Asa’s brown eyes sparkled, ‘Yes . . . yes . . . I believe caused through the infiltration of imperceptible particles.’
However far and distant the changing aspects of that time appear to my frail mind, dear reader, one thing has remained; that little room, aglow with the fire of enthusiasm and industry, where three men, divided by race and philosophy, existed for the barest moment in total harmony and concord, in a universal and divine communion, mindless of past and future, living only in the present.
Then I noticed the maiden, she had made not a sound. I would have expected that she would cry out, or leave as all the others. Instead, she stood motionless, her hood over her face, with only her father’s arm for comfort. This intrigued me. Who indeed were these people?
Moments later Asa held the leg firmly in place while my master, with Eisik’s help, used the two straight lengths of wood to splint it. ‘He shall have a bad limp, if he lives . . .’ He indicated that he was done by the wave of a hand, and several monks lifted the patient, still wrapped in blankets, carefully into the bath that had been prepared to my master’s orders.
‘You must immerse his head too, but not his leg,’ Eisik hastily added.
They proceeded as instructed, allowing the man’s head to sink below the surface, pulling him back up after a short space, but it was some moments before we could see colour return to his cheeks, and this was a sign that he should be taken out of the bath, dried, and placed in a bed in the empty dormitory.
The inquisitor had remained at the back of the group, watching with creased face, dark and impassive. Now he moved forward with a gesture of great condescension. ‘If the three of you are done congratulating yourselves,’ he said contemptuously, ‘this cannot in any way delay our investigations, we will proceed as planned!’
My master turned to him, and they exchanged a look of mutual dislike.
Moments passed, the shadows changed and the two men held their stare. My master was the first to speak, ‘As is your will, Rainiero.’
‘Yes, as is my will,’ said the other through his teeth.
Then the two walked away from each other and I breathed a sigh of gratitude that the heavens did not open up and strike them for their arrogance.
I told myself, ‘How fragile is the human spirit . . .’
20
Capitulum
Before Sext
Snow continued to fall in a thick blanket, and one could see no sun, only a greyness surrounding the monastery like a silent enemy. I shivered a little as I followed Eisik and my master into the bleakness. Moments before we had emerged from the infirmary, leaving Asa (under guard) attending to the young man. And as we walked the compound, I told them firstly of my conversation with Setubar in the stables, and that he had mud on his shoes, second of my conversation with Anselmo, and third what I had overheard in the kitchen
‘Excellent!’ Andre exclaimed, happily.
‘Oyhh!’ Eisik glared at him. ‘Now the poor child finds pleasure in your games . . . You use all of this to further your own vanity, Andre.’
‘He has done well!’ retorted my master in a good mood, ‘and at the same time atoned for worrying me. So, it is as I suspected.’
‘What did you suspect, master?’ I asked, when it seemed he was not about to expand on his thoughts.
‘That Rainiero has not come here to find heresy, but rather to use heresy as a pretext for finding something else, in this case, the murderers of the martyr. You see, now it all makes a little more sense . . . Only the killers of his beloved master, Piero, could have brought him here despite pressing matters that we know await him in Milan.’
‘Who is this Piero?’ I asked.
‘The inquisitor’s predecessor,’ my master answered, ‘murdered by a number of assassins. They ambushed him and his aide on a quiet country road and it is said that it was a violent and bloody mess. Two culprits were caught, but the others eluded the authorities. One of those who escaped was a certain Giacopo de la Chiusa. We are told he also tried to assassinate Rainiero, but that he did not succeed.’
‘I see now why he is so anxious to find this man.’
‘It does not look good to have the murderers of inquisitors go unpunished . . . however, in his seeking he has uncovered what the king and the grand master wanted kept from him.’
‘The Gospel you have tucked away in your mantle?’
‘It sounds like that might be part of it, and something else…he said Rainerio had to stop it before it was consummated…some form of initiation…perhaps…
‘What could the gospel do, master, if they were found?
