by D C Macey
Helen sat at one end of the middle sofa; it provided her with a full view through the glass wall of the comings and goings in the reception.
She had barely sat down when a bustle of activity on the far side of reception caught her eye. Hurrying towards her cubicle was the bishop, moving with the confident step of a man who expected a clear path in front of him. At his side walked the assistant who Helen recognised from Addis Ababa Airport.
Bishop Ignatius smiled broadly and extended his hand to Helen. ‘Well, Miss Johnson, I am delighted that we meet again so soon. It is not how I had anticipated our meeting would be but welcome in any event.’
Helen was struck by his good English; here in the calm of the enclosed alcove it was far more noticeable than it had been at the airport. She stood and stretched out a hand to shake his.
The bishop hesitated for a moment before selecting the sofa to Helen’s right, sitting in the seat immediately adjacent to her. His assistant pulled the door shut and sat on the sofa beside his bishop. Beyond the glass stood the two junior priests, providing a guard, which made Helen smile to herself.
‘Welcome for you, your Grace, but I’m only here because you’ve had your boys follow me halfway across East Africa and they nearly got themselves killed in the process. How about you tell me why our meeting is so important. I can spare you a little over half an hour. I’m afraid after that I’ll need to link up with my friend again and get on with the business we’re actually here for. Now, please tell me how I can help you.’
Bishop Ignatius looked slightly pained. ‘But surely you know who I am?’
‘Yes, your Grace. You’re the bishop who won’t leave me alone and I don’t know why yet. And I’m not very happy about it.’
The bishop’s voice remained calm. ‘I am the right hand of the patriarch, do you understand?’
‘Yes, I guess. You are number two in the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church. But what would such a high placed churchman want with me?’
The bishop turned and spoke quietly to his assistant in Amharic, the dominant language of Ethiopia. Helen did not understand but did pick out the word Edinburgh repeated several times along with the sound of her name. She registered the consternation in their voices and noted the occasional glance in her direction.
After allowing the side discussion to run for a couple of minutes she cut in. ‘Really, your Grace, I’d like to understand what your interest in me is. Now would be a good time.’
The two men stopped talking, and after a moment of silence, the assistant nodded earnestly to his bishop. He might have been signalling agreement or perhaps encouragement. The bishop turned back to face Helen, took a moment to compose himself, then smiled. Suddenly there was just a hint of nervousness about his demeanour.
‘You are Helen Johnson. Priest of St. Bernard’s in Edinburgh?’ he said. She detected a hint of anxiety in his face, but his tone expressed hope.
‘Well, almost,’ said Helen.
She saw the confusion spread across the faces of both bishop and assistant and hurried to explain.
‘In my church we call priests, ministers.’ She decided it would be too complicated explaining the Church of Scotland had just closed St Bernard’s and she had bought the buildings using her Templar trust fund - she was not sure she had a full understanding of all the finer legalities of that process herself yet.
‘A minister. Of course.’ The bishop turned and shoved his assistant’s arm with some vigour, a reprimand for an information failing. ‘Minister. Minister,’ he said to his assistant before lapsing into a short run of Amharic that left the assistant looking uncomfortable.
‘So, you know who I am, happy now? How about telling me why you’ve had your boys hound me across three countries.’
The bishop looked back at her. This time worry was the dominant tone. ‘You do not know? How can this be? I am the patriarch’s right hand.’
‘Yes, and?’
He pursed his lips and sat in silence for a minute, then turned back to his assistant. They exchanged a few quick-fire phrases, again in Amharic, before the bishop turned back to her.
‘As I said when we last met, Addis Ababa is a long way from Edinburgh, but we are not backward here, just distant from you.’
‘Okay,’ said Helen, cautiously. Recent events in Edinburgh and her Templar inheritance should have no relevance in the middle of East Africa. Involuntarily, she thought back to the brutality and butchery they had struggled against. The bishop even knew about the ring. How was it possible that she was linked with Bishop Ignatius and his Church? A shiver ran down her spine and the air conditioning suddenly seemed much colder. What was this? She was beginning to wish she had kept Sam with her. ‘What exactly do you want?’
