Temple of The Grail (45 page)

C
hristian!’ I heard once again, but this time it was not St
Thomas, it was my master, and I knew that I had dreamt. ‘Master, where am I,
what time . . .?’ I sat up rubbing my eyes. ‘You slept through the service,
dear boy . . . Anselmo was missing.’ ‘Anselmo?’ I said in a foggy way. ‘Oh! He
must be dead!’ I saw that the brothers were leaving in a single file through
the north transept, led by the inquisitor and the prelates. ‘Where are they
going?’ I asked, disorientated. ‘To the pyres.’ I blanched. ‘Now?’ My master
sighed. He seemed infinitely tired. ‘The prisoners await their fate outside.’

He helped me up, and soon we were
tagging on the end of the line, following the solemn procession into the snowy
cemetery grounds, where three stakes were erected atop a pile of faggots and
straw. I realised that it must have snowed heavily while we were celebrating
the holy service, for now the mud made by hail was covered with a soft powdery
white that the wind (growing angrier with each moment) scattered about us like
little phantoms. It was dark, but the area around the pyres was well lit by
torches, for tonight all must bear witness to God’s justice.

We waited in anxious silence. I
admonished myself for being fooled by my affection for Asa and my dislike of
Anselmo who, no doubt, either lay in a pool of blood or was poisoned. I
recognised that my master had indeed been right when he had told me to
deliberate without emotion.

Finally the prisoners were brought
before the inquisitor and my heart sank as I watched Asa climb the ladder to
the top of the pyre. Though I knew now that he must be guilty, I felt for him,
his face so thin and gaunt, his eyes resolute. Were they the eyes of a killer?
I asked myself. They did not seem so. And yet, if I had learnt anything these
last terrible days, it was that the Devil was cunning indeed.

The wind whistled ever louder in our
ears, and it began to snow as the abbot passed us, holding his head high. In
his eyes, however, I noted that he was already dead. A little way off, as he
was about to ascend the pyre, a loyal monk ran to him and sank to his knees
embracing his paternity desperately, whimpering and crying out in his own
vernacular something I did not understand.

The poor cook had to be half-carried
to the pyre by two burly guards, tears making clear byways down his dirty face.
He missed a step here and there as he ascended the ladder, nearly falling to
the ground below at one point, but was helped by an archer, who had been
designated the unenviable position of executioner. Later when the fire had
consumed the bodies it would be his job to separate what was left of the
carcasses, breaking up the bones, and throwing the viscera on a fresh fire of
logs. I closed my eyes and said an
ave
that this nightmare might soon
end, for surely I was dreaming!

Once they were all tied firmly to the
stake, firstly at the ankles, below the knees, above the knees, at the groin,
the waist, and under the arms, a heavy chain was secured about their necks.
Their sentences were then read out by the inquisitor, who bellowed his strong
voice over a gust which made his habit flap around him like black and white
flames.

‘In the name of the Father and of the
Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. We, Brother Rainiero Sacconi, of the Order of
Dominican Friars, inquisitor appointed to investigate heresy in the Kingdom of
France and Italy, being the representative of Apostolic Authority; we, Brother
Andre – Preceptor of Douzens having special licence from the King of
France; and we, Friar Bertrand de Narbonne of the Order of Friars Preachers
emissary from the Priory of Pruille; and Father Bernard Fontaine of the Order
of Cistercians at Citeaux, by divine authority of the pope have found and had
it proved before us that you . . .
In nomine Domini amen
...’

I did not hear the rest, my mind
became strangely numb, and it was only when the executioner covered the accused
under faggots and straw up to their waists that I regained my senses in time to
hear my master murmur.

‘We must go.’

I looked at him with hot tears
running down my cold face, ‘But we have to help them!’

‘They are dead men, Christian,’ he
said abruptly and I was filled with anger. Now I am wiser, and I know that my
master could do nothing. He simply wished to spare me the terrible sight that
no one but God could now prevent. But at that moment I must say that I thought
him a coward, and further, a coward whose sole preoccupation was in solving his
puzzle.

