Temple of The Grail (6 page)

Eisik huffed, mumbling under his
breath. ‘You think too much of that Greek, perhaps it is your Alexandrian
blood. Your race has always thought too much of Greeks and look where it has
got you!’

‘Maimonides, whom you revere as a
great philosopher, used many Aristotelian laws . . .’

Eisik shook his head, waving a finger
in the air, ‘And it was philosophy, Andre, that led to his downfall . . .’

My master sighed. ‘How can a man so
erudite be so stubborn! Even Maimonides knew that logic illuminates the mind
and strengthens the spirit, Eisik!’

‘No, you are confused,’ he shook his
head, ‘philosophy addles the mind, and confounds the soul...and moreover, it
will not help you decipher the threat on your life which you have just
received!’ His face softened. ‘Oh, my son, my son, when will you see the error
in your thinking? When will you devote your life to the spirit? Don’t feed your
anima
the errors of reason, for if you do, your soul will dry up as have
the souls of so many in these days of wickedness. That is the bitter lesson
that I have learnt, though I atone that one error until the day God calls me to
answer for my sins . . . ah!’ He waved a hand, closing his eyes and shaking his
shoulders. ‘An error too horrible to contemplate!’

My master looked grave, and perhaps
as much for his sake as for his friend’s he said, ‘What happens in the past
must be forgotten.’

‘You are mistaken, Andre,’ Eisik
sighed. ‘It must never be forgotten, we must remember that we were wrong! We
allowed our zeal to transform us into instruments of execution . . . the lamb
became the wolf, and the intimidated became the intimidators! May the God of
our fathers forgive us for allowing the shining face of love and compassion to
elude us . . .’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Not so long ago . . .!’ There was a
wide-eyed feverish quality to his face. ‘You may say, because you love me as I
hope you do, that I was only defending the memory of Maimonides, from whose
lips I learnt so much . . . but to defend him, a man died . . . do you hear me?
A man died! Oh! It is horrible! Horrible to cast one’s mind back to those
terrible days. You should listen to the mystics, who say that knowledge and
faith should never be brought together, that the lust for such things is
distinct from the beatific sacrifice that is innocence. Maimonides the great
Spanish Jew tells us that happiness lies in the immortal existence of the human
intellect contemplating God.’

‘But, Eisik, the rabbi condemned
Maimonides, he condemned the mystics, and . . . Cabbala.’

‘It is true . . . it is true . . . he
was blind to the light that emanates from the holy source through which our
fathers have always spoken. In his ignorance he despised knowledge because he
was tempted by the devil of envy. But learned men also succumb to temptation because
even more than ignorant ones, they know the ways of sin . . . Perhaps the rabbi
was right?’

‘But I am certain you didn’t desire
the rabbi’s death, and that is all I need to know . . .

‘But you are wrong!’ Eisik exclaimed,
horrified. ‘I confess that for an instant I desired that very thing! For one
terrible moment, a shadow, a mire, prevented me from seeing the divine precepts
of the Holy Law. He was burning books! He was destroying knowledge and so he
should be punished! But it was as I stood calling for his death, snarling like
a rabid animal, that I realised that learning does not better man, it only
makes him better at being clever. It does not lead a man to the path of
brotherly love, but to that of self-love. It never leads to tolerance. It leads
only to arrogance!’

‘But you are an erudite and
insightful man whose knowledge has been a blessing to many.’

‘Ahh!’ spat the Jew. ‘It is a curse!’
Then to me, ‘One thinks in his youth – and you had better listen to this
my young one lest you become like your master – one thinks that he learns
in order to better understand the world and its laws. A holy pretext if it
weren’t also a foolish one because after a time of gazing into the vast
distances, a man no longer sees what lies at his feet, he loses himself in the
universe of ideas because he neglects to see the connections between entities
that unite those ideas.’

‘But my dear and wise friend,’ broke
in my master impatiently, ‘surely the world would be paler and far less
appealing without the wisdom of men, but we are not only speaking of the wisdom
of master mathematicians, teachers, and rulers, but also the wisdom of farmers,
herdsmen, blacksmiths!’

‘Very well, but I fear that your
pursuit of philosophy, as you call it, will lead you to your ruin and I will be
forced to witness it, it is my destiny . . . Do you not know that there is
little better than the simple soul that strives for nothing more than what is
given him by the grace of God? I beg you, do not allow your pride to take you
to hell, for I suspect this note of yours mirrors what we have been discussing.’
In a softer voice he said, ‘Throw away your reason, my son, and bask in the
light of the one eternal wisdom that no man can know!’

