TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  ‘Your grace, what was the child’s ailment?’ the infirmarian asked, meekly.

  ‘What difference is there in what ailment?’ he scowled. ‘Here it states that the child suffered from hellish seizures.’

  ‘Ahh! That often accompanies many childhood ailments, especially if there is a fever . . . I would have given the mother a compound of sage leaves which is a very good medicament for many ailments. The convulsions would have abated naturally as the child’s condition improved.’

  ‘Rainiero,’ my master interjected. ‘The treatment prescribed is one that is not only well known, but is also used by many doctors.’

  ‘Yes, we know of your enthusiasm for such things. We know, preceptor, that it was your own use of such questionable treatments that led to your expulsion from the University of Paris!’

  My master blanched.

  ‘You also treated a man with a substance whose origins were questionable.’

  ‘A plant that when crushed aids the beating of the heart. No more, no less,’ my master retorted. ‘It saved his life.’

  ‘I would expect an infidel to say as much but not a knight of Christ!’ he said, turning on my master, and all in the room knew he was alluding to his Eastern blood, ‘for infidels are not only renowned for their medical knowledge but also for knowledge of all things diabolical. You speak of an instant cure! Without the aid of prayer, without the anointing of oil! You see how the Devil may ensnare even the worthy to do his bidding. Even a man such as yourself – a man who has devoted his life to fighting the enemies of Christ –’ he said this with a cold smile, ‘is a perfect example of how persuasive the ways of darkness can be! How seemingly innocent and yet how abominable!’

  Now I understood better my master’s numerous sermons on prudence, and also the inquisitor’s cunning in summoning him to the dais, for if my master was to contest the inquisitor’s decision, he would be judged a protector of heretics, and his past would do little to help him.

  ‘I heal in the name of our Lord, your grace!’ cried Asa, diverting all attention back to him.

  ‘Peace, necromancer! I wish to hear no more plausible arguments, I wish only to hear a confession to the crimes that have been committed in this abbey!’

  ‘How am I to confess, your grace? I have committed no sin.’

  ‘I see . . . and what of the strange words used over the child? What of those?’

  The infirmarian looked in the abbot’s direction, but remained silent.

  ‘Answer me! What are these words you use to occasion your hellish cures? Perhaps an innocent peasant who has never heard a man command the chiefs of infernal legions would think such words strange! Perhaps an uncorrupted soul may never have heard the names of the fallen angels Armaros, Barakel, Azazel, Batraal, Ananel, Amazarak, Zazel!’

  The room became alive with the cries of anguished monks making the sign of the cross and reciting formulas against the evil eye.

  ‘Are these the captains of hell whom you call on to aid you in your fiendish work?’ he asked.

  The infirmarian’s eye was steady as he answered, ‘No.’

  ‘Please enlighten us . . .’ He took in the entire congregation with his right arm, ‘We are waiting.’

  ‘We use words of comfort . . . holy words.’

  ‘Holy words, I see . . .’ he smiled malevolently. ‘Holy words, but to whom are they deemed holy, to God or to the Devil!’

  The infirmarian did not answer.

  ‘Well then,’ the inquisitor resumed, ‘if you will not answer us, we shall have to accept this as a sign of your guilt.’

  ‘How shall I continue, your grace, for if I say ‘holy’ you ask to whom? If I say ‘good’ you say this good is bad because I say it! It has always been my understanding that holy meant holy and not otherwise!’

  ‘There are many heresies whose infernal doctrines are considered holy by their adherents! I only wish to know what these strange and magical words are,’ he ended mildly.

  The infirmarian changed weight from one foot to another uncomfortably, ‘It is sacred, it cannot be openly discussed. I have taken an oath not to divulge it to anyone, on pain of death,’ he said.