As we sank to the back of the crowd,
I saw the young maiden Trencavel and her father. They did not look at us as we
passed. I wondered if the boy was still alive and said a prayer for Eisik as we
headed for the church and the executioner lit more faggots and threw them into
the pyres.

Once inside, Andre ran to the organ,
pulling at his beard nervously and mumbling.

‘What are we doing master?’

‘We are going to try and salvage
something from out of all this mess,’ he said. ‘What do these strange numerals
mean, for the love of God . . . If they are a clue to diverting the water
channel, how is it to be read? By Saladin . . .! Now, if you were to leave a
coded message, titled
Cantus Pastoralis
...’

We heard the screams, faint, pitiful,
then there was silence and the smell of burning hair. I looked at my master
and, for a moment, I believe I knew him not at all. He was a man taken utterly
by his obsession, a man drunk with curiosity. Could he have forgotten his
mission? Could he have forgotten that men were burning, that the monastery was
condemned, and that our lives were in peril?

‘Master,’ I was out of breath, ‘we
have failed in our duty! We have failed the king, we have failed to save the
Trencavel boy, we have failed our order and those who are missing or dying on
the pyre though they are innocent! It is all in ruins, and yet here you stand
reflecting, as if . . . as if you were deliberating a chess move, as if you had
all the time in the world and not a care! I believe you are no better than the
inquisitor! There, I have said it! Both of you are proud and stubborn and
obsessed and I begin to see the line that distinguishes you only faintly,’ I
blurted out. ‘One hates knowledge beyond mercy, beyond humanity, and the other
loves it beyond compassion, beyond human reasoning. Knowledge is knowledge,
master, but what happens to those who gain it if they have no heart? Why must
you try to decipher that Godforsaken code now? We must find Eisik, we must . .
. we must forget the code. Who cares about shepherd’s songs, who cares also
about the tunnels and the silent ones and codices and gospels? We should be
praying for forgiveness!’ Tears streamed down my face unheeded but my master
did not notice, instead his face lit up like a candle.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I do not care about
shepherd’s songs! I said that we should be praying, not preparing to go into
tunnels. I do not want to go into the tunnels again, I want to leave this
place! Since our arrival all I do is dream strange dreams about saints and
psalms . . .’

‘The psalms! Of course!
Aspectus
illuminatus!
The songs of the shepherd . . . brilliant! Brilliant, my boy!’
he grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me toward the pulpit. ‘Quickly, go to
the great book of hours and when I read out the numerals you must look up the
corresponding psalm and verse. Come, come, we don’t have much time, the dog is
at this moment falling on our scent.’

My master closed his eyes and attempted,
I assumed, to tame the agitation that he felt. When he deemed himself calmer he
read out the first numerals, namely, CL: IV, psalm one-hundred-and-fifty, verse
four. I read it out, for I could not disobey him. ‘Praise him with the timbrel
and dance: praise him with stringed instruments and organs.’

My master nodded his head and rubbed
his hands in anticipation. ‘It is telling us that we are on the right path,
namely, the organ.’

He stood, facing the great
instrument, as he called out the next numerals, CIII: XIX, Psalm
one-hundred-and-three, verse nineteen. It read, ‘The lord hath prepared his
throne . . .’

My master sat upon the stool in front
of the keys as if he were being commanded.

CXLII: IV, Psalm one-hundred-and-forty-two,
verse four, I looked on my right . . .’ He did so.

CXLIII: VI, Psalm
one-hundred-and-forty-three, verse six, ‘I stretch forth my hands unto thee . .
.’ ‘Aha! It is telling us that it is a musical note, a key,’ Andre concluded. I
was a little sceptical, but said nothing.

The next numerals were XC: XII, Psalm
ninety, verse twelve, ‘So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our
hearts unto wisdom.’

‘It is a number of notes, or perhaps
one note in a numerical sequence.’

CXLIV: IX, Psalm
one-hundred-and-forty-four, verse nine, ‘I will sing a new song unto thee, O
God: upon a psaltery and an instrument of ten strings will I sing praises unto
thee.’

My master narrowed his eyes. ‘The
number ten.’