Andre pulled absently at his beard that, these days, looked a little greyer. ‘It could undo the faith of many…I have not had time to read it, only in part…but believe me there is a reason it has been kept secret so long.’
Eisik muttered unintelligible things bitterly, and I was quiet for a moment thinking things through.
‘So Setubar was the traitor,’ I said.
‘Our dear old brother has led the inquisitor here using the murderer of Piero da Verona as bait, knowing the inquisitor’s obsession . . . hoping that he might stop whatever is happening in the catacombs. Something we know that all four brothers were party to, or at least knew of.’
‘But how does this tie in with the murders?’ I asked.
‘Let us go through what we know once again . . . Now, at least one of them, Brother Samuel, was curious enough to try to enter the tunnels . . . though he had been duly warned not to go. Ezekiel, we know, was the only one with authority to visit the library, but that does not mean that he ever entered the Sanctum Sanctorum. We must also remember his sight was poor. Daniel, on the other hand, knew the orienting formulas through the chambers, because he may have frequented the tunnels, or because he was given the formulas for safekeeping without ever going there. He told Samuel the formulas.’ He reflected. ‘There was some red dirt in his room, and yet that may have been another’s print we saw. I believe someone, very likely Setubar – who perhaps does not know the orienting formulas – may have been trying to draw this information from Daniel, but when he refused to disclose it, Setubar killed him, or perhaps he disclosed it and he was killed anyway . . .’
‘But my sons, my sons!’ Eisik threw in gloomily. ‘All this does not explain why some enter the tunnels and live whilst others die.
‘Yes, you are quite right. Yes, why is it that when Samuel entered the first chamber as we did he was overcome by something almost immediately or very shortly after, where others, we, for instance, were not?’
‘Perhaps it works in this way, master, perhaps each brother knew one secret, Brother Daniel knew the orientation, Brother Ezekiel the library, Brother Samuel the organ, and Brother Setubar something else, and it is this something else that is perhaps the secret to staying alive in the tunnels,’ I said, astounded at my own acumen.
‘Christian!’ He stopped with gaping mouth, ‘You are a genius! I am truly sorry for all the times I have called you stupid! It is I who is the stupid one! Why did I not think of it? Perhaps I am getting too old for these things. That’s it! That’s it! Each brother held one secret that together made up the mystery of the cunniculus – the tunnel . . . yes, it makes perfect sense.’
‘But what poison kills so instantly?’ asked Eisik.
‘Pharaoh’s serpent or as some call it, serpent de pharaon,’ Andre answered casually, ‘can be mixed with candle wax and as it burns it gives off a vapour that kills, but not so instantly, though if mixed with other compounds its effectiveness may be greatly accentuated so that in close confines it may lead to a sudden death.’
‘But, master, we know that Brother Ezekiel did not die in the same way because we had dinner with him, and then we all headed immediately to the church. He was nowhere near the tunnels in all that time,’ I pointed out.
‘No, you are right, of course,’ Andre said a little dejected, ‘and yet we know that he did indeed enter the tunnels, because he had mud on his sandals.’
‘Perhaps it is that he was there earlier, my sons . . . Ahh! We chase our tails, for nothing explains his death.’
‘Because . . .’ began my master, thinking as he spoke, ‘he did not come in contact with the poisonous substance. In the same way that we did not come by it when we ventured there. But why not?’ he asked loudly, losing his temper and pulling at his beard with vexation. ‘What do all those who survive a sojourn in the tunnels do in common that enables them to escape death . . .? And why do some die instantly, while others die slowly . . . Perhaps there are two different poisons!’
I looked about the compound thoughtfully. We strolled under the vigilant eye of the inquisitor’s men. Archers and soldiers stood guarding every entrance to and from the cloister buildings. Perched on the stone walls of the abbey they looked down on us, observing Eisik, like cats observe a fat bird.
