TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  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?’

  My master smiled. ‘Indeed. Is that not a timeless question, brother?’

  The pope’s legation was silent. The only sound was that of men shifting in their seats with obvious bewilderment.

  From my right there came a voice, ‘The Greeks honoured the body more than the soul.’ It was Brother Setubar, the old bent monk, speaking in slow deliberate words. ‘They were fools! Learning is only good for the body, the soul nourishes itself with spiritual things. As a physician I knew this, and so I learnt only what was necessary and no more. It is only pride that moves a man to know more than he ought to know, and it is pride which makes him think that he knows more than he should! We are born and from that moment we are depravati . . . corrupt, a body that dies little by little, that is all we need to know, everything else is dung!’ He ended, muttering something in his own German vernacular.

  ‘And yet Peter tells us,’ my master retorted, ‘that one must travel through the barren desert of doubt to find at its end the green meadows of faith and comprehension. A faith that is enlightened by knowledge. Peter denied Christ and was absolved.’

  ‘Peter was absolved, but Judas atones in hell for his sins!’ the old man cried. ‘Man should seek to know God! He should not seek knowledge of the world!’

  It was at this point that I realised my master had manipulated the entire conversation in order to investigate the mysterious author of the note and I admonished myself for having thought ill of his intentions.

  ‘God is knowledge, venerable brother, by definition, and he did indeed create the world as we are told in Genesis,’ Andre said finally, almost a little heated now.

  ‘Yes, preceptor,’ Rainiero joined in, ‘but knowledge of God and knowledge of the world are not the same thing! One must shun the world and its iniquity and live only for revelation, in contemplation of holy scripture.’

  My master smiled a terrible smile, close to a leer. ‘Then, by God! you have much in common with my Jewish friend, for he believes the same thing.’

  We had come around full circle.

  The inquisitor, full of malice, held his breath until his lips were almost blue. ‘Jews are fomenters of dissent, responsible for infecting Christian heresies – which are in any case multifarious – with the devil of cabbala. And if that were not a most heinous sin, they allow their adulterations to land in the curious hands of Christians who eagerly consume their demonic formulas!’

  ‘Formulas?’ my master inquired, raising a thick brow.

  ‘Everyone knows them, preceptor . . . the mystical meanings of mystical acts; numbers that are diabolically numerical; letters that are more meaningful than words, and words that have no meaning unless read backwards. Points and strokes, ciphers, acrostics and the unholy symbolic interpretation of biblical texts! Necromancia, astrologia, alchemia!’

  When he finished, there was a hush, the other members of the legation looked down at their hands or their plates, shifting in their seats in an embarrassed fashion.

  ‘Your erudition is remarkable, Rainiero!’ my master remarked. ‘You must have spent many moments studying these things!’

  ‘You know being a man of war,’ he answered caustically, ‘that one cannot fight an unknown enemy. One must rather study an adversary’s every move, every thought . . . even if doing so constitutes a perpetual affront to one’s mildness and tranquillity of soul.’ He then raised his face, and rolled his eyes in a heavenly direction. ‘Often I am haunted! Haunted by those things that have come into my hands through the power afforded me! The most terrible works! The most heinous depravities! And yet I have forced myself to become familiar with the errors of the Devil, lest his falsehoods be mistaken for truths. I say, blessed is the man who is ignorant, blessed is he whose soul is protected from the weakness of his intellect!’

  My master considered this for a moment. ‘But your grace the evil one does not merely work, as you know, through primary causes, that is, in a writer’s thoughts, but also through secondary causes, namely, in the disposition of the reader.’

  The bishop filled his mouth with food, letting the juices run down the corners of his mouth. ‘That is also true,’ he confirmed and tore into the carcass of a bird.

  The inquisitor huffed. ‘You Templars are strange creatures. I have no liking for monks of your sort, I divine that you are doomed to die on the pyre for your heretic sympathies, and that to lead you to such an end would be a task most honoured!’

