by Simon Acland
I remembered the crazy virulence with which Hasan-i Sabbah had claimed that all divinities, Christian and Moslem alike, sought to keep knowledge from humankind. Here was the proof. I also remembered Hasan’s rage when I had gainsaid his authority. For a moment the same anger flashed in the Abbot’s eyes. Like the Nizari, the Christian was unaccustomed to defiance. And to the Abbot perhaps my boldness was sharpened by the sometime obedience that it replaced. But where Hasan had ranted at me, the Abbot controlled his emotion. He extinguished the dangerous spark, leaving only the familiar expression of patient wisdom.
“Hugh, Hugh, my son, you forget yourself. Calm down. My faith is strong. Nothing could shake it, certainly not something I read. But, as I remember telling you once before, some books contain falsehoods so convincing that they can be damaging to those of lesser certitude. Had you read the lies contained in that false Gospel, I could not answer for the effect it might have had on the future of your eternal soul. Knowledge of the truth is wholly good and is to be found in the Holy Bible and the books of the saintly commentators. But there is also falsehood and mendacity, the Devil’s own works. They can be taken for truth. They pave the way to the everlasting fires of hell. Remember, after all, the impact your own reading had on you in the impressionable days of your youth.”
My own anger had also now subsided. I controlled the temptation to ask why the Abbot knew that the writings of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John were truthful but that the work of Lazarus was false. The book was gone; nothing could bring it back. Now I would have to gain access to the library and find the tattered papyrus again. With luck it might provide the answer to my riddle. If I further angered the library’s master, he might deny me access. So I bowed my head in simulated submission and begged pardon for my impetuosity. The Abbot smiled gracious forgiveness and stood to indicate that the interview was over. As I moved towards the door, I turned back as if an afterthought had occurred to me.
“My Lord Abbot, you mentioned truthful books. I have had no opportunity for such reading on my travels. There are some works which I would be keen to revisit in order to refresh my memory of their wisdom. Would you grant me permission to spend some time over the next few days reading once more in the library?”
The Abbot smiled at this apparent confirmation that I had accepted his rebuke. He summoned a young monk who had taken on my former position as secretary.
“It may seem unusual, I know. But Hugh here was once a valued and learned member of our community. I would be grateful if you would ask Brother Gerard to place a desk in the library at his disposal for the rest of his stay.”
And so I found myself back in the dark quiet room where I had learnt so much. Little had changed. The same musty smell of parchment scented the air. The silence was still broken only by the scratching of the scriptorium quills, so regular that after a short while one noticed it no more. I remembered Brother Gerard faintly as a young assistant librarian, thin, pale and non-descript, but a much more welcome sight than the purpled jowls of Brother Anselm which still sometimes entered my dreams wobbling in indignation at my reading of Ovid. I inquired by sign after his predecessor’s well-being and was not too sorry to learn that he had suffered a fatal apoplexy two years before.
Respectfully, Brother Gerard gave me a piece of parchment and showed me that I should write down the titles with which I wished to reacquaint myself. I offered a list of some of the commentaries on the Holy Scripture, particularly Saint Jerome, Saint Gregory, and Saint Victorinus. I then sat as still as I could at the desk I had been given, quaking lest they had disposed of the damaged volume that I had once used to conceal my forbidden poetry. Relief poured through me when Brother Gerard laid the familiar volume down with a smile. The dust on the cover showed that there was still not much demand for this recondite work.
I felt the eyes of many curious monks surreptitiously scrutinising me. I imagined they must wonder why a stranger to the community had been allowed into their inner sanctum. Others perhaps half recognised me through the veil woven by time and tribulation, and tried to recollect when and where they had seen me before. So it was a while before I could turn my attention to the volume I really wanted to examine. Saints Jerome and Gregory severely tested my patience as I scanned their learned pages and their words danced without meaning before my unfocussed eyes. At last I judged that the monks had lost interest, and that I had merged far enough into the background. I placed Saint Victorinus in front of me. I shook with excitement so hard that I attracted attention again and a solicitous question from Brother Jerome. I responded that it was nothing, a mild recurrent ague picked up in the East, and calmed my shaking hands. Holding my breath, I opened the esoteric volume and exhaled in near ecstasy as I saw the square fragment of papyrus lying there inside the cover. It was a simple matter for me to secrete the single sheet up a sleeve. After all, I had succeeded in surreptitiously removing whole books from that library. But it was far less easy to sit there calmly until the time came to leave.
