Andre had urged a retreat, the king had agreed, but it was too late for many. The Comte d’Artois, on whose command we had proceeded to Mansourah though we were short in numbers, who laughed at those who had advised caution, the same man who disobeyed the king’s orders by pressing ahead to battle, had, in his ignorance and vainglory, led hundreds to their deaths at the hands of thousands.
All I recall of the night we left was that it was filled with cries. A confusion of arrows tipped with Greek fire, star-like, falling around us in conflagration as we escaped. My master was wounded by two Saracen arrows, one in the knee and the other in the chest, as he helped men onto our little boat overflowing with terror, sickness and dying. Damietta seemed a lifetime away.
Why did these recollections return at that moment to torment me? I can only say, now that I am far removed from those days, and so, able to see them all the more clearly, that in my heart I perceived an equivocal peril in the monastery. A peril whose dissimilar similitude may have appeared all too vague, because in my spiritual illiteracy I could only ascertain the letters and not the words (as yet unknown to me) whose nature reveals truths gradually. So that I saw only the signs, or sign of signs (alas!) illegible, and yet unmistakable; our capital tells us that a Templar must not walk according to his proper will, and to honour this rule is the duty of every faithful knight, but my master, like the Comte d’Artois, had a will of his own, and although devoted to his faith, I believed some part of him (perhaps the infidel part) sought to be as free as those eagles one sees soaring above all things, and I feared for him. I feared that his disregard for the rules of obedience, driven as I knew it was by his love of logic and freedom – so similar and yet dissimilar to that other, whose nature was driven by pride and ignorance – might lead us all into the pit.
At last, in the grip of such sensations I said a prayer, letting it rest in the bosom of those higher beings of whom it is said that they are wisdom personified. Deciding that all learning and reason is for naught, when one is bound by other laws, laws that bind a monk to his superior, and he to his conscience, and then finally to God . . .
The bell tolled the hour as we crossed the compound on our way to the refectory for the great dinner. With the relief afforded by prayer I found that I welcomed the idea of going to the table, even though in my heart I continued to feel a profound dread.
My master accompanied me to the cloister buildings, dressed in formal dress: the usual padded undercoat beneath the surcoat of the order, which was long and came to the ground at a severe angle. It was made of burel cloth, or coarse linen bleached white bearing the well-known red cross of the order. It had no lining of lambskin, or wool, so it did little to protect one from the cold. My master, not one to savour the vanities that others found essential, never complained, even on such a night, for although the storm had not come as predicted and the wind had died down, the cold air penetrated to the bone. When I asked my master if he was cold he reminded me that habits of coarse wool such as the one given me by the abbey, although warmer, also harboured fleas and lice. A lifetime of itching, he told me, was often responsible for turning away many an aspirant novice from the ideal of monastic life. I scratched, certain that my body was already food for some unseen, but no doubt hideous, vermin.
Thus we continued, seeing little beyond a few paces as the evening fog descended. Half way across the main courtyard, my master handed me a parchment. I held it to my face, and as we neared the lighted cloister door I could barely make out a message, written in Greek,
Those who inquire the light of knowledge, die in blind ignorance.
‘But that does not make sense,’ I remarked.
‘I suspect that what he meant to say was . . .’ my master instructed, ‘those who seek the light of knowledge die in blind ignorance. An incautious translator such as yourself may very easily confuse the words seek and inquiry. The Greek vernacular, like Latin, Christian, is fraught with traps for the unsuspecting.’ He proceeded to tell me that someone had left the parchment in his cell while we were out investigating the abbey.
I was about to ask many questions when I realised that we were almost upon Eisik whose figure stood just inside the east door. He looked like a man unable to decide his next movements, taking one step forward, and then shaking his head, taking two steps back. All the while he muttered lengthy lines of dialogue in Hebrew below his breath, which, in the cold, created billowy clouds around his form.
‘Holy fathers!’ he exclaimed, turning around and staring at us with his big eyes as though he were looking at the Devil himself. ‘You startle me! Feel my heart, for the love of Abraham! It pounds like that of a hare!’ then, ‘You’re late, late I tell you! And now what misery . . .! All eyes will be upon me. I think I shall return to the stables to eat in peace!’ He turned to leave, but my master stopped him.
