Temple of The Grail (25 page)

Rainiero Sacconi turned once more
towards the dais and said, ‘And how did he die?’

The infirmarian became ashen-faced. ‘He
was found in the church, gasping for air and he expired shortly after.’

‘What do you believe caused his
death?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Could a poison have led to his
untimely demise?’

‘Perhaps, some poisons leave no
trace. It would be difficult to say.’

‘What poison could have caused his
symptoms?’

‘There are poisons that have the
effect of cutting off breathing by paralysing the muscles of the lungs.’

‘But what are these poisons?’

‘There are any number of poisons,
your grace.’

‘And Brother Ezekiel? Could he have
died as a result of being poisoned in the same way?’

‘It is possible, but I did not say
brother Samuel was poisoned.’

‘No, all we need to know is that this
is possible,’ the inquisitor appeared pleased, ‘and yet it is of no interest to
this inquiry how either of the poor unfortunate brothers died, for we know the
evil one works in manifold ways. What does interest us, however, is the use of
heretical texts for the purposes of extracting cures through sorcery and black
magic! Perhaps someone at this abbey has invoked the Devil, and now does not
know the formula by which to release him, and so he continues to wander about
killing monks.’

There was a loud murmur. I looked
around and found a face in the crowd staring at me. It was Anselmo. I looked
away, pretending that I had not seen him, certain that the singer was of evil
disposition. Who else would smile during an inquiry?

‘Perhaps Brother Samuel was strangled
by the Devil,’ the inquisitor said, ‘after all, he was found gasping for
breath!’

‘I do not know. But I did not say
that he was . . .’ The brother shook his head. ‘He was old . . . should the devil
leave marks on his neck?’

Rainiero raised his brows. ‘Are you
saying that there were marks, or that there were no marks?’

‘No . . . no marks!’

‘Ahh, but it may not have been the Devil,
but the Devil’s own who has committed these heinous crimes . . . perhaps our
pious brothers found out what you were doing with these manuscripts of yours,
and you put an end to them before they could take matters to the abbot?’

‘No, no!’ Asa exclaimed anxiously,
for the first time realising his peril.

‘What manuscripts are these, then?
Tell us and we shall judge if they be good or evil.’

‘Medical manuscripts, your lordship.’

‘Tell me.’

‘There are many . . . let me see . .
. the works of the
Doctor Admirabilis
, Avicenna and his canon of
medicine, Averroes . . . many . . . many! Dozens of works of supreme importance
in this field.’ He added, trying to convince the man before him of their
significance. ‘Hippocrates’s
Corpus Hippocraticum
is a wealth of
knowledge for any young aspiring physician, there is also the classic works of
Roger Salerno and his
Practica Chirurgiae
. As well, the wonderful works
of Galen of Pergamon, Aulus Cornelius Celsus, who wrote entire volumes, the
physician Pedanius Dioscorides who became the first medical botanist – a
man whom I humbly hold as a model – Rufus of Ephesus renowned for his
investigations of the heart and eye . . . and there are many more.’

‘You see! All works of pagans,
infidels, and heretics!’ he shouted in a sudden outburst that shook the
congregation.

‘Your grace,’ Asa answered, wrenching
his hands, ‘if that were so, then why are there copies to be found in the abbey
of Monte Cassino where the good doctor
Constantine
has translated into
Latin from Arabic many Greek classics. As did another by the name of Albertus
Magnus. And if so impure and loathsome, why can they be so easily found at the
medical school at Montpellier or the University of Paris?’

‘Do not seek to mask your guilt by
quoting translations over which there have been grave misgivings. One day all
these works will be branded heresy and condemned, along with those who found
them exceedingly fruitful.’

‘But these are fine books, they have
provided many with immeasurable and illuminated knowledge. I have always
thought that one must distinguish a man’s faith from his wisdom.’

‘That is not possible, one is
dependent on the other.’

‘Perhaps, but a man of science, your
grace, must lay aside all other concerns, and work from natural laws.’

‘Another heretical statement! What
can one expect from a man who reads the thoughts of devils and infidels. These
natural laws of which you speak are nothing other than precepts for committing
necromancy and witchcraft!’ There was a stir and the inquisitor, not one to
miss an opportunity, seized his moment. ‘Yes, witchcraft! Do you not call forth
all the chiefs of the infernal legions to assist you in these miraculous
healings?’

‘No.’

‘Is that not why monks have been
dying at this monastery? Because there have been monks practising abominable
acts? Is that what you mean by ‘natural laws’?’

‘Natural laws are the eyes through
which we see a divine will at work in the world around us,’ said Asa, ‘and can measure
and calculate its existence. Knowledge is God and God is knowledge. In the
words of the loving Brother Vincent of Beauvais, ‘The mind lifting itself from
the dunghill of its affections, and rising, as it is able, into the light of
speculation, sees as from a height the greatness of the universe containing in
itself infinite places filled with the diverse orders of creatures’, and
Ephesus tells us, ‘Gather together in one all things in Christ, both which are
in heaven and which are on earth’, and again, ‘The spirit searcheth all things.
Yea the deep things of God’. In Proverbs we are told to, ‘Take fast hold of
instruction; let her not go: keep her for she is thy life’.’

‘I see you are also accomplished in
ways to justify your heresy through your own diabolical rendering of holy
words! Another impudent trait!’ He bounded with agility onto the dais and
brought his fist down hard on the oak table before shouting. ‘
Is it not true
. . .
that you read these heretical manuscripts so that you may practise
the
perverse
rituals dictated therein?
Is it not also true
that
these rituals call for the use of astrology and alchemy and other abominations
such as the calling forth of devils and demons and the eating of mummified
cadavers?’

