Free Balthasar's Odyssey by Amin Maalouf

set off tomorrow. He said he’d like to be able to go, even if only for a moment, to the Church of the Cross, which according to him contains a piece of the True Cross. He spoke timidly, with a slight stammer, and this seemed to bring out the arrogance of our caravaneer, who replied in a scornful manner that we were going to start at the crack of dawn and had no time to waste in churches. If the old man wanted to see a bit of wood, he need only pick up that one — and the caravaneer pointed to a rotten old bit of tree stump lying on the ground.
    Then I went over and said firmly that I wished us to stay on in Alexandretta a few hours longer so that I could attend mass on the feast of the Holy Cross.
    The caravaneer, who’d thought he was alone with the old man, started when he heard me. He would probably have avoided talking like that in the presence of witnesses. But after a slight hesitation he recovered and answered — more politely, however, than to the other poor fellow — that the time of departure could not be put off: the other travellers would object. He even said it would harm the whole caravan, hinting that I’d have to pay compensation if I wanted a postponement. Then I raised my voice further and insisted that the caravan should wait for me until mass was over, otherwise I’d complain to the Genoese Resident in Constantinople, and even to the Sublime Porte.
    I was taking a risk when I said that. I am in no position to approach the Ottoman Court, and even the Genoese Resident hasn’t much influence these days: he himself was subjected to harassment last year, and would be quite incapable of protecting or obtaining redress for me. But, thank God, the caravaneer didn’t know that. He didn’t dare take my threats lightly, and I could see he was wavering. If we’d been alone, I’m sure he’d have tried to smooth things over, but the sound of our voices had attracted a circle of travellers, and he couldn’t climb down in front of them without losing face.
    All of a sudden one of the travellers went up to him. He had a green scarf wound round his head, as if we were in the middle of a sand-storm. He put his hand on the caravaneer’s shoulder, and stood there looking at him for a few moments without a word — or if there was one, it was uttered in such a low voice I didn’t hear it. Then he walked slowly away.
    Then my adversary, his face screwed up as if in pain, spat on the ground and said:
    â€œWe shan’t be leaving tomorrow, because of him!”
    â€œHim” was me. By pointing me out, the caravaneer meant to identify the guilty party, but everyone present realised he was designating the victor.
    Am I pleased with my victory? Yes, I’m not only pleased — I’m delighted, happy and proud. The old Christian from Aleppo came and thanked me, praising me for my piety.
    I didn’t want to disabuse him, but piety has nothing to do with it. I was acting out of profane prudence. In the ordinary way I seldom go to mass, I don’t celebrate Holy Cross Day, and in my view relics are worth no more than their equivalent in piastres. But people would have stopped respecting me if I’d stood by and let the symbols of my religion and my country be insulted.
    It’s the same with Marta. Whether she’s my wife in fact or only in appearance, my honour is involved with her, and I owe it to myself to protect it.
    14 September, Holy Cross Day
    I keep thinking about that incident yesterday. It’s rare for me to act so violently, and it gives me a pang to remember it, but I don’t regret my boldness.
    Reading over the account I wrote yesterday evening, it seems to me I didn’t say enough about how fast my heart was beating at some points. There were some long moments of silent struggle when the caravaneer was wondering if I really had as much protection as I claimed, and I was asking myself how I could get out of this