TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  ‘You say, venerable brother, that you remain for him. Do you mean Brother Setubar?’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ he chuckled, as though Andre were out of his mind.

  ‘Someone else in the abbey, then?’

  ‘Of course! Have you not been listening? That is why they have come! Naturally.’

  ‘You mean the pope’s men.’

  ‘They are learned men, but they believe all manner of erroneous things, all elucidating . . . none knowing. All seeking paths that lead them to the abyss. The poor want to be rich, the rich want a simple life, the church condemns them all, because she places money and power on the altar of God! Transformed into a harlot who will lay belly to belly with the Devil for a sackful of gold.’ At this point I blushed most severely, but the old brother seemed lost in this vision and did not notice me. ‘They know that he is here, the synagogue of Satan has found the little rose!’ I gasped, and he turned, mistaking my gasp for fear of his words, but it was his reference to the rose that had astounded me. ‘Do not look so alarmed, my dear . . . sinning is not a privilege of the weak and ignorant. Some day you will come to know that the line that divides wickedness from saintliness is often more indistinct than that which separates erudition and stupidity . . . the inquisitors, my sons, smell of luciferic dung! Ahh but then one sees the Virgin! Though she is marred by my feeble sight she remains the object of all things beautiful and noble, and once again I am almost prepared to believe that there is goodness in this world. The pious little mother whose daughter is the church and yet the daughter mocks the mother with her temerity, offering to feed her the daughter’s milk . . . but was it the patriarch who said it or was it the pope?’ He became a little vague, growing tired, then he spoke in a fragile voice. ‘In any event you are faithful, praying to her for guidance.’

  ‘We pray for peace, venerable master.’

  ‘Ahhh, peace!’ he nodded and then added, a little astonished, ‘but you are a man of war?’

  ‘I pray for inner peace from which, one hopes, sprouts the seed of the outer.’

  ‘Yes, yes, one hopes! If peace be your request none other can intercede on your behalf with as much influence as our lady.’

  ‘Venerable master, you are a wise and prudent man.’

  ‘I should be prudent! My life has taught me many things, but we old ones desire most what we need most urgently, and what I need most urgently now are some raisins. My mouth tastes of death. Perhaps I am dying, perhaps I am dead? If only Jupiter would bring back the years. And yet soon . . .’ He was suddenly exceedingly lucid and I marvelled at the convenient frailty of his venerable mind. ‘So you want to know about the tunnels?’ he said. ‘I know this is why you have come.’ He looked around him. ‘He told me not to tell . . . but the world will soon know everything, is that not so?’

  ‘Who told you not to tell?

  He lowered his eyes, like a little child caught stealing sweet cakes. ‘That I cannot say . . .’ Looking around him once more suspiciously, ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘The catacombs, are they reached through the tunnels?’

  ‘That is common knowledge, preceptor. The secret does not lie in where they are reached, but rather how. In any case,’ he narrowed his eyes, ‘what do you want with the catacombs?’

  ‘The abbot,’ my master said patiently, ‘has asked me to investigate the recent terrible murder.’

  The old man looked at my master anxiously. ‘You know then that the evil one works through a monk who has ignored

  the interdictum – the prohibition?’

  ‘You mean someone has entered the tunnels?’

  The man nodded, closing his eyes.

  ‘How do you know, Brother Daniel?’

  ‘I know because it is the duty of every monk to guard his fellows, to keep them from sin. Had this been observed perhaps much would have been prevented. In any event, the crypts are unsafe . . . a labyrinth of tunnels and channels of water. Anyone going there would never return. Only the Devil could find his way out, that is why this monk must be the Devil himself!’

  ‘But how does one enter it, brother?’

  ‘There are many entrances . . .’ he grinned and answered in Virgil’s words, ‘Facilis descensus Averno – that is to say, easy is the way down to the underworld . . . but to retrace one’s steps and to make a way out to the upper air, that is the task, that is the labour. It has only one exit.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have asked regarding its exit.’

  ‘But there is the abbot’s prohibition . . .!’

  ‘I understand but the monastery is endangered, venerable Daniel, by many foes. The inquisitor will make a judgement, perhaps not favourable – more monks may die . . .’

  The man fell silent. Indeed, I thought that he had fallen asleep, for he hung his head on his chest and made snoring noises. He then spoke, lifting his eyes to meet my master’s with gravity. ‘I will tell you, only because I fear for those brothers who are innocent, but I will tell you without telling you,’ he said with a sigh, ‘so that I do not sin against the rule. The combinations you must calculate for yourselves. I am old, my mind is weary . . . the signs . . . the time of day . . . it is too difficult . . .’ He pointed to an area to the right of the Virgin, near the exit to the graveyard. ‘There, Procul este, profani! But you must not enter!

  Spirits guard the tunnels. They follow the seven letters in number and order, but he who would seek to go against the seven churches . . . he will perish!’ Drawing his cowl, he said, ‘Look for vanity in the one who commits these heinous crimes, this one sin begets all others. You may pray for Brother Samuel, my dearest friend, for Ezekiel too, and also for me if you wish . . . but you must be vigilant.’

