He stood, facing the great instrument, as he called out the next numerals, CIII: XIX, Psalm one-hundred-and-three, verse nineteen. It read, ‘The lord hath prepared his throne . . .’
My master sat upon the stool in front of the keys as if he were being commanded.
CXLII: IV, Psalm one-hundred-and-forty-two, verse four, I looked on my right . . .’ He did so.
CXLIII: VI, Psalm one-hundred-and-forty-three, verse six, ‘I stretch forth my hands unto thee . . .’ ‘Aha! It is telling us that it is a musical note, a key,’ Andre concluded. I was a little sceptical, but said nothing.
The next numerals were XC: XII, Psalm ninety, verse twelve, ‘So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.’
‘It is a number of notes, or perhaps one note in a numerical sequence.’
CXLIV: IX, Psalm one-hundred-and-forty-four, verse nine, ‘I will sing a new song unto thee, O God: upon a psaltery and an instrument of ten strings will I sing praises unto thee.’
My master narrowed his eyes. ‘The number ten.’
But it was the next – CVII: XXXIII, Psalm one-hundredand-seven, verse thirty-three – that showed me how little I knew, and once again bore witness to the extent of my master’s vast wisdom and acumen. ‘He turneth rivers into a wilderness, and the watersprings into dry ground.’
I looked at my master as I said this and my eyes must have been very wide because he smiled and said a little immodestly, ‘Why so surprised? I am rarely wrong . . . Now we know that the organ is the lock, and the key is a number, or rather, a musical note . . . the number ten is the only number mentioned. Therefore we must surmise that ten notes to the right of the middle note of Ut, as we learnt in the library the other day.’
‘In any case, how will we know if we are right?’
‘If the organ works we will know that the water has been diverted. At least that is one hypothesis in a million.’
‘But how do we know it is diverted from the channel in question?’
He fixed me with an icy stare and whispered so harshly that it echoed in the vastness of the church, ‘Do not confound me with logic now, boy! We shall cross that stream when we come to it! Now, let me see…’ He counted ten notes from Ut or as it is known middle C and pressed his index finger down on the note F or Fa, but nothing happened. He frowned, thinking for a moment. ‘Daniel admonished us to ‘Let the hymn baptise us with the nine resonances of water’. Perhaps it is not the tenth note from the middle Ut, by God’s bonnet! But the ninth which when one includes Ut is actually the tenth!’
I was confused and angry with him, but some part of me was proud also.
However, just as my master was to press the ninth note or rather the tenth including the middle Ut that was E or Mi, we heard someone behind us.
‘I thought if I waited you would have worked out everything for me!’ the inquisitor cried, flanked by two of his biggest men.
My master turned to him calmly, ‘Rainiero, how fortunate, I was about to play the requiem.’ He placed his hands on the keys as though he were about to depress the note.
‘Stop!’ the inquisitor cried.
‘Why? What bothers you? Is it your conscience?’
‘I have no time for folly . . . You know well enough what I am after. The old Cathar has disappeared without telling me the combination. I know that you are familiar with the access, and so together we shall go to the catacombs and you, who are most experienced, will guide the way.’
My master did not move, he said nothing.
‘You must know that I mean to learn everything, even if I have to resort to distressing means, preceptor. Right at this moment my guards have seized your Jew. They await my orders. Should I tell you by what methods the inquisition extracts the truth from devils? I am sure you are acquainted with them, though your squire may not be.’ He glanced at me with cold eyes.
‘Leave the boy out of it!’ cried Andre, getting up, his face red with anger, ‘and furthermore, leave Eisik out of it as well. He has nothing to do with any of it!’
‘No? Well I tend to disagree with you, preceptor. As I have told you, Jews are fomenters of dissent, known to dabble in necromancy and other unspeakable practices. It would take very little to convince the other members of the legation that he had some part to play in the murderous crimes.’
What was my master to do?
‘All I seek from you, preceptor, is the truth.’
‘Rainiero, you don’t seek the truth, you seek your idea of what truth is and these are two different things.’
