The Priests' Code

by B. B. Balthis

  ‘Yes. I know that was a particularly difficult time for you. I always felt that we didn’t support you enough back then.’ He was silent for a moment, and then spoke again.

  ‘The job that we do isn’t an easy one. We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t have difficulties, or change our thoughts and ideas, would we? If fact, surely, it’s crucial if we are to be good, decent, and honest priests?’

  He continued. ‘I’ve always had a longing for a family; for the intimacy that a life like that would bring. I come from a large, happy family myself and my parents were very close. When I was in my forties, this longing was particularly strong, and I even took a sabbatical to consider my vocation. I came close to leaving the priesthood, you know.’

  I hadn’t known any of this, although we had spent quite a few evenings over the years, talking long into the night about a whole range of different things. I considered him to be a friend, although his position always placed some small barrier between us, even if was tracing paper thin.

  ‘Yes, I’ve had similar longings on a few occasions. I suppose in general, though, my life is a full and happy one. I’m busy a lot of the time with church affairs and, as you know, my translation work means a lot to me. And my interest in history and things and people from the past, their lives, and that sort of thing all keep me sane.’

  ‘Well, do think about the permanent position. I’m confident that you would get it if you wanted it. Likewise, there’s always work for you in this trouble-shooter role that you’ve been in for so long now. As you know, the numbers joining the priesthood diminish each year, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep each area covered. We are facing difficult times, I fear.’

  He was right, of course. The numbers of young people wanting to ‘join up’ was very small, and recent high-profile scandals about sexual abuse within the Church had certainly done some considerable damage. I had often wondered if it might ever be put on the agenda that priests should be allowed to marry and have families, like in other faiths. Several of my colleagues had shifted over to the Anglican faith so that they could do just that. I smiled at the thought, and at its improbability.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘I wanted to put it to you myself, straight from the horse’s mouth.’

  The bishop had another appointment at four, and so we concluded our conversation. We agreed to meet in three hours’ time, at a very popular pub hidden in a narrow backstreet, where he had booked a table for dinner. He placed his hand on my shoulder as I left to guide me out.

  ‘God bless you, Benoît; see you later.’

  He watched until I was around the corner and out of sight. As an astute and perceptive man, little went unnoticed by him, and my mood had become somewhat subdued after our talk. However, this soon lifted as I walked around the beautiful city. The sun was shining and I began to enjoy myself.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I strolled through the covered market and was very tempted by a thick, hand-knitted cardigan in soft brown wool. It would be perfect for the winter, my old one now having so many holes in it that one of my parishioners had taken me to one side and asked me if he could buy me another. He said that he knew priests weren’t paid very much, and it distressed him to see me so ‘poorly dressed.’ As I have said before, I was not a man without funds – quite the opposite – but I felt little need for many clothes and tended to only buy things when I felt I had no choice.

  I continued walking around and ended up back at the wool shop again. I bought the cardigan and, as I handed over the money, I thought that at least the parishioner wouldn’t have to suffer my offending threadbare garment again. I then went into a delicatessen, still in the covered market, and bought several types of ham: cheese, sour cream, two pots of my favourite olives, capers, pine nuts, fresh pasta and gnocchi, a large bunch of thin asparagus, and bunches of fresh herbs, finally adding two large Sicilian lemons. Their smell was fabulous, and seeing these beauties hanging from the trees in southern Italy never failed to excite me.

  I concluded my shopping spree with fresh sardines from the fish counter and walked back out into the street. As a Frenchman, I loved food. It would be impossible to be otherwise, given my upbringing, where food and its buying, preparation, and consumption had played such a huge part in our lives.

  I stopped for a coffee, and sat outside in the sun. Watching the people walk by, I was very surprised to see Adrian Harcourt on the other side of the street. I had told him I was on my way to Oxford, and he hadn’t said he was also going there. Perhaps he didn’t want to be offered a lift, or to feel churlish if he refused, preferring to go under his own steam?

  I was no longer in full view, since several people had sat at the table in front of me, but he now appeared to be looking for someone. He paused and gazed anxiously up and down the street. Another man walked up to him, much shorter than Adrian, with thick glasses and a black raincoat, which looked somewhat incongruous on such a warm day. They spoke for a few minutes, again looking up and down the street, and then both moved on in different directions until they were out of sight.

  It looked rather odd but, whilst curious, I decided it was none of my business. I got up and walked for some ten minutes to the Bodleian library, putting the shopping in my car at the same time. The bishop had arranged this special visit for me, as I wanted to do some research on the church that I was visiting tomorrow. I knew a little already, like it being mainly Norman but on a site of some antiquity. Cirencester, or Corinium Dobunnorum, as it was known then, was the second-largest walled Roman city in Britain, and many Christian churches were built on Roman and pagan sites. I liked the idea of this, layer upon layer of history, each slice representing moments of time. It fascinated me to think of the people that had lived since then, their beliefs and views, and the constant determination to cover up that which had gone before and to dominate it with a perceived superior knowing.

