his tulwar suggestively, and then lowered a bulky sackcloth from his saddle and shifted it back over one shoulder. 

“God bless you, brother.” said Sahle Selassie. After some silence between the two men, he let out a long and drawn out sigh. “You have it with you, do you not?”

“Have what exactly?” he asked Sahle Selassie, tone menacing and foreboding. His eyes promised violence.

“That which all earthly men seek. I think you know, but I will say it anyways: the Grail.” Sahle met the Berber’s eyes.

“I am not of your filthy faith, infidel.” The Berber man snarled in reply.

“Our Heavenly Father sees every person, even one lost such as yourself who then chooses to repudiate him. Even, dare I say, a thief?”

“No doubt you believe that to be true. As I believe that you are a wolf in sheep’s dress.” He leapt suddenly at Sahle Selassie. “Die demon!”

The Berber screamed as his tulwar slashed the air where Sahle Selassie’s head should have been. Sahle narrowly avoided being decapitated, stepping backwards a mere inch.

Sahle Selassie was a man at peace—as one who is ready for death. He had accepted it and embraced it. He did not flinch as the tulwar stopped in front of his face, near enough to shave the whiskers on his face.

“Why do you not fight back, demon? I know your kind. You kill effortlessly, indiscriminately for this prize.”

Sahle Selassie’s gaze was neutral—pacific.

“As I told you brother, He sees all. He knows all. I am a lowborn man, not of the line of Kings. I am not a priest, but a solitary traveler. I have nothing to offer Him but my faith and my earthly fidelity. If He desires my death, it is his for the taking. His word is the breaking of my fast, and my sustenance. I travel where He wills me.”

“You are a servant then.” said a strange voice. “A slave.”

Sahle Selassie’s smile was warmth incarnate. “I have been expecting you Serpent.”

“Have you?” A stranger stepped into the light, and though he was close, he was indistinct. Where his flesh touched the light, it remained indecipherable and deceiving to the eye.

“Amadeus.” Sahle Selassie admonished. “He has not forgotten you.”

“Neither have I forgotten you, Infidel.” The Berber barked.

Sahle Selassie shook a finger, and clucked his tongue chidingly towards the Berber. He did not take his eyes off the stranger. “You speak of demons, Berber? Open your eyes and see. Look.”

The Berber glanced at the stranger, barely removing his eyes from Sahle Selassie. At first, he did not heed his words, but something caught his eye.

That same detail caused him to hesitate. He shifted his whole focus towards the stranger and gazed long—too long into his smoky visage.

“It is not wise to stare too long into darkness, my Berber brother.” Murmured Sahle Selassie. He gripped the Berber’s shoulder as if they were brothers leaving a church congregation.

The Berber lifted his gaze and shook his head as if dazed. “Such evil, it bears a mark. It leaves a mark—” he muttered, his eyes unfocused, “I have seen darkness in the hearts of men, but never…”

Sahle Selassie’s smile faltered, and he shook his head solemnly. “This one has turned his back on our Father. He has seen the light of Heaven; he has walked the paths of the Creator’s will—”

Amadeus interrupted Sahle, anger erupting as he spoke. “Enough, Slave. Speak another word and I shall slay the unbeliever as you watch helplessly.”

“I am never without aid, for where I walk, He walks with me. Amadeus, it is never too late to beg His forgiveness.”

The demon gnashed its teeth, black marred, inchoate darkness like smoke in the quiet of night. It charged towards Sahle Selassie and shouted in a tongue best forgotten—dead—save in the nightmares of those born in the annals of time.

************

The Court of King Arthur was resplendent with light, its trappings soft but modest for that of an English King. Sahle Selassie found that the distance between the chambers doors and the throne was not a long one.

He was escorted by two knights—lords of England and bodyguards to the King, the Crimson Dragon Arthur Pendragon. Their spurs jangled loosely upon the stone, and they held steady, powerful hands on blades used to defend their realm and their King.

The King, a red-haired man heavily gone to gray with a silver circlet upon his brow, sat upon a chair of burnished oak. He sat in quiet repose, deep in conversation with a tall woman of indescribable beauty. Her hair was closely braided, and though not young, she was not yet old.

The two warriors firmly halted Sahle Selassie at a safe distance from the famous figure.

“Sir Gawain. Sir Galahad.” The King said, noticing their approach. “I hope your day finds you well.”

“Thank you, my King.” said the knight on the left, Sir Galahad. “This man claims to bear news for your ears alone, your Majesty.”

“Is that so?” King Arthur asked intrigued, his eyes flicking to Sahle Selassie.

“God bless you, your Majesty.” Sahle Selassie replied with a nod.

“Very well. Sir Gawain. Sir Galahad. Please see this man is brought to my quarters.”

The knights responded in unison. “Yes, your Majesty.” 

“Well then, what is this news that you bear us?” asked King Arthur once in the privacy of his own chambers.

“I have that which you seek most.” Sahle Selassie said, a winsome smile spreading across his face.

“Peace in England?” asked the King with a heavy sigh as he hung an ornately sheathed blade on the back of a chair.

He pulled out a seat for his royal wife and then sat down himself. “Please sit. My apologies, but you never gave us your name.”

“He is African, from the Kingdom of Aksum?” The Queen asked, identifying the fabric of Sahle Selasse’s netella.

“Your Majesty is most astute.” Sahle Selassie replied.

She nodded, “You are very far from home.”

“I am Sahle Selassie of Aksum and I was born a seventh son of Sahle Sharissa Selassie in the town of Axun, your Majesties.”

“We are well met then, Sahle Selassie.” The King said, inclining his head in royal greeting.

“I admit we are glad of your acquaintance, but your design upon our time is still a mystery.”

“Perhaps—” Sahle Selassie said with a brilliant smile, “it is best to show you.”

From the depths of his garment Sahle Selassie proffered a small wooden bowl, well made, but with an air of age.

“What is this?” The King asked, eyeing the bowl curiously, his eyes lingering over brown-red stains ingrained in the fibers of the wood.

“It is the vessel that held the life’s blood of our savior.” Sahle said with reverence.

“No—it cannot be.” the King said, as if stricken. He took hold of the bowl tenderly, eyes widening in awe, “it is none other than the Holy Grail.”

The king's tongue began to stumble over his words. “H-h-h-how. How did you come by this?” He looked up at Sahle.

Sahle’s grin was a gift—wide, warm, and full of promises.

“It is a long tale my King but suffice to say, God was with me. It all began in the Holy Land…”