Their welcome off the caravel had been by one of the many Topasses who worked with the friars. Bunting and Jakob had previously decided it would be foolhardy to pretend they were part of the crew, as it would only take one drunken loose-mouthed sailor to inadvertently say otherwise, and they could find themselves in a dangerous situation. So, they had sent a messenger from the boat to announce their arrival. The slimly built Philip de Freitas explained that he and the other Topasses were the descendants of Portuguese soldiers, sailors and traders who had intermarried with native women on Solor Island to the north of Timor. They had all been Christianised and controlled most of the trade networks between Solor, Timor and Larantuka. They worked closely with the Dominican friars who spoke their language, provided spiritual fortitude and had the military backing of Lisbon.
Philip talked openly as they walked from the harbour across a raised wooden structure over swampland to the settlement, his large brown eyes unable to hide his curiosity about his unusual guests.
‘We are in a precarious situation, my friends,’ said the genial Philip. ‘We not only have to worry about the competing European powers but also the rapacious Moslems, who believe that Allah has commanded them to conquer all these islands. In times of treaty, this settlement has hosted all these groups who have feasted and celebrated together in this very fort. Then, without warning, a new Sultan will arise and challenge the Spanish, Portuguese or occasional Dutch trader, and chaos resumes. This is not the place to plant roots. They will be torn violently from the ground and cast into the sea.’
This seemed hard to believe as they walked around the ordered community with its wide dirt streets, tidy animal pens and flourishing fields of crops. The friars had built their town in the style of the natives, with many wooden structures set on stilts. Some buildings were almost round, others had wide flat verandas and steep palm-fronded thatched roofs. Their formidable fort faced the sea. Canons protruded from small gaps in the mud-brick walls. In the centre stood the whitewashed Church of Saint Joseph, whose bells pealed three times a day. It was here that they were led and introduced to the leader of the Dominicans.
Philip de Freitas spoke in native language to Friar Taveira, while Bunting, Jakob and Amir stood by quietly. The friar nodded his head and responded in the same language, before indicating to Philip that he could leave.
The friar was a thin, small man with wiry grey hair cut close to his head. A neat, long grey beard grew from his chin to his chest, but most disconcerting to Bunting was his different coloured eyes that bore into him, demanding the truth.
‘Why exactly have you come here, Herr Bunting?’ said Friar Taveira. ‘My calling is to spread the Gospels and that is what I have done here, for the last twenty years. Forgive me, but I am suspicious of strangers and I have received no advance letter of introduction. We do not take kindly to heretics here and would rather remove that scourge promptly than risk infection to our flock.’
Jakob held his breath, knowing that any lies or deception could lead to imprisonment or worse. Bunting did not mince his words. ‘Sir, we are on a mission for Pope Gregory. I cannot divulge the nature of it, but I can show you the papal ring that His Most Holy gave me. I also supply letters of introduction by Duke Ottavio Farnese di Parma, Gonfaloniere of the Church.’
The friar stood still and did not say a word. He stared long and hard at Bunting, trying to gain a measure of the man. ‘You say you have met His Holiness yourself?’ he asked, indicating to Bunting to hand over the letters and ring for inspection.
‘Yes, Seniori Ugo Boncompagni and I are well acquainted and have spent long hours discussing theology through the night. His Holiness calls on me for certain special duties.’
The use of the familiar name of the Pope shook the friar, who coughed and, for the first time in the meeting, lowered his piercing stare and excused his suspicious nature on too many years away from Rome. It was obvious to Jakob that on this occasion, his young friend had won the day.
‘Welcome to Lifau. I will have Philip show you to frugal but clean accommodation. You will find us a strict God-fearing community. You will be expected to attend all services and partake in the daily chores. Hopefully, when you return to Rome you will be able to speak highly of us to His Holiness.’ He then gestured them to the door, where Philip was waiting.
‘Your skills continue to impress me, Heinrich.’
‘Nothing but the truth,’ replied a smiling Bunting.
