Julius, who had started sorting through the pile with a large magnifying glass protruding from his right hand, mumbled, ‘Research, my boy. That’s what it’s all about!’
Both Nick and Verity smiled.
‘I’ll have a closer look at the maps while you read the books and pamphlets okay, Dad?’
Hmm … I’d better make myself useful, thought Nick, noticing a laptop on a smaller desk in the corner of the office. Although he didn’t expect to find anything he hadn’t already researched, he carefully typed ‘Heinrich Bunting 1581’ into the search bar and started reading the first of the 27,500 results.
13
They had taken him out of Belfast and out of Ireland. For six long weeks he was holed up in a dank bedsit somewhere in south London. His only contact with the outside world was the kid who dropped off ‘the stuff’ every day at 4 pm.
‘Here’s your stuff, mate, y’all right?’ same words every day.
‘Get fucked,’ was Billy’s stock response from behind the door. But after the kid had disappeared down the stairs, Billy would sink to his knees, push open the cat flap and gather in the food, cigarettes and newspapers, and any other ‘stuff’ the Master had arranged for him to have. This usually included books and articles detailing the ‘troubles’ in Ireland, the history of the Reformation and Catholic conspiracies. The Master had explained to Billy that it was important he became educated in all aspects of the struggle.
After a few days of lolling around and feeling sorry for himself, Billy decided to exercise his mind and body rigorously. Three times a day he punished himself, firstly with a hundred sit-ups, his feet wedged under the sofa creating the greatest tension in his stomach muscles, followed by a hundred press-ups keeping his back straight by jamming himself underneath the coffee table. Twenty minutes of jogging on the spot, while peering through the narrow gap in the curtains at the rain-sodden street below, finished the sessions. If anybody was worried about the noise of pounding feet, they didn’t complain to him. Apart from the Master’s reading list, Billy struggled through the Times cryptic crossword every day and tested his arithmetic skills with Sudoku puzzles.
Twice The Master visited, both times well after midnight. The first time they drank Jameson without ice or water. He sympathised with Billy about his isolation. ‘It’s for your own good, Billy. Our friends from the Chapter are making all the arrangements. It needs to be done properly and it may take time.’
They sat talking and smoking through the dark hours with their whisky balanced on the arms of the tired and worn floral armchairs. The Master left at first light on that occasion.
The second visit was more fleeting. The Master handed Billy an A3-sized envelope and asked him to open it. Inside was a British passport with Billy’s photograph, a driver’s license, credit card and travel documents all under an assumed name. He then gave Billy another smaller envelope containing two thousand pounds.
‘You will be met in Athens and directed from there, Billy. We will meet again when the time is right.’ The Master extended his hand and both he and Billy invoked the oath of the Chapter while shaking.
‘In whom do you put your trust? In God and us,’ they said in unison.
Passport control waved Billy through, barely glancing at his documents. Typical lazy dago, thought Billy, as he emerged into the crowded Athens main passenger terminal. His attention was grabbed by massive placards hanging from the roof of the building, all with the same image of a large heart surrounding a football, with the message:
UEFA EURO JUNE 2004
Of course! In a few weeks the big European football competition would begin and Greece was one of the sixteen finalists.
‘Ah, Meester Paddee, you like football?’ Another fat dago, thought Billy. ‘I am Stavros. You come with me. Maybe Greece win cup?’ Oh, a joker too!
The warm evening breeze caught Billy by surprise as they walked out of the terminal. He ran his hand along his bristly head. It had been a good idea to get a number one haircut at Heathrow before leaving. He recalled with distaste how the queer who had cut it had been complimentary of his muscular physique.
‘Are you in the SAS, darling?’ he’d simpered.
The Greek led the way to a non-descript car in the parking lot. Billy opened the passenger door on the right-hand side and chucked his bag onto the back seat. Stavros took up the driver’s seat and offered the Irishman a cigarette.
‘You like Karelia, Paddee?’
‘First time,’ said Billy, lighting the Greek’s then his own. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’
‘Oh, long way, Paddee. Long way.’