  ‘Thank you, brother, we will use this knowledge wisely.’ My master prepared to leave, but at that very moment Setubar entered the Lady Chapel. It seemed to me that he was following our every move, listening in on our conversations. Such was the feeling he instilled in me when his eyes cast their hot, piercing gaze on us.

  ‘There you are, dear one, I have been looking for you.’ He removed his cowl. Fixing Daniel with a stern look, he handed the old man something.

  Daniel beamed like a little child. ‘Ahh, you remembered.’

  ‘As always,’ he said benevolently. Turning to my master, he asked, in an amiable way, if we had found the abbey interesting. ‘I have seen you wandering about, asking many questions, observing, as does any good physician.’

  There! I had indeed been correct. He had been following us.

  ‘I find your abbey exceptional, Brother Setubar. Only today I have learnt so much.’

  ‘Have you indeed?’ The old man raised his brows and narrowed his eyes a touch.

  ‘Yes . . . and one thing puzzles me.’

  The man leant solicitously in my master’s direction. ‘If I may be of assistance?’

  ‘This is the thing, venerable brother, abbeys for the most part display an immeasurable preoccupation with past accomplishments which, at times, you might agree, tends to border on the sin of pride. Here, however, no one can tell me much beyond one or two generations, much less who founded the abbey and when.’

  ‘As you can ascertain from your own lips, preceptor, we Cistercians are not vainglorious like those Cluniacs you may know in the large cities. We walk the hallowed halls built by our forefathers and we sing God’s praise in the stalls built from their sainted hands, and we pray each day in our venerated church that we might preserve our humility and our temperance. What else is there to know?’

  ‘It is only that I am intrigued as to the origins of your monastery.’

  The old man nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘As is always the case, thirteen brothers – the mirror of Christ and his twelve apostles – set out to find a lonely place, a place where they could feel the spirit of God most readily; a place far from the temptations of a wicked world. The rest you see before you. It is simple.’

  ‘Yes, you are indeed so secluded that, in fact, not one of your
abbots has ever attended a meeting of the general chapter. To some this might appear strange.’

  An evil look passed over the old man’s face. ‘It is very difficult for an abbot to leave his monks, there are too many considerations, there is the weather, and time of year, for as you know we are very often not able to travel the road that leads out of the forest. And there is also the distance, as you have seen for yourself. In any event, the things that are discussed at such gatherings have little to do with our small community, preceptor. They are only for those whose motivations are governed by political considerations, those who live in the shadows cast by kings and popes. We, on the other hand, live in the shadows cast by the great mountain that feeds us and quenches our thirst.’

  ‘Yes, that is another thing that I have learnt today, venerable brother.’ My master cleared his throat and at the same time changed the subject. ‘So you have lived here all your life?’

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’ he answered.

  ‘I was hoping that you could tell me, for I also am a lover of architecture, how long it has been since the new additions were made to the church.’

  The old man frowned, ‘Additions?’

  ‘Yes, surely you must remember. For I was only speaking to Brother Macabus today on that very topic, only I forgot to ask him . . .’

  ‘Ahh, yes, yes. I’m afraid my mind is becoming addled. The additions . . . it was so long ago. Forgive me,’ he shook his head.

  ‘It is of no consequence, once again curiosity. Perhaps the abbot might help me. In any case we must not take up any more of your time, Brother Daniel needs his rest,’ my master said very quickly.

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Brother Daniel with emotion.

  ‘No Daniel,’ Setubar affirmed. ‘The preceptor, who is also a physician, can see the pallor on your cheeks. Come and I will read to you from the gospels.’

  ‘The pallor on my cheeks!’ the man said indignantly. ‘Am I a maiden that I must wear a sanguine expression?’ Then, ‘Are there any more raisins?’

  ‘No more today, as I have told you before.’ Setubar locked Daniel’s arms into his and directed him to the ambulatory, but before they could enter the south transept, Daniel called out to us without turning,

  ‘’Let the hymn baptise you with the nine resonances of water. Beware, the antichrist is at hand!’

  We remained for a little while in the Lady Chapel and then strolled out into the graveyard through the north transept door and into the cold winter day, meditating on Brother Daniel’s revelations.

  ‘So, brother Setubar did not remember the church alterations. Is that significant?’ I asked.

  ‘It would have been more significant if he had.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘What do you mean how do I mean, boy! There were no alterations . . . I simply made that up, so when he suddenly made excuses for his lapse in memory I knew that he was not being truthful.’

  ‘But you said Brother Macabus –’

  ‘I know what I said.’

  ‘But then you have lied yourself!’ I said aghast.

  ‘Dear boy, lies are an abomination unto the Lord!’ he exclaimed fervently, adding without even the slightest hint of guilt, ‘but a very present help in times of trouble!’

  ‘So what did you find out by lying?’

  ‘Christian, you must learn to think with the head God gave you. Setubar, a man who can quote word for word from the old book, a man whose eyes are as sharp as his, is not in possession of an addled mind. Besides, the old are known to have very fine memories of distant events, even though they cannot remember what they had for breakfast, as Daniel has admitted. Setubar should have remembered something so significant as the alteration of a church. No I do not know as yet why he lied, but I have my suspicions.’

