The Bari Bones

1087, THE ADRIATIC SEA

“Man overboard!” The young Italian sailor passed the news down the line to the captain as another giant wave hit the ship. There was no saving him. It was too dark to see anything.
“All hands on deck!” The captain yelled back, moments before another wave washed two more men overboard. The young sailor hooked his feet around the rope beneath his lookout while his hands clung for dear life to the ropes above his head. Under the flashing strikes of the lightning bolts above he managed to keep an eye on the other two ships in their fleet and reported this back to his captain. His teeth chattered under the strain of the icy wind and rain that pounded down hard on his scrawny body. While the captain had noted that a storm of this magnitude wasn’t usual so late in the fall, his mother had forewarned him of the unpredictable dangers at sea. Now he wished he had listened to her. But it was a job he couldn’t pass on; they needed the money. Not that he had the faintest idea what the job entailed apart from the fact that they were sailing two thousand miles to Myra and back. He had never even been on a ship before—he had told the captain a lie just to get the job. Somehow he suspected the captain knew but had taken a liking to him; or perhaps he just felt sorry for him. In any event, the lookout was an easy enough job—if he could stay alive.
“Is he dead?” the captain asked one of the sailors who had climbed up to the lookout upon seeing the young sailor suspended between the ropes.
“Nah, he’s still breathing, Captain. The boy needs his mother’s lap, that’s all.”
“Get him down and make sure he’s fed. We’re going to need him tonight,” the captain bellowed back.
The crew master did as he was instructed and carried the young sailor below deck. When he eventually woke up, a small bowl of cold bone broth and stale bread stood waiting for him. They had survived the storm. Above his head he could hear the crew at work on deck, repairing the damage caused by the tempest.
“Ah, your stomach finally woke you up,” the burly crew master suddenly appeared behind him. “Eat up, boy. We have an important job for you tonight. It will earn you an extra week’s wages if you can pull it off.”
“What’s the job?” The young sailor asked between biting off several chunks of bread.
“Oh just you wait and see, boy. Your name will be written in the books. Now eat up and change your clothes. We leave in a few hours.”

Barely visible under the pale moonlight, the convoy of small row boats cut through the thick mist that covered the calm water. A small crew of thirty men, spread across three boats, hit the shores of the southern coast of Turkey.
“Come on, boy,” one of the more experienced sailors whispered.
The young sailor obeyed his orders and followed the small group of men who silently got out of their boats and made their way along the gravel road into Myra. He was suddenly scared. His instincts told him his job involved breaking some law or other. But an extra week’s wages would go far. While his mind fought his inner morality, he followed the men through the quiet dark streets to where they hid behind the trees that surrounded a church. It was deathly quiet and apart from the dim lights inside the church, pitch black around them.
“Ready?” the sailor in charge asked.
The boy nodded. Ready for what he didn’t know.
“Give us your best performance. Pretend you are sick until I say otherwise. Got it?”
Again the boy nodded. Two priests who had been traveling with them wedged their arms under his armpits, one on either side, lifting his feet off the ground as they dragged him toward the church. The sailor in charge led the way and then hid behind a nearby tree.
“We need help! The boy’s very sick,” the two priests yelled as their fists hit the church’s large wooden doors. It took one more holler before the clergyman on duty appeared and invited them inside. Once inside the sailor in charge barged through the doors and grabbed the clergyman, covering his head with a hood before he tied him up.
“Let’s go, boy.” He ushered the young sailor toward a closed tomb in the front of the church.
While the two priests stood guard, the sailor in charge produced a thick metal rod from his bag and struck it hard against the marble surface. The young sailor watched in fear as he shattered the smooth marble tomb until there was a hole just about the size of the boy’s body.
“Get in!” the sailor in charge ordered.
The boy froze as terror gripped him by the throat. His mother had always warned him not to mess with the dead.
“Go on, boy! We don’t have all night. Get in and grab as many bones as you can. Hurry!”
The sailor shoved him toward the tomb offering him no chance to resist. The boy’s shaking hand hurriedly blessed himself before he stuck the top half of his body through the hole. A sweet smell filled his nostrils while he continued to pray for protection. He shut his eyes tight as his fingers searched the darkness, squirming when his fingers eventually rested on a cold, hard object. He persuaded himself to reach out and get it over with so he scooped up a large pile of bones and backed out of the hole, depositing more than a dozen skeleton parts into the sailor’s bag. He turned to head back in for a second helping but the sailor in charge stopped him. In the distance he heard a noise he couldn’t distinguish.
“Let’s get out of here! They’re coming,” his leader yelled as he helped him to his feet.
He ran back to the boat as fast as his cold feet allowed him, his heart pounding in his chest. Behind them a howling mob of Saracens chased after them. Nearing the beach the sailor shouted orders to the crew that had stayed behind, who hurriedly prepared the boats for departure. His feet hit the icy water and two burly sailors yanked him safely into the boat while the crew worked hard behind the oars. By the time the angry Turkish Arabs reached the ocean’s edge they had already reached the ship.
Loud cheers roared above his head when his feet hit the ship’s deck and they escaped into the darkness of the ocean, back toward Bari.
“What’s your name, boy?” the captain said to him next.
“Matteo,” the boy answered, his body still shaking with adrenaline.
“Well, Matteo, you just honored your country and the church.”
The boy frowned. “How so?”
The captain triumphantly held up the bag of stolen goods.
“Because these, Matteo, are the bones of Saint Nicholas of Myra.”