Temple of The Grail (24 page)

‘Yes, yes, Eisik,’ my master sighed
impatiently.

‘
Mors Fiensque
. . . death and
become. No, that’s not it . . . become . . . Becoming! That’s it, my sons!
Death and Becoming. And underneath it . . . D and C . . .’ Eisik trailed off,
closing one eye again, as if the vision in the other eye became sharper as a
result.

‘
Deus
...
Christo
,’ my
master answered almost by reflex.

‘
Deus Christo
. . . the
numerical value of D and C together is of course equal to . . . seven,’ Eisik
said, thoughtfully nodding. ‘A venerated number.’

‘But why
mors
?’ my master
said. ‘Why not
moriens
? Dying and becoming. Why use a noun and not a
participle? That is, unless . . .’

‘May the gods praise an unworthy Jew
who is also, as luck would have it (for luck is all a Jew has) exceedingly
astute! It is because we must count the sum of letters and not in this case the
sum of their numerical value. You see, it was a little clue!’

‘I see,’ my master said, smiling, ‘so
that they make twelve.’

‘Of course! There are twelve! Twelve
and seven, a holy concord of numbers!’ Eisik clapped both hands as though about
to sit down to a great repast. ‘Now perhaps the curious wheel will reveal its
arcana . . . here,’ he pointed to the parchment. ‘We see two interlocking
wheels, the larger is divided into twelve, ordered by twelve Zodiacal signs,
the inner smaller wheel again divided, only this time by seven, with the seven
little planetary symbols inside each little division. Very curious . . . seven
and twelve . . .’

‘Make it such that the twelve become
seven, and the seven stars appear,’ I said absently, remembering my dream.

Eisik gasped. ‘What did you say, my
son?’

I told him that I had dreamt these
words and he gave my master a sideways glance. ‘The boy has had a prophetic
vision where he hears the words of John! What else did you dream, child?’

‘Come, Eisik, we have no time for
dreams now,’ my master blurted out impatiently. ‘What of the wheel? Could it
work in the same way as a sundial? With the twelve divisions being symbolic
hours?’ He paused for a moment, as though on the verge of something very
important. ‘I have an idea . . . But, of course! This is may be our guide to
unlocking the panel.’ He showed us the page. ‘You see, firstly we have twelve
divisions which correspond with twelve star signs, but also hours, that is
twelve is north, three is east, six is south, and nine is west. Twelve and
seven become the seventh hour which corresponds to Pisces at the twelfth hour
in the outer circle. What corresponds with the seventh hour in the inner
circle? Which planet is the seventh in the sequence of planets?’

‘Let us ruminate,’ Eisik said. ‘In my
tradition, the days are numbered, from Sunday, which is the first, to the
Sabbath, which is the seventh.’

‘And the Latins, Eisik, also named
the first day after the sun,
solis dies
or
Dominicus dies
, the
Lord’s day. Now, the second was named after the moon, the third after Mars, the
fourth after Mercury, the fifth after Jupiter, the sixth after Venus, and the
seventh after Saturn, or Saturnday, your Sabbath.’

‘That may be, my son,’ said Eisik,
narrowing his eyes, ‘but as a code, were they not most commonly found in their
celestial sequence?’

‘Yes,’ said my master, ‘however even
in the celestial sequence Saturn is still the seventh. This means that perhaps
you are right, and this little fox has dreamt our answer, that is: ‘make it
such that the twelve become seven and the seven stars appear’. Pisces points us
to the twelth hour in the outer circle, and Saturn to the seventh planet in the
inner circle.’

‘How wonderful!’ I exclaimed. ‘But
master, why are the Zodiacs in reverse sequence?’

‘Because in this case, Christian,’ my
master said, ‘the author of our code uses the Zodiac to allude to angelic
hierarchies. That is, Pisces represents man, for Christ our Lord was the fisher
of men, Aquarius represents the angels, Capricorn the archangels, and so on and
so on, instead of the traditional sequence given to us by Isadore of Seville .
. .’

‘We have the answer then, master, all
we need do is . . .’ I paused. ‘What
do
we do with Pisces and Saturn?’

‘Either depress them or align them.
We shall have to try many things.’

