TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

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TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel Page 29

by Adriana Koulias


  ‘Because they were strong and steady of gait.’

  ‘Precisely. If this imprint of dirt belongs to the killer then the murder must have occurred after the killer returned from the labyrinth with red dirt on his shoes.’

  ‘So the murder must have been committed sometime while we were in the library or on our way to the church, and not after, otherwise we would have seen the suspect leave the labyrinth, for he would have had to come out of the Lady Chapel.’

  ‘That is true, or perhaps he left the tunnels later by way of the scriptorium, the same way we did, in which case the murder was perpetrated between the time we left the scriptorium, and the bells for matins, that is, while we were inspecting the organ . . . On the other hand, there may be other exits . . . and then again, perhaps others who come and go from the tunnel, and that means our hypothesis is shot! We must find out where our Brother Setubar was during the time of the murder.’

  ‘But does Setubar know Greek?’

  ‘That is the second thing we must find out, assuming that the author of the note is the same monk who has commited these crimes.’

  We made our way down the night stairs, intending to leave by way of the aperture, but when we walked past the scriptorium we noticed Brother Macabus sitting at his desk.

  His figure cut an ominous shape in the dim light from his lamp. Surrounded by shadows he appeared to be in deep concentration. I followed my master until we were almost upon him, giving him a start, and causing him to stand up abruptly. I saw him cover his work with a sheet of vellum as he greeted us with a saddened expression that appeared not altogether genuine.

  ‘Such dedication,’ my master commented amiably.

  A pale smile moved his thin lips, ‘I find, preceptor, that when I am disturbed, it is best if I apply myself to some work. Tonight I fear that we are all disturbed . . .’

  ‘Yes, and to what work do you apply yourself?’ My master lifted the sheet of vellum to reveal pages of what looked like Hebrew, and alongside this another sheet where he had begun only a few lines in Latin.

  ‘You are translating the Old Testament directly from Aramaic?’

  ‘Yes.’ The man looked a little nervous. Everyone seemed so nervous.

  ‘Extraordinary. I know very little in comparison with true men of learning such as you. Why not from Greek?’ My master asked.

  ‘The Semitic language was, of course, the original language of the Old Testament, preceptor, it was only much later that it was translated into Greek.’

  ‘However, Moses, having been raised by Egyptians, could have used the language of his keepers, could he not?’

  ‘There are differing schools of thought on this subject. This could be the case, some translations may have been from Egyptian into Hebrew and also, later into Coptic, however, Aramaic was the Semitic language of the people, and incidentally the language of Jesus. Hebrew was the language of the priests. I prefer to think that Aramaic is the purest. At least it is purer than the pagan Greek language which has corrupted everything . . . Saint Jerome, God Bless him, translated the Bible from Hebrew to Latin, but it is fraught with errors. Moreover, the Greek text is known to have included a number of books not present in the texts used by the Hebrews, Saint Jerome did not include them and called them ‘apocryphal’.’

  ‘You mean . . . heretical.’

  ‘Actually, it means hidden,’ he said with a grin, ‘The Apocrypha has been embraced by some, others believe it to be inspired by Gnostic philosophy.’

  ‘And what of the gospels? I have heard there are a number not included in the new Testament. The gospel of Thomas for instance, and others like the secret Gospel of Matthew?’

  The librarian turned an ash-grey, ‘The Gospel of Thomas, Matthew? Yes, I have of heard them.’

  ‘Curious, is it not? Though one can hardly believe that such things exist.’

  The librarian moved closer. ‘Oh, but they do, preceptor!’ The man betrayed himself. ‘We are told they were not found to be canonical, firstly the gospel of Thomas does not mention the crucifixion and other important events while the secret Gospel of Matthew . . . better that the world not know of their existence, we must leave these decisions to those wiser than we.’

  My master smiled a little. ‘Ah, yes, but think what a dull world it would be if one always deferred knowledge to wisdom. Still I know that you are right. One cannot help wondering, though, what such gospels might tell us . . .’