  ‘So!’ Rainiero smiled, satisfied. ‘You are prepared to face death, rather than divulge your Catharan practices! You forget that I was once one of you. I know one gives the consolamentum just prior to death, this no doubt you gave the child, thinking it was going to die . . . but it lived! And alas you have been discovered. We need no further mention of these unlawful secrets for fear of staining our souls with their depravity, for it is enough that you will not divulge them. That is sufficient testament to your guilt!’ he thundered. It was at that moment that my master interjected.

  ‘Rainiero, I am ignorant in these matters and so I pray you will indulge me; I fail to see that there is much that associates the infirmarian, or indeed the cook, with the crimes of which they have been accused. There is no poison, no weapon, and as far as accusations are concerned, in many instances, as you know, they are falsely given. Heretics have been known to come forward and accuse pious men of heresy in order to confound the inquisition.’

  The inquisitor turned his countenance in my master’s direction, a benevolent, patient smile on his angular features. ‘Firstly, brother Templar,’ he said very slowly, ‘we have heard that the cook has a history of heresy, we have heard that his soul became the seed bed of sin when he conspired with those whose intentions were to overthrow the church and the pope in favour of the emperor, by killing bishops and priests and defiling churches, and destroying the holy vessels! If this sin weren’t enough, we then hear how he bathed this abbey with the blood of three men! This he freely confesses!’

  On this point my master could not argue further and he sat down. Rainiero, satisfied that he had won, continued, ‘Furthermore, it becomes obvious from his intimations that the infirmarian has aided him in this crime by supplying him with the poisoned herb! It is my belief that there is ample proof! Sorcerers often disguise themselves in the garb of physicians,’ he glanced at my master significantly, ‘because they can command the forces of evil without incurring suspicion! Because with their infernal cures they hope to secure the souls of their patients!’

  ‘And yet, your grace,’ Asa responded, ‘we are told that a physician should be honoured for his works . . .’

  ‘Only a heretic would be so well acquainted with Apocryphal writings!’ he cried sharply, showing all how well he knew them, ‘but should we honour sorcerers and whore-mongers, and murderers, and idolaters? Should we venerate whosoever loveth and maketh a lie? I say no! For I have further proof that you have been dabbling in the pot of Mammon!’ He produced from the folds of his habit a small jar. ‘You see what one finds when one searches the infirmary of an infidel? One finds jars on which strange Arabic, and therefore diabolical, letters have been inscribed.’

  ‘This was given to the abbey many years ago by a brother who had just returned from the East where he came upon this most wonderful cure for ulcerations,’ Asa explained.

  ‘The benefits of this infernal medicine are not my concern! It is better for a devout man to die than to be healed through the labours of the sons of mischief. And this!’ He held up the strange instrument that Asa had used a short time ago on the young Trencavel to measure his fever. ‘This is the tool of Satan.’

  All faces were aghast. Many nodded their heads, perhaps because it was easier to believe the inquisitor and escape his justice than to remain loyal to a man who was already burnt flesh.

  ‘It is becoming clear now that we are not dealing with a simple physician who works through orthodox prayer, using his simple hands to care for the infirm. NO! Answer me, oh, irreverent villain! Did you, or did you not, supply the herb by which three good men were killed at the hands of the cook?’

  The man was silent. Oh dear reader, what a terrible silence it was! A sign of guilt?

  ‘Perhaps . . .’ Asa answered. ‘There are many instances in which herbs and compounds of
various kinds are used in a monastery . . . I could have given it to him unwittingly.

  ‘Nothing done by the followers of Satan is done unwittingly, but willingly and gladly! Now answer me, do you or do you not conduct heretical practices on patients whose simple souls you seek to put to fiendish use?’ he shouted, moving off the dais and onto the floor.

  ‘I heal the sick when it is possible to do so, that is my job.’

  ‘And you will tell us that your conduct has been authorised, nay, condoned by your abbot and master?’

  Now Asa looked visibly unsure, oppressed by the weight of a thousand divergent thoughts.

  ‘Answer me, by God!’

  ‘I alone am responsible for the infirmary.’

  ‘That is not what I asked you!’

  He looked to the abbot, who, on his elevated seat, gave his monk a stern look.