36
While Dom Letizia was negotiating with officious Australian customs officers at Perth International Airport, Nick and Verity were saying their thankyous to Carl and searching the grounds of the cathedral for the professor. They discovered him at the back of the building, staring into the slow-moving river. Clearly agitated, he explained that something urgent had come up and he had to return to Gottingen as soon as possible.
When Verity mentioned the other inscription translation on the phial, Schroeder had been dismissive. ‘Well, who knows what it all means? An academic has to be very careful not to read into things too much. When I get a chance, I will have a closer examination and let you know what I find.’
Nick and Verity declined his offer to return with him and decided they would prefer to stay in Magdeburg. They collected their backpacks from the Mercedes and thanked the professor for his thorough history tour of the world of Heinrich Bunting. Carl, the guide, had recommended a hotel that was nearby and close to the centre of town.
Drinking a local beer, in the warm glow of the log fire in the hotel’s charming wood panelled bar, they debriefed on the last twelve hours.
‘I can’t understand why Schroeder dismissed the inscription in that way,’ Verity began.
‘I agree,’ said Nick, enjoying not having the enigmatic professor around. ‘The other possible translation, to my mind, changes everything.’ He stared at the notes he had made at the time. ‘If voyage is a better use of early New-High German than pilgrimage and resting place becomes hidden place then it changes so much.’
‘Yes, and what about journey becoming quest and not honour but duty !’ ‘Well, chuck that into the mix with the text from Itinerarium that Julius found and brought to our attention: In a land beyond the faith where no cross has shined / The Words are hidden in this Godforsaken land.’
Verity ordered another beer for both of them. Nick couldn’t help notice the way Verity’s eyes sparkled as she spoke and the way she used her hands to express herself. When she walked to the bar, her movements were strangely compelling for him.
The conversation drifted away from Bunting, churches and maps, as the effects of alcohol, fine food and exhaustion took effect. Nick learned that Verity had been brought up by her father after her mother had been killed in a car accident when she was six; that she had two much older sisters and that Julius had never remarried, although he had had a couple of ‘friends’. Verity felt a sense of guilt that her father remained single, probably because of her. Nick empathised completely with her story as he had also lost his mother, when he was twelve. His father, who worked overseas for many months of the year, had arranged for Nick to be brought up by his paternal grandparents in Witney. He had an older brother, William, who was already at university when their mother died; he kept in touch with him but saw him only a couple of times a year.
‘I think that’s why I was such a rebellious teenager,’ said Verity. ‘I had no mother to guide me or scold me, or talk to about girl things. My sisters were both much older and had left home. Dad tried his best but he found solace in his work and mostly left me to my own devices.’
‘I suppose I have struggled with relationships,’ revealed Nick. ‘I also had no example of what a good relationship was made of. My grandfather died the year after I moved in with them, and then it really was just me and my grandmother. William and our father joined us a couple of times a year, but William had his own life and my father remarried a Canadian woman, who already had children and lived in Vancouver. For some reason, I’m not sure why,
I remained in England.’
An hour later they retired exhausted to their single rooms, but the goodnight kiss in the hallway melded into a long passionate embrace and the next morning found them in the same room.
Nick woke early and gently undraped Verity’s arm from around his waist. He took a deep breath as he stared at the sleeping beauty and instinctively knew it would be all right.
He then spent an hour on the internet researching anti-Catholic themes. Schroeder’s strange outburst in the car the day before had disturbed him and he needed to explore it further. The search engine eventually led him to the troubles in Ireland: the modern expression of a nine-hundred-year dispute. From Norman England to Henry VIII to Oliver Cromwell, rulers of England had invaded Catholic Ireland and then encouraged settlement by English and Scottish Protestants. Catholic resistance was finally snuffed out by King William of Orange at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. This eventually led to a ruling landed class, called planters, who looked down on the native population, in particular in the north-east of the island where the Protestant settler population was concentrated. Years of Catholic rebellion eventually led to the establishment of the Free Irish State at the beginning of the twentieth century and complete independence by 1920. However, the Protestant-dominated provinces remained loyal to Britain and continued to be governed by Westminster. Paramilitary factions had evolved to violently promote political goals. The Irish Republican Army were on one side and the Ulster Defence Force on the other.