Glancing at her watch, she realised there was still some time before he would return, certainly too long to stall. ‘Sure, I’m from St Bernard’s. Why would that interest you?’
The bishop looked at her, held her gaze. ‘I am the patriarch’s right hand.’ He detected no response in her eyes. ‘I am the patriarch’s right hand. The hand that keeps the key …’ the bishop paused, searching Helen’s eyes for a reaction. He was visibly puzzled now.
Helen had no idea what he had expected from the exchange, but it was clearly not going as he had anticipated. Though she could tell there was something he considered important in his riddle; something she should know and didn’t.
‘Your Grace, if you have something to say, say it. Because as things stand, when my friend gets back, I’m gone.’
The bishop averted his gaze and his hand gripped the ornate cross that hung around his neck. He intoned a little prayer under his breath. Then, still gripping the cross like a security blanket, he looked back at Helen.
‘I am the patriarch’s right hand. The hand that keeps the key. I await the keeper of the lock - the bearer of the ring.’ His words had the rhythm of an oft-repeated chant.
Helen’s stomach tightened, and her mind started to race, trying to process the bishop’s meaning, all the while struggling to keep her face expressionless. Yes, this linked directly to her role as the Templar ring bearer, which she had inherited from the previous minister of St Bernard’s Church. Poor John Dearly, he had died a horrible death without being able to properly explain her responsibilities or his church’s links. Until this morning, she’d thought she finally had a handle on it. Clearly not. And like so many other aspects of those inherited responsibilities, they appeared when least expected and invariably trailed trouble like a ship’s wake. More than anything right now, she needed to speak with Sam.
The bishop and his assistant were both watching her intently; waiting for a response. She decided honesty was the only workable policy.
‘I’m sorry. There’s only one possible link between us and I know that’s the Templars. You are right, I’m not going to deny it, I am from Edinburgh and I know the ring. But I don’t know you or your key, and I certainly don’t have a lock.’
‘This cannot be!’ said the assistant. ‘She must be an imposter, must be!’
The bishop raised his hand and the assistant was quiet.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand how you can be the ring bearer and not know what is required. It is not possible.’
‘Well, it is. I’m afraid I took up the mantle in difficult circumstances and my predecessor died before he could provide a full account of my duties.’
There was a long uncomfortable silence, which was finally broken by the assistant leaning close to his bishop and whispering in his ear. The bishop responded in hushed tones. Their whispered exchange became heated for a few moments. Finally, both men seemed to reach an agreement and nodded assent to one another. The bishop turned again to face Helen.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘I think we might consider this a stand-off of sorts. Neither party knows for certain who the other really is, their motives nor what the outcome should be. If, as you say, your predecessor died without telling you that which you needed to know, the
n you cannot respond appropriately to me. I have seen recent reports of the cruel and dreadful deaths of churchmen in Edinburgh. So, it may be the case that you do not know, and if so, then our arrangement would seem lost for all time. In such circumstances I can understand your not knowing, but it does not break the impasse.
‘However, my assistant has made a very sensible suggestion. One that I am happy to endorse if it can take us to a solution.’
‘Go on,’ said Helen, ‘I’m listening.’
‘The one sign that will prove you are bona fide to me is the sign over which our covenant was made. Come, prove yourself and I will share what I can with you.’
‘I’m sorry, your Grace; I’m not going anywhere. If you want resolution, let’s reach it here or let it go.’
‘No Helen, I meant come forward. If you are the ring bearer, show it. Let me see the proof.’
‘You want to see the ring?’
‘Exactly.’