‘But that is not your only problem,’
Eisik commented morbidly, ‘the real puzzle lies within the catacombs. I told
you I did not wish to know anything and now I know what is in the note, the
formula . . . holy Jacob!’ he exclaimed, horrified that his curiosity had got
the better of him. ‘You have infected me with your sin . . . and those who know
too much die, in this abbey!’

I left them to their arguing,
labouring over these revelations, pondering, and reflecting, speculating and
postulating various formulas for getting out of tunnels, none of which sounded
practical. I knew that he would want to sojourn there tonight, and now I was
filled with dread, when before I had been so excited.

Lost in thought, I wandered into the
horse enclosures. I gave Gilgamesh a good brush, making soothing sounds as I
stroked his smooth coat. I checked that his shoes were in good order, and
placed a blanket over his back. Collecting some oats from a large basket, I
then fed him and Brutus. While I waited, I glanced through a narrow aperture in
the cubicle that revealed glimpses of the great forest to the south-east. Above
the horizon the sky threatened an impending squall, casting a pallid gloom over
the landscape. My master had been right, today, or perhaps tonight, it would
storm.

I bent my neck in an awkward angle to
the right, and found that I could just see the encampment below. I saw that the
fire was still burning, for the smoke rose high in the stillness. If I went
down to that spot, would I meet Thomas and Remigio? Had I really only dreamt
that meeting? Had I dreamt my discourse with Plato and the battle between the
eagle and the dragon? How could I have dreamt the answer to the code? At that
moment I felt a presence behind me. I looked around and found the small figure
of the singer Anselmo casting a strange shape at the door. His eyes, however,
shone out of the darkness of his Grecian face, and we seemed to stand looking
at each other a long time, neither of us wishing to be the first to speak, when
finally he smiled or, rather, smirked.

‘Is it your horse?’ he pointed his
chin in the direction of Gilgamesh.

‘No,’ I answered, wishing that I
could lie a little.

‘I did not think so. He is too fine a
horse to be a scribe’s mount.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out an
apple cut diagonally. With his left hand he brought it to the steed.
Immediately Gilgamesh deserted the oats that I had given him.

I tried to hide my annoyance, ‘Do you
have a horse?’

‘No,’ he answered as though nothing
mattered, ‘but the abbot sometimes lets me ride his . . .’ he pointed to a most
beautiful stallion whose name I was told was Sidonius. ‘So, where is your mount
or did you travel like a slave, on foot?’

‘I ride a mule.’

‘A mule? A fitting mount for the
likes of you,’ he laughed, tossing another apple up and down in one hand, ‘but
there are ways that a man can improve his circumstances, that is, there are men
whose wisdom can turn even someone like you into a respected person.’ He threw
the apple high and caught it standing on one leg. ‘Your master will marvel at
your erudition, at your acumen and skill, and he will think you so
indispensable, so necessary to him, that he will offer his own horse to you.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It is simple, done with potions I believe,
incantations and spells. I am told those who have mastered the art invoke the
planets, and the zodiacs, the power of demons.’

I blanched. ‘How do you know this?’

‘Come now, a Templar must know of
such things, surely?’ he continued. ‘Indeed, I have heard that your order is a
brotherhood of sorcerers.’

‘No! You are wrong!’ I answered,
losing my temper.

‘I am never wrong . . . Your master
is an infidel, word gets around. Ask him, I will bet you a ride on Sidonius if
he does not know of these things. In any case, I would not ride such a vile
thing, if I knew the formula by which to make myself worthy of that other horse
. . . he is beautiful.’ He lowered his eyes a little, and looked up at me from
out of their narrowness. ‘Unfortunately, beauty is little appreciated in this
abbey – erudition likewise – and yet, I find myself talking when I
should be making my way to the chapter house. I wonder what sins the inquiry
will uncover . . . Well, I shall see you there.’

He threw the apple at me and I lunged
to catch it, almost losing my balance.

‘I would not let the inquisitor hear
you say such things if I were you!’ I warned disdainfully. ‘Or else he might
burn you at the stake!’ I was drowned out by his laughter, and then he was
gone.