They smoked many more Karelias and Billy’s Marlboro Reds as they travelled silently along the Aegean coast, through Elefsina, Nea Perano and Agii Thedori. Billy could feel his mood lifting as he watched the fishing boats meld into the deep azure of the sea to his left. An hour later they stopped for petrol just outside Corinth.
‘You like Greece, Paddee?’
‘Beats Shankill.’
Eventually they turned south onto the E65. The sea was no longer visible as the road weaved higher into the heart of the Peloponnese. They passed through Lyrkia and Tripoli, with the car lights cutting through the mountain shadows, illuminating the forests of ancient cypress pines, as the dusk settled in.
‘We stop now for food,’ said Stavros, shaking Billy’s shoulder.
Billy, startled that he had fallen asleep, opened his eyes to see they had parked outside a traditional café. A few locals glanced up from their backgammon as they emerged from the car. Billy yawned and took a deep breath of the sweet scent of the surrounding pencil pines.
‘This is Kafenion Sparti. I like to stop here on my trips.’
Billy sat in the corner, smoking and taking in his surroundings while Stavros ordered food. Although he could not understand what Stavros was saying, it was clear by his gestures and laugh that he had been here many times before. There were mostly old men inside and outside the café. Their gnarled hands and sunken faces reminded Billy of the patrons in pubs back home: working class people, old before their time.
‘The people of Sparti are not like what you see at the movies, eh Paddee? All the young leave this place and go to the cities. You want to play Tavli before we eat?’ said Stavros, pointing to the backgammon set.
So this is Sparta? Home of that warrior race? thought Billy. ‘They know you here,’ he said flatly.
‘Yes. I always stop here, sometimes with Arabs, sometimes with Russians, sometimes with Irishmen. All like you, Paddee. All quiet.’
A half hour later, satiated by moussaka and retsina, they set off on the lonely winding road.
‘Paddee, you know retsina is three thousand years old? It is made with, how you say, the juice of the pine tree. You like it?’
‘Not bad,’ said Billy, although the word turpentine crossed his mind. ‘So where am I going anyway?’
‘I don’t ask no questions. I take you to Monemvasia. Then I return to Athens and get the money.’ Stavros nodded to Billy as he spoke, as if appealing for assurance. ‘This is what I do. It is good, yes?’
They drove on in silence. Only the glow from their cigarettes breached the darkness around them.
Many cigarettes later, Billy could feel that they were descending.
‘Not long now, Paddee. We soon in Monemvasia.’
Billy checked his watch. Nearly midnight.
Twenty minutes later, they reached the village. Nothing stirred as they drove slowly through the darkened and deserted streets. Stavros stopped the car at a group of houses. Billy lifted his bag from the back seat and got out of the car. The sea was close. He could smell it. He could hear it. Stavros led him to the door of one of the houses and handed him a key.
‘Paddee, I am to give this,’ he said, giving Billy an envelope. ‘I go now. Good luck.’ He shook Billy’s hand and got back in the car. ‘Remember, put the key on the table before you leave, okay?’ With these words he started the engine, slowly drove back down
the street and was soon out of sight. Billy waited until he could no longer hear the car before he opened the door and searched for the light switch.
The room was sparse but looked and smelled clean. In the centre of the tiled floor was a table with four upturned chairs. It had obviously been recently cleaned. To the rear he could see a small kitchen area with windows above a sink that overlooked a placid, inky sea. An arched opening to his right led to a double bed with an ensuite bathroom. Billy threw his bag in the closest corner and removed one chair from the table, placing the envelope in the vacated area. Before sitting, he looked in the fridge and found a loaf of bread, a block of feta and some olives swimming in oil.
‘Probably too much to expect bacon and eggs,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Bloody dagos.’
Sitting down on the chair, he opened the envelope. Inside were tickets in Greek and a typed note in English, explaining that he was to board the 11am ferry to Crete the following day. On arrival in Crete, he was to travel by coach to a place called Palaiochora. He would be met there.