‘How am I to meditate on heavenly
things that I can never know, my good and loyal friend, when there are so many
things here on earth that may instruct my ignorance!’ my master said, patting
his stomach.

Eisik smiled sadly, for I knew he
loved my master. ‘I should pray twice the number of prayers for you if I weren’t
so tired after our long journey which has left me too weary to speak . . . too
weary indeed and in any event . . . we arrive at our destination, though my
legs would lead me in another direction, preferably its opposite.’

Without my noticing, we had indeed
come to be standing before the great doors to the refectory. And so, we washed
our hands as was the custom, in the crisp cold waters of the little fountain,
and my master declared, ‘Something bothers me about the note . . .’

‘Of course it bothers you,’ answered
his friend, ‘it is an admonition . . . those who want to know too much die
knowing very little . . . or perhaps it is that those who know very little die
wanting to know a great deal? However, my senses tell me, and they are never
wrong, never, that tonight someone will meet his death! It is written . . . of
that
I am certain.’

Andre must have seen my eyes widen
with fear, for he said in a very jolly manner, ‘Then let us enjoy life while we
can, Eisik, for there is nothing to excite one’s appetite better than the smell
of a mystery!’

R
ainiero Sacconi da Piacenza, as he was formally addressed,
entered the refectory like a man conditioned to power. His thin frame,
unusually tall, was moderated by square shoulders whose proportions carried the
black and white habit of his order well. Moving with strength and agility, as I
had seen him do during our travels, he showed little sign of fatigue. Indeed
this night he appeared particularly tireless, having – as we heard during
various conversations at the table – found suitable housing for
prisoners, and another site for the questioning of suspects. In this he was not
unlike my master whose own energy seemed to far surpass my own.

What I knew of the inquisitor I had
heard through terrible stories whose accuracy I cannot attest to. Nevertheless,
he was portrayed as a zealot, ambitious and ruthless, with both eyes focused
keenly on the position of supreme inquisitor. Gruesome tales denoted a sadistic
nature that delighted in the smell of burning flesh, and so no one can blame an
impressionable youth for holding his breath just a little as the man reached
the great table and prepared to draw his cowl for the first time. What can I
say, dear reader? That I expected to see the face of a devil? That is,
pock-marked and creased, perhaps even biliously yellow? Instead, I was
surprised to find that he was, after all, no hideous demon. He was a man whose
countenance possessed a kind of comeliness appropriate to a man of his years,
but when he lifted his eyes to look upon the congregation, making a long
calculated sweep of the room, I saw within their paleness a cold cruelty, a
mark of his strong and tested will. For a moment they fell upon me, telling me
of devils subdued and men brought to judgement. They said, ‘Come, I am ready to
challenge any opposition to my wishes.’ They revealed his indifference to the
opinion of others and at the same time conveyed that guilt – which he
knew to be inherent in all men – would be sought out, condemned, and
punished, albeit with fraternal understanding . . . all in one brief glance.

The abbot showed the inquisitor to a
place beside him at the great table, raised above the others on a dais at the
end of the rectangular hall. The table was covered with a grey linen cloth and
set with crude but practical implements for our use; wooden bowls replaced
silver, and iron candlesticks, not golden ones, provided a soft and pleasant
light.

The abbot occupied a central position
proper to his station, to his right the inquisitor, my master, and I. To his
left, the bishop and the Friar de Narbonne and the esteemed Cistercian brother,
with the
obidientiaries
or more
senior brothers of the order flanking us on both sides. Beside me, Brother
Ezekiel of Padua made strange noises, perhaps preparing for his forthcoming
mastication. He was standing alongside Setubar whose place was beside another
brother named Daniel. The rest sat on tables below us, placed at right angles
to the dais.

Rainiero noticed Eisik at once, for
he was dressed in a plain russet cloak covering a tunic of forest green which
contrasted in an explosion of colour amid the toneless grey. He had a place
– because of the abbot’s generosity – among the monks of lesser
station on the tables below, and this made the inquisitor frown in a tempest of
disdain. He fixed the Jew with a hard look, muttering some remonstration
against the devil under his breath, and blessed himself with ceremonial hatred.
Below, the monks stood in silence, cowls drawn, awaiting the intonation of the ‘
Edent
paupers
’ and after the benediction was granted, all withdrew their cowls
and we gratefully sat down.

