by G. M. Dyrek
The Abbot shrugged. “Quite possibly. There are few men around here who would fit such a description.” The Abbot turned to Paulus. “Did the stranger tell you his name? You see, we think he might have had something to do with the Archbishop’s arrest. There’s hearsay that he may have been a spy for the Emperor.”
Paulus wrinkled his brow. “No, I don’t believe we exchanged names. That’s a serious accusation . . . a spy for the Emperor. Could be why he left so abruptly. My knowledge of his language is limited, let me see . . .” Paulus continued. “Matthias claims that he is a soldier returned from the Holy Land. He was attacked three nights ago by a pack of wild dogs. The Theriac I gave him last night seems to have arrested his fever but it’s the injury to his ankle that has me puzzled.”
“Has it become infected?” the Abbot asked, knowing the likelihood of surviving a wild dog attack to be minimal.
“No, his wound has healed remarkably. Quite frankly, Father, I am mystified. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It is as if it hadn’t happened. Which brings to mind Sophie’s insistence about this man’s remarkable healing of her grandfather, which quite frankly, I cannot fathom, since he possessed all the deadly symptoms of ‘holy fire.’”
The Abbot smiled. “Come now, Brother Paulus, you are being modest. Give yourself some credit.”
“That’s just it. It is not my doing whatsoever. In all my years as an Infirmarian, I’ve never seen a wound that jagged and deep heal completely on its own within a few short days.”
The Abbot put his hand on Paulus’s shoulder. “We cannot presume to understand all the mysteries of God, my friend.”
Paulus held out his hand to guide the two over to Matthias’s bed. “About four hours ago, I gave him an infusion of linden flowers in a tea. He was going on about being followed, and it has been only in the last hour that he has started to finally talk more sense.”
Matthias opened his eyes. Volmar saw that they were small for the size of his face but intensely blue. His face had the complexion of one who had been in the sun many years and the graying of his beard indicated that he was a grown man, his youth already spent.
“Father, is that you?” Matthias’s voice was deep and arresting, not easy to ignore.
“I understand that you are feeling better, my son.” The Abbot sat at the edge of the bed. “My name is Abbot Burchard, and I am willing to hear what it is you would like to tell me. Brother Volmar, my scribe, will record our conversation if you will permit it.”
Matthias nodded weakly in agreement.
“Very well, then,” the Abbot said. “Brother Paulus and Brother Rudegerus, you may leave us and return to your work. Brother Volmar and I will be fine.”
Rudegerus bit his lip in disgust, but slowly turned to walk away. What is Rudegerus hiding? Volmar mused, intrigued. There was more to this situation than simply a man desiring a confessional.
CHAPTER 6: THIS CURSED RELIC
Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery
5th of November, Mid-Day
Matthias sat up in bed, propped up against the stone wall. To Volmar, he seemed a man who at one time could have inspired terror in his enemies and commanded respect from his men. Yet, Volmar sensed, he was clearly uncomfortable with the story he was about to tell.
“Father, I’ve recently returned from the Holy Land and have in my possession a relic. I’m sure it would be of interest to you and your monastery here at Disibodenberg.”
“Go on,” Abbot Burchard said impassively. There was a plethora of religious relics returning with soldiers coming back from the Holy Land. “Is it a nail from the Blessed Cross or a napkin from the Last Supper?”
With a distinct edge to his voice, Matthias responded. “Do not make light with me, Father. What I possess is the real thing. It carries with it great powers.” The man wiped his brow with his sleeve.
“Powers,” Volmar repeated, looking up from his parchment.
“Yes, whoever possesses it and calls upon its power for their own selfish use as I have, will rise to a position of great authority and prestige. However, it possesses a darker side, a curse really, for it can turn a normal man into a heartless, ruthless monster.”
“My son, I have no doubt that you feel you have a sacred relic in your possession; however, you must forgive me for my resistance to believe what you say is the truth. Each month we have young men returning from the war in the Holy Land trying to sell us the bones of animals, not the holy apostles.”
