TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  ‘And,’ my master interjected in an annoyed fashion, ‘since we do not have centuries at our disposal we shall have to guess as to which method may have been used.’

  ‘What say you, Nazarene?’ Eisik looked up from his vague calculations as one who had just been wrenched from a deep sleep. ‘I have never guessed a thing in my life! No, no, it is impossible! Do you know how many variations there are on a single word? We must work with strict principles. Strict principles!’

  ‘Yes, but Eisik, we don’t have time to test all such systems, that you have just said are too complicated, so by the sword of Saladin let us try one!’

  ‘This illustrates to me why gentiles will never come to know the truths contained in the old texts . . .’ He closed one eye, measuring my master with the other. ‘Such matters cannot be attended to in haste. However, if I am to be forced I shall start by adding the letters, or the value of the letters together, this is the simplest of all systems and so one likely to be used by a gentile . . .’ Eisik added, giving my master a caustic look. ‘Now then, in this system A is equal to one, B to two, and so on, so on . . . and if we follow this principle we find that the sum of your code’s numerical value comes to . . . one hundred and forty.’

  ‘Is that a good number?’ I asked excited, not immediately realising that the closer we came to solving the puzzle, the closer we came to inspecting the tunnels.

  ‘No, child, it is very bad!’ Eisik shook his head with pessimism. ‘Any number that is not significant is bad, though many significant numbers are also not good. However, this number is not without merit, for it can be divided by seven which is perhaps the most venerated of all numbers, and by four, the number of the unpronounceable name. And although one can divide it by the number of gospels, and by eight, the number of the perfect tetragon and by five, the five world zones, it is not significant.’

  ‘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.

  14

  Capitulum

  Between Terce and Sext

  Monks 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, an
d 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?’