‘My dear brother,’ Rainiero seemed amused, ‘there is only one truth!’
‘And you think you extract it under torture? You are a fool, and an evil one at that!’
Outside, the earth rumbled in response, like the sound, John tells us, of the chariots of many horses running to battle, but the inquisitor smiled. ‘In my experience, preceptor, there is pain in every truth, and therefore it is through pain that we come to know it. Like a child who is born into the world through the anguish of his mother – one instant of joy and a lifetime of sorrow – leading finally to the end, again, through pain. Do you see? You think of pain, and in it you observe only the detestable. I, on the other hand, can see only the holy.’ His smile broadened, as though he were contemplating a truly wonderful idea. ‘For pain, preceptor, is the purifying substance that denies nothing. Through it the mind becomes free because once it has tasted the greatest suffering, the body, whose sin is the seeking of pleasant things, is finally overcome. Pain is the gateway to God, the gateway to divine bliss, and celestial joy.’
These words reminded me of Brother Setubar, and I wondered if the inquisitor persecuted heretics so vehemently because he could never be free of his own heresy that, no matter how deeply hidden, managed to bubble to the surface like oil?
‘No, you are wrong,’ my master said bitterly, having lost his composure altogether, ‘what you call bliss is only the absence of pain, which is a contrast to the most intense pain and nothing else. Just as someone who has never seen white might contrast grey with black. It is an illusion, and so, too, do you delude yourself. Never having known joy, you naturally suppose that pain is necessary and the absence of it blissful . . . but how can you ever be sure that what you hear from the mouths of those wretched and abused souls is the truth, and not merely a reflection of what they see in your eyes?’
‘So says an infidel. Because that is what you are. Oh, yes, you may wear a cross over your breast and a prayer on your lips, but I know that you are a man who whispers Allah in your sleep, a man not trusted by either Christian or infidel. Everything you have said and done these days has pointed to your dissent. Do not presume to know the mystery of torture and absolution, preceptor, it is vouchsafed only to a few.’
‘A few who desire intensely to hear those things they are told, not because they are true, but simply because they want them to be true.’ He gave me a look (his hand poised over the note). In it I discerned the message: ‘When I depress it, run for the panel.’
‘Do you know, preceptor, what anguish I have suffered? Tortured always on the one hand because I may have convicted an innocent man to die, and at the same time knowing that there are those whose deception has allowed them to evade the law, so that they may continue their destruction of the church!’ Suddenly I saw the inquisitor’s face take on a form almost human. I now sensed that he truly believed that what he did was right, and this filled me with further uncertainties. ‘Can you for one moment comprehend such a dilemma? How can one ever know if he is avoiding the deceptions of the Devil, the misunderstandings to which he lures us? One no longer knows in these terrible times what distinguishes good from evil! So it is that we must let God choose for us. It is God, not as you would say, the Devil, who speaks through the mouths of those who are tortured because, in the throes of pain, that He too suffered for our sins, they see His shining light and cannot do otherwise than confess their own! You see? And so saying, I will remind you that on
e night with my guards will have your Jew begging to tell me everything, as God commands him, but I will not see him, not for three nights in which he will suffer countless agonies . . .’
Suddenly there was a deafening roar that shook the monastery church. It sent the book vibrating off the pulpit, and the inquisitor to the ground.
How am I to narrate the moments that followed? Things happen so quickly and yet so slowly.
As we heard the sound, my master – with unequalled presence of mind – depressed the note on the organ, but the inquisitor was upon him and they were struggling in the shadow of the pipes as a wall of snow hit the monastery from above, breaking through the rose window and flooding the church.