“Heed my words Father. You may feel differently after you hear my story.” Matthias took a deep breath and began, “On the 10th day of June in 1098, I was a mere foot soldier in the ancient city of Antioch. We were besieged by the Muslims, trapped in a city we had just conquered, and completely out of supplies. Our horses and donkeys were dying of thirst. We all knew the hopelessness of the situation and knew our days were numbered. Then a poor monk, a servant of Count Raymond’s army by the name of Peter Bartholomew, came to me. He described a series of visions he had in which Saint Andrew told him where to find the legendary Spear of Longinus, the lance said to have pierced the sinless and holy body of Jesus Christ after He died on the Cross.”
“Saint John records this testimony in his Gospel,” the Abbot said, obviously finding Matthias’s story more captivating than he first thought.
“Well, we told our leader of these visions, and I was ordered to follow Peter Bartholomew to the cathedral of Saint Peter, where he said that the Holy Spear was buried under the floor. There was great opposition to this; gossip amongst the other soldiers had it that Peter Bartholomew had buried a simple spearhead himself, just so he could find it. Nevertheless, I had my orders, so we lifted up the flagstone flooring and dug. I remember both of us were more than waist deep in a hole in the place Saint Andrew had indicated in the vision. Suddenly Peter Bartholomew cried out. In tears he pointed to an object still halfburied. We were both on our hands and knees furiously using our fingers to unearth this object. If I knew what was in store for us, I would have left it in the ground.” Matthias looked away momentarily. Volmar saw on his face either grief or fear, he wasn’t sure. The man was actually reliving the moment. Perhaps, it was a blending of these two terrible feelings.
“Our return to the camp was preceded by a miraculous meteor shower in the shape of a long spear,” Matthias continued. “We took this at the time as a providential sign from God.”
“There are many legends surrounding the Spear of Longinus,” Abbot Burchard said, rubbing his chin. “The Old Testament scriptures prophesized that the Messiah would be pierced, but his bones would not be broken. When the Roman centurion, Gaius Cassius Longinus, saw that Jesus was already dead at the time of his crucifixion, he unwittingly fulfilled this scriptural prophecy.”
Volmar added, “He wanted to show the soldiers that Christ was already dead and that there was no need to break his bones as was customary to do to hasten death.”
“Yes,” the Abbot continued, “and when Longinus’s lance pierced our Savior’s side, it is written that blood and water poured out and into Longinus’s face. This unbeliever’s eyes were opened and healed of partial blindness. At that moment he was converted by our Lord‘s precious blood.” Abbot Burchard glanced at Volmar, relieved to see that he was dutifully making notes of this strange conversation. “I have not heard, however, of any lance from Antioch. Go on, my son, I’m listening.”
Matthias resumed. “What happened next is unbelievable, Father. I swear an oath to God every last word is true. Back at camp, we rallied behind this Spear of Christ with such enthusiasm. I remember how the lance itself was affixed to a pole and carried into battle as our Christian banner. It inspired our march against the deadly Turkish horsemen.” He wiped his forehead, and backtracked for a moment. “I told you that we were greatly outnumbered and surrounded, and yet, during the battle, I swear our dead rose up on the battlefield and fought with the living! God was on our side. We defeated this powerful enemy and felt as powerful and as invincible
as the ancient Israelites were against the hordes of Philistines.”
“Legends do say that whosoever possesses the Lance of Longinus will never be defeated,” Abbot Burchard mused, and then he lowered his voice. “A Holy Relic of unspeakable power and potential destruction.”
Matthias’s eyes were glazed over. He was living in the past, hearing alone its incessant march through events unfolding in the same horrible way. “Of course with this taste of victory we felt we were unstoppable. With the Sacred Lance we could drive on to Jerusalem and take the city entirely. Outside of the great city’s gates, however, and human nature being what it is, Peter Bartholomew announced that he alone was the only one holy enough to enter Jerusalem carrying the Lance of Christ. Suddenly, our soldiers began to question the Holy Spear’s true origins. Peter Bartholomew insisted on the Holy Relic’s authenticity and to prove it, he agreed to take a trial by fire.”
“A trial by fire?” Volmar reiterated, glancing up from his writing, fearing the worst.