At last it was the hour for Vespers and I was able to make my way without remark to the quarters for passing guests of the abbey. These were much more comfortable than the long bare dormitory in which I had slept as a member of the community. More importantly for my current purpose, they were much more private, being divided into separate cells.
With infinite care lest in my excitement I did the fragile item some harm, I took the tattered page from my sleeve and placed it on the blankets folded at the end of my mattress. There were the brown letters like dried blood. At some point, I assumed, it must have been warmed to reveal its secret ink. Then I lifted the wooden tube from the pouch that gave shelter to it beside Blanche’s lock of hair. I removed the wax lid and slid out the document inside. My heart pounded as I laid it gently down. They were twins indeed, those two documents, in dimension and in colour. The form, the size and shape of the writing were the same. I exhaled in relief. Then I looked from one to the other, and my triumph was replaced by desperate disappointment. The writing was all too identical – the papyrus from Saint Victorinus bore the very same doggerel. Those mocking characters danced over and over again in front of me:
‘Π P O Σ T H N Δ Y Σ H N Π E Π O P E Y M A I
M E T A T O Y B I B Λ I O Y O Φ O B E I Σ Θ E
T O A Λ Λ O E N T H I A Γ I A Π O Λ E I
A Σ Φ A Λ Ω Σ K E K P Y M M EN O N’
‘PROS TEN DUSEN PEPOREGMAI
META TOU BIBLIOU HO PHOBEISTHE
TO ALLO EN TEI HAGIA POLEI
ASPHALOS KEKRUMMENON’
‘I have travelled to the West with the book you fear.
The other is hidden safe in the Holy City’
Far from unlocking the secret of the parchment I already had, this new possession merely repeated it. What good were two identical documents, one in perfect condition from the protection afforded by its wax-sealed tube, the other tattered with holes from the harsher treatment it had suffered? Maybe it had been burnt with holes when it was warmed to reveal its secret. If, as was surely the case, the papyrus referred to the Gospel of Lazarus, all I had now discovered was that one copy had found its way to Cluny, only to suffer destruction in the Abbot’s fire. Its secrets were lost forever. The other had been hidden somewhere in Jerusalem and if it still existed would remain impossible to find.
As before at the Cave Church, I was on the point of taking impetuous revenge on the fragile sheet which had given me such frustration and dismay. I nearly tore it to shreds and destroyed it forever. But just as in Antioch, my hand was stayed by some impulse, perhaps some respect for the written word. Perhaps it could be useful somehow. So instead I placed the new sheet carefully on top of the old, lining it up edge to edge in preparation for rolling them together and slipping the reunited twins back into the tube. As I did so I idly ran my eye from top to bottom. And then I did so again with rising elation, again, and yet again. I could hardly believe what I saw, for a coherent phrase appeared, formed by the letters on the lower document
as they came into view through the holes in its ragged twin:
Π P O Σ T H N Δ Y Σ H N Π E Π O P E Y M A
I M E T A T O Y B I B Λ I O Y O Φ O B E I Σ Θ
ET O A Λ Λ O E N T H I A Γ I A Π O Λ E I A
Σ Φ A Λ Ω Σ K E K P Y M M E N O NΠ P O Σ
T H N Δ Y Σ H N Π E Π O P E Y M A I M E T
A T O Y B I B Λ I O Y O Φ O B E I Σ Θ ET O A
Λ Λ O E N T H I A Γ I A Π O Λ E I A Σ Φ A Λ
Ω Σ K E K P Y M M E N O NΠ P O Σ T H N Δ
Y Σ H N Π E Π O P E Y M A I M E T A T O Y
B I B Λ I O Y O Φ O B E I Σ Θ ET O A Λ Λ O E
N T H I A Γ I A Π O Λ E I A Σ Φ A Λ Ω Σ K E
K P Y M M E N O NΠ P O Σ T H N Δ Y Σ H N
Π E Π O P E Y M A I M E T A T O Y B I B Λ I
O Y O Φ O B E I Σ Θ ET O A Λ Λ O E N T H I
A Γ I A Π O Λ E I A Σ Φ A Λ Ω Σ K E K P Y M
M E N O NΠ P O Σ T H N Δ Y Σ H N Π E Π O
P E Y M A I M E T A T O Y B I B Λ I O Y O Φ
O B E I Σ Θ ET O A Λ Λ O E N T H I A Γ I A Π
O Λ E I A Σ Φ A Λ Ω Σ K E K P Y M M E N O N
‘E N T H I O I K I A I T H Σ M H T P O Σ T H Σ
M A P I A Σ’
‘EN TEI OIKIAI TES METROS TES
MARIAS’
‘In the house of Mary’s mother’
I slid the documents apart again. Like Doubting Thomas I fingered the holes. They were perhaps too even, too carefully made, their edges too smooth, to be caused by wear and tear. Again I placed the holey twin upon its whole companion, cackling like a lunatic as in triumph I saw again the same sentence shining through.