  ‘Yes, one can only wonder,’ Macabus narrowed his eyes, ‘and yet what can one more gospel tell us that we do not already know, preceptor?’

  ‘Indeed, I suppose we shall never know.’ Then my master made a gesture that signalled that we were about to leave, and the other man made a noise, a kind of clearing of his throat as though he were about to say something.

  Dear reader, you may ask why brother Macabus embarked on the following conversation when there was no outward reason that he should do so. All I can say is that perhaps the sin of the intellect is best nurtured in collusion, because instruction is like an act of seduction that one man uses to gain advantage over another, or as in this case, to affect a semblance of importance. It seemed that the circumspect librarian, given the first opportunity, was about to divulge many things.

  ‘There have been rumours,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Rumours that we . . . that we have these same gospels here in the abbey.’ He held a hand over his mouth suddenly, as though he had uttered a blasphemy. ‘Held in the treasury as a relic given to us by a generous benefactor.’

  ‘Is this true?’ My master managed a look of incredulity that would have fooled anyone, no less the man standing before him. ‘And yet surely if such a precious item existed in the abbey it would be at your disposal?’

  The man smiled a little wanly, ‘That is a logical conclusion and yet we do not live in a world ruled by logic, preceptor, but one ruled by obedience.’

  ‘Yes, however, as librarian you must have access to all the books belonging to the library, is that not so?’

  The man straightened his shoulders. ‘No, in fact Brother Ezekiel alone was sanctioned to enter the library proper . . . Now, we must await the abbot’s decision . . .’

  ‘Oh, I see . . .’, he gave me another one of his peculiar looks, and I was coming to realise that they were meant to signal me to attention. ‘This must have been a source of much anguish on your part. An erudite man is by nature curious . . .’

  ‘You do not know preceptor . . .’ the other man said, opening up as a flower does to the warm rays of the sun, ‘how many long nights I have contemplated my shortcomings, I have mortified the flesh seeking the reasons for my exclusion, and yet . . . ‘I am a worm and no man: adversus eos qui tribulant me’.’

  My master gave the man a look of warm commiseration.

  ‘And yet it is the worm that makes the earth fertile, brother. No one could blame you for becoming so overwhelmed with emotion that you would do almost anything to hold those precious codices in your hands, at the very least . . . to see them.’

  Macabus eyed my master shrewdly and raised his chin in defiance. ‘Not anything, preceptor, I would not lose my virtue, nor would I kill for it, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, of course not, but I wonder, has anyone seen these gospels? Or are they speculation on your part?’

  ‘There is one, though he is not worthy.’ He lowered his eyes, but not before I saw a deep resentment in them. ‘These last months, because of his weak vision and sudden frailty, Brother Ezekiel had been working on a project of great importance with the young translator Anselmo. He was working on the translation of a certain...gospel.’

  ‘Is this true?’ My master smiled as though the man were not serious.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he was given the sanction to accompany the brother to the library.’

  ‘No!’ my master exclaimed with indignation. ‘Yet you, the librarian, have never been there? That is absurd!’

  The other man’s
eyes softened, ‘My very sentiments, preceptor.’

  ‘But how do you know this was their task?’

  ‘Anselmo told me, perhaps to make me feel even more inferior. In any case when the brother heard that Anselmo was puffed up with pride, he ended his work with him.’

  ‘No doubt that upset the boy.’

  The brother looked about. ‘He was very calm, as is his nature, but his eyes grew black with hate.’

  ‘I see . . .’ my master said thoughtfully.

  The man, perhaps sensing that he had been imprudent, said, ‘Now, if you will excuse me, preceptor, soon the bell will toll, and I must make ready. I hope you will not mention what I have just told you to anyone . . .’ he trailed off.

  ‘Your words are safe with me, brother librarian. Thank you for a most erudite discussion.’ My master bowed and we began to leave when he suddenly remembered that the aperture would be locked as was customary. ‘Oh, Brother Macabus, if you will be so kind as to let us out?’