“Yes,” Matthias replied grimly. “That night, in the cold of the desert evening, we all surrounded a path we had set on fire. I watched in terror as Peter Bartholomew took his eyes off of heaven and looked at the flames. I could see that he was being led by his humanity, not his godliness. Needless to say, he did not survive. Peter Bartholomew lacked faith. The flames destroyed his life and with it went the devotion of our men. Each one of them dispersed after that. No one felt any ambition to take on even a small regiment of Turks, let alone the vast city of Jerusalem.”
“And the Holy Spear?” Abbot Burchard asked, staring down at the floor. “What of it?”
“I alone buried Peter Bartholomew. However, I did not bury the Holy Spear with him as the others suspected.”
“No one witnessed this?” the Abbot asked.
“I was alone, Father, the others had fled into the night. I took the Holy Relic from my dead friend’s fleshless, blackened hands, and my life was changed. I am truly haunted by the images of the years that followed. Battle cries such as ‘It is God’s will’ and ‘It is no sin to kill an infidel’ left my lips as they did others before me; such wretched sentiments burn in my conscience, night after night disrupting any calm of sleep. It was a dark and wicked time.” He bowed his head. “I am ashamed, Father, that I had a part in it.”
“I cannot absolve your guilt, my son.” The Abbot inclined his head, thoughtfully. “For any religion to offer a theological justification for war is irresponsible. Wars should cause shame no matter what the rationalization.”
“Father, there is more. I was a member of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John in Jerusalem for a while until Brother Gerard and I quarreled. As you probably know, the Knights of St. John have a philosophy of healing, and are trained in medicine. Caring for God’s people is seen by the knights as their primary purpose for existence – yet they too have failed this higher calling and over time have become more militant and unscrupulous. As caretaker of the Holy Relic, I rose in rank from an unimposing, simple foot soldier, to a trusted advisor in the Court of Godfrey of Bouillon, the first King of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, in a very short time.”
Volmar interrupted. “I heard from a pilgrim that Godfrey of Bouillon refused the presumptuous title of King, saying that no man should wear a crown where Christ had worn his crown of thorns; instead, he took the title Defender of the Holy Sepulcher.”
Matthias eyed the younger monk with a newfound respect. “Yes, and God-fearing Godfrey of Bouillon died the next year. His brother and successor, Baldwin I, was not so honorable. He had himself immediately crowned King of Jerusalem. I lived in opulent luxury in a seized palace, my slaves were Arab aristocrats. We weren’t going about God’s business and spreading His Holy Word. Instead we became what all conquerors become, greedy occupiers and careless philanderers. We took whatever we wanted without opposition and hurt anyone who stood in our way. I’ve since learned that a rule of terror is no rule at all.”
“War is a human sickness, we must learn to rise above such human failings and stop assuming we know the mind of God,” Abbot Burchard murmured, clearly moved by this account.
“Father, I credit my survival to this Holy Relic. It has made me invincible. I do believe in its power and am fearful of the consequences should it fall into the wrong hands. That is why I am here and not in Rome, handing it over to the Pope. These are dubious times for the Papacy. I have been followed since leaving the Holy Land; believe me, I’ve left hastily in the dead of night many times.” Matthias paused, before adding, “All I ask for now is peace. I want to be free of this cursed relic and live a life untainted by its blood. I have grown tired. I want to return home to farm my own land and embrace my own wife and children, if they’ll still have me.”
Volmar caught Abbot Burchard’s eyes and did the calculation. “You’ve been living abroad for nearly fourteen years?”
“Too long by anyone’s measure,” Matthias responded, with a catch in his throat.
“In all that time, did you ever meet a knight named Symon of Bermersheim?” Volmar ventured, having asked every returning knight from the Holy Land that he met this same question.
Coldly, the words came, before Matthias thought much about them. “I’ve heard the name—the devil incarnate, by all accounts. He climbed high in the ranks, a shrewd, heartless man. Apparently, he is Brother Gerard’s most trusted confidant, eager, they say, to do all of his deceitful work. Why do you ask? Is he a relation of yours?”
