FORTY-SIX
THE PEOPLE OF Cyprus travel by donkey, and although exceedingly undignified, the sturdy little beasts are surefooted and uncomplaining. They eat little and need less water than a horse or ox, and can endure heat and cold, and the hardships of the road far better than either of their larger stablemates. We hired three of the animals in Paphos—one each for Padraig and myself, and one to carry fodder and provisions for our journey. As Yordanus said, it was no great distance, but the people of the hill country beyond Paphos are very poor and the likelihood of finding suitable food or stabling along the way was slender indeed.
“It is best, I think, to travel lightly and make as few demands on the country folk as possible,” was how Yordanus tactfully put it.
So, early the next morning, we bundled a few things into a cloth bag and tied the bundle containing my still-soggy papyri—Padraig had determined that the best way to preserve the mess was to keep it wrapped in damp sheepskin—to the patient pack animal. Bidding farewell to Yordanus, Wazim, and Sydoni, we set off for the monastery of Ayios Moni, a refuge of learning and prayer deep in the hill country on the edge of the high Troodos mountains. The road was well used and well marked, and the weather dry and fine, so the traveling was easy. Upon reaching the first high ridge I looked back to see Paphos glittering like a jewel in the shallow bowl of the bay, shimmering in the bright morning sunlight.
It was good to be with Padraig again, just the two of us, and I reflected that since beginning this pilgrimage, it had never been just the two of us together. We rode side-by-side, and I told him about my captivity with Amir Ghazi. As we climbed higher into the pine-forested hills, the air grew cooler and more pleasant. The breeze through the tall trees smelled of pine and reminded me of the Scottish woodlands, and I felt a pang of longing which was eased only by the assurance that we would be going home very soon.
We spent a good day in the saddle, stopping now and then to water the beasts from the roadside brook. We passed a few tiny settlements and, as Yordanus had warned us, they were mean places—tumbledown, soot-covered hovels with miserable dogs and dirty children standing in bare dirt yards looking silently and hungrily at us as we passed. At one such dwelling, Padraig was so moved by the want of a naked boy and his young sister that he gave them half our bread, some dried meat, and all the cheese we had brought with us.
Later, as the sun began to sink into the green valley to the west, we sought and found a clearing in the forest a short distance from the road where we made camp for the night. We made a fire of fragrant pine branches and cooked a simple meal of pease porridge, and slept on beds of pine needles with the stars shining down through the gaps in the lightly sighing trees.
We rose at daybreak and continued on, arriving at our destination just as the monastery bell tolled vespers. The gates were still open, so we went in and presented ourselves to the porter. They were Greeks for the most part, but we had no difficulty making ourselves understood. Padraig told the porter that he was also a priest, and that we were on pilgrimage, returning from the Holy Land—whereupon the simple monk became excited and ran off to find the abbot.
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 gray 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 honored 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 traveled 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 honor 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 u
nwary 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 traveled 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 labor 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 prayers. 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 upward 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 riverbank, 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 worktables 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 th
e 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 odor. 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 labor 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 endeavors, 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.”
The Black Rood Page 46