‘Alas, my friends,’ Eisik said, almost in a whisper, looking about him with fear, ‘the sounds of the trumpet awake Judah no more and I who am despised more than the despised must remain vigilant, for methinks those men await the roasting of my carcass.’
‘And we, my friend,’ answered Andre jubilantly, ‘we shall be proud to keep you company.’
And my master was right, for even our own men had succumbed to the power of the inquisitor, and I did not fail to grasp the paradox of our situation, for the same walls that were indeed built to safeguard those inside from an outward devil, were the very enclosures used to imprison us by an inward one.
‘Most importantly,’ my master said finally, ‘we must find brother Setubar before the inquisitor can ask him more questions, and this we must do now.’ He pulled me in the direction of the aperture, telling an archer in a brusque way to step aside. He eyed Eisik suspiciously, but such was the respect and veneration shown to a knight of the Temple in those days that the man conceded to my master’s request.
We searched the cloisters in vain. Brother Setubar could not be found, no one had seen him. This made my master exceedingly irritated. We did find Brother Sacar the master of music, however, on his way to the scriptorium. This afforded us an opportunity to question him, so when he said he was in search of a book, and asked us to follow him, that in a few moments he would give us his attention, we did so humbly.
There were monks at work in their carrels, as usual, but Brother Macabus could not be seen. My master brought this to my notice as we waited for Sacar to search through a large cupboard whose shelves were stocked with many psalters, hymnals and ordo missals.
‘One must be vigilant, preceptor,’ Brother Sacar brought down a book from the topmost shelf, ‘to follow the rules of the liturgical year. Sometimes I confess that I am confounded and I need to consult my Brevarium as I am doing today,’ he said, leafing through the enormous book that must have weighed a great deal, for my master had to help him hold it up. ‘You see . . .’ he continued, and we prepared ourselves for an involved discourse (for we were learning that it was his custom to expand on every subject, and fortunately my master tolerated this with a great deal of patience, for we shall see how illuminating and advantageous his words would prove to be), ‘it is a crucial time. One must be extremely careful, for as you know the services do not follow in a similar way per totum annum, throughout the year, but with a multitude of variations, according to the kalendar that dictates our liturgical year. I, in my singular duty, have to choose not only the proper and customary hymns and psalms according to the temporale or yearly round of services, but also the sanctorale, or services for the saints that, as we have noted, number so many.’ He paused in reflection. ‘This season is always a little difficult because as we near Lent, there is not only the strict omission of the angelic hymns, but also variations on the usual responsories, antiphons, canticles, and versicles. We must also prepare in the forthcoming days for the Adorations, the Aspersions, Blessings, Consecrations, the Deposition and the Improperia . . . the processions, the washing of the altars, the Mandatum . . .’ he lingered with a sigh of delight. ‘I believe that Jews have similar rituals, though of course they are not concerned with weeping over the wounds of our Lord . . .’ he trailed off, perhaps desiring to include Eisik in the discussion, but ending miserably, fearing he had occasioned an insult.
‘Nevertheless,’ Eisik said, ‘your Christ was a Jew whose life was guided by Jewish tradition.’
‘Oh yes,’ Sacar blushed, ‘you are quite right, one so easily forgets.’
‘If our Lord were alive,’ added my master, ‘I am afraid such a program would afford him little time for sermons on the mount or for the healing of the sick.’
Sacar smiled. ‘And yet we, his humble servants, can only remember his works in our oratio Dei, in the cantus pastoralis.’
‘The shepherd’s songs?’
‘Why, the psalms, of course,’ he admonished in good humour.
‘Of course!’ My master then cleared his throat by way of indicating that he was ready to discuss other things, and that the master of music should finish his work that he may do so.
Sacar nodded his understanding and gathered all the necessary information, writing out a little list of items down on a rough parchment. A moment later he closed the book carefully and with Andre’s help, replaced it in its repository. And as we emerged from the scriptorium and walked in the direction of the church he turned his attention to us as promised.
‘I am looking for Brother Setubar, perhaps you have seen him?’ my master asked.