“Yes, but that was a long time ago,” Volmar said, visibly distressed. “Please continue your story.”
“Well, I’ve heard many good things about your monastery. The villagers think highly of you, Father. They say you are a fair and wise man. It is said that the Holy Relic loses its power unless it is freely given. I am willing to turn over the Holy Spear into your care without any payment. Consider it my alms to the church. To outsiders, no one knows what happened to the Lance at Antioch; it will be lost to history. Whether or not its legend is resurrected will be entirely left up to you and your conscience.”
“Your faith in my goodness is flattering,” Abbot Burchard said, watching as Matthias reached under the band of his wide belt and retrieved what appeared to be a soft black leather pouch from a hidden pocket. It measured slightly less than a man’s foot and was about as thick.
“Father, may I have a word with you in private?” Brother Volmar said abruptly, interrupting the formal exchange from proceeding.
The Abbot studied the inscrutable face of his young scribe, curious as to why for once he showed so little emotion. He rose apologetically. “Of course. We will return momentarily, Matthias.”
Volmar led the Abbot to one side of the room, away from listening ears and in a low voice said, “Father, I suspect we’re being watched.” He told him about his suspicions of Brother Rudegerus, insisting that they devise a simple plan before returning to Matthias.
“Well, Matthias.” Abbot Burchard spoke in a loud, firm voice as he moved to temporarily block Brother Rudegerus’ view of the old soldier. “I do not make any important decisions on an empty stomach. I will have to discuss your terms with my superiors.”
Leaning down, Volmar whispered hastily to Matthias. “We fear we’re being watched. When I drop my quill and bend down to pick it up, slip the Holy Spear into my hood.” Volmar dropped his quill and bent down in front of Matthias. He arose only after he felt the slight heaviness of the leather pouch drop into his hood, its folds concealing the relic according to plan. What Volmar hadn’t expected was the sudden rush of excitement, something his more studious nature knew little of. Could these newfound feelings of exhilaration have something to do with the fact that he now possessed the Spear of Destiny and was its new caretaker? Even his surroundings had sharpened and became more distinct, as if he possessed a third eye. All of his senses seemed alert, more intense, his sense of smell, sight, even intellect. As he looked around the Infirmary, he could hear all of the conversations going on, even
ones drowned out by the roaring fire at the end of the far wall. He found all the prattling intrusions equally undiminished and awe-inspiring!
Abbot Burchard continued. “Give me until tomorrow before I let you know what I have decided. Until then, sleep well, my friend.”
“Father,” Brother Paulus called out from across the room, “could I have a word with you before you leave?”
The Abbot waited patiently for Brother Paulus to approach. Volmar bowed to take his leave, eager to test his enhanced sensitivities. While his head was down, though, the reflection of a small metallic object caught his eyes. It lay just under the foot of Matthias’ bed. Volmar bent over, pretending to adjust the straps of his boot and reached under the bed for what he realized was a small rosary, lying in a pool of red. A single letter was written beside it, the letter “S”. Volmar slipped the rosary into his pocket, rose and tuned in to the conversation the Infirmarian and the Abbot were having.
Brother Paulus had come closer. “It happened again last night, Father . . . you may stay, Brother Volmar. It is something you and I have already discussed at some length. This time, however, some peach pits were stolen; whereas, on the other nights burdock seeds, parsley, and the essential oils from sage, rosemary, and thyme went missing. I’m not sure what to make of our elusive nighttime Infirmary thief.”
Volmar, although attentive, was troubled more by his sudden act of secrecy. Here he had found an obvious clue and, for some reason, felt indifferent about sharing it with his two most trusted brothers. He stared back down at the floor. There were more red stains on the stone; not many, but enough to be seen by someone who was looking for them. He shifted it all around in his mind and kept his silence. The confusion was overpowering in and of itself. Let no one into your confidence, it kept insisting.
“Yes, and deeply troubling,” the Abbot added.
“Peach pits? What would anyone want with peach pits? It is far too late in the season to plant fruit trees,” Volmar muttered, forcing himself to return to their conversation.
