by Sam Meekings
I had thought Lovari’s confession would take only an hour. Instead it seems as though it might take all day. Yet I must admit that there is something intriguing about his tale – if it can be trusted, that is, for I am well aware of the ways in which some diseases of this kind can cause an excess of yellow bile that may affect the memory.
When Lovari finally turns back towards me I take a cloth and clean his mouth. His spittle is flecked with blood. His eyelids, rustling like translucent moths testing their wings, slowly draw closed.
‘Now, where was I, brother?’
‘You were talking about a black room with stars painted on the ceiling, of two men of distinctly opposed denominations interrogating you, and of a Father Teodoro who would be disappointed by the absence of any demons,’ I sigh.
‘Ha. I can tell from the sound of your voice, Brother Rosso, that you are quite sceptical about my story. I do not blame you. It seems ridiculous, does it not? And yet the room itself, as I was to learn, made perfect sense. For it is rarely convenient for a large group of men to be able to crowd around a single piece of parchment, and when one ventures out at night one is more often than not distracted by cloud cover, the biting cold or the bright city torches burning upon the garrets and towers. Thus it was the ideal location for scholars to study and share their conjectures during the day. It also provided a peaceful retreat where men of the Order could contemplate the Divine by considering the nature of the heavens. And if you think that room sounds strange, Rosso, then you would have been quite amazed when you saw some of the other rooms in that building! There was much unusual work done in those days by the Order of the Eternal Light. No doubt you have heard certain rumours in your time about us.’
I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off before I have the chance.
‘Yes, many learned monks have at some point in their studies heard us mentioned, though few have ever come close to finding out much about us. We were for many years one of the best-kept secrets in Christendom. Father Teodoro, however, earned perhaps too much notoriety in his short life, and was sentenced to be burned at the stake for the most heinous crime of heresy some years before you were born, Brother Rosso. In fact, I remember it as if it were yesterday. There were wolf-whistles and braying cheers from many of those assembled in the city square as he was led out by the guards. These soon changed to hisses and spitting. Teodoro was by no means an old man, yet already by then he had spent many months in the gaols, and his bulging red eyes had thus come to look like the bloody skin of freshly scaled fish. His fine dark hair too was falling off in tufts. I was stuck behind a group of men who had taken their families for a day out, and had treated them to mutton legs and wine. Since that day the scent of roasted mutton has somehow mingled in my mind with the sickening smell of the flesh sizzling on the pyre, and I was not able to touch a dish of lamb, however finely prepared, for many years after.
‘Father Teodoro made, as I remember, a valiant attempt not to scream when the fire was started, and it must have been close to five minutes before he began to shriek and wail. The families in front of me had thought up the most astonishing curses to taunt him with as his skin began to bubble up and blister, and thus the shouting of the crowd almost drowned out his screeches. Almost. It took far longer than I had expected, the crackling body writhing against the stake as the flames twisted higher about him, and some of the children grew restless, or else their fathers became tired of holding them aloft upon their aching shoulders, and so by the time his skin had blackened the crowd had thinned so much that I was able to push my way close to the front, and mutter my prayers over the charred remains of that great man.’
Lovari’s eyes draw closed again, and he sighs. His many laborious exhalations are getting somewhat tedious, but I do not let them rankle me.
‘If he suffered such a fate, he must have done something to deserve it. The sinner is the author of his own suffering, after all,’ I say.
‘Only the Lord knows what he truly deserved. The vengeful justice of man is not always congruent with the immutable justice of Our Father. We would all do well to remember that. Have you ever been to such a spectacle, brother?’
‘I have been to a number of executions and amputations. It is the duty of all Christians to bear witness to the punishment of sinners. It strengthens one’s morals, and provides a solid lesson for children.’
Lovari is breathing more heavily now. His voice has become a low rasp.
‘No, no man deserves that. I could not believe it then, and I cannot believe it now. There is something rotten about a church that would resort to such punishments.’
Should I tell him that he is dribbling, or wipe his mouth a little? I decide against both courses of action, and he brings a pale hand to his brow.
‘I must take a little water and attend to some more base needs. Perhaps we may continue in an hour.’
‘As you wish, brother. I will return soon.’
I nod and rise, ducking beneath the nets and folds of the tent. I beckon a servant to clean up Brother Lovari, for it has become obvious that he can no longer tend to his own private ablutions.
‘Rosso?’
Halfway out I turn to my brother’s call.
‘You must show them your heart is strong.’
As I emerge from the tent a swarm of sandflies seems to descend. They are not deterred by my raised arms, and so I find myself hurrying – regardless of my throbbing blisters – across the burning sand for cover, to the muted laughs of some of our retinue.
Bells. The low, cacophonous din that clanged out the hours. The first sharp knell that shook us up from sleep, calling us to morning prayer and somehow summoning the pink tinges of dawn from the dark. Hours later the terse peal that announced the end of our fasts, sending us in to the high tables of the hall and our steaming bowls of pottage. Bells set us to work in the gardens, bells brought us in. Bells set us to our studies, and bells signalled their cessation. There was the halting swell of the chimes before Mass, and the final, timorous ringing for vespers. There was no day they did not sound, no room their call did not reach.