  I sat in the library for more than an hour, with a pile of books that an assistant had helped me find. I made notes as I read, particularly about the general history of the area and the relics found hidden in the church some years ago. One of the books provided me with information on the activities of the Knights Templar and the Order of St John in the area, and their involvement in the construction of local churches. I was greatly interested in these men of immense strength and character. The Languedoc region that I was born in had a considerable historical connection with the Cathars and crusading knights, and many of the hills and mountains near my home had one of their castles or strongholds at its top.

  One of the books, much larger and older than the others, was about ancient abbeys and monastic buildings in Britain. I discovered that there had been two monastic communities near the church I was interested in, as well as a defensive castle. This was all new to me, and I quickly scribbled as many notes as I could, as well as taking several photos with my phone.

  It was now nearly half past six. Back out in the busy streets, I noticed the lengthening rays of sun slant over the ancient buildings and, within minutes, was in the narrow, cobbled lane that led to the pub where I had agreed to meet the bishop for dinner.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I arrived before him and sat at the table to wait. The building dated back to the fifteenth century, and had dark, heavy beams across its low ceilings. Small pockets of warm light, carefully placed, prevented it from being too gloomy and gave it a cosy and intimate feel. I noticed that it was almost full, even at this hour, and I ordered sparkling water whilst eyeing the selection of wines listed on the menu.

  The bishop came through the door a few minutes later. He was dressed entirely in black, a fine cashmere sweater pulled over the purple shirt that he had been wearing earlier, and a plain back jacket over that. He was a striking, charismatic man, and several people stared as he walked by, which was a reaction I had seen before.

  ‘So sorry I’m late.’ He looked flustered, which was
quite unlike my usually calm and collected friend.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes, fine, just another problem to deal with.’

  ‘Are you still OK for dinner? I don’t mind if you want to cancel.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve been looking forward to coming here all week. I do sometimes wonder if it’s time I retired though. I’m not as robust as I used to be, and I don’t mind admitting it, which is something new. I’m sixty-five, did you know that? My sister has a cottage on the west coast of Ireland that she says she is keeping empty for when I retire. I must say, I’m sorely tempted by the idea, and it has a stunning view of the ocean. A comfortable chair, a bottle of the finest claret, and a large pile of books seems incredibly attractive at times. And it would give some new blood the chance to move up the ladder, of course. You would make a fine bishop, Benoît. I’ve never really understood why you’ve never had any ambition in that way.’

  ‘You look remarkably well for your age, bishop, and as for my ambition to rise within the Church ranks, quite simply, I have none, you know that.’ It was a discussion that we’d had several times before. ‘If I retired, or had more time, it would be spent on historical research, or my translations. I’m trying to find the time to work on some manuscripts right now.’

  At this point, a waiter arrived to take our order.

  ‘What will you have, Benoît?’

  ‘It all looks fabulous, but I’ll have the seafood medley, please.’

  ‘I wondered about that, but I think I’ll stick to my usual. Fillet steak, medium rare, please, with all the trimmings and a glass of house red. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘The red sounds great, but I’m driving, so I’ll stick to sparkling water, thank you.’

  We chatted about various things: Ireland, France, and the shortage of new priests. The evening passed pleasantly; the seafood was excellent and I noticed that the bishop’s plate was also empty. I ordered a coffee to keep me alert on the way home, and he ordered the usual vintage claret that I knew he was so fond of.

  ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something. How well do you know Adrian Harcourt? I believe he does the accounts, and gives advice on buildings and such like in yours and the surrounding parishes?’

  The mention of Adrian startled me, having seen him twice already that day.

  ‘Not that well, I suppose,’ I replied, ‘but he seems decent enough and helps out with various things. I had dinner with him a few months back. Why do you ask?’

  He looked at me and took a sip from his glass before he replied.

  ‘Oh, nothing really. It’s just that his name has cropped up a few times and I thought I would ask you. You’re usually a good judge of character.’

  A good judge of character I may well be, but no more than knowing when I was being kept in the dark about something.

  ‘Well, I can’t say much more, really. Actually, I saw him this morning. I called in to drop some paperwork off to him en route to meet you. I then caught sight of him in Oxford this afternoon, which I thought a little odd, since he hadn’t said he was coming up, but then, why should he? I’m not his keeper, and he has the right to go to Oxford any time he pleases without a formal declaration. He still has business interests I believe. He used to own a large construction company, specialising in the restoration of ancient buildings, churches, castles, and the like. Then he had a bad accident and sold up for a considerable amount of money, so local gossip says. Paints rather well too, but I get the feeling that there’s more to your question than you’re telling me?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. Forget it. Just me being nosy. Let’s settle up, shall we?’

