TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  Avalanches were not extraordinary, so a brother told us when he knocked on our door to announce that the meal would be delayed. He had brought us a tray of nuts and bread and while he set it down he told us that this phenomenon was the consequence of unusually wet winters and that only ten years before, a brother, while crossing the grounds to the stables, was asphyxiated under an enormous mantle of snow that had loosened from overhead.

  ‘He was not found until the next morning,’ the brother said in a thick vulgar accent, one eye permanently closed. ‘When they dug his carcass out of the snow we prayed for his soul, God grant him, soaring lightly in the heavens, even as his testicles were as heavy as glass.’

  Now we could see almost nothing except snow from my master’s window.

  Andre lay stretched out on his pallet staring into nothingness, his mouth working the nuts that he, from moment to moment, popped into his mouth. Eisik paced the floor like a caged animal and I sat on a chair impassively.

  ‘Master?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes?’ He raised his chin.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I am thinking, boy.’

  ‘About the deaths?’

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I am thinking that there are far too many things to think about, nevertheless, I believe we are progressing in our hunt.’

  ‘To which hunt do you refer, master? I must admit I no longer know whether we are hunting for murderers or for ways to get into tunnels or for . . . final conclusions, or monks who disappear . . .’

  ‘We are hunting all those things,’ he answered calmly.

  Eisik shook his head from side to side. ‘And the hunter shall become the hunted . . . mind what I say, Andre! Holy tribes of Israel! What a predicament you have found for us!’

  ‘Firstly,’ Andre said, ignoring his friend, ‘in the matter of the . . . we shall call them murders, we have two dead monks whose deaths are preceded by similar symptoms, at least one had, at the moment of death, a curious sensation of flying.’

  ‘But a sensation of flying, master? Is that not also what the cook said?’

  ‘Yes, he has come in contact, though only slightly, with the poison. I have read something, somewhere, about a certain compound . . . if only there was order to be found in my poor confounded head!’ He sighed, ‘In any case, we must cheer up, we must think . . . What do we know? Firstly we know from our conversation with Asa that Samuel was seeking to go down to the tunnels to see something, though he was warned by Setubar against it. We then learn that a young novice, a friend of our Greek genius, has gone missing, having broken the interdict and ventured where no man must go.’

  ‘Too many loose ends! There are too many!’ cried Eisik, jubilantly pessimistic.

  ‘Precisely, and so we must tie them all together, but not too soon. Let us not be overcome by it all, for there are many things to consider, and if we act in haste we may indeed tie the wrong ends together!’

  ‘But the dying are piling up, master!’ I said impatiently.

  ‘Hurry not, learn deliberation! Remember that an Arab horse makes a few stretches at full speed, and breaks down, while the camel, at its deliberate pace, travels night and day, and gets to the end of its journey. Now let us ponder things a little, shall we? What were the similarities between the two dead monks?’

  ‘They were both old enough to know many secrets about the past of the abbey?’ I ventured.

  ‘Precisely, old enough, as we have seen, to know something of the tunnels, and what is hidden therein.’

  ‘Perhaps the killer wants these secrets to remain secret, master? Perhaps the killer did not want them going down to the catacombs?’

  ‘That would be the less taxing explanation,’ he answered, ‘but just because something is plausible that does not make it probable. In any case, first let us examine the profile of our killer from what we know of him.’

  ‘But we do not know anything, master, only that he knows Greek and that he is left-handed.’

  ‘Nothing, he knows nothing!’ Eisik thundered, waving his arms about. ‘And still he meddles . . . The inquisitor hates him and still he baits and taunts him so that, in his sleep, the Dominican dreams of pyres whereupon he burns innocent Jews and Templars. In truth, Arabs are renowned for their arrogance, and you are the proof. Say nothing, think nothing. Do nothing more than what is asked of you.’