As soon as we were all seated, the
inquisitor leant in the abbot’s direction and pointed to an empty chair on the
dais. I heard the abbot say that the infirmarian, because of the distant
location of his infirmary, was generally a little late for meals.

‘Indulgence,’ said the inquisitor, ‘leads
to disobedience, stern discipline and obedience to the rule is the cornerstone
of order, as you know dear abbot, to obey is better than a sacrifice,’ he
concluded.

Who would argue further?

It was then in silence that we
listened to the weekly reading which continued devoutly, even as the
refectorian and his assistants placed dishes of unsurpassed variety before us,
whose qualities I have since contemplated on more than one occasion. With each
dish – and indeed there were many – I was transported to distant
lands; Italy, Spain, Portugal, perhaps even unknown places of which old
travellers speak. And the guests, particularly those with good appetites,
praised the cook and complimented the abbot on a fare that far surpassed the
modest meals usually served in monasteries of those times – especially so
close to Lent, when one ate almost nothing.

We ate roast pheasant stuffed with
red peppers; terrines of pigeon; goose eggs in a sauce of goat’s cheese and
various delicious herbs. There were black olives stuffed with anchovies, and
green olives in a garlic marinade, and on each table, little vases contained
golden honey, so light and sweet that even the inquisitor could not help
smothering everything he ate in it. All partook of the fare in quiet
thankfulness, all except the friar, who behaved in a manner typically
Franciscan – because they are of humble birth and so often poorly
educated – letting out loud resonant belches.

Afterwards, there was fragrant bread,
cooked with cinnamon and almonds, then honeyed dumplings – like those
found in Florence. Finally, they brought in the wine, a small flask for each of
us, and the abbot told us, because abbeys are known to take pride in their
abilities, that it was a delicious mixture of balm leaves and the abbey’s own
honey. When he saw that my master was declining he told him that it was also
said to have wonderful curative and calming properties, because bees were a
virtuous insect, as was well known.

The inquisitor made a gesture of
disapproval. ‘Wine is a mocker, it induces even the wise to apostasy.’

‘In that you are quite right!’ added
the Franciscan yawning.

The Cistercian agreed, casting his
unblinking eye over us, ‘Wine is not proper for monks.’

The bishop alone said nothing, but
filled his glass and downed the lot without taking a breath. ‘Ahh . . .’ he
said at last in his throaty voice. ‘Our Lord found it agreeable and I, his
simple servant, cannot find it otherwise.’

My master smiled and thanked the
abbot graciously, conceding that it did indeed possess a fine colour and was no
doubt delicious, but refused his portion.

On hearing this, Brother Ezekiel
edged closer to me, and because of his poor vision reached out his hand,
searching for the flask. ‘Give it to me! By Mary and all her saints,
I
shall
drink it!’ he exclaimed loudly, and the server placed it in his hand.

The abbot motioned to stop Ezekiel
when Asa, the infirmarian, entered the refectory looking flushed. Hastily
finding his seat at the end of the table under the glare of many eyes, he
begged his abbot’s pardon in inaudible whispers.

The inquisitor muttered, ‘I shall put
a curb upon my mouth!’ but no one else heard him, they were far too preoccupied
with their meal, as yet another course of cheeses was brought before them.

When a man eats well, the world
appears not only more pleasing to his eye, but he feels gladdened and cheered,
and perhaps a little indolent. My master attributed this to the illusion of
digestion. He said that the internal organs borrow from the heart and head the
energy with which to accomplish this wonderful work and, as was his custom, indulged
in eating as much as possible in order to rest his mind. Whatever the cause,
however, it had a pleasant effect on all those seated at the table. Even the
inquisitor’s voice was gradually tempered, and soon he was forgetting his own
admonition concerning the silence.

‘I see you live contrary to the
fifty-seventh capital of your rule, preceptor, namely,
Ut fratres non
participent cum excommunicatis
. That is to say, that you are in communication
with the excommunicated.’

My master remained surprisingly silent.
The pause seemed to last too long, however, and the inquisitor, not about to
miss his opportunity, glared in Eisik’s direction and in a voice that carried
well in the large hall, continued. ‘He is a Jew and therefore diabolical. What
is your order coming to, preceptor, when it allows into its ranks infidels, and
condones communication with Jews?’

My master’s face reddened, and I saw
his fists clench in his lap.

‘The order shall soon stink of dog.’

‘Then it shall smell like a most
learned dog,’ Andre remarked, ‘for that dog speaks not only Latin, Rainiero,
but six other languages, even as he does his mother tongue.’