Almost at that moment Andre descended
the narrow steps that led to Eisik’s cell. I wanted to tell him what had just
taken place, but what should I say? That the novice with the beautiful voice
was possessed of an ugly soul? Or rather that he had read mine, and perhaps
knew more than he should? He would have thought that I was exaggerating, or
worse still, that I was jealous. So I said nothing, and obediently followed him
out into the sombre day. I covered my head, and we walked in the silence of
disquietude, in the direction of the blacksmith’s building where he was to supervise
the repair of his helmet.

He left me outside, and I sat down on
a little bench opposite the garden, waiting for him. And it was here that I
turned Anselmo’s words over in my mind with distinct uneasiness.

That morning the courtyard seemed a
hive of activity. Monks were moving to and fro in agitated preparation for the
forthcoming meeting. I saw the inquisitor walk toward the aperture, in deep
conversation with the bishop. Following behind them, the friar and the
Cistercian with evil looks conspired one with the other. Obviously a great
schism had developed between the two groups since the torrid events of the last
evening, and this even I knew could serve to complicate matters. I was no
sooner absorbed by these matters than I caught sight of the cook, looking like
a man who did not wish to be seen, scurrying around the church and across the
courtyard to the infirmary. Moments later he and Asa, the infirmarian, were
headed for the herbarium where Asa opened the lock and allowed the other man
passage. The infirmarian looked about him anxiously until the cook emerged
carrying some herbs in his hands, then they split up; the infirmarian entered
the cloister through the aperture, and the cook made his way to the kitchen. I
concluded that the cook had been in need of culinary herbs, and chastised
myself for my suspicious nature. It seemed I was becoming distrustful of
everything and everyone and yet I was not the only one, for distrust appeared
to be on every face. Indeed, every eye no longer knew if it was cast on friend
or on foe.

M
onks were already filing into the great rectangular room as
we arrived. The scribes, assistants, judges, and armed men of the papal
commission, sat on wooden benches flanking both sides of the dais, on which
stood a great oak table. Here sat the senior officials and the inquisitor. The
abbot was seated on a raised chair of red mahogany, carved in the most
elaborate manner, at right angles to the table on the right side of the room.
Next to him was his sacristan, with the rest of the obidientiaries dispersed on
the benches along the walls.

We found a place among the general
population of monks, facing the abbot and his men, so as to better observe both
the defendants and the inquisitor. It was time, the inquiry was about to start.

I watched the inquisitor closely,
noticing how his entire manner radiated certainty. Was he so pure that he
should think himself worthy to judge and to condemn others? As he adjusted the
papers on the table, a look of satisfaction mingled with profound gravity on
his face, communicating the conscious dignity afforded him by power and
position. On our way into the inquiry I had asked my master how an inquisitor
knew that he was right in his judgement. He told me that it was not an
inquisitor’s place to be right, only to be sure of the error of others. He told
me that many times an inquisitor is not guided by the noble sense of truth that
you or I might think is the epitome of justice, as much as he is guided by the
usefulness of a lie.

As I sat in the chapter house I
resolved to think no more, and to listen intently, not only out of a desire to
record these events faithfully and with clarity, but also because I was curious
to see if my master was correct in his assumption.

Suddenly there was a hush. Rainiero
Sacconi, towering in black, a graven image of austerity, looked down upon us
all from his great height. After a long moment, he spoke firstly about his duty
and that of the judges to seek the truth; about the forces of good which must
always overcome the forces of evil, explaining that the following proceedings
were to remain an investigation until such time as evidence of guilt could be
established. He pronounced the opening formulas, but not before saying that,
besides the accusations of heresy which he intimated to be many and varied, the
monastery was tainted with other crimes. One brother was at that moment
awaiting burial, and the evil one roamed about the abbey. No one, he cried, was
safe until those responsible were apprehended! As his first witness he would
call the Abbot Bendipur to answer the accusations levelled against him and his
order of monks, for whom he was responsible.