  There followed a stunned silence at this open threat. My master smiled so calmly that I felt a terrible sense of foreboding, for I feared he might at any moment lose his temper.

  ‘We all live in a permanent state of fragility, inquisitor, and the only immutable truth is that truth is capricious, and perpetuity uncertain. One thing, however, has remained constant throughout the eons of time, and I believe it shall continue to do so for many more, the evil of which I speak is ignorance. I believe it to be the worst sin, because it leads to all other sins . . . It was ignorance that nailed our Saviour to the cross that fateful Friday, and it would be ignorance that would burn him at the stake today if He were to threaten the power of the Church, in the same way that He threatened the power of Caesar.’

  Alas, my fears were realised. All eyes enlarged and mouths gaped open in incredulity and I knew at
once that my master had made a terrible mistake.

  But the moment was rescued by the abbot, who invited us to be quiet and listen to the reading of the rule, which he said had been specially requested by the inquisitor. It consisted of an admonition to all spiritual fathers as to their teachings and the obedience of their disciples. We were told that any lack of goodness found in his flock would be accounted the shepherd’s fault at which point the reader’s voice broke a little and he gazed up from the holy book in the direction of the abbot’s table. The abbot gestured for the reader to continue, though a worried frown graced his brow.

  Later, after the customary formalities, we departed in silence through the great doors that led to the cloister and from there headed in the direction of the chapel in quiet procession. More than once I thought I caught the evil eye of the inquisitor and his men cast in our direction, and I prayed for God’s protection, though at the time I did not know how much we would come to need it.

  4

  Capitulum

  Completorium (Compline)

  And so it was that the last service of the day began in the usual manner, after the sun had descended below the horizon. Firstly the abbot gave the master of music the signal to intone, ‘Tu autem, domine, miserere nobis,’ with our response, ‘Deo Gratias’, followed by the abbot’s reply, ‘Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini,’ to which we replied in chorus, ‘Qui fecit caelum et terram’.

  This is the time of day when a good monk prepares to place his soul into God’s hands. For sleep is a preparation for death, in which the external world is extinguished, and the world of the spirit is illuminated by the light of the soul. In this death, we are told, there is the promise of life and so, sitting in the shadows of the stalls, comforted by the warmth of many bodies, I was reminded that our life is not without end, that in the same way the orb of the daystar sinks into the bosom of the dark horizon, so too our bodies return to the earth. Yet it is from out of this darkness where things seem most hopeless that the sun journeys back to triumph. So too, we are told that man must triumph over death to find a new horizon awaiting him in the cradle of divinity. At this moment I wanted to believe that the world was good, that the captains and hallowed judges that formed the body of the Holy Inquisition (surely a reflection of God’s infinite justice and mercy?) were righteous and pure. Why then was I assailed by sentiments so close to those I felt that day on the banks of the Nile? I looked about me at the faces of the congregation, trying to dispel my fears by reminding myself of my vows. Had I not yearned for a cloister? To be safely sequestered from the vicissitudes of a vain and depraved world, where one feels only an intense peace? Now I was realising that dangers lay not only in a battlefield, and I shuddered. I turned my mind to the intoning of the opening versicles and responses, ‘Converte nos . . . Et averte . . .’ and ‘Deus in adjutorium’ which were now beginning and determined to think no more of such things. Surely I was tired? Tomorrow a day would dawn anew and my fears would dissipate along with the darkness, which now oppressed my soul. Was not my master, who sat beside me, a bastion of strength, a fortress of wisdom? Moreover, who could contest the authority of the king? I realized that perhaps the inquisitor was right when he said that an ignorant man was a happy man. For ignorant as I was, I began to feel a little better, joining the many masculine voices merging respective tones and qualities into one. Entering that great animal whose individual members are only as perfect as the sum of its totality; the great body of the divine archetype, whose only purpose is the glorification of God.