‘What a fuck of a day!’ was his final thought as he drifted off to sleep, fully clothed, a few minutes later.
14
As the sun rose, the old Roman road revealed its length and straightness, disappearing distantly into the low hills in the west. As far as the eye could see, people, carts and animals hugged the ancient route as they had done for centuries, reminding Bunting of ants returning to their nest in ordered and regular lines.
Pastor Hans, his teacher of history at the seminary, had taught him that these lands were the last in the Germanic territories to accept Christianity. The tribes had fiercely held on to their independence, first from the Roman invasions from before the time of Christ, through to the time of Charlemagne in the ninth century. Pastor Hans, who seemed to relish the looks of horror on his young charges, described in gory detail how their uncivilised Saxon ancestors would use human sacrifices to appease their gods and would hang the severed arms of their offerings from tree branches to ward off evil spirits.
‘And let me tell you children,’ he would whisper, drawing the children closer to him, ‘did you know that the first Christian missionaries to these parts often ended up in Saxon cooking pots? Some say that these practices still occur deep in the forests outside this very seminary. I suggest that, unless you speak the ancient tongue of the Saxons, you do not wander into the forests.’
Bunting smiled as he recalled the fear the pastor instilled. His young friends would dare each other to touch trees at the very outer parts of Teutoburger Wald, a forest that loomed dark and foreboding in the fertile imaginations of all the young students after one of Pastor Hans’ ghoulish stories. It was a feeling that, Bunting had to admit to himself, still lingered to this day.
Cornelis, the eldest child of Jakob, was to accompany them only to Antwerp, that golden port metropolis of Flanders. Here, he would take up an apprenticeship with Jakob’s cousin, Gerard the mapmaker. Cornelis strode in front of their group, as if eager to commence his new life immediately. Amir and Bunting walked to the left of the packed mule with Jakob to the right. The wooden box that contained the holy parchments, wrapped for protection from the rain in wax-coated cerecloth, hung fast against the mule’s body, hidden by the general chattels needed for their travels.
‘You have used a dead man’s shroud to protect your precious box, Pastor,’ said Jakob.
‘So?’
‘I think it is a bad omen.’
‘I am surprised you are so superstitious, Jakob. This cerecloth now serves a higher purpose. It is being used to benefit the souls of future generations, not just one recently departed body. It is practical too and just happened to be in the store room of the cathedral when I visited the Archbishop.’
That had been four weeks before and now, as they began their journey, cold northerly winds heralded the advent of autumn. Bunting shivered and buttoned the close-fitting tunic that reached down to his well-worn leather sandals. He adjusted the round brim of his faded hat, deflecting the glare of the weak morning sun. Unconsciously he rubbed the wooden cross that hung low from the hemp belt around his waist.
Once again, the irony of his situation crossed the young priest’s mind. That he – a Protestant heretic – two Jews and a Moor boy might be the hope of Christendom. ‘The Lord moves in strange and mysterious ways,’ he mumbled under his breath, glancing at his companions and noting Jakob’s sturdy, flat wooden-soled shoes with leather uppers. It occurred to Bunting that his companion was all round better prepared for the weather, with his knee-length collarless linen shirt covered by a felted wool doublet and his legs in hose. A crude knife protruded from his leather belt.
‘Pastor, it’s a sign of madness to talk to oneself,’ growled Jakob, jolting Bunting out of his contemplation.
‘You are half right, Jakob. I have heard it said that many of the greatest saints would spend hours in self-conversation. And they were close to the Lord.’
‘That’s more to the worry,’ murmured Jakob. Bunting, true to his promise, had revealed to Jakob the real purpose of his quest. He had described the strange visit in detail, but asked for Jakob’s indulgence in not revealing to him the contents of the box, explaining that knowledge of the contents would endanger all who knew. He had paid the fee agreed to Jakob of triple his income, accepting Jakob’s calculation without query.