  ‘I am a physician!’

  ‘Answer me!’

  Asa was defiantly silent. The inquisitor’s eyes narrowed and he moved around the infirmarian as does a cat, about to pounce on a mouse. ‘If you do not answer me, I shall have to resort to measures which are odious and do no less than revolt the soul of the most hardened man. For the law is clear, God’s justice must prevail, as it has since the beginning of time.’ He raised one hand. ‘Show this devil the instruments by which the truth shall be extracted and then take him to a place of confinement. Let his arms and legs be bound with irons. Let guilt ferment in his soul, for a time let him reflect on the evil which he has perpetrated. By degrees, for we will not be inspired by haste, we shall see how long his lips remain sealed!’

  ‘I invoke the bier right! Jus feretri, jus cruentationis! ‘ Asa cried and the congregation was startled, the abbot stood as did my master and the other members of the legation.

  Rainiero gestured to his archers. ‘Bring in the body and we shall see it if bleeds at the touch of the murderer!’ and the men responded immediately.

  There was confusion. I did not know what a ‘bier right’ was, or what it meant to ‘bleed at the touch of the murderer’ and I wished more than ever that I had my master at my side to enlighten me.

  Moments later three men carried in the body of the dead Brother Daniel, blue and lifeless, his head now black with congealed blood. Around me monks were praying, holding up their crucifixes as the archers set the body down rather carelessly and stood aside. The inquisitor moved forward and began the prayer:

  ‘Oh God, just judge, firm and patient, who art the author of peace and judgest truly, determine what is right, oh Lord, and make known Thy righteous judgement. We humbly beseech Thee that iniquity may not overcome justice, but that falsehood may be subjected to truth. Let this man come forth and touch the corpse, and if he be the murderer, oh Lord, let the corpse bleed from the nose or the mouth or any wound, so that Thy grace may detect diabolical and human fallacies, to confute the inventions and arguments of the enemy, and to overcome their multiform arts. May the guilty be justly condemned through Thine begotten Son, our Lord Jesus Christ who dwelleth with Thee. Amen.’

  The inquisitor then gestured for Asa to come to the body. There was silence. ‘Touch with two fingers the mouth, the navel and the wounds,’ he said.

  Asa stood over the dead bundle on the stone floor of the chapter house, perhaps saying a silent prayer. I could see him tremble a little as he leant forward and did as he had been commanded; firstly he touched the mouth, then the area of the navel and the man’s disfigured head.

  There was a pregnant pause and then a sudden gasp. I could see nothing, for monks had left their seats and were standing as a great agitation took hold of everyone. I heard voices crying out, ‘It is true! It is true!’ and again, ‘The murderer!’

  ‘Lo, behold! The cry of blood from the earth against the murderer!’ the inquisitor exclaimed.

  I did not see it, but I was to learn later that blood had oozed from the mouth of the carcass.

  The judges and my master stepped down from the dais to have a better look. I could only see the tops of their heads.

  ‘But the body has been moved,’ I heard my master argue, ‘when it should have been left out in the open air without movement for some hours, with breast and stomach bare to ensure a thorough coagulation of the blood!’

  There was a loud murmur. I heard voices disputing whether the bleeding was occasioned by antipathy or sympathy, by the remains of the soul in the body, or by the wandering spirit of the dead man.

  The inquisitor ordered quiet, saying, ‘The causes are sometimes natural and sometimes supernatural. In this case it matters little, the blood is there, it is a sign that this man is lying in the name of the Devil!’

  At about this time the cook began to laugh hysterically (having been aroused from his previous stupor by the great commotion). Incredulity filled the room, even the inquisitor was startled. I pushed my way to the front in order to see.