  He paid the bill, refusing all attempts to let me pay it myself. It was now dark and we walked together to my car. I had just opened the door when he put his hand on my shoulder and stared at me for a few moments.

  ‘It’s been so nice to see you. I value your friendship greatly. Think about the job, won’t you? Let me know, and do take care. God bless.’

  I was a little taken aback by this declaration but shook his hand warmly, thanked him for dinner, and drove off. Looking in the rear mirror, I saw, like earlier, that he stood watching until I was out of sight.

  The journey back was uneventful and I found myself going over the day, my thoughts focussing on Adrian Harcourt, the bishop’s questions, and my own future.

  Back home, I put my shopping away, feeling satisfied that I had enough food to last the week, and draped my new cardigan over a dining chair to admire its colour and general new-ness. I would take it into town next week to have leather patches sewn on the elbows, like my old one. I would not, I decided, throw out my old, faithful, worn friend, so deplored by a parishioner. It would do for a while yet, although I resolved to wear it inside only, in a charitable attempt not to distress the man any further.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By eight the next morning, I was sat at the dining table; books in piles to each side and coffee and toast on the top of the shelves nearby. I intended to complete the overdue Latin translations today and send them off so that I could relax, knowing they were done. I settled down to work, reminding myself of the church tour arranged for this afternoon.

  There were several dozen scans of the parchments, found in a small chapel in the centre of Rome. It was usual in this field to be sent scans like this. Many owners of rare and unusual finds didn’t trust the internet, and I had strict instructions on completion of the translation, that all copies should be thoroughly burned to fine ash. No one trusted anyone. I imagined that because I was a priest I might be trusted more than some, although this was ridiculous. Priests were just men, after all, and whilst a set of morals was supposed to accompany them, I knew that this was most certainly not always the case.

  To begin, I looked at them repeatedly. I always insisted on colour reproductions, which often revealed otherwise hidden letters. Sometimes I was called upon to handle the actual article itself, since my many years in the field had given me considerable knowledge in dating these things. This time, however, the owner had told me that he had already had them dated in a laboratory to the first century AD, and therefore my opinion on age was not required. Judging by the scans, they looked to be in excellent condition for the year he was suggesting.

  I had been told that they were found flat, not rolled, as was so often the case. They had been sandwiched between layers of thick hide and then sealed in several centimetres of a hard, resinous substance before being placed in a small metal crate. They were then buried several feet down under an ancient altar thought to date back to early Roman times. Clearly someone had gone to considerable trouble to conceal and preserve these documents, and I was intrigued. As always, the hair stood up on the back of my neck, revealing my excitement and awe at anything quite so ancient.

  I knew that the owner was a collector of antiquities, parchments and ancient manuscripts being his most favoured items. I had transcribed for him over a period of many years and, although we had never met, we had talked on the phone quite a few times. We always spoke in English, but his accent told me that he was Italian by birth. He was always polite and prompt in payment and had never given me any reason to think that he was anything other than a wealthy man who, like many others, enjoyed collecting ancient things.

  Even though it was a bright day, I leant my flexible 100-watt lamp over the first of the pages that I had been sent. Initially, I could see several, fairly minor, problems. The text was quite faint in places, although I was used to this. Secondly, there were a few holes in the now-thin parchment, although the placement of these didn’t appear to be too crucial.

  The third problem was the handwriting itself. Although undoubtedly Latin, the writer had adopted an unusual elongated style, with some of the words joined together and some not.

  Using a large pi
ece of paper, I began to copy-write the script that was easy to decipher. This took a good hour, after which I realised that I had entirely forgotten my coffee and toast, which were now stone cold. More coffee made, I opened the windows to let the sun and air in, then sat back down to begin to transcribe the text into English, which was the language that I had been asked for.

  This was the most difficult part. Over the years, I had developed a ‘three-stage’ strategy for this, which involved a quick and rough translation first, using only my general knowledge of the language. The second part saw me go over this again with more thought and, if necessary, using some reference sources. The third stage had me go over it again, reading it aloud and imagining myself as the actual author, who I hopefully, by this time, had some measure of.

  As I transcribed I found my heart beginning to race. This parchment differed from the other in that it had two thick lines drawn all around its edge, with what looked like astrological symbols woven between them. This wasn’t the usual run-of-the-mill stuff that was still around in fairly substantial quantities. I could barely believe what I was reading and skimmed though the text as fast as I could. I quickly rewrote the initial scribbled translation and tentatively concluded that what I had transcribed appeared to be a letter from the Roman emperor, Tiberius.

  I had translated many ancient texts in the past, and much of the two years I had spent in Rome had seen me in the Vatican libraries and vaults doing just that. I was always amazed at how many of these seemingly fragile documents had survived, but at the same time I also tried to check my excitement, reminding myself of how many of them were fraudulent, some executed so superbly as to be almost indistinguishable from the originals, often passing detailed tests and analysis.