Clicking on YouTube, Nick was fascinated and revolted by old news reports of carnage from IRA bombings in Protestant neighbourhoods and pubs in Belfast and similar acts by the UDF and other Protestant paramilitary forces on Catholic strongholds.
‘Must be fascinating,’ said Verity, appearing over his shoulder, ‘to compel you to sneak out of bed this morning.’
‘Uh oh, sorry,’ said Nick, missing the undertone. ‘I am trying to understand the lovely professor’s attitude and I recalled that he spent ten years in Ireland. Coincidentally, Jaeger’s sidekick was also Irish so … well I thought I would …’
‘What’s this?’ said Verity, pointing at the screen.
Nick glanced back at the screen to see the marching drum and fife band. ‘I must have clicked on an Orange Order celebration march.’ They both stared at the annual summer celebration of Protestant victories from four centuries before. The band and procession led by grim-faced older men in black suits, bowler hats and orange sashes across their chests strode purposefully forward through the centre of cheering crowds, carrying Union flags, Red Cross of Ulster flags and multi-coloured banners of the different Orange Orders. The unique shrill sound of the fifes playing the provocative ‘The sash my father wore’ rang out, while out front, the mace bearers threw and twirled and jigged like possessed dervishes. Nick clicked on a compilation of ‘Orange Day Marches from the Seventies’. Same shrill sound of the fifes and beat of the drums, same type of faces, this time through streets of Belfast, Portadown, Londonderry; now the camera filmed people standing, not cheering, in their tenement doorways, staring through curtained windows and then suddenly, screams and shouts in that flat Northern Irish brogue: ‘Ya fuckin proddy bastards, fuck off!’; breaking glass, the screen shaking and moving, police and horses and people running – ‘Stop filming ya cunt’ – and no more.
Nick looked at Verity. ‘Charming …’
He clicked again; another occasion. The camera scanned thousands of men and women and children, police milling around, smiling faces. The filming stopped and then restarted in the same location a few minutes later as the procession marched past the camera. Verity and Nick stared, transfixed to the screen, neither comprehending what brings these people to this point. They could see it in their faces: their pride, their arrogance, their defiance. The words of the Sash had been superimposed over the video.
So sure l’m an Ulster Orangeman, from Erin’s Isle I came,
To see my British brethren all of honour and of fame,
And to tell them of my forefathers who fought in days of yore,
That I might have the right to wear, the sash my father wore!
It is old but it is beautiful, and its colours they are fine,
It was worn at Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne.
My father wore it as a youth in bygone days of yore,
And on the Twelfth I love to wear the sash my father wore.
For those brave men who crossed the Boyne have not fought or died in vain,
Our Unity, Religion, Laws, and Freedom to maintain,
If the call should come we’ll follow the drum, and cross that river once more,
That tomorrow’s Ulsterman may wear the sash my father wore!
And when some day, across the sea to Antrim’s shore you come,
We’ll welcome you in royal style, to the sound of flute and drum,
And Ulster’s hills shall echo still, from Rathlin to Dromore
As we sing again the loyal strain of the sash my father wore!
The flapping banners slid past the camera: ‘No surrender’, ‘Ulster Loyalists’, ‘Derry Apprentice Boys’, ‘Royal Black Institution’, ‘Battle of the Boyne’.
‘Wait a second,’ said Nick, stopping the video. He moved the play button back twenty seconds and stared at the screen. He watched for ten seconds, then repeated the action.
‘What is it, Nick? What are you looking at?’
Nick replayed the scene again and pointed to the screen. ‘Can you see, just after the “Derry Apprentice Boys” banner, the next banner is “Royal Black Institution”.’ He stopped the screen. ‘Look to the right of that banner. Can you see it, another banner that says “Royal Arch Purple Brethren”?’
Verity stared hard at the screen, peering over Nick’s shoulder.