  ‘You are the Devil!’ the cook spat at the foot of the inquisitor, and his voice having acquired a semblance of its old strength roared and reverberated around us. ‘I am glad that I have finally confessed my sins to God, for now I can savour death! But not this good, kind monk who has done nothing! I am the murderer, I am the heretic! I have denied the past for long years, and I soon will be cleansed and purified en la flama – the flames of the Espirito Santo. But you? If there is justicia, if there is fairness in this miserable world, may you suffer agonies as I have suffered in knowing you and having followed you into the arms of the Devil! You betrayed us because you loved power and you lay with the bishops and the pope and denied all that you taught us! Yes, is true, I wanted the end of Rome, the end of the pope! But this is not different from what you also had one time believed with all your heart . . . and yes! The emperor! I would give my life for him because he hated the church!’

  ‘He was the antichrist! Guards, seize this man!’

  The guards moved forward to take the cook, but he was strong, and with the power afforded him by anger, pushed them away as one would an annoying insect.

  ‘No! I know what you came for . . . you came for me, not these poor monks . . .!’

  The inquisitor smiled, and stayed his men with one hand.

  ‘All of my life I lived hiding from the past like a rat, como un ratón. Used by Frederick, used by the Ghibellines . . .’ He sighed deeply. ‘A used man today is used no more! When I met you, Rainiero Sacconi, I was very young, and you used me also, used all of us and like an orange you spat us out when you were convertido, converted, changed, transformed into a whore who licks the hems of bishops’ skirts by killing all of us that you knew from those days . . . mi amor, my love, Teresa una mujer perfecta, you burned her to death! But first, you tortured her little body until there was nada, no more life, bringing her naked with others to the crowds, and they spit on her, and poke at her. After the humillación, her body was tied to the pyre and lit like a torch, and her beautiful hair, gold like copper, turned black and melted on her little skull as she fell, because the ropes they break, and her little lungs choked on the smoke, and her heart exploded from the great heat. And I . . .’ he cried like a child, ‘I was in the crowds, like a coward, cobarde! I did not die with all of the ones that I once knew! O qué miseria! Wretched, wretched coward that I am! I did not save her! She was so brave that when she saw me, she smiled! She smiled because she was happy qué había escapado – the coward had escaped! And God forgive me I was glad also!’ He covered his face with large twisted hands and wept.

  ‘Tell me what I want to know.’ Rainiero had the same look on his face that I recalled my master having in the library when he pursued the secret codices – ravenous.

  ‘Yes, yes . . . it was I, with Stefano, Manfredo, and Carino, waiting for Piero to leave Como that Easter week. I followed him and the friar Domenico to Barlassina until we came on a lonely place. Carino opened Piero’s head with one blow, but I saw that he breathed and put a dagger in his heart. That day I made up for letting her die! I avenged my sorrow! Again I ran away .
. .Today I am no more cobarde! I killed the old brothers before they could betray my secret . . . The infirmarian knew nada!’

  ‘Enough! Enough! Peace! You instrument of evil! Nothing that he says can be trusted . . . and yet we have heard from his own lips his confession and although the infirmarian will not confess, his crimes are visible on the corpse of his victim. One can only hope that he does so before we commend his body to the earth and his soul to hell. Take them away.’ He ordered the guards to remove the two men. The cook now exhausted and outwardly defeated, went willingly, though on his face there was the glow of an inner triumph.

  There was silence. Rainiero waited, satiated.

  ‘And so this interrogation would now be over,’ he said finally, ‘if not for one terrible addition . . .’ He paused a moment, lifting his head, surveying the faces of those whose fear must have been legible. ‘It is the task of the holy inquisition, not only to find heresy where it is evidenced, but also to recognise its supporters and heirs. For it is well known that the heretical depravity, like a foul seed, needs a suitable womb, an infernal bed into which it may be planted, nurtured and brought to incarnation. We know, firstly, that those who visit with heretics or live with them are their friends, since one cannot live, or visit, with a heretic, and be ignorant of his dissent. The three brothers who were killed, we have learnt today, were Cathars. The missing brother also shared in their lamentable dissent. We must therefore surmise that heresy has found a safe harbour, in the bosom of God’s house! Within these venerable walls!’