  ‘What do you say? One impatient and one reticent?’ my master said, sitting up a little. ‘My lord, if you are not the most empty-headed . . . You are, you are human beings, therefore you can think! Think! If we are surrounded by enemies we must alter our management of affairs and change our strategies to keep the enemy from recognising them, that is all. One moment we are submissive, the next we are forceful. One moment we act, the next we wait. We must secretly guard our advantages.’

  ‘Which are?’ Eisik raised a black brow.

  ‘That we know a great deal.’

  ‘Do we, master?’

  ‘Of course, we can construct the murderer’s character as one constructs a house. Each brick is a little scrap of knowledge that we have of him, and even that which we don’t have, and can only hypothesise. Firstly, we must venture a propositum of his motives because motives are closely tied to characteristics . . . We do what we do, Christian, because of who we are, is that not so?’

  ‘That is so,’ I agreed.

  ‘Now, what reasons could a man of God have for doing away with his fellow monks? And notice I don’t just see him as a man because he is not any man, he is a monk whose life is devoted to relinquishing sin. Either he is not a good monk – which we may say at the outset is most likely – or he doesn’t see these murders as sinful, he justifies them in some way, as holy necessities. Let us consider what kind of monk would do such a thing, shall we?’

  ‘A man who hates another, obviously,’ Eisik contributed, ‘and considering the powerful hate of a gentile . . .’

  ‘All that aside, Eisik, hate is a strong motive, and usually a passionate one. In such a case the crime would be more violent, less . . . planned.’

  ‘Greed, fear, jealousy, vanity, power?’ I ventured.

  ‘Very good, very good,’ he nodded his head.

  ‘But which one? Which one, for the love of Israel?’ cried Eisik, overcome with an access of emotion.

  ‘Perhaps a mixture of all of them, my friend. Let us see, he has succeeded in his crime, so he is clever, and those who are clever . . .’

  ‘Are envious of others whom they suspect of being more clever than they, this is well known,’ Eisik finished, pacing the room.

  ‘We must remember that a community of monks is like a mirror of the world, only many times smaller,’ Andre said.

  ‘You mean that monks are no better than those peasants in the village who are envious of each other, who blaspheme and who go about their greedy business?’ I asked aghast. ‘Master, how can that be so?’

  ‘There are not many men, be they monk or peasant, who are not this very day performing penance for some sin of pride or vanity. In any case we must continue by surmising that our killer may be envious, but why is he envious of older monks?’

  ‘Perhaps the killer was envious of another’s wisdom, master, because he is ambitious to be thought wiser.’

  ‘The boy is brighter than you credit him,’ said Eisik, ‘for he sees that either the killer is young and therefore despises the wisdom of the old because it is not new, or he is old and envies the young whose fresh new ideas he detests, or perhaps he envies his equals because he falls a little short of having what they possess. This is usual in the case of envy, especially among learned men.’

  ‘But that brings us no closer, Eisik, for he could be any age at all!’ I cried.

  ‘Precisely,’ answered Eisik, ‘but knowing nothing is also something, for now we can surmise that he is also vain. You may ask me how I know this but I will tell you that only a vain person will kill another to possess more k
nowledge than he already has! There again we see the avarice of learning.’ He threw my master a pointed look.

  ‘That is assuming envy is at the root of it,’ my master replied serenely, ‘which, of course, it may not be. What else? Oh, yes . . . fear! If you have done something horrible or perhaps not horrible, but punishable, would you be terrified that those with a knowledge of your secret might one day betray you?’

  ‘So you are saying, master, that the old monks knew something about the killer? Some terrible secret from the past? What about the cook? It is possible that he told others of his time in Italy.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ Eisik’s face took on a reflective seriousness, ‘the killer, God forgive him, may have done something to someone else who may be in a position to do something to him, and so he forestalls him . . . perhaps his motive is fear?’

  ‘I do not think so,’ Andre retorted, ‘the killer must be confident. Who else but the most confident of men would go on a killing spree when the abbey is not only crawling with men at arms, but also a temporary home for the inquisition? Either he has never experienced brutality, or his experience gives him the means to deal with it. Those whom we do not fear are either weaker than ourselves or we have more supporters than they.’