‘E N T H I O I K I A I T H Σ M H T P O Σ T H Σ
M A P I A Σ’
‘EN TEI OIKIAI TES METROS TES
MARIAS’
‘In the house of Mary’s mother’
There could be no mistake. I wanted to leap round the room for relief. Gradually my euphoria subsided. I began to think of the hurdles and challenges I still had to overcome – which Mary, who was her mother, where was her house? – let alone making my long way back to Jerusalem. In Antioch, my fate and Blanche’s had seemed inextricably wound up with the success of the Crusade. Until the battle of Antioch was won, the Cave Church had been closed and its treasure denied. Now it appeared that I could not enjoy my love until the Cross had won back Jerusalem itself. I felt like a man climbing a great mountain, like I had felt on Mount Silpius climbing up with my troop of false saints. From below, each ridge seemed the last. Then, when that ridge was crested, another appeared beyond, and the real summit rose still further in the distance. Nevertheless, the wellspring of my optimism bubbled up again. After all, I had reached the summit of Mount Silpius. Now I had made a great stride forward and could clearly make out my route to my metaphorical goal.
The Abbot detected my changed mood when the next day I came to take my leave. As a novice, I would have been unable to deflect my Father Confessor’s sensitive perception, and might have revealed my secret. Now, as a soldier, I could wield the shield I needed to deflect that keen gaze away from my spirit.
“My Lord Abbot, I came here troubled and unsettled. I was uncertain and confused. Now I am once more at peace. The ragged edges of my soul have been smoothed by the reading I have been able to do at your indulgence in the library, and soothed by my prayers in the holy church of which I have such fond memories. I have prayed hard for guidance. Now I know that I must return to the Holy Land. I have my Crusader’s vow to fulfil. What I have relearned here will truly help me on my quest.”
I gazed steadily into my old confessor’s eyes, confident that none of my words was literally untruthful. Let my wise abbot interpret them as he wished. I felt victorious; I had won. I would have the book he had denied me. But as the Abbot gave the blessing with serene compassion before fondly embracing me farewell, I felt like Saint Peter at the third cock crow. The Abbot seemed to me to own the moral victory still.
SAINT LAZARUS’ COLLEGE
The Modern Languages Tutor lay in bed in his old-fashioned night shirt. He had drunk a couple more glasses than usual at dinner that night in order to calm his nerves. He was sure that the news of the Master’s stomach upset would set off the Oxford Detective’s suspicions. Once thoughts of poison had entered the policeman’s mind, it was inevitable that an investigation would take place which would reveal his own foolish sally to the hardware store. Then the charge of attempted murder would follow, and his ejection from the college would come even sooner than the Master planned. Misery would be accompanied by disgrace.
The Modern Languages Tutor reached for the whisky glass brimming beside his bed and took a deep swallow. Then he reached for the cigarette packet – only three left, he noted – and lit up. He nodded off – or passed out – before the cigarette was quite finished, so that it rolled out of his scrawny fingers onto the counterpane.
It was the Chaplain, on his way back from a quick prayer in the chapel, who saw the smoke pouring into the Quad. He raised the alarm, and the Fire Brigade made it to the college within five minutes. When they got the Modern Languages Tutor out, he was unconscious, badly burned, but still just alive.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TOLLING REMINISCENT BELLS
Now, surely, I had left Cluny for the last time. But it had not left me. I had achieved what I hoped, but somehow the Abbot had hollowed my victory.