Jakob, for his part, had spent the previous month preparing the Archbishop to cope with his departure, setting his accounts in order and organising a replacement. Whether the Archbishop thought it unusual or not that Jakob would be accompanying the priest, he did not say. He smiled at him, told him he was a sinner, that he would look out for his wife and daughters while he was away and asked him to take care of the young priest, who was an idealist with more heart than sense. It occurred to Jakob that a peaceful existence for him, his family and people was dependent on the whims of lords and bishops; that the difference between chaos and serenity was no more than a shift in the wind. He thanked Archbishop Frederick for his employment and his consideration.
The two would never meet again.
‘There is no future for the boy in Magdeburg,’ grunted Jakob, staring at the back of his son, who was now a field’s length in front of them. ‘Do you think I want to see him go? For him it is an adventure. He is young. His mother’s heart is broken.’
‘It is normal to send young men with aptitude to study or start an apprenticeship. I was sent to the seminary when I was thirteen years old,’ responded Bunting.
‘He will never return. Never,’ said Jakob, his lips pursed. ‘I have already lost my son.’
They walked on in silence for the remainder of that first day. Jakob, distracted and sullen, was lost in his own thoughts while Bunting used the silence to reflect on something disconcerting the Pope had said to him on his departure. The Pope had put his hand on Bunting’s shoulder, and said in a tired voice, ‘Remember this well, Herr Bunting, the vast majority of Christians are lost sheep. They are illiterate and ignorant. Their lives from the moment they are born to the day they die are shaped by men like you and me. They cannot be blamed. However, men like you and all the heretics can be blamed, as you have the knowledge, the education. I do not resile from weeding out heretics from our Church. Their power and influence makes them a thousand times more potent and dangerous than one ignorant peasant. Let me make it clear to you that your movement is doomed to fail. The reformers have robbed millions from the opportunity for the cultivation and maintenance of their supernatural life. Only naturalistic aspirations, aiming at the purely mundane, will be left. The denial of the divinely instituted authority of the Pope will open the door to every eccentricity and give rise to the endless division of sects. Already there are Lutherans, Calvinists, Anabaptists, Mennonites – the list goes on. I also foresee that zeal for good works will disappear from your Church, that asceticism which our Church has practised from her foundation will become despised by the reformers and that charitable and ecclesiastica
l objects will not be properly cultivated. Supernatural interest will fall into the background. Hear me out, Herr Bunting. I do not deny you or many of your movement’s earnest religious sentiment, but eventually you will all return to the Mother Church. Not in my lifetime, or the next hundred years, but it will surely happen as night becomes day.’
Was it possible that the Reform movement was doomed to fail? What worth then, for all that bloodshed and anguish? The Pope had made some sense to him. It was true that the Protestant movement had quickly split into different sects, each with its own charismatic leader, very human leaders with great intellects and even greater egos.
He had pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind since Pope Gregory had challenged him with them, on that grey morning, a month before. Now, however, that the quest had begun, they had come to the forefront like noxious gas rising from a marsh.
15
‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Julius loudly, breaking an hour of silence like Archimedes leaping from the bath. ‘Bunting had no intention of presenting his World Map as an accurate rendition of the known world. He was being allegorical!’
Nick and Verity looked up from their workstations at the excited professor. ‘Allegorical?’ Nick asked doubtfully.
‘Yes. Here on page 71 of this original German edition of Itinerarium he describes Europe as presiding over Africa, bestowing its ‘greatness’. Verity, let’s look at the World Map.’
They crowded around the table and peered at it. ‘I can’t see anything unusual!’ said Nick.
But Verity snatched the map and turned it around on the desk so that Spain was now at the top of the page. ‘There! Look at that! Spain and Portugal look like a head with a crown and Europe is the body in a flowing dress!’
‘You are absolutely right!’ gasped Nick, ‘It looks like a queen. She has one arm pointing to north and the other arm pointing east, with the boot of Italy as her hand. Julius, are you saying that Bunting deliberately created the map in this way for a reason?’
The Bunting Quest Page 7