  At this point it began to snow, not lightly as earlier in the day, but a heavy, pregnant fall, more appropriate to winter than to spring. I patiently followed my master as he walked among the graves whose positions were denoted only by white crosses. My master, who had always been unperturbed by death, whistled as he inspected every cross and there were indeed several.

  I drew the cowl over my head to protect it from the snow, which even now found its way into the collar of my habit and down my back. Suddenly I heard my master say ‘Aha!’ with such exuberance that I slipped on the icy ground, and narrowly escaped falling face down onto the grave of Sibelius Eustacious.

  ‘Eureka!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Master?’ I asked, a little annoyed.

  ‘Eureka,’ he said, amazed that I did not recognise it. Then impatiently, ‘Archimedes . . . Eureka! In other words mon ami, I’ve got it!’

  I shook my habit of snow and said, not too politely, ‘What do you mean, you’ve got it?’

  ‘Look at this!’ he pointed to a headstone of moderate height. It was situated nearest to the mountain wall that cradled the abbey, quite a distance from the others. I walked over to it and my master grabbed me by the arm in his excitement and said, ‘What do you see? Come now for I am cold and we are losing light.’

  I looked at it closely. It was a rectangular stone upon which only the shape of a sword was carved.

  I told my master what I saw and he looked at me and said with irritation, ‘Dear Christian, I too can see! No, I do not mean that you should describe it to me, I mean to know if you recognise it.’

  It was as though I had suddenly become blind, for the more I looked the less I saw.

  ‘Dear boy!’ he exclaimed. ‘How can you not know it? It is a Templar grave!’

  ‘A Templar grave?’ I said, stunned. Why should I have recognised it? In the East men were buried in haste, with rarely a wooden cross to mark their remains.

  Kneeling with some difficulty Andre removed a portion of the shallow layer of snow covering the grave. ‘This is an old grave. It must have been an important monk, for no other headstone can be found here . . . very interesting.’ He stood looking around. ‘This is perhaps finally making some sense.’

  ‘But that would mean . . .’

  ‘Do not make assumptions, Christian, it may be the grave of a wealthy knight who, on his way to the holy land – partaking of the generosity of the monastery – died here of something or other.’

  ‘But ...’

  ‘We must wait before committing these things to our hypothesis, we must first take a look at the great book in the chapter house. Come, lest we draw attention to the headstone.’

  So we left the graveyard and as we rounded the courtyard, passing first the abbatial church then making our way to the cloister buildings, we came upon the bishop ambulating toward us. My first instinct was to turn and walk the other way and I could tell from my master’s momentary hesitation that he too felt the same, but we could not avoid him.

  He walked towards us with unsteady gait, for walking was not a simple matter for the bishop. Not only did his considerable size impede his progress – I dared not imagine what layers of fat must be hidden beneath his ecclesiastical vestments – but also a vacuous haziness that I suspect was the result of a good deal of monastery wine.

  On our journey to the abbey, my master had commented, rather unkindly, that the bishop was like a man who wore ill-fitting clothes. I noted his sumptuous ermine and velvet, his absurdly huge pectoral cross, catching the meagre light and throwing it back in brilliant colours, and I realised that my master was right. For all his regalia nothing served to soften the troubled expression that had long ago settled on his blotched face, leaving deep furrows and wrinkles, clouds of mistrust and disdain. My master enlightened me that his appointment in France made him an outcast at the king’s court, as he was seen as a papal infiltrator, sent to spy on France. He, in turn, viewed everyone with derision, perhaps feeling that he deserved a better position than an inconsequential bishopric, miles from Rome, and further still from any chance of career advancement. Whatever the case, he was a man capable of the deepest hatred, so it seemed to me, a man envious of all men,
as though he moved inside a storm; his mere presence appeared to signal bad weather.

  The bishop reached us huffing and puffing and paused, catching his breath and patting his paunch as a pregnant woman pats her belly, lovingly.

  ‘Dear preceptor,’ he said after a moment, in his voice a suspicious magnanimity, ‘I have been looking for you in every place!’ In a lower voice, ‘I must speak with you on matters of extreme delicacy.’

  ‘I am your willing servant,’ my master bowed with humility, but in his tone I noted some annoyance.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ he looked about him with a frown of importance. ‘Last night we were witness to an abominable crime. The inquisitor was right. The Devil roams these evil corridors and none are safe who seek the truth in the name of God.’

  ‘Those whose eyes look for evil will find it in every place, your grace, even in God himself,’ my master said calmly.

  ‘Come now, preceptor, we must not be careless! There is an evil working here that is more powerful than you know. Rainiero has warned us to keep en garde. The next to die could be one of us, therefore I am here to advise you that we are to travel in pairs and stay in our cells as much as possible, until such time as these proceedings are dispensed with.’

  ‘And did the inquisitor also advise you to wear a garland of angelica as named by our Brother Linaeus to be efficacious as a safeguard against evil?’

  ‘No.’ The man was wide-eyed, not knowing, as I knew, that my master was commanding the tool of Aristophanes. ‘Do you recommend it, preceptor?’