‘Nonsense, old man! It will be a fine dinner, you are my guest and therefore welcome. Walk with us and tell us your thoughts. Come, what do you think of the abbey? Is it filled with the ghosts of dead monks, then?’ my master said, laughing a little because he thought lightly about such things, but I shuddered as we entered the dark and solemn cloister.
‘By the God of Israel you are impertinent!’ Eisik scowled and pointed his finger at my master. ‘We must not laugh before mysterious and holy things! We must have reverence!’
‘I beg your pardon, Eisik,’ my master said, ‘but you have not answered my question. Tell me, what are your impressions of the abbey?’
‘That you should ask me such a question is beyond my understanding!’ He shrugged his shoulders, ‘Have I not trained you to see the signs? They will have eyes to see but will not see, ears to hear but will not listen . . . It seems you have forgotten what I have told you, namely, that everything is an outward and visible suggestion of an inward and spiritual being.’ He sighed. ‘Well, well, it seems an old man must repeat himself ad infinitum or else leave men to their ignorance . . . There are signs! Signs that point to signs whose indications allude to other signs, sometimes tangible, other times indiscernible, though always, to an initiate, very clear; that is to one who cares to listen. For one who is able to decipher the meaning of meaningful things, the voice of the spirit is crystalline.’ He paused then, stopping us with his hands and cocking his head to one side. ‘Ahh! You see! Everything speaks!’ he affirmed with a shake of his head.
‘Come, it is you who must speak, but not in riddles,’ My master said.
‘Bah! Knowledge lies not in the person who speaks but rather in the person who listens . . . or was that eloquence? I cannot remember now . . . In any event, this will be the first day that a Nazarene admits to needing Jewish knowledge! As I have said, the signs are all here. The abbey faces east, accessed through a forest, like the mystery temple at Ephesus where the image of the Goddess Artemisia also faced east. Behind it the mountains, ahead of it the valley, the sages tell us that the orientals consider this alignment quite favourable,’ then he smiled. ‘And also strategically it is very wisely constructed, my friend. To attack such a place would be difficult.’
‘Then you are saying it reminds you of the Cathar strongholds?’
The old man nodded. ‘I sense a Gnostic temple where the four ethers are concentrated and fused, linking the past with the present and future. Then too, one cannot discount the position of the planet Mercury at our arrival, nor the portal and the raven as a messenger that spoke three times indicating the three Templa or sacred places dedicated to God, and so it scarcely goes without saying, my friend, that there are Templars here. You know it as I do, I feel their presence . . . after all, the abbot greeted you with the greeting didn’t he?’ He slapped two hands together happily. ‘Soon you will see that I am right!’
‘I take your point,’ my master conceded, ‘and yet I must say that it is remarkable that a Jew should know the greeting, considering it is only used by those admitted into the order. Perhaps you would like to enlighten us?’
Eisik lowered his eyes cautiou
sly, ‘I know many things, Andre, and yet I know nothing! Nor do I wish to know anything as it happens for it is blissful to live in the divine numbness of ignorance . . .’ then he graced me with a rare smile, ‘but knowing nothing is also something.’
‘Not according to Plato,’ answered Andre. ‘Tell me then, what does your knowing without knowing say to you about the inquisitor?’
‘For one, his hair is frizzy, which means he has a choleric temper. Secondly he is balding . . .’
‘But he is tonsured,’ my master pointed out.
‘Even so, he balds and we are told that such men are crafty, avaricious, hypocritical and make a pretence of religion. But his eyes . . . his pale eyes indicate to us that he is touched with madness . . .’
‘You may call me an unbeliever, dear friend, but in this case I do believe you.’
At this point we arrived at the dimly-lit south walk that led to the great doors and I was struck by the devil of curiosity, no longer able to refrain from asking more about the note.
‘Note?’ Eisik’s faculties were immediately aroused. ‘What note?’
My master explained about the parchment with the strange Greek message, and Eisik shook his head before exclaiming.
‘You see! Gnostic, as I have told you! And worse still, a warning . . . a peculiar thing, for one knows not if it warns against a possible tragedy or a probable one!’
‘Perhaps both, as Aristotle tells us,’ my master answered.
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!’
Only now do I know how right he truly was!
3
Capitulum
Rainiero 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 hab
it 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.
TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel Page 5