Brother Asa answered with a tremor in
his voice ‘There
is
such a thing as you have described . . .
Mumia
,
though it is very rare, and I am afraid I have never seen it, though I believe
such a thing to be filled with the forces of destruction. We have not called on
such procedures, as you have just now mentioned, your grace.’

‘Your impertinence would astound me,
had I not been exposed many times in the past to the fox-like ways of the
heretic! You evade my questions thus because you know there are so many
diabolical procedures that I, a man who knows little about such things, cannot
point to any one method in particular, and so it will go on and on, you will
deny them all until I, by chance, name one you have used . . .’

Brother Asa said nothing, and this
fuelled the inquisitor’s anger.

‘Do you then swear that you have
never learnt anything contrary to the faith which we say and believe to be true
through such manuscripts?’

‘Willingly, your grace.’

‘Then do so.’

‘If I am commanded, all I can do is
swear.’

‘I do not command you, but if you
wish to do so I will listen,’ he said mildly.

‘Why may I swear, your grace, if I am
not commanded to?’

‘Why . . .? To remove the suspicions
that have been brought against you and your fellow monks that you are heretics,
and as such, believe that all swearing of oaths is unlawful and sinful!’

‘I am innocent!’

‘Then you have nothing to lose by
swearing,’ the inquisitor’s lips curled in a terrible smile.

‘I swear by the holy gospels that I have
never learnt or believed anything contrary to those same gospels.’

‘And does that include what the holy
Roman church believes and holds to be orthodox?’

‘Does the Roman church follow the
holy precepts and laws as they have been given to us by the great fathers of
the church, your grace?’ Asa asked humbly.

‘Of course!’

‘Then inasmuch as they do, I swear.’

‘You writhe like a snake, SWEAR!

‘I swear!’

‘And yet you may well swear a
thousand oaths and I will not believe you, as I know heretics are told they may
swear any number of times and it means nothing, inasmuch as they do not believe
in the swearing of oaths!’

And in this way the interrogation
came to an end.

We remained in the chapter house
after the procession of solemn-faced monks left. Lingering in the shadows like
thieves, we hoped to have a look in the great book of life.

On a lectern facing the abbot’s
throne was the large manuscript bound in goatskin over thin wooden boards. Once
again, the rose cross adorned the central panel, stitched elaborately over a
gilt parchment background.

‘It reminds me of coptic binding,
Egyptian,’ my master said to himself.

Inside the book was made of the most
exquisite vellum, with the perimeter of each page gilded in finest gold. All
matters of importance were recorded in this book in endless rows of dates and
names. I did not know what my master was seeking exactly, but he seemed to know
because it did not take him long to make some remarkable discoveries. The first
was that the commencement of the book was marked with the date 1187. This was
interesting, my master said, because it coincided with the fall of Jerusalem. I
did not understand the connection between the two, but he was convinced that
there had to be more to the grand master’s interest in the abbey. Could it be,
he argued, merely that our preceptory held the titles to the land? No, he was
sure there were other reasons, and too, he reminded me of the Templar grave we
saw in the cemetery. Merely a coincidence?

So we continued looking through the
old book searching for any more strange connections with our order that might
lead to an elucidation of these things. When we finally arrived at the end, my
master closed it and turned to me with a bewildered look.

‘There are four names added only
recently,’ he said.

‘How recently, master?’

‘Only ten years ago.’

‘Then they must be novices, but how
could they be when there are only two novices?’

‘There are four entries; Amiel, Hugo,
Poitevin and I could not make out the other, the lettering is smudged . . . no
other details are given. We should expect to see where they were from and their
ages and so on . . .’

‘A clerical error?’

‘No. It is not likely. Everything
else has been chronicled very precisely. Why omit the origins and ages of four
monks? Besides, the names of the only two novices in the monastery are
accounted for, Anselmo, and a certain Jerome.’

‘Come to think of it, I have not seen
this other oblate.’

‘Very odd . . . it is a mystery,’ he
said, I believe annoyed.

We left the chapter house, looking
about us a little anxiously, now knowing with a little more certainty that
things were not as they appeared, and I was glad when we were out in the common
grounds.

The weather had not improved. An
ominous greyness had descended over the abbey, befitting the mood of the community.
Soon the bell would toll the little hour of sext, and about us monks sought
refuge in the comfort of daily affairs. To the scriptorium, or the stables,
long, sombre figures moved. Everywhere monks would raise their cowls a little
to steal glances at one another, perhaps seeking recognition and justification
for an anxiety felt, but never expressed. My master and I sought out the
infirmarian. We knew that he had left earlier in the direction of the
infirmary. As we walked with quick steps past the graveyard, I saw two monks
digging Ezekiel’s grave, its dark depths contrasted starkly with the purity of
the snow. Tomorrow, after the office of the dead, the old man’s mortality would
be immersed in the cold ground, to sleep the eternal dreamless sleep in which
the silence of divinity resides in the chalice of peace, and I pondered on the
words of Job, ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and
is full of misery’, and I was caught between despair for the monastery, and a
grave fear of the antichrist.

We entered the infirmary where there
was a good fire in the hearth, and as we stepped across the threshold, we saw
that Brother Asa was hurriedly replacing something of large proportions in a
velvet pouch.

‘Preceptor . . . you have been injured
. . .’ he said, frowning a little, holding the pouch behind him. ‘I see that
you have dressed the wound.’

‘Just a little graze. I should be
more careful getting out of bed,’ he smiled, fixing the infirmarian with one of
his silent stares until the man began to look about him nervously.