That is the thing I miss the most, out here in this bedevilled wilderness. My body feels sluggish and inert without them, for it seems that with no toll to rouse me from my slumbers on some days I wake to find the servants already up and going about their duties. This is the cause of some frustration to me, yet I am at a loss as to how to rectify this situation. It is hard to know when to rest and when to pray, and I find I have to rely on my own instincts. This has yielded distinctly unsatisfactory results. I often feel hungry, tired, restless. How am I to measure out my day in the desert? I know the natives rely upon the position of the sun as it traverses the heavens, but since looking upwards even a little is liable to give me a headache, I have instead set about calculating the hour based upon the length of my own shadow. This has also yielded unsatisfactory results.
It is altogether too quiet here. I wish I were back in Assisi, sitting at the bedside of my elderly friend in the infirmary, discussing the Athanasian Creed as I change his bandages and apply holy oils to his burns. Thus do I find myself waiting out the morning sun. This is truly an ungodly place. I can hear the coarse laughter spilling in from outside, the grunts and shouts from the men as they go about their duties. It has crossed my mind that some of them may have already succumbed to the calls of the Devil out here. I must increase my vigilance.
Of course I have heard of the Order of the Eternal Light. However, I shall not tell Lovari what I know of them. I do not want him to think me biased, and besides, it is not the place of the confessor to force his own story into the confession. Yet I am certain of one thing. However trivial their deviations from orthodoxy may be, these sects are never harmless. For to question even one word of Scripture would be akin to pulling out the foundation stone of a house, for you then risk letting the whole edifice collapse around you. They would have us blind, lost, mired in sin for eternity. It is our duty to destroy these ideas, so that they
do not tempt men to stray from the righteous path.
Once again my studies are disturbed by the sound of my sand prawns scurrying about inside their box and scraping their curled tails against the sides. Though I well know that the Lord granted us complete dominion over the land and the sea, I still find it wondrous that one can exert control over a simple creature simply by denying it food for long enough. It is astounding how easy it is to manipulate these insects to anger, to inflame them until their tails begin to coil and twitch. This time, however, I am able to focus my mind and manage to get much reading done before Lovari’s man summons me.
Like the three others in our party who suffered from the desert sickness before him, the ailing monk is shivering and cold. The symptoms are identical. I hurry to cover him with more blankets, and cannot help but feel a little sickened by the rank smell now emanating from his body.
‘Rosso? As soon as I closed my eyes I dreamt I was burning.’
I remove my old fox fur and tuck it round him. I also manage to refrain from suggesting that his dream might be a premonitory glimpse of the afterlife.
‘Perhaps it would be better for your health if we postponed the rest of your confession. Or, if you wished, we might simply hurry ahead to absolution.’
‘Ah, that is the crux of it, Rosso. You fear we have little time.’
He smiles, though his eyes remain closed. His legs tremble and shake, though I am not sure he is aware of this.
‘No, I will finish my story. And if you still wish to absolve me at the end, so be it. I deliver myself to the hands of the Lord, that He may do with me as He sees fit. I will continue. I must.’
I nod and make myself comfortable beside him. ‘You were telling me about your meeting with the tall Carthusian and the Byzantine priest. Am I to take it that since both they and the ruffian Alessio who assaulted you in the street were working for Teodoro, that they were all in some way connected with the Order of the Eternal Light?’
‘Since they are all dead now, I feel I am free to confirm that they were indeed brethren of the Order. Though on that day in the room with the ceiling of stars, bruised by my beating and bothered by talk of drilling into my brain, I understood little except that they were not ordinary men of the cloth.’
‘So what did they want?’
‘The Order has only ever wanted one thing. The truth.’
‘The truth has been handed down to us in the blessed Scripture. There is no need to yearn for something that you already possess.’
‘And yet that is our condition, is it not? We are consumed by desire, and the thirst for knowledge, for certainty, is surely the worst affliction. For there is always more just beyond our reach. I trust you are not about to tell me, Rosso, that in your many years of study you have learnt the secrets of the alchemists who would turn base metal to gold, or that you have come to work out the principle which keeps the sun spinning around the earth, or have found out the date on which the corpses shall rise from their graves for the coming of our Lord. No? Do you not wish to know the causes of our humours, the hour that the trials of Revelation will begin, what Our Lord Jesus Christ did during those many years of which the Gospels make no mention?’
‘If we knew everything, there would be no need for faith, that test of the will by which we prove ourselves worthy or unworthy. We must have patience that at the final hour all will be revealed.’
‘And yet you rarely miss an opportunity to quote from Aristotle, Augustine, Jerome or Aquinas. What have you been searching for in the works of these wise men if not answers, if not a finer grasp of the world around you?’
‘Learning has nothing to do with faith. If I spend my days in study, it is merely to equip myself for life. You would not walk out into the desert without clothes, without a covering for your head or without a calf’s bladder full of water, would you? It would surely be equally foolhardy to try to make one’s way in the world without due study and preparation.’