Helen weighed up her options. She would have preferred to discuss the whole thing with Sam first. She did know that the papers and television news had had a field day over the previous killings; they were pretty well all public domain, but the ring was not. Only those at the very heart of the Templar secret had knowledge of the rings. If Bishop Ignatius knew about her ring, he must be privy to at least part of its secret. She decided it was worth the risk. The bishop already believed he knew who she was; proving it would provide her with access to information. Identifying herself had to be a chance worth taking.
‘Forgive me, your Grace, but how do I know I can trust you?’
‘Ah yes, cautious as ever, very sensible, I think. Now, I have something I want to show you before we go any further.’
‘Fire away.’
Ignatius turned his assistant. ‘The plaque?’
From his pocket the assistant drew a slim wooden case about the same size as a modest hip flask. He passed it to Ignatius, who placed it on the occasional table in front of him. Before opening it, he looked at Helen again. ‘When we first met I had a feeling that you were not fully aware of your connection to my Church.’
‘Spot on, I’m completely in the dark.’
‘Well I can tell you something of what you need to know.’
‘All right,’ said Helen, a note of caution returning to her voice. ‘So … how do we proceed?’
Ignatius carefully opened the hinged lid on the slim wooden case and slid the box towards Helen. She sat forward to get a closer look. ‘You show me this,’ he said.
Helen looked at the sheet of gold. An engraved plaque. She recognised the engraving and gave an involuntary shiver.
‘May I?’ she asked, gesturing with her hands.
‘Please, be my guest, but do be careful. It is a very delicate object.’
Helen lifted the box to get a closer inspection. She sucked on her lower lip a little then moved her hands to bring the object closer to her eye. ‘This is interesting,’ she said. Then fixed Ignatius with a stare. ‘Where did you get this from?’
‘I got it from my predecessor, who got it from his and so on, back a very long way.’ He pointed at the gold plaque. ‘We must compare originals now.’
The gold plaque carried a perfect engraved representation of the face of Helen’s ring.
Ignatius smiled at her. ‘This is what I think you would call the crunch point. If you pass the test, the key is returned to you and I will tell you what I can. For I see you do not know what you need to know. If the test is not passed, then you may go on from here with my best wishes and an assurance that I will deny ever having had this conversation.’
He laughed again and leant back into the chair as his assistant nervously echoed his laugh.
‘So, what’s the test?’
‘Simple, your ring must fit exactly into the engraving on the plaque. I trust it will fit but …’ he shrugged, ‘Rules are rules - we must check. Yes?’
She let her finger trace across the surface of the plaque. ‘They are the same,’ she said quietly, almost to herself.
She could tell the engraving was a perfect representation of the face of her ring. The ring suddenly felt very heavy. This was real confirmation of association. A photo could always be mocked up, this couldn’t. How did Ignatius have this? What did he know? What did he want? Did everything always have to come back to this? The rings, the Templars, the …
She looked up to see that Ignatius and his assistant were taut, leaning slightly forward in hope and anticipation.
‘Okay, I’m in. But don’t play any silly games. I show, you tell.’
The bishop bowed his head very slightly. ‘It is your decision and you are in control. As you have always been.’
Helen placed the little plaque on the table. She stood up and slipped a finger beneath the collar of her top. The bishop and his assistant watched as she pulled the gold chain out into the electric light. She saw their eyes sparkle with anticipation. As the ring emerged into view on the end of its chain, they leapt up as one, exclaiming with glee.
Helen had to take a step back and swat their hands away as excitement got the better of them.
‘Whoa there,’ said Helen. ‘Hands down, I’m not public property.’
Ignatius sat, raising his hands and making a little nodding gesture. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Nobody really thought this day would come. Certainly not in my lifetime. Please continue, I am composed.’ He leant across and pushed his assistant’s arm, admonishing him for his part in the transgression.
The atmosphere calmed, and Helen sat too.
‘Helen, if my engraving matches your ring exactly, I must accept you as the ring bearer.’ He opened his palms towards Helen. ‘May we?’