A group of pilgrims had spent enough time at Cluny and was now ready to move on southward. So, as on the outward journey from Marseille, for my return I was easily able to find travelling companions. The tumult in my soul had been stirred up in the abbey by conflicting emotions and memories. At the inn which provided shelter for the first night, I turned to an alternative salve for my troubled spirit, and matched my fellow travellers wine flagon for wine flagon. I surprised myself by becoming better company, regaling the party with tales of the splendours of Constantinople and of the famous battle of Antioch. I related the miraculous discovery of the Holy Lance. I told how, with the aid of that sacred relic and an army of military saints all dressed in white, a few hundred of the faithful had scattered many thousands of infidels to the four winds. It was a new experience for me to be the centre of attention, the focus of the group, and I found I enjoyed embroidering these stories. Yet in my core I despised my companions for their foolish gullibility; I was sure that they would still have believed me if I had said that the Saracen army had been washed away by a second great flood, and that the Crusaders had all been rescued by Noah himself reappearing in his Ark. I woke with a headache, full of self-disgust for my willingness to curry favour by pandering to their credulity. But this time, when I reached Marseille, my travelling companions were rather sorry to see me go down to the docks in search of a coaster to take me back the way I had come.
Towards the end of January I was back in Genoa looking for a ship that could give me passage towards the Holy Land. I soon found getting to Genoa was an easier task than leaving again. The port was busier than Constantinople, even though the Italian harbour was far smaller than the Greek. In the taverns round the quays where I sought a passage, I learned that the eager espousal of the Crusade by the Genoese merchants and sailors had made their city the main port of embarkation for the Holy Land. Some of the seamen with whom I talked acknowledged the irony of this when the original mercantile power of their port was built on trade across the Mediterranean with the Moslems. I spent all my time in the docks, watching with interest the unfamiliar maritime activity. I even saw new ships taking shape in the yards, floated part complete before having their masts and superstructure fitted. Nevertheless, above all my enforced sojourn filled me with frustration. All the ships were full, and even the largest of the Genoese armed merchant galleys could accommodate no more than seven or eight score. Some of the many Moslems sold as slaves on the quayside ended up at the oars of these galleys, but also many of the rowers were free m
en, hoping to win their fortune by taking a small share in the profits of their ship.
My money was running short, but anyway the town was so full that I could find no quarters even if I had had the funds to afford them. I was forced to sleep in the open, shivering in the wind that whipped off the cold sea, frustrated at being rejected by captain after captain. Eventually I found two brothers by the name of Embriaco who were willing to take me on as an oarsman in one of their two galleys, on the understanding that I would take no share in any profits of their voyage.
“You may be a landlubber,” laughed Brother Guillermo, “but you look strong and fit enough. As you come free we’ll just feed you to the fishes if I find you cannot pull an oar. Perhaps you will be useful to us when we reach Palestine and find your former comrades in arms.”
I smiled. “I’ll do my best. Have you had any news from the Holy Land?”
“The word I hear is that your army has still not reached Jerusalem. Some remain in Antioch; some have begun the journey south but stop to invest and sack infidel towns and strongholds on the way.”
Here his friendly weathered face darkened. “I have also heard tales of barbarity that goes far beyond the normal rules of war, of cannibalism, of helpless captives cooked and eaten.”
Full of gloom at the report of these atrocities, I rowed south in his galley, which carried a cargo of dried food, weaponry, and the wherewithal for constructing siege engines. All this the Embriaco brothers hoped to sell to the Crusader army at a high profit. My hands blistered, broke and then, itching like mad, quickly hardened again with calluses, as the wintry weather warmed into spring. We hugged the Italian coast before passing through the turbulent currents and forbidding rocks of the Straits of Messina. All the while I mulled over the import of my twin papyruses and puzzled anxiously about where the ‘House of Mary’s Mother’ might be in Jerusalem. I had attracted some ribaldry from my fellow rowers at the pouch that I wore round my neck and refused to take off, even when the weather was so warm that all were stripped to the waist at the oars. “A love token then, is it?” they laughed, and I assented to that. But I curtly refused their demands for a lurid description of the object of my affections.