Almost instantly I could see nothing but white, an opaquely cold world filled with a light numbing. The white became grey, then black, and I no longer cared one way or the other . . . the struggle would soon be over. Images passed before my eyes. From out of the mist I saw Asa dressed like a goose, waving his glass instrument at the abbot who appeared in the shape of a monkey and did not look in his direction. The abbot was busy holding a phial of poisoned urine to the cook’s lips who drank of it gladly saying that it was like the nectar of the gods, while Setubar sat back, laughing as though the end had come and so he could be merry, ‘Levity in a nut is a sign of its emptiness!’ he cried, after which he climbed atop the back of a devil but not before giving me raisins that were sweet like the breasts of the sainted mother who was the beloved of my dreams and who held in one hand a rose cross and in the other Eisik’s severed head from whose mouth came these words, ‘No good will come of it!’ There were voices then, and thunderings, and lightnings and an earthquake, and I was an angel in the midst of heaven saying with a loud voice, woe, woe, woe to the inhabitors of the earth for they were wrenched down to the bottomless pit where arose smoke like the smoke of a great furnace and so a terrible pain assailed my chest. But I realised that it was not the Devil plunging his great white teeth into my lungs and tearing out my heart but my master who, having pulled me out of that dry, powdery sea, was hitting my back with much force. The vastness of the organ, with its pipes and keys, had preserved him and the inquisitor also.
‘Keep sharp, boy!’ he cried as I spat out so much snow. ‘Don’t go dying on me, by Saladin!’
He grabbed a lamp from the wall behind the organ, miraculously still lit, and seeing that the inquisitor was unconscious, pushed or rather pulled me down what was left of the north ambulatory and into the transept chapel. I saw the Virgin only faintly, for I was then shoved behind the curtain where both of us stopped to listen to the terrible silence. The pause. I knew instinctively that it was only a herald of the next beat.
Another roar shook everything. ‘Quickly, the panel.’ My master depressed the corresponding symbols releasing the lock and we were diving down into the bowels of the abbey once again.
The rest was a blur of images. We stumbled through the tunnels, in and out of antechambers, following our previous tortuous path, not caring to leave anything in the way of the doors, for there would be no turning back. I thought with sorrow of our dear friend Eisik, perhaps buried somewhere, I thought of the monks and the Trencavels and I prayed silently for them all. Above our heads a great stirring could be heard and here and there rocks had fallen, making our path hazardous, but we reached the second-last antechamber with little mishap. It was as we entered ‘Philadelphia’ and our lamp shone into its interior that we saw the figure of a monk sitting in an awkward way, his head to one side, obscured by his vestments. My master held the lamp to the monk’s face and pulled back his cowl to reveal the identity of the poor wretch. It was Setubar.
His face now showed the familiar signs of the poison; dark honey was smeared everywhere. I concluded that he must have taken his own life.
He was not yet dead, however, for his eyes opened suddenly, causing me to gasp in surprise.
‘So,’ he coughed, ‘you have found your way, very good. . . now you must stop them . . . go . . . Stop them, Templar!’ He managed to raise himself a little and grabbed my master’s habit with his gnarled hands, letting some raisins fall to the floor.
‘Your legs are broken,’ Andre observed, bending over the man, and noticing the unnatural angle of his legs.
The old man winced. ‘The devil is here! Stop them!’
‘Tell me, Setubar!’ my master said in a commanding voice that took the old man by surprise.
There was a pause in which Setubar took in a torturous breath and then, perhaps hoping my master would accomplish what he in his wretched state could not do, he told him everything.
‘Nine . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Nine knights were initiated into the secret doctrine of St John the Apostle. Into the mystery of the children of the widow . . . vouchsafed by Ormus disciple of St Mark.’
‘Heresy!’ I cried, alarmed.
The old man laughed, poison escaping from his mouth, ‘Yes, my beautiful one, heresy! Your master knows it, as do all those who become knights.’
I looked at Andre in disbelief, but he said nothing.
‘Beneath the Dome of the Rock . . . your order found . . .’ he paused for breath, ‘the original Tables of the Law written by Moses. The Pentateuch, or the first five books of the Old Testament that had been buried when Jerusalem was threatened with invasion many years before. No one knows the treasures and also the abominations hidden here on this mountain.’
My master was silent, reflecting, as though the earth were not moving around us and about to descend over our heads.