  ‘So there may be more than one killer?’ I asked, so caught up in our puzzle that I momentarily forgot the seriousness of our subject.

  ‘In truth, we must not discount this. The one who hit me on the head today was able-bodied, for this was shown by his quick actions, he is also shorter than I.’

  ‘How do you know that, master? Because of the angle of his strike?’

  ‘No, and you may take some credit for this, my good Christian, because you asked me about his shoes which drew my attention to his feet whose dimensions were small. It is only natural that people with small feet are generally shorter than those with large feet.’

  ‘So the demon is short and able-bodied . . . Oh son of David! That is why he is not afraid of the old, fragile monks. He must be young or in his prime. These are always the most dangerous men.’

  ‘That we may assume with confidence, Eisik. In any event that only tells us the physical characteristics of the author of our note, and he may not be our killer. We must take care not to assume too much, not unless some other piece of evidence tells us otherwise.’

  ‘What else do we know, master? Do you think that he is motivated by greed?’

  ‘Yes, greed. Our killer wants everything, or maybe only one thing, but it must be of great importance.’

  ‘Yes, my sons, the desire to have what one may not have is a strong one.’

  ‘So those whom our murderer kills may be denying him something, or impeding him in his aim at something and this brings to mind something else . . . What if the killer is after the same thing that has brought us here? Have you thought of that?’Andre said.

  ‘But what has brought us here if not the king’s command, master?’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I speak of whatever it is that has compelled his command, something valuable, powerful . . .’

  Eisik shivered, groaning deeply, ‘So, what you are saying, Andre, is that the old brothers were not mere innocents. You are saying, and it will be heard in the four quarters of heaven, that they were in possession of something . . . something terrible!’

  I must have paled for my master became annoyed and he muttered some profanity in his native tongue which I shall not recount.

  ‘Perhaps they are in possession of something, or they know how to come by it, and will not tell? Or perhaps they are ready to tell others about it, thereby denying the killer’s sole ownership if he already knows it,’ Andre finished, and popped another nut into his mouth with a gesture of defiance.

  I was silent.

  ‘Now, to the deaths . . . What is the rule? The poison, the note. Let me see the note.’

  I searched in the repository inside my habit and produced the note. My master snatched it from my hands and proceeded to read it: ‘Except the lord build the house: their labour is but lost that build it.’

  ‘What is he trying to tell us, and why?’ My master thought deeply for a moment. ‘Brother Ezekiel was the old translator, and what do translators translate if not the knowledge of others?

  Could we then call him a seeker of knowledge? It could be that the killer is forewarning us . . .’

  ‘You mean telling us the identity of his next victim?’ I asked, suddenly enlightened.

  ‘Exactly! Whoever built the house will be next.’

  ‘You mean whoever built the monastery?’ I corrected him.

  ‘An architect, the builder of the house may be a metaphor for something else, such as some thing to be accomplished, or some knowledge of the building, the configuration of something.’

  ‘Perhaps it is the measurements of Solomon’s Temple, that which was, before it was destroyed by pagans and idolaters,’ Eisik offered.

  ‘This knowledge could be the conclusion that Asa mentioned?’ I remarked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ my master said.

  ‘We know that the author of our note is the killer master, otherwise, how could he know the identity of the next victim?’

  ‘Perhaps he is privy to this information, but does not have the courage to tell us face to face?’

  ‘Why doesn’t he write down the name of the killer, master, instead of using riddles?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Andre said, pensively, ‘perhaps he is prudent.’

  Eisik raised one brow. ‘Perhaps he likes toying with fumbling Templars.’

  My master glared at Eisik and laid his head back on his hands, now in a bad mood.

  ‘But what about the cook, master?’ I continued soothingly. ‘He must know something.’

  ‘I shall have to speak with him, but that is now difficult. At least we know many things, and I am beginning to think that my assumptions are correct. There are two monasteries, Christian. One that lives and breathes above the earth, and one that conducts its business below.’

