Abbot Demitrianos was a kindly and gentle man, humble in manner and appearance, with a head of wavy dark hair and a beard with two grey streaks either side of his mouth. Like the brothers under his care he dressed in a simple black robe that covered him from just below the chin to the tips of his toes; and like all the others, he wore a black, brimless peaked cap sewn with a tiny white cross on the front over his brow. Around his neck he wore a wooden cross on a braided leather loop, and he carried a short wooden staff in his hand.
Demitrianos received us like cousins long lost and lamented, and graciously welcomed us to the monastery. He ordered the porter to prepare the guest lodge and said, 'We are honoured to have someone who has been to the Holy Land. Perhaps, if you are not too exhausted from your journey, you might speak to us of your pilgrimage tonight at supper.'
'We would be most happy to share news of our travels with you,' Padraig told him. 'I must tell you, however, that owing to a great misfortune we did not reach Jerusalem. If you hoped to hear word of the Holy City, I fear we must disappoint you.'
'It makes no matter,' the abbot replied. 'Many of us have never travelled so far as Lefkosia or Salamis, and some have never been beyond the next valley. I am certain that anything you can tell us of the wider world will be respectfully and gratefully received.'
The little monastery of Ayios Moni, the good abbot told us, was very old, the first monks having come from Byzantium over seven hundred years ago. 'Before that,' he said, 'there was a temple to the goddess Hera; our chapel is built on the old temple's foundations. It is an ancient and holy place.'
When Padraig expressed an interest in hearing more about the monastery, the abbot became our guide and led us to each of the buildings in turn and showed us the treasures of their brotherhood, including the small, much faded and, it must be said, extremely crude icon of the Virgin Mary, which was believed to have been painted by none other than Saint Luke the Evangelist. Upon viewing this marvel, I did feel as if I had beheld a thing of immense age and undeniable consequence.
Although I lack a proper appreciation of such things, I do freely confess, what impressed me most was not the plaintive image of the young woman with large dark, melancholy eyes, but rather the worshipful reverence with which the monks handled their priceless relic. Their loving veneration was heartfelt and deep, and it shamed the arrogant crusaders with their careless desecration of the True Cross. The manifold profanations heaped upon that holy object by those who should have been its protectors amounted to a gross and terrible sacrilege. The humble adoration of the monks renewed my resolve to keep the Black Rood as far from the Templars' grasping hands as I possibly could.
The monks of Ayios Moni lived a simple life of prayer and toil, growing crops and vegetables, raising chickens and sheep-which they freely gave to the poor who came daily to their gates to beg for food and clothing. They were skilled in the healing arts, a practice for which they were justly renowned, dispensing their potions and medicines far and wide as any had need. They also tended vines from which they produced a sumptuous wine they served to their guests. The wine was sweet and heavy, and was reputed to possess curative powers because it was grown on hallowed ground.
The rules of their order forbade speaking during meals, but in observance of our visit, this rule was relaxed during our visit to allow them to listen to Padraig and me describe our sojourn in the Holy Land. In truth, Padraig did all the talking, as his Greek was far more eloquent than my own rough expression and he knew precisely what his fellow monks wanted to hear. Thus, I sat with the abbot at the high table, drinking my wine and eating a delicious stew of lamb and barley, while Padraig stood at the pulpit normally occupied by the brother reading the evening's lesson. He spoke well, adorning his talk with finely-observed word portraits of the people and places we had seen. He told them about my captivity among the Seljuqs and Saracens, and my escape-making it sound much more courageous than it felt at the time-drawing many appreciative murmurs from his listeners. When he finished, the entire community-thirty-five or forty monks in all, I think-stood in his honour while the abbot thanked him with a special blessing.