The abbot sat erect. His eyes I could
see never once moved from those of the inquisitor, who, with a theatrical
flourish, produced a parchment from which he began to read out the accusations:

‘Let it be known that monks of the
monastery of St Lazarus, of the order of Cistercians, stand this day in the
year of our Lord 1254, accused of . . .’ he held the document close to his
face, ‘healing the sick by methods other than those authorised by the church or
ecclesiastical authority: that is by the use of magic Cabbala or by other devilish
means perhaps not known to this inquiry. Harbouring heretical tendencies and
conducting rituals that have been deemed heresy by the Lateran councils. Harbouring
and aiding Cathar heretics to escape God’s justice during the Albigensian
crusades and, as such, defending them and their cause. Tainting their own souls
with their heresy. Indulging in necromancy, astrology, alchemy, and other
infernal practices which are too varied and multiform to name.’ He paused, and
gave the abbot a hard look, a look that conveyed much, and served to increase
the tension in the chapter house if that were possible. The abbot returned the
stare though, one must say, being careful to convey an air of trust and
humility. These are my sheep, his eyes said, I am the faithful dog, and you are
my shepherd.

The inquisitor told the judges of the
tribunal that they would now proceed with the hearing. There was another
pregnant pause whilst he shuffled more documents, and a moment later he started
to question the abbot in a friendly tone.

‘Abbot Bendipur, please enlighten
this hearing with an account of the practice of healing conducted by the monks
of this monastery.’ As though he had forgotten this vital warning he continued,
‘We trust that you are aware that this council is a council of God on earth,
and that all you say will stand as testimony in the eyes of His judges also,
therefore I need not remind you of the necessity for absolute honesty. You must
tell this court all it needs to know, and further, even that which you may not
consider important.’

‘I am your willing witness,’ Abbot
Bendipur answered calmly.

There was a smile, ‘Please tell us a
little about your order, the faith it holds, and your personal beliefs and, if
necessary, I shall require you to swear.’

‘I am the abbot of the monastery of
St Lazarus, of the Order of Cistercians. From the beginning our community has
been dedicated to duties deemed worthy by our founders. Healing the sick is
only one of the many tasks which we conduct in all humbleness, in the service
of our Lord. We believe in God, the Holy Spirit, Christ our redeemer, and the
church whose likeness is His reflection on earth,’ said the abbot with ardour. ‘We
stand before you innocent of the accusations which have been levelled against
us and I ask the venerable judges to open their hearts to justice and fairness.
How are we to be accused if the accuser does not appear before you, so that he
also may be subject to interrogation?’

‘Dear abbot, witnesses are to be held
in secret, as you know. You may, on the other hand, make a list of your enemies
and we shall see if the two coincide.’ The inquisitor displayed his white teeth
and I could not help but compare them to the sharp teeth on the devils in my
dream. ‘It should be sufficient that the pope has considered these allegations
serious enough to warrant these inquiries. I trust you do not presume to have a
greater wisdom in matters of dissent?’

‘It is my duty to believe whatever
the pope would have me believe, your grace, as any good Christian.’

‘Yes, but what, dear brother, do you
consider constitutes a good Christian?’

Even I sensed the inquisitor was
preparing a trap for the abbot and it did not escape my master either for he
whispered in my ear that this was the standard line of questioning used on
Waldensians who, he said, had been taught the correct ways of evading questions
of this kind.

‘He who believes with fullness of
heart in God, His son and the Holy Spirit, and the teachings of the holy
church,’ answered

Bendipur.

‘I would like to know what you mean
by holy church?’

The abbot paused, slightly confused.
The inquisitor found this to his advantage, for he immediately launched into
his attack.

‘Do you not know what is meant by the
holy church?’ he asked, moving off the dais and walking around the centre of
the room.

‘I believe that the holy church is
the means through which God works his purposes on earth, the priesthood handed
down to the apostle St Peter who was the regent of Christ.’

‘The holy Roman church over which the
lord pope presides?’

‘If it upholds the laws of God, yes.’

‘If?’ He looked around incredulously,
‘Why do you say ‘if’? Do you not believe that it does?’

‘I believe.’

‘Please, abbot, I am confused. Do you
believe that it does, or that it does not?’

‘I believe that men do what they can
to interpret the will of God.’

‘But the pontiff is the reflection of
God on earth, is he not?’

‘Should I not indeed believe this?’
he asked, and I noticed that his answer was formulated in such a way that the
inquisitor could not affirm whether he did or did not believe it.

‘I ask not, my dear abbot, if you
should . . . but if you do!’ the inquisitor cried impatiently.

‘My belief is the same as yours, the
same as all men of the church.’