The man fought for lucidity, grasping feebly at his legs. ‘Why do you think you were required to spit on the cross and deny Jesus at your initiation into the order?’ the old man said. ‘So that you would know what to do if you were captured by the infidel? Bah! You are a fool . . . you are all fools! You spit on the cross because it is evil. It represents the earthly death, the imperfection of men! And you also deny Jesus because Jesus was mortal and so full of sin. Christ was the God, not Jesus! You and I are not so different, preceptor, are we? We are cousins, so to speak! Ahh but you are proud, it does not sit well on your proud neck that your order is heretical, but it is this pride in your own erudition that I hope will do my bidding . . .’ He trailed off, breathing with great difficulty now. ‘They will use him to bring about a great sin . . . death and becoming, they will raise him from the dead!’ He was seized by a terrible spasm in his abdomen. ‘Do it! Stop them . . . do this, not for me, I am dung, do it for yourself . . . Can you hear the bees, boy?’ He stared at me for a moment and then rolled his eyes, filled with sin and hatred and bitterness, into his head.
Andre said a short prayer over his body and under his breath I heard him say, ‘The poor misguided fool.’
‘Master . . . is what he says true? Did you . . . did you . . .?’ I crossed myself, almost in tears, not knowing what to believe.
‘Come!’ my master grabbed me by the arm hastily, ‘there is not much time!’ I could see that he was right, for we experienced another loud vibration that sent me reeling unsteadily off my feet, landing only a short distance from the body.
‘Master –’ I insisted as we toiled down the next tunnel avoiding the rubble that had fallen there. ‘How could you have? To deny Christ! To deny the cross!’
‘There is no shame in denial, Christian, because in denying what we previously held to be true, we learn to see the truth more clearly. We discern knowledge from opinion, but what the old man doesn’t know is that such temptations are a test from the devils in one’s own soul, overcome time and again through fast and prayer. Of course I did not spit on the cross. I wear the red cross. The living cross not the dead one.’ That was all he would say as he tugged at my arm and pointed me in the direction of the next tunnel.
I wanted him to leave me alone. His hand was on my arm, the hand that had so many times soothed my brow and slapped my nape. The strong, earthy, heathen hands, so brown and strong, appeared to me now soiled, stained with sin. He had been deceiving me.
He had deceived even himself for he was not the man I thought he was nor the man he presumed himself to be. I was angry, feeling like a fool for having believed in him, but with impending doom looming over my head, I forced myself to follow him and concentrated on staying alive.
Finally we arrived at the last antechamber, and as we entered the room and our lamp shone its light into the darkness, who should we find but Anselmo sitting in the dark, holding an unlit torch, a discarded lamp at his feet.
He gave us a dreadful look, but did not bother to stand.
‘Anselmo, good evening,’ my master said cheerfully. ‘I thought I might find you here. Why have you not gone into the inner sanctum, then?’ he asked. ‘We depressed the note, there should be no water.’
‘Ahh, but preceptor, the mechanism is not triggered off by depressing the note, but by lifting it! Anyway, the avalanche has damaged it, and as I cannot swim . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you can see I ran out of taper, but I knew you were coming and I have been waiting. You must have passed Setubar . . . is he dead yet?’
‘Very . . . Your doing, I suppose.’
‘Yes. How well you guess, preceptor.’
‘Naturally. But tell me, how could you be sure that we knew our way here, and the combinations?’
He smiled. ‘You are an intelligent man, preceptor. From the first day of our meeting I knew that you were a match for me, I knew that given time you would find out everything.’
‘But all these deaths have been for nothing, all this anguish which you and Setubar have brought about together, one out of curiosity, and the other out of a mad belief, for now you will never see what you so dearly desire to see, leaving your friend Asa to die on the pyre.’
‘I had suspected for some time that Asa was not interested in the wondrous treasures of the catacombs, he was seduced by the idea of the immortal man . . . as if there could ever be such a thing, and so he died for his ideal.’
TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel Page 38