In my mind I admonished Andre, for it
seemed that he was praising Eisik’s accomplishments as a way of justifying
their friendship, and I suspected that Eisik may have been right in thinking
that he had become prey to culpable sentiments.

‘He is a follower of Maimonides?’ the
Dominican raised his brows and narrowed his eyes.

‘I believe so.’

There was a smile, ‘Not only is he a
Jewish dog then, an unbeliever, but also a heretic into the bargain!’

‘A heretic in whose eyes? Some would
say your order had no place in burning Maimonides’ books. After all, he was not
baptised and so not bound by Christian laws.’

‘That may be . . .’ the inquisitor
dismissed. ‘However, all books, especially those of the Jews, contain heresies
that undermine the very principle of faith! Even the infidel,’ he said with a
grin turning up the corners of his mouth, as if to say to my master, ‘I should
be very pleased to see your infidel carcass upon a burning dais’, ‘even the
infidel,’ he continued, ‘who is the Devil himself, as you no doubt know,
preceptor, finds no affection for this animal. Intellectual pride, this is at
the root of all evil!’ he said pointing one finger at Eisik. ‘Maimonides
rejected the resurrection of the body, and said that we can prove neither
eternity nor the creation of the world! Furthermore, he approved the saying
that ‘a bastard who is a scholar takes precedence over an ignorant priest’ . .
. That he who studies the law, is closer to God, than he who follows it!’

‘He said this, Rainiero, at a time
when Jewish priests had become decadent, lazy, and so ignorant of the laws
which they enforced. No doubt
you
understand? However there is much to
be said for a priest who does nothing more than what he is told.’

‘Exactly!’ exclaimed the inquisitor,
thinking my master had finally come to his senses. ‘Ignorance is a blissful
state, preceptor, one obeys what one is told to obey. After all, obedience is
the cornerstone of our rule, obedience! Learning, however, is the way to
apostasy, the way to wilfulness and the gratification of self.’

There were whispers of acquiescence
among the various delegates. The bishop and the others sat back with fraternal
indulgence, patting their ample bellies in communal understanding.

‘And yet,’ continued my master,
biting into a hunk of cheese as though he wished it were the inquisitor’s neck,
‘should one be forced to accept religion without reason?’

The Bishop of Toulouse frowned and
leant over the table, his mouth framed by two huge, wet, lips. ‘But it is the
church that decides what is reasonable,’ he waved a hand imperiously, ‘and not
the individual, preceptor, that is common and undisputed knowledge!’

There were nods and smiles, their
faces aglow with the fire of wine that by now they had all consumed, despite
their previous apprehensions.

‘Then, your grace,’ my master said,
his dark, Arabic face filled with the thrill of restrained battle-anger, for
his eyes shone a brilliant metallic green, ‘I see how the church must be
burdened.’

‘Burdened . . . yes . . .’ the Friar
de Narbonne answered, in somnolent vacuity, and then frowning, as though
suddenly confused, he asked, ‘by what in particular, preceptor?’

‘Why, burdened by a deep
contradiction friar, namely, that the Roman church has come to rely so heavily
on those learned men whom it despises, and on whose wisdom rests an entire body
of theological material that has become the foundation of its own philosophy.’
Satisfied, he bit into a dumpling, and waited for a reply.

‘Why should this concern the church,
preceptor?’ asked the bishop, shrugging his fat shoulders, lacking a little, if
I may say, in what the Greeks call intellect.

‘Perhaps it should not concern the
church at all. After all, the world is ruled by contradiction, nature itself is
the greatest paradox . . . and yet,’ my master paused, and I saw the churchmen
move forward a little in their seats, ‘it bears consideration. There may come a
time when the canon lawyers and theologians disagree with the pope. One can
only then imagine the dreadful circumstance, my brothers . . . Shall we have a
pontiff whose weakness is ruled by the wisdom of earthly men, and not by the
wisdom of God? Or shall we have a pope who ignores the wisdom of his
theologians because he is ignorant?’ My master then quoted Plato in Greek, saying,
‘What is just or right means nothing, but what is in the interest of the
stronger party
.
’

There was a confused silence, and to
my delight I saw a congregation of frowns. The abbey’s head librarian, Brother
Macabus, a middle-aged monk with very curly hair, deep folds under both eyes,
and a curiously small nose, answered my master, also in Greek, ‘Is that which
is holy loved by the Gods because it is holy, or is it holy because it is loved
by the Gods?’