  The brother searched his vestments. ‘The cook’s assistant must still have the keys, preceptor, I gave them to him when the poor cook was . . . detained. You will have to leave via the north transept door.’

  ‘I see,’ said my master with a smile.

  Moments later, after entering the church, my master said that it was a pity that our investigations of the organ would have to wait, but it was far too dangerous to pursue this matter with the inquisitor roaming about. Instead we left through the north transept and found ourselves within the stormy elements, at the perimeter of the graveyard.

  ‘So is Macabus a suspect now, master?’

  ‘It is possible. He was all too ready to incriminate Anselmo, perhaps to save his own skin by diverting us . . . To be librarian and have the library denied you, especially when it is purported to hold such treasures, and to have one much younger and less experienced given the sanction to use it, must have caused him a great deal of shame. Never underestimate this emotion, for no man is more capable of hatred, Christian, than a man who feels he has been unfairly or shamefully treated. We also know that he had access to poisons, and that he knows Greek . . .’

  ‘So if he does not know it as well as Anselmo, that may explain the errors in the note?’

  ‘Yes, you could be right, and yet I am not convinced of anything. Did you notice that he was right-handed?’

  ‘What about Anselmo? He also had a motive.’

  ‘Yes . . . too many possibilities too little time . . .’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Yes, Christian, what now?’

  ‘I am confounded. Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic!’

  ‘Firstly we must differentiate between the Old and New Testaments.’ He winced, for the wind assailed us. ‘The New Testament was given to us in Greek from the first. The Old Testament was handed down to the Jewish people in Hebrew, and then translated into Aramaic and Greek. Macabus was correct, however, in saying that Greek may have corrupted the original intentions of Moses and other Hebrew writers of the Old Testament, because a translation is never an easy thing. If we take, for instance, the word ‘soul’ and translate it into Greek we arrive at the word ‘psyche’, a very good word as words go, but also one that has been given a meaning by the Greek philosophers that was not intended by the Old Testament authors. You see to the Greeks ‘psuche’ or ‘psyche’ also includes the function of the mind and reason, in Hebrew the equivalent means only soul as a spiritual entity.’

  ‘It is such a fine distinction, master, for thinking is a function of being that constitutes the soul.’

  ‘Yes but a distinction is most significant when it is least obvious.’

  ‘So when translating one cannot escape the distortions produced by one’s philosophy and politics?’ I said.

  ‘Precisely,’ he answered.

  ‘It is all much clearer now . . . but master, before when you were speaking to Brother Macabus, you sounded as though you knew very little about translations.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But now it appears that you know a great deal?’

  ‘It is always best to seem ignorant when measuring another’s wisdom, Christian.’

  ‘Why? It seems to me that an honest exchange of knowledge can only further us in our investigations.’

  He rolled his eyes heavenward and I am ashamed to say that he uttered a blasphemy in Arabic. ‘Have I taught you nothing! We are not at a university exchanging pleasurable views on varied topics of interest. We are conducting an investigation where our goal is to test a suspect’s knowledge when his guard is at its lowest.’

  Once again I thought he sounded very much like the inquisitor.

  ‘So your empathy was another formula to loosen his tongue?’

  ‘There’s nothing better . . . Once a man senses that you understand him, that you too think the same way, he will say almost anything . . . Many have fallen by the edge of the sword, Christian, but not so many as have fallen by the tongue.’

  Once at my cell door Andre bid me to take a rest, for he said lauds would be a most unhappy service this day.

  ‘Keep your door locked,’ he said, ‘and your ears sharp! The inquisitor is a fool. Indeed, I know there are murderers at large and they are as real as we are.’

  Entering my cell in silence I discarded my shoes and lay down in a foetal position, fearful. I huddled in my pallet, praying silently.

  Qui sedes ad dextram Patris miserere nobis . . . Thou who sittest at the right hand of the Father, have mercy on us.