But it was the next – CVII:
XXXIII, Psalm one-hundredand-seven, verse thirty-three – that showed me
how little I knew, and once again bore witness to the extent of my master’s
vast wisdom and acumen. ‘He turneth rivers into a wilderness, and the
watersprings into dry ground.’

I looked at my master as I said this
and my eyes must have been very wide because he smiled and said a little
immodestly, ‘Why so surprised? I am rarely wrong . . . Now we know that the
organ is the lock, and the key is a number, or rather, a musical note . . . the
number ten is the only number mentioned. Therefore we must surmise that ten
notes to the right of the middle note of Ut, as we learnt in the library the
other day.’

‘In any case, how will we know if we
are right?’

‘If the organ works we will know that
the water has been diverted. At least that is one hypothesis in a million.’

‘But how do we know it is diverted
from the channel in question?’

He fixed me with an icy stare and
whispered so harshly that it echoed in the vastness of the church, ‘Do not
confound me with logic now, boy! We shall cross that stream when we come to it!
Now, let me see…’ He counted ten notes from Ut or as it is known middle C and
pressed his index finger down on the note F or Fa, but nothing happened. He
frowned, thinking for a moment. ‘Daniel admonished us to ‘Let the hymn baptise
us with the nine resonances of water’. Perhaps it is not the tenth note from
the middle Ut, by God’s bonnet! But the ninth which when one includes Ut is
actually the tenth!’

I was confused and angry with him,
but some part of me was proud also.

However, just as my master was to
press the ninth note or rather the tenth including the middle Ut that was E or Mi,
we heard someone behind us.

‘I thought if I waited you would have
worked out everything for me!’ the inquisitor cried, flanked by two of his
biggest men.

My master turned to him calmly, ‘Rainiero,
how fortunate, I was about to play the requiem.’ He placed his hands on the
keys as though he were about to depress the note.

‘Stop!’ the inquisitor cried.

‘Why? What bothers you? Is it your
conscience?’

‘I have no time for folly . . . You
know well enough what I am after. The old Cathar has disappeared without
telling me the combination. I know that you are familiar with the access, and
so together we shall go to the catacombs and you, who are most experienced,
will guide the way.’

My master did not move, he said
nothing.

‘You must know that I mean to learn
everything, even if I have to resort to distressing means, preceptor. Right at
this moment my guards have seized your Jew. They await my orders. Should I tell
you by what methods the inquisition extracts the truth from devils? I am sure
you are acquainted with them, though your squire may not be.’ He glanced at me
with cold eyes.

‘Leave the boy out of it!’ cried
Andre, getting up, his face red with anger, ‘and furthermore, leave Eisik out
of it as well. He has nothing to do with any of it!’

‘No? Well I tend to disagree with
you, preceptor. As I have told you, Jews are fomenters of dissent, known to
dabble in necromancy and other unspeakable practices. It would take very little
to convince the other members of the legation that he had some part to play in
the murderous crimes.’

What was my master to do?

‘All I seek from you, preceptor, is
the truth.’

‘Rainiero, you don’t seek the truth,
you seek your idea of what truth is and these are two different things.’

‘My dear brother,’ Rainiero seemed
amused, ‘there is only one truth!’

‘And you think you extract it under
torture? You are a fool, and an evil one at that!’

Outside, the earth rumbled in
response, like the sound, John tells us, of the chariots of many horses running
to battle, but the inquisitor smiled. ‘In my experience, preceptor, there is
pain in every truth, and therefore it is through pain that we come to know it.
Like a child who is born into the world through the anguish of his mother
– one instant of joy and a lifetime of sorrow – leading finally to
the end, again, through pain. Do you see? You think of pain, and in it you
observe only the detestable. I, on the other hand, can see only the holy.’ His
smile broadened, as though he were contemplating a truly wonderful idea. ‘For
pain, preceptor, is the purifying substance that denies nothing. Through it the
mind becomes free because once it has tasted the greatest suffering, the body,
whose sin is the seeking of pleasant things, is finally overcome. Pain is the
gateway to God, the gateway to divine bliss, and celestial joy.’