‘The tall man in the front – yes, him with the strange marks on his face. I think that is Jaeger, Inspector Jaeger, the bogus policeman! It definitely is Jaeger, younger but totally recognisable!’
He stared at the screen and played the ten second portion over and over. ‘My God, Jaeger, or whatever his real name is, is a Protestant loyalist!’
37
‘As I see it, Heinrich, it would be just fine for you to hide the box somewhere on this island. All we need to do is to take a short walk into the forest and dig a hole. In this isolated part of the world there is little chance of it being discovered.’
‘Do you really think so, or have four months living with the Dominicans affected your reasoning?’ said Bunting sharply.
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Jakob, surprised by his friend’s tone. ‘My relationship with these men is cordial. They appreciate my skills. The fact Friar Taveira trusts me to look after the financial affairs of the settlement is testament to that. Are you sure it is not your own prejudice that has affected you? Friar Taveira knows I am a Jew and utilises my race’s talents as he calls it.’
Bunting listened, aware he had upset Jakob, who continued to speak.
‘He is more suspicious of you, a fellow Christian, than he is of me. However, my point is that Captain Serrao is due back in Lifau sometime soon and if you were to hide the Pope’s box here, we could leave and return to our homes.’
‘I’m sorry I was short with you. I have thought of little else these past few weeks and have been tempted to do just as you say. However, I made a promise to Pope Gregory to hide it where no Christian man could find it, and if this settlement keeps growing, then who knows how long it will be before it expands into the forest. I also worry that a native would notice the disturbance in the earth and dig it up, then offer it to the friars in exchange for food or drink. This is not the place.’
‘It is your quest and your decision,’ said Jakob walking off, smarting from the conversation.
Bunting let out a deep sigh, holding himself back from calling after his friend. Maybe Jakob was right. He did feel uneasy in Lifau. He always felt conscious of the watchful eye of Friar Taveira, who was clearly suspicious of
him. Who could blame the friar? A stranger arrives, not a Dominican, perhaps not even a Catholic, with a story of being on a mission for the Pope. Undoubtedly, the friar would have sent a letter of query back to Rome soon after they arrived. What sort of response would he get? Furthermore, his discomfort was heightened by the friar’s insistence on him partaking in the prayer services, from which Jakob – as a Jew – had been excused. Undeniably, but surprising to him, he found the Catholic liturgy and procedures repugnant. Perhaps he was prejudiced, as Jakob had suggested.
He wandered into the sun-baked dirt street of the settlement. As the smell of cooking feijoada wafted in the gentle breeze of the warm evening air, he wondered if Jakob had compromised his dietary rules to eat the popular Portuguese meal of pork and bean stew and then felt guilty for judging him.
Arriving at the fort walls, he nodded to a sentry before climbing the steps to the battlements. The sea stretched lazily forever in front of him. The sinking sun in the west laid a blanket of multi-colours, from the shore to the horizon, and he felt God’s presence radiating through the azure, deep blues and purple. He had promised to fulfil the quest and he knew, from the very depths of his being, that this was not the place.
‘I often sit here in the evenings,’ said Philip de Freitas from the shadows, his brown skin melding into the background. ‘I would have revealed myself earlier, but your contemplative state prevented me from disturbing you. In fact, you even spoke aloud and I thought there may be another person with you. You said, “This is not the place”.’ He stared thoughtfully at Bunting.
Bunting had been jolted from his heavenly thoughts by the voice from the dark, and strangely, which on later examination he put down to divine intervention, decided to speak frankly.
‘I need to travel where no Christian man has been, Philip. Do you know such a place?’
Philip slowly rose to his feet, gathered himself and stood next to Bunting. Both men looked out to sea, the short space between them filled and heavy with the unanswered question. Philip contemplated the silhouettes of the coconut palms guarding the beach with their jagged fronds and the listened to the silences between the crashing waves before turning his head. He examined the young priest’s face carefully. He then spoke quietly, in an undertone.
The Bunting Quest Page 19