  TERRA

  THE FOURTH TRIAL

  ‘The full soul loatheth an honeycomb; but to the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet.’

  Proverbs xxvii 7

  19

  Capitulum

  I dreamt that I was surrounded by bees. They entered the cavities of my ears and I could hear the word as spoken by the fathers, the interpreters of scripture, of whom it is said that they make the honey of the spiritual understanding of the word of God. They penetrated my mouth, and I spoke forth words of majesty and splendour! They whispered profound mysteries through the continual movement of their wings. They told me that individual freedom was the future of mankind, that heresy wears two faces, that violence is evil and love conquers above all human emotions, that poverty was the ideal but sacrifice was greater. Below me on earth, I saw the inquisitor, but his eyes were the colour of blood, like the eyes of a devil, and his mouth became like that of a serpent, and he was about to swallow the monastery whole, when a light from out of the depths, from out of the catacombs, shone out all around and into the cosmic spaces where the angels rejoiced! This light was indeed the brightest light I have ever seen, and inside this light I saw a figure, and I knew it to be the sick boy. The one that the monks would not discuss. The elusive dying novice. A voice then rang out through space, and I heard it say,

  ‘Have you sufficient oil in thine own lamp? Make it such that the twelve become seven and the seven stars appear.’

  I woke and found myself sitting up on my pallet, trembling from cold, and perspiring profusely. Another vision! Would I never escape this torment! Outside I could hear the wind, as a faint light heralded dawn through my window. I would not be able to sleep now. There were too many things to consider, so I resolved to ready myself for prime and, putting on my sandals, I ventured out into the gloom.

  The wind had whipped up the freshly fallen snow, making it difficult to see, especially as I had no light to guide me, for I had to ask the hospitaller for more oil and tapers and I knew that he would become suspicious were I to do so. A groaning whistle met me as gusts circled the abbey, swirling and surging around the bell tower. Coiling and entwining, the wind encountered the hardness of stone and was deflected in countless directions. I heard other sounds, too. Sounds that were almost human, and I realised, to my great relief, that the noises were coming from the direction of the stables. The awful night had disturbed the animals. I changed direction and headed there to see that they were safely tied and had enough water. This t
ook me some time, for I seemed to be taking more steps in a backward direction than in a forward one. By the time I entered the building I was cold and exhausted.

  The stables afforded one little comfort from the conditions outside, and I did not remove my cowl immediately but walked inside, patting my sides and stamping my numb feet. I found old Brutus, whose whining began the instant he saw me. I gave him a morsel that I had procured from the kitchen the day before and looked for Gilgamesh. The beautiful steed raised his head when he saw me, and as I neared him he edged forward, nudging my arm with affection. I must confess to having saved him the best morsel and this I gave gladly, patting his long graceful neck and smoothing out his mane.

  I resolved not to tax my mind with unnecessary thoughts. If nothing else, these last days had taught me to be economical with my emotions, for I was sure to need them in ample measure in the not-too-distant future. Instead I decided to delight in the quietude and peace of familiar smells; well-oiled leather and animals, dung, and hay. I would forget the tunnels, and the Cathars, the girl in my dream, the bees.

  I entered the cubicle in which Gilgamesh resided, and from his saddle found the brush with the ivory head that my master had procured in the East. I brushed his fine muscular body with long strokes, making comforting noises that seemed to soothe him. Looking out beyond the abbey, through a small aperture in his cubicle I could see a faint dullness over the eastern mountains. The daystar would not be discerned today, there would be thick grey clouds above. Below, a fierce wind, and a brilliant whiteness. Everything moved in time to the impetuous weather. There was, however, no smoke from a fire that I had come to expect, below the abbey.

  Suddenly from behind me I heard a voice.

  ‘Be ye not like unto horse and mule, which have no understanding; whose mouths must be held with bit and bridle, lest they fall upon thee.’ I jumped, and a gasp escaped my lips. Gilgamesh twitched in alarm, sensing my fear.

 

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