‘I agree wholeheartedly my friend, and it was the Order that provided me with just such preparation to make my way through this world. In fact, my education began that very day, for once they had sent Alessio to break the news to Father Teodoro that there was to be no exorcism that day, the two priests in the room with the ceiling of stars made me an interesting proposition. The bearded man suggested that since my skills of impersonation had led me to their attention, they ought to be utilised for the work of the Lord. When they offered me food and board in that strange building in exchange for the performance of a few simple tasks each week, I hastily agreed. I was delighted to have a roof over my head again, a new life far away from my uncle and my past. What was more, I felt that the Lord had pulled me within his reach once more, for though I did not know the theological position or motives of my hosts, they were clearly deeply religious men, and at that time I would have done anything to renew the faith I had abandoned when I ran from Sebastiano and my mother’s untimely grave.
‘A brief tour of the building that afternoon added to my resolve. Though many of the smaller rooms on the upper floor were locked, I was able to catch a glimpse into others to see men of all manner of dress and age sitting at desks surrounded by scrolls and bindings, or engaged in hushed debate. Among the gowns and habits of priests and monks I spotted the robes common to judges, apothecaries and physicians. There was a high table in the main room downstairs, stables and herb gardens at the rear, and a makeshift infirmary beside the kitchens, while the entrance hall was full of poor families waiting for the donations of food and alms which the Order gave out each morning.
‘I shared a small room with Alessio, sleeping on piles of musty old rugs. After a few weeks I grew accustomed to my companion’s surly temper, and even got used to the creaking and juddering of the stairs above us as visitors to the complex arrived and departed throughout the night. I learnt that Alessio had left the seminary in Rome only two years before, though that was the extent of my knowledge of his past, and it seemed to suit both of us not to mention the years behind us. Though his manner did not change much after our first encounter, he later apologised for attacking me, and even began to engage me in rigorous exegesis of the Gospels, long and argumentative discussions about the allegorical and eschatological dimensions of the Parables that would often go on until the cocks began to strut and call outside.
‘Alessio revealed the beliefs of the Order to me, and as soon as I heard them something deep within me knew that I had found my true home. My faith had been tested by the unfairness of a world that would steal away my sister and my mother while my uncle lived, of a Church which condemned its flock to Purgatory unless they paid tithes to fill the pockets of hypocrites and pederasts like Sebastiano; but the Order showed me a new way to view the world. Yet I shall come to that later. As well as helping to guide my soul towards the one true light, Alessio also accompanied me on my first assignment. Though we have little time, I shall tell you of it, for it was the first step on a long journey that has led me to this very desert. We were to visit the Benedictine monastery a few hours to the north of the city. That was all Alessio told me as we collected our mules from the stables adjoining the ramshackle building I now called my home.
‘I remember the day well. As the cobbled streets petered out into fetid marsh, the great stone bulwarks of the monastery became visible atop one of the looming hills ahead of us. Once we had passed a herd of slow oxen being driven towards the city, I turned to Alessio and enquired about what was expected of me. He informed me that, as ever, our quest was for knowledge. I was to pretend that I was a prodigal student who dreamed unsettling dreams of crows, and in this way we were to gain a certain monk’s confidence and so draw out the information we sought. I knew better than to question him further, so, as our mules plodded along the winding hillside path, I set about memorising the monologue that I was to recite.
‘We drew to a halt close to the top of the hill, and retrieved a couple of hard loaves from our pack, for it was close to midday and Alessio assured me t
hat the monks would take to us much better if we did not arrive at mealtime to beg food from their table. Thus we sat out among the gorse and bracken, watching the sun send ripples through the distant city and tearing off hunks of dusty bread, though Alessio laughed away my suggestion of us sharing the carafe of wine that hung from his belt. My companion instead tested me with questions about the personas we were adopting for the day, until the time came to lead our mules up through the unkempt nettles and long grass to the monastery.
‘It took some time for the huge gates of warped wood to be hauled back, admitting us into the central courtyard. Though outside the gates the hill was matted, wild and overgrown, the cobbled stones inside the compound were pristine. An elderly monk was drawing water from a well, while a vast garden was visible beside the grand chapel in front of us. The long, low stone building to my left clearly contained the chapter house and dormitories, yet I was unsure about the taller stone turret to my right. Alessio soon informed me that this was the library.
‘A middle-aged man with tired, drooping eyes led us to the stables to tether our mules. Either he kept to a strict vow of silence or he had concluded that conversing with us would be as ridiculous a waste of time as talking to a mosquito biting at one’s arm. The unconscious twitch of his lips suggested the latter. You know the type: cold, detached, withdrawn. You must have met many such men, Rosso, growing up in such a secluded place yourself. Is it that living in deep contemplation of the Divine these brothers forget the ways of men, and become blind to the world of dirt and blood all around? Or is it that they are irked by outsiders because strangers inevitably remind them of all that they have left behind?
‘“We owe you and your brethren our deepest gratitude, brother,” Alessio said. “May peace be with you. You are no doubt aware that we have come to pay our respects to Father Emiliano. He should be expecting us. You see, my charge and I have been entrusted with —”