‘No, he was missing from the services this morning, perhaps he is grieving as we all are for our dear departed brother . . . However, in light of recent events it is a little worrying.’ His face then changed, it filled with torment, ‘Oh, preceptor! What is happening to us?’
‘It is unfortunate, brother . . .’ my master said, and not waiting for a reply continued, ‘I was unable to express my deepest sympathy before for your sad loss . . . Brother Samuel’s death must have been very distressing.’
Sacar raised a hand in the air as if to stay my master’s apology, ‘I thank you, preceptor. I imagine him singing in the angelic choirs of heaven and this gives me peace.’
‘Indeed, a great loss after so many years together?’
‘The short years we knew one another were indeed precious ones,’ he sighed, closing his eyes.
‘So you have only come to the monastery recently?’
‘Oh, no, I have been here since I was only a young man, no older than your scribe . . . ahh, those days were so –’
My master interrupted him by clearing his throat, ‘So it was brother Samuel who had only been here for a short time?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘he and the others were from a monastery whose population was diminished and so forced to close its doors.’
‘When you say the other brothers you mean Setubar, Ezekiel, and Brother Daniel?’
‘Yes, that is correct.’
There was a pause, my master’s eyebrows worked furiously. ‘So around the year forty-four the four of them came here?’
‘Yes, I suppose it was forty-four, does it interest you?’
‘I am intrigued to know who the original founders of the abbey were.’
‘Oh . . . well, we are told that nine brothers from many distant lands and four from France were called to this place, it is said, by a spiritual voice. Legend tells how they arrived here independently, and yet within days of each other, each calling out the other’s name as if they had known one another all their lives.’
‘Indeed. And did they live long?’
‘I do not know,’ he answered with a frown, ‘I think they died shortly after the completion of the abbey. There is a grave with a headstone . . . one of our oldest . . . In any case by that time there were enough members to continue their work and an abbot was appointed.’
‘And what was his name?’
‘Nicholas of Aragon, a Spanish monk who lived many years in the Holy Land,’ he turned his gaze to Eisik, ‘the land of your forefathers! And yes, he was a wo
nderful translator. I did not know him, for he died before I came here.’
‘I see . . . so are all the abbots translators then?’
‘Oh, yes, it is a tradition. The next to succeed Abbot Nicholas was Abbot Otto of Troyes, and then of course Abbot Bendipur, who is himself a fine scholar and knows many languages including Aramaic and Greek, but more importantly Egyptian Coptic.’
The abbot knew Greek! So many thoughts were now coursing through my mind.
‘And so before Brother Bendipur became Abbot, he too worked in the scriptorium?’
‘No . . . not the scriptorium, but the library,’ he said almost in a whisper. ‘Brother Ezekiel took the abbot’s place as head translator when he was elected, and the secrets of the library were passed to him.’
‘So the abbot was the librarian?’
‘No.’
‘How so?’
‘The head translator is not always the librarian, and the librarian is not usually the head translator . . . you see, in most smaller monasteries it is usual for the master of music to look after the books and library, but as you see it is far too difficult in a larger one. So we have a librarian who looks after the day-today running of the scriptorium, but the library proper is the domain of the head translator. He and only he may enter its confines. You may find this strange, preceptor, but monks should not be allowed easy access to books, it distracts them from their work and meditation. Also, books are fragile and old and must be kept away from light and moisture, books that are handled constantly do not last. It is the acidic nature of sweat, so I am told, that causes deterioration. In any case, Abbot Bendipur was head translator, and when he became abbot, Brother Ezekiel. But Ezekiel was very old and his sight was weak, there was a need to find his replacement before now.’
‘So Brother Ezekiel was grooming Anselmo for the position?’
‘Who told you that, preceptor?’ he asked, amazed.
‘Brother Macabus mentioned that brother Ezekiel had taken Anselmo to the library on a few occasions. He did not seem too happy about it.’
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