"They will weep for you, and dismay of your sins, but God's justice and God's love pervades whether you think on Him or not." He can mouth along the good Christian lessons as well as anyone. And Iago does believe it in his way. Perhaps it is God's justice that He lets the plague takes newly baptized babies, or His soldiers die slow and gruesomely from festering wounds gained fighting in His name. As Iago said to Verity before, it's all for the good of His kingdom. Or at least that's what Iago has been told. God is a heartless bastard, and Iago was minted rightly in his image.
He grins at her squeamishness at the mention of St. Catherine's holy head. That is one thing he has always loved about the Holy Church--the pageantry. You were seduced by the incense, the gold, the rich fabrics, the vaulted ceilings, the chanting which you did not understand but which resonated in your chest all the same. You were captivated by the gore and the drama... It was all very operatic, very Italian. And that was another reason the Church seemed so inescapable--the relics and the bones and the blood. Real things that you could touch, and which spoke to the most basic part of your brain. The scholars could argue among themselves about the minutia of the Bible and dogmatic turns of phrase, but normal people living their hard lives responded to the humanity and the suffering.
"And 'twas Mummified by miracle," he corrects her. "For the march of years has not yet made dust of her blessed face." Actually, he's been to Siena and seen it. It's in surprisingly good shape for part of a century-dead corpse, but it's not exactly fresh. "To see her humbles and exalts all of God's followers, for by seeing her flesh we know we are made of the same stuff as saints."
"The truth is wonderful." He says, because it's reflex. Though he's long since sensed that this woman can somehow see right through him, so he doesn't say it with as much conviction as he might to others. "How like a jewel it is, more precious when found 'neath the filth of dishonesty, and more rare."
He taps his chin at the question about his name. "It is a family name, and a Christian one. Some grandsire of my mother was called so. He was a Galician, and it is by that name there they call the fisherman who followed Christ, and who Herod put to sword. Dost thou know Santiago? I am called after him, but less saintly." You couldn't get less saintly than this scheming soldier, that was for sure.
It's the hip thrusting that makes it really effective
He grins at her squeamishness at the mention of St. Catherine's holy head. That is one thing he has always loved about the Holy Church--the pageantry. You were seduced by the incense, the gold, the rich fabrics, the vaulted ceilings, the chanting which you did not understand but which resonated in your chest all the same. You were captivated by the gore and the drama... It was all very operatic, very Italian. And that was another reason the Church seemed so inescapable--the relics and the bones and the blood. Real things that you could touch, and which spoke to the most basic part of your brain. The scholars could argue among themselves about the minutia of the Bible and dogmatic turns of phrase, but normal people living their hard lives responded to the humanity and the suffering.
"And 'twas Mummified by miracle," he corrects her. "For the march of years has not yet made dust of her blessed face." Actually, he's been to Siena and seen it. It's in surprisingly good shape for part of a century-dead corpse, but it's not exactly fresh. "To see her humbles and exalts all of God's followers, for by seeing her flesh we know we are made of the same stuff as saints."
"The truth is wonderful." He says, because it's reflex. Though he's long since sensed that this woman can somehow see right through him, so he doesn't say it with as much conviction as he might to others. "How like a jewel it is, more precious when found 'neath the filth of dishonesty, and more rare."
He taps his chin at the question about his name. "It is a family name, and a Christian one. Some grandsire of my mother was called so. He was a Galician, and it is by that name there they call the fisherman who followed Christ, and who Herod put to sword. Dost thou know Santiago? I am called after him, but less saintly." You couldn't get less saintly than this scheming soldier, that was for sure.