‘I pray, dear abbot, that you are
answering my questions in this way because of your innocence and not, in fact,
because of your guilt!’ He turned to the judges, ‘As our illustrious brother
Alain of Lille has dictated in his treatise,
Enchiridion Fontium Valdensium
.’

There were a number of communal nods
of support from the legation, though they did not dare look at one another.
They merely looked at the congregation with grim faces, bearing down their
condescension.

My master whispered to me that it did
seem as though the abbot was well versed in the rules of interrogation, but I
could not believe it. I liked the abbot.

‘In any case, my beliefs are not in
question here,’ the inquisitor dismissed, ‘I will advise you to answer my questions
simply and without dissimulation.’

‘In all ways possible.’

‘I sincerely hope so, Abbot Bendipur!
Now, please, illuminate us on your healing methods.’

‘We pray over the sick, we use what
we know about the healing properties of plants and minerals. We anoint with oil
and holy water.’

‘Where do you do this work?’

‘In the infirmary. After a diagnosis
and treatment with medicaments prescribed by our brother infirmarian, the
patient is anointed and blessed.’

‘Where is the infirmarian?’ Rainiero
Sacconi looked around the room. Asa rose slowly, head bowed. When he drew his
cowl I thought his face looked thinner than before.

‘Abbot, you may sit down for the
moment. Now, brother infirmarian, please inform us about the curative treatment
of your patients.’

‘What information would please you?’
he asked meekly.

‘Generally speaking . . .’ he waved a
pale hand in a suggestion of boredom.

‘There are no general rules, your
grace, every patient must, and should be assessed for a specific treatment.’

The inquisitor smiled, indicating his
magnanimity and his remarkable patience. ‘Give me an example.’

‘Let me see . . .’ The monk frowned, ‘Would
you like me to name various treatments for a specific disease, or one specific
treatment for various diseases?’

There was a puzzled silence. ‘Just
tell me anything, anything at all.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Well, in
that case I shall start. We use hot mustard and borage compresses for
consumption and ailments of the chest.’ He paused and the inquisitor waved him
on. ‘A paste made of foxglove for conditions connected with the region of the
heart, garlic poultices for stubborn wounds, valerian for calming the nerves.
We also use the organs of animals. One may occasionally prescribe the powdered
horn of deer, the bile of vipers, the semen of frogs and animal excrement, such
as ass’ dung – which is very fine for promoting fertility. Though I have
not had occasion to use it.’ He paused, and there was a faint humorous murmur
around us. This did not please the inquisitor, for he waved the infirmarian on,
this time with annoyance.

‘And of course,
Theriacum
. .
. by far the most used drug in many infirmaries, a mixture composed of some
fifty-seven substances of which the chief element is the flesh of poisonous
snakes. Of course, there are also other methods such as purges, baths, cautery,
surgery of which the Eastern infidels were masters. Is there anything in
particular that you would like to know?’ he asked, squinting a little.

Raising his arms in an exaggerated
gesture of incredulity, the inquisitor said, ‘From whence does your
inexhaustible knowledge spring? Have you studied medicine in Paris? Or are
there other means of procuring such information?’

There was a shy smile, ‘I have not
had the good fortune to attend formal training, but as I showed a natural
propensity in this field when I was a novice, I was encouraged to study under
Brother Setubar, my predecessor. Also there are many treatises available on
this subject, as you know.’

‘Brother Setubar?’

‘Yes, but he is now retired to a
contemplative life, though he assists me at all times.’

‘I see. And did he too rely on these
treatises you have just mentioned?’

‘Of course.’

‘And from whence did you procure
these manuscripts?’

‘Brother Macabus supplies us with
what we need from our library, we need only to ask.’

‘I see . . . I see, and was brother
Ezekiel, that is the brother who was brutally murdered, also a past librarian?’

‘He was a translator, although we
have not established that he was murdered, your grace. He was old, like our
Brother Samuel.’

‘Brother Samuel?’ the inquisitor
paused. ‘Who is Brother Samuel?’

There was a nervous pause. ‘He was
the master of music.’

‘And where is he?’ the inquisitor
glanced about the chapter house. There was an uncomfortable stillness. ‘Well?’
he pressed.

‘Brother Samuel died some days ago,’
Asa answered, after a momentary hesitation.