  ‘Is that not what the abbot said? That what is above is like that which is below?’

  ‘Yes. Everything points to the catacombs, and I believe there must be something of great importance hidden there, perhaps important enough to occasion murder, and I aim to find out what it is. Now, away with you, and let me think! Tonight, after all are in bed, we visit the panel. We shall meet after compline in your cell, Christian.’

  16

  Capitulum

  ‘Let the bridegroom go forth of his chamber, and the bride out of her closet.’

  Joel ii 16

  I was in a magnificent garden. Around me nature seemed as fresh as the very first day of creation. Everywhere I saw His fingerprint upon the most sublime hues, and the most resplendent colours. Cool, limpid pools of emerald and jade in their innocence cascaded down to a stream whose origin seemed to be in some distant place, dissolving into an indistinct horizon. Here light played upon everything, dancing on the gauzy wings of a breeze, resting upon flowers of every kind that lay outspread like a blanket at my feet. They seemed like disciples whose grace and simplicity were singularly beautiful, their little faces upturned in the piety of their vestments.

  I could have been in the paradise of Palladius, or high atop Parnassus, or even above the hills of the Isthmus, for it was an ecstatic vision of purest peace and concord the likes of which I had never before experienced. I sighed with deep contentment, gazing up at the blueness above, desiring nothing but that moment, knowing that God in his beneficence and unfathomable wisdom had bestowed this array of supreme beauty for me alone. For indeed I was alone . . . until I saw her . . .

  . . . and she was much lovelier than I had imagined. How disarmingly beautiful she was! How divinely constructed were the bones of her face, how brightly shone her eyes and the jewels of her mouth. She was like mineral springs at their source, like cinnamon and saffron, like frankincense. She was illuminated, radiating all the colours of the spectrum. Like the world contained in a drop
of rain; she was intrinsic and extrinsic, diaphanous and crystalline. All that she was, lay clearly before my eyes . . . Isis unveiled.

  It was then that I became afraid. Perhaps because of what I had heard about the noon-tide devil; that woman being a feminine creature – and therefore diabolical – was the oldest and most powerful tool of Satan. Perhaps I was afraid because deep inside me I knew this not to be true and therefore could only blame myself for the impurity of my thoughts.

  Proverbs tells us that ‘stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant’, and it was indeed pleasant to remain transfixed, desiring to understand this most exquisite and enigmatic creature better. I found that if I could empty my mind of all the trivial little things about her, I could in a sense feel her essential being in a curious way stripped bare before me. I saw that she was good. She was lovely. I feel at a loss, patient reader, to explain why, or rather how, I sensed these things, but they seemed to me as natural as inhaling the brisk mountain air, observing how its crispness enters one’s lungs, purifying them. A kind of fleeting knowledge, an intuition passing over the soul, and finally, oh sweet melancholy . . .

  She passed by and in her wake there was the faint scent of jasmine as it is given forth from the hanging gardens of Babylon. Her mouth beckoned me, redder than the wines of Cana, adorned with teeth whiter than milk, each one like a little pearl. She walked as straight as the towers of Lebanon that looketh towards Damascus, her breasts like unto apples, for their scent was sweet, and her eyes like the tranquil waters of Heshbon by the gate of Bathrabbin, for they conveyed peace.

  ‘Come down, my beloved. Why tarriest thou?’ I heard myself say. ‘O beautiful maiden, rising over the horizon like the moon over Jerusalem. Vanquishing the darkness, and warming the senses like a radiant fire!’ I felt a pang . . . Oh, sweet sweetest love! What miseries dost thou bestow upon a man! I knew that she must be the work of a cunning craftsman for I felt feverish. Who is this woman who, in her necklaces, hides precious fruits shining like the sun? Who, with one blush, could shame all the stars of heaven? I found myself at once relieved and also anguished, lured to the infernal gates of hell.