Following the meal, we were invited to Abbot Demitrianos' lodge for a special drink before night prayers. We walked across the quiet monastery yard in the balmy twilight, and I felt the deep peace of the place enfold me in its soft, inescapable embrace. The abbot's house was little more than a bare cell, but it had a hearth and a fleece-lined bed, several chairs and a table, on which stood simple olivewood cups and an earthenware jar. The abbot invited us to sit and poured a pale, slightly cloudy white liquid into the cups, which he passed to Padraig and me. He placed the palm of his hand over his cup and blessed the drink, whereupon we imbibed the sweet fire of the Ayios Moni monks: a delectable honeyed nectar that soothed even as it warmed, beguiling the unwary with a delightful smoky taste before stinging the senses into a lucid and delectable dizziness.
After only a few sips, I felt large and expansive, friend and brother to all mankind. It was with great reluctance that I set aside my cup, but when talk turned to the reason for our visit, I feared I might lose the power of speech if I drank any more of the wonderful elixir.
'We have it on good authority,' I began, as the kindly abbot watched me dreamily over the rim of his cup, 'that your community excels in the making and copying of manuscripts.'
'It is,' replied Demitrianos, 'a task in which we have long experience. If some small fame has travelled beyond these walls, I am glad, for it means that God's praise likewise increases.'
'As you know,' said Padraig, 'we have just arrived in Cyprus from Egypt where Duncan was a prisoner for many months.'
'Yes,' nodded the abbot with benign admiration, 'you showed great fortitude and forbearance in your captivity,' he told me. 'Our Lord was surely with you.'
'While he was a guest of the caliph,' Padraig continued, 'he wrote of his experiences -'
'I thought I would not live to see my young daughter,' I explained, 'and wanted her to know what had happened to her father.'
'A thoughtful and commendable bequest,' mused the abbot loftily. 'A very labour of love, to be sure.'
'Unfortunately,' I continued, 'all my work was ruined.' I went on to tell him what had taken place in the escape from the caliph's palace, leaving out any mention of the raid on the treasure house and the rescue of the Holy Rood.
Abbot Demitrianos frowned and clucked his tongue. 'Regrettable, to be sure.' He reached for the jar and offered to refresh our cups. 'More alashi?' I declined, but Padraig succumbed. 'Still,' the abbot continued, tipping the jar into his own cup, 'your life has been redeemed, all praise to Our Great Heavenly Father, and that is of inestimable value to your dear little daughter.' He raised his cup and imbibed deeply of the potent drink.
'As it happens,' said Padraig, 'this work was written on good papyrus, which the Egyptians use instead of parchment.'
'We know of it, to be sure,' replied the abbot contentedly. 'We call it papuros. Fine stuff, but very brittle, and lacking the durability of good parchment. I suppose, however, if you cannot obtain the sheep…' he sighed as if it were the chief lamentation of his life, 'what can you do?'
'This is why we have come to you,' Padraig said. 'We have brought the papyri with us in the hope that the wise brothers of Ayios Moni can help restore what has been lost.'
'To be sure.' The abbot slid a little down in his chair; he looked from one to the other of us with a slow blink of his eyes. 'Although it grieves me to tell you, my friends, experience tells me that nothing can be done. Papuros is very delicate, as I say; once ruined, it cannot be salvaged.' He lifted the jar. 'Are you certain you will not have more alashi?'
Again, I declined politely, and was surprised when Padraig helped himself, emptying the jar into his cup. 'I have no doubt that what you say is true,' the thirsty priest replied. 'Yet, it seems to me that the work might be copied.'
The bell for night prayers began tolling just then. Padraig stood. 'Ah, night prayer
s. I am keenly interested in attending the service tonight. Perhaps, with your kind permission, we might continue this discussion tomorrow. I think if you were to have a look at the papyri, you will see what I mean.' Turning to me, he said, 'Come, Duncan, we must hurry to the chapel. I thank you for your kindness, and bid you God's rest tonight, abbot.'
The abbot blessed us with a benediction and sent us off to prayers. We left him to his rest and, as I closed the door behind us, I noticed Padraig still clutched his drink in his hand. 'A lesser man would have surrendered long ago,' I told him.