Helen extended the chain to its limit. She allowed the assistant to turn the ring on its chain to complete his checks. He placed the ring against the face of the plaque and rotated it gently to and fro. Almost at once the two artefacts slotted together perfectly, a lock tight fit. A moment later, he let the ring go and confirmed it was the ring represented in the engraving.
Ignatius clapped his hands in excitement. ‘This is my brightest day. Our Church can fulfil its promise and it is me that has the honour of completing the circle.’
Helen was about to let the ring slip under her collar when Ignatius stopped her. ‘Please, Helen, may I touch it? The ring. Just once, it would be my honour. We have waited a long time for this to come.’
She lifted the chain a little towards him and he reached out to touch, taking the weight of it in his hand, and then rolling it with his fingers. His smile beamed.
‘Right, I think we have reached an understanding. There are things you promised to share if the ring fitted your plaque. It does. This is probably the time to explain what has been going on, and about this key you mentioned?’
Ignatius released the ring and leant back in his chair, pressed his hands together and lapsed into silence as though praying. The silence continued for some time and Ignatius’ assistant sent a smile of understanding towards Helen as her frustration began to show. She responded to his attempt at empathy with a tight smile.
Finally, Ignatius spoke. ‘I know who you are. The news reports I have seen coming from Edinburgh first were simply brutal killings, then a religious theme developed and then the name of St Bernard’s Church emerged. I knew it must flag the re-emergence of our benefactor and so the opportunity to redeem our promise.
‘My assistant was less convinced. He is a sceptic in such matters.’ Ignatius reached out a hand to his assistant and squeezed his upper arm. ‘But to be careful is an important thing. One day he may well rise to fill my shoes, but not yet.’ He released his grip on the assistant’s arm and let out another laugh, which his assistant dutifully echoed.
‘So, everybody knows who everybody is,’ said Helen. ‘Now we agreed you’d tell me what it means.’
The bishop smiled. ‘I did, but first let me take your hand, let me kiss the hand of the ring bearer.’
Helen was taken aback
by the request but after a moment’s thought she proffered her hand. He lent forward, took it in his and pressed his lips against the back of her hand.
Done, he released her hand and straightened up. ‘This is a day I and all my predecessors have waited for. Look, see here, this cross is one of the symbols of my office, passed down from one to the next for generations.’
Helen looked at the cross. It was clearly made of gold, heavy and so extraordinarily ornate that she had to look twice to confirm it was indeed a cross. She smiled at the bishop. ‘It’s lovely, very intricate.’
‘Look again, look at the very centre.’
She looked again and this time she saw it, set deep within all the patterns and imagery was fashioned a representation of a ring, her ring. It was her turn to feel a thrill; she looked at the bishop and smiled.
The bishop nodded. ‘Now I will tell you a story. I am Bishop Ignatius, I am the assistant to the patriarch, and one of my titles is the patriarch’s right hand. I have many public duties, and a few very private, very secret ones. The oldest of my duties is to watch and be ready for your coming. It is the uppermost of my private duties and it has been so for generations.
‘The history of my Church is not like the Church of the West. Ours was a big and successful Church, already strong when the Church of Rome was just an emperor’s whim. But our story is tied to that of the Coptic Church and its birthplace in Egypt.
‘As a country, Egypt was fabulously wealthy, in spite of successive generations of looting by Alexander and the Greeks, the Roman Caesars and finally Byzantium, which inherited control of Egypt when the Roman Empire divided. The Christianity of Byzantium and the Eastern Roman Empire was different from Rome and the West and different again from the Coptic Christians. As so often seems to happen, difference leads to persecution. The Copts suffered badly under Byzantine rule; brutality, bias against their form of Christianity, taxes and seizure of wealth. It was not a happy story.
‘As Islam’s leaders grew in strength, by various means, they seized control of Egypt from Byzantium. Once Byzantium gave up on Egypt, the Copts, who had suffered so many debilitations under Byzantine rule, were so weakened they were in no position to resist the caliphs.