'A lesser man did,' he replied, tipping the nearly full cup onto the ground. He lay the empty vessel beside the door, and we hurried to the chapel, taking our places at the rear of the small assembly of monks. There were two short benches either side of the door, and upon one an elderly brother sat with his hands folded in his lap, snoring softly; all the rest stood with their hands raised, palms upwards at shoulder height, intoning the prayer in a humming drone.
Padraig joined right in, but I did not know the prayer and found it difficult to follow the recitation. From time to time, one of the monks would raise his voice and call out a phrase and, just as I was beginning to grasp the prayer, suddenly the chant would change, and off they would go in a new direction. After a while, I gave up and sat down on the bench beside the sleeping brother until the service was over. He woke as I sat down, looked up blearily, smiled at me, and then went back to sleep. I wished him pleasant dreams.
The guest lodge was comfortable enough, if small; we woke the next morning well rested and ready to be about our business. After morning prayers we broke fast in the refectory with a meal of bread and honey, ripe olives and soft goat's cheese. The brothers asked us to tell them more about our experiences in the Holy Land, especially Antioch, where Paul, the great apostle, and his companion Barnabus the Generous had preached and worked. 'They came to Cyprus, too, you know,' one of the elder brothers informed us. 'Paphos was the first city to become Christian in all the old Roman empire. It is true.'
'Verily,’ added another, 'you can still see where Paul was chained to the pillar and scourged for impugning the supremacy of the emperor.'
Padraig and I soon exhausted our small store of memories of Antioch. I wished I had more to tell them; I had spent but a single day there, and had seen almost nothing of the city. At least I was able to describe the Orontes valley and the famed white walls of Antioch rising up sheer from the river bank, and something of the wide main street leading to the citadel, as well as the citadel and palace.
Abbot Demitrianos entered while we were eating and joined us at table, helping himself to bread and cheese and joining in with the brothers. I liked him for his easy, unassuming ways, and his disregard for rank and ceremony. In this he reminded me of Emlyn, and I found myself wishing I was long since on my way home.
After the meal, the abbot took us to the scriptorium and introduced us to two of the senior monks who had the charge of the work of the monastery.
'I present to you, Brother Ambrosius,' the abbot said, indicating a small, round-shouldered monk with sparse white hair-the monk with whom I had shared a bench during prayers the night before. '… and Brother Tomas, our two most skilled and experienced scribes. If anything can be done for you, they will know.' The two bowed in humble deference to one another, and invited us inside. The room was small, but airy and light; a number of wide windows along the south wall allowed the sunlight to illumine the high work tables of the monks. Most of them were still at their morning meal, so we had the scriptorium to ourselves for the moment.
'My brothers,' said Padraig, 'we come to you with a problem, begging your help. You have heard me speak of Lord Duncan's captivity among the Muhammedans.' The two nodded enthusiastically. 'As it happens, he used the time of his imprisonment to make a record of his experiences. Unfortunately, that record has been damaged.' Padraig went on to explain about the papyri and my escape through the underground canal.
When he finished, the abbot said, 'I have already warned our friends that there may not be any remedy for them. Nevertheless, I will let you decide.'
'Please,' said Brother Ambrosius, 'might we see the papuri in question?'
'It will be easier to make a determination once we have completed an examination of the documents in question,' added Brother Tomas.
'By all means,' said Padraig. I brought out the bundle, laid it on the nearest table, and began to unwrap the still-damp sheepskin.
Brother Ambrosius stopped me at once. 'Allow me,' he said, stepping in and staying my hand. 'Let us see what we have here.' He bent to his work, holding his head low over the skin as he carefully unpeeled the wet leather. Brother Tomas joined him on the opposite side of the table, and in a moment the two of them had exposed the tight roll of papyrus scrolls.
They gazed upon the soggy mass of slowly rotting matter as if at the corpse of a much-loved dog, and clucked their tongues sadly. There was a green tinge along the edges of the rolls, and the papyrus stank with a rancid odour. The two monks raised their eyes, looked at one another, and shook their heads. 'I fear it is as the abbot has said,' Ambrosius told me sadly. 'There is nothing to be done. The papuri can never be restored. I am sorry.'
Even though I was already resolved to this prospect, I still felt a twinge of disappointment.
'I am certain you are right,' replied Padraig quickly, 'and we anticipated as much. But perhaps you could tell me if I am right in thinking that these pages could be copied?'
This request occasioned a second, closer inspection, and a lengthy discussion between the two master scribes. They carefully pulled apart one section and carried it to the nearest window where they held it up to their faces and scrutinized it carefully. 'It could be done,' Tomas allowed cautiously. 'Each leaf of the papuros must be dried very slowly and flattened to prevent it from cracking to pieces.'
'Then,' Ambrosius continued, 'it might be possible to inscribe what was written thereon. Although it is Latin,' his voice took on a rueful tone, 'the hand is fair and open, the marks, however faint, could be traced and copied.'
'It would be a very great undertaking,' suggested Tomas, looking to his superior. 'But it could be done.'
'Truly, that is good news,' the abbot said. 'However, I fear we will not be able to shoulder this admirable labour for you. We are but a small community, and the pressure of work already begun is such that we would not be able to contemplate any new endeavours, however worthy, for a very long time.'
'I am prepared to pay you,' I offered. 'Such a service requires great skill and effort, I know. I would be more than happy to pay whatever you deem appropriate.'
'Please,' said Demitrianos, raising his hands in protest, 'you misunderstand me. I was not fishing for payment. It is not your silver I am after; I am telling you the truth, my friend. As much as I would like to help you,' he spread his hands, 'but -'
'Forgive me, abbot,' said Ambrosius, speaking up. 'Something has just occurred to me. A word?'
He led the abbot a little apart and the two of them spoke to one another quietly for a moment. I heard the abbot say, 'Very well.' And then he turned and smiled, and said, 'Our brother has just brought a matter to my attention which I have overlooked. He insists there may be a way we can help you-provided you are agreeable.'
'I assure you I am most agreeable to anything-within reason,' I allowed, 'and the limits of my purse.'
'The work we do here is not only for ourselves, but also for the wider world-for edification and learning, for posterity, for succeeding generations. This is why we take such great care-so that those who come after us will enjoy the benefit.' He made a gesture towards the elderly monk, who stood looking on hopefully. 'Brother Ambrosius reminds me that what you have written of your sojourn in the Holy Land might well prove a unique, and therefore valuable, reflection of our perishable age. He suggests that we should honour your request.'
'Indeed,' I said, pleased with the turn the thing had taken. 'I am glad to hear it.'
'One copy for you, of course,' said Ambrosius, unable to restrain his eagerness, 'and one for our use.'
In truth, it had not occurred to me that my scribblings would be of any interest to anyone save myself and those of my family who cared about what had happened to me. While there was nothing in the papyri of which I was ashamed, I was not sure I wanted anyone else to read my mind and heart.
Before I could decide, however, Padraig nodded enthusiastically and said, 'An excellent solution. Of course! Nothing would please us more than to know that Lord Duncan's work might continue to serve in this way.'
'There is one other thing,' suggested the abbot, in a slightly embarrassed tone. 'I am reminded that the scriptorium is in need of a new roof. Needless to say, it would greatly contribute to our work if we did not have such a burden hanging over our heads as it were.'
'I understand completely,' I replied. 'I would be happy to stand the cost of a new roof for the scriptorium.'
Brothers Ambrosius and Tomas both clasped their hands in delight and praised the Great Creator for his bounteous provision. We thanked the brothers for the consideration, and arranged for a time to return and collect the finished copy; then, before the sun had quartered the sky, Padraig and I were on our way back to Paphos.
We arrived the evening of the next day to learn that Yordanus was gone.
FORTY-SEVEN
'He went where?' I said, disbelief making my voice harsh. Anger blazed up bright and hot as the sun beating down on my head, though I tried my best to quench it.
Sydoni bit her lip. She knew I was displeased, and was loath to withhold the truth from me-though it meant betraying her father's purpose. 'He went to Famagusta,' she said timidly. 'He took Wazim with him. I know you said -'
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