Azazeel (29 page)

Four months ago they summoned Pharisee to Antioch at short notice. He went there and stayed away a month, and I missed him greatly. Then suddenly he came back, as he had gone, but he was a
little changed, without the calm smile which had adorned his face most of the time. When I asked him what had happened during his month in Antioch, he held his tongue.

At the end of the year 429 of the Nativity storm clouds gathered and we received from Constantinople reports that were disturbing and sometimes incomprehensible to me. Bishop
Nestorius, for example, had convened a local synod there, at which he stripped some priests of their ecclesiastical rank and sentenced them to expulsion because they disagreed with his opinion that
the Virgin Mary was the mother of Christ, or Christotokos. The priests collectively insisted on what they and most people believe – that the Virgin was Theotokos, or the mother of God. We
also heard that Bishop Nestorius had destroyed a church belonging to the Arians in Constantinople, obtained a decree from the emperor to hunt down the followers of Arius, declared war on members of
the Church of the Martyrs
¹²
and declared them guilty of heresy and deviation from the true faith.

I did not understand what was happening in the capital of the empire and I was not interested in checking the veracity of these jumbled reports. Naturally I did not suspect Bishop Nestorius of
any wrongdoing and the monks here did not accuse him of anything in front of me, because they knew that I liked him. And I do truly like him and to this day I persist in my affection for him,
preserving it in spite of the vicissitudes of time.

In the course of those dark days I caught sight of Martha for the first time, and the day I saw her it did not occur to me that her flame would burn me.

In the last week of that year, meaning the year 429, a caravan of monks passed by on the night we were celebrating Christmas, trying to kindle some festive cheer to warm
ourselves against the bitter cold of that winter, which almost froze the tips of our fingers off. Unusually heavy rain had been falling without cease, and the caravan, with a priest, three monks
and two servants, climbed the hill to the monastery on its way from Antioch to the land of the Kurds beyond the eastern desert. They said that they were going to preach the gospel there in a
country called Pars and that they intended to build a big church there in the hope that it would one day become a bishopric. Because the rain was so persistent and the road was cut the travellers
spent two nights with us, then left on the morning of the third day to continue their journey. I accompanied them to the foot of the hill with some of the monks from the monastery and then said
goodbye to them. On the way back I was thinking of the eastern desert, which one has to cross to reach the land of the Kurds. They told me it was extremely arid, with salty soil, and that in summer
when the heat is fierce it has flies and other insects which cling to the traveller’s face to try to extract the moisture of his body, and that some people may have died from all the flies
clinging to their face.

Later that day I wanted to drop in on the abbot in his room to see if he could confirm the reports I had heard of this eastern desert, but his door was closed. At the door I found two women
waiting, the trails of their dresses fluttering in the winter wind. When I approached, one of them gave me a dreamy look. I was startled and left immediately for my room. The cold air had frozen my
limbs but inside I was excited by the woman’s glance, which came to me from behind her diaphanous silk veil, so at the time I could not see her features. From the balcony of the upper floor
of the monks’ building, I noticed the priest of the church walking towards the two women. At the time I did not care to find out what was happening. I just closed my room door behind me and
sought warmth in the protection of the Lord.

In those days the walls of the library were turned into wooden cupboards because when we had the downpours I was worried that water might seep into the wooden shelves on which the books,
parchments and scrolls were put. Although the library was well roofed I was afraid that water might come in through the cracks in the walls, and there is nothing more dangerous to books than water:
it rots pieces of leather parchment and papyrus scrolls, and makes them stick together forever. Besides, the ink runs when it gets wet and the lines are completely wiped out. I spoke to the abbot
on the subject and he quickly summoned the village carpenter. We helped him cover the shelves with wooden doors and the books were then held in what looked like cupboards, but after that I missed
something I had always enjoyed – looking at the rows of books on the shelves. Whenever I went into the room, I would go straight to open all the cupboard doors, and I would not close them
until I was going out.

After weeks of lengthening nights and the onset of winter diseases, the cold eased a little and the sky cleared up. One night, when the clouds lifted from the dome of the firmament, which was
pure black and studded with stars, we were preparing to go out to the large church to say the last prayers of the day after gathering in the dining room for dinner and some hushed conversation. The
abbot held me back with a touch of his hand, and I slowed down until the other monks had moved away. Jubilant and proud, in a voice weakened by age and many ordeals and destroyed by many spiritual
exercises and prayers, he whispered to me, ‘Bishop Nestorius wants you for an important mission. He will meet you in Antioch tomorrow, after sunset.’

Tomorrow after sunset! So I would have to set out with the first rays of the sun, because the journey to Antioch could take the whole day and might be prolonged by the effects of the rain which
had poured down over the past weeks. I was anxious to see Nestorius and talk to him, so much so that I had thought of visiting Constantinople to see him. And now he was remembering me, and asking
to meet me hurriedly in Antioch. Hurriedly? What had happened? And what motive made him rush the meeting? Perhaps he was not going to stay long in Antioch, perhaps he was there for a few days to
visit his brothers and would then sail back to Constantinople to attend the Easter festivities there, and he wanted to see me before he left. Or did he perhaps want me for some other reason? So be
it, because anything that required that Nestorius see me must definitely be something benign and only good could come of it. Or perhaps he wanted me to go with him to the seat of his new bishopric,
or was he going to invite me again to stay in Antioch? Or did he want to start expanding this monastery and build the hospital we had talked about in the past?

‘So what do you think, my son? Why are you so distracted?’ said the abbot.

The abbot’s question brought me back from the labyrinth of possibilities which had swept me far away. I listened to him and took heed of his advice, which that night took the form of
‘Don’t leave too late in the morning, my son. Take some food for the day and some fodder for the donkey. Don’t uncover your head on the road, for the air is cold. Don’t stop
at the villages you come across, or else night might fall while you are still on the road. I’ll give you a letter for Bishop Nestorius. Put it in his hands and don’t let anyone read it
before him. If he offers you anything, accept it, for he is a man blessed of heaven. Leave your ego outside his gate and act in front of him like a corpse in the hands of the washer. Meeting him
will bathe you in light and spiritual power, so prepare to rejoice. Obey his instructions and be as he wants you to be. And submit your being to the will of the Lord.’

SCROLL SIXTEEN

A
fter the mass I hardly slept all night, just some fleeting snatches, for some reason I was not aware of. Half an hour before the sun rose I joined
the monks in the small church to say the first prayers of the day, waiting for the sunlight to bring some colour to the sky. When the colour on the horizon was more blue than black, I prepared to
set off for Antioch. The monastery courtyard was quiet and the air was still. The donkey, tied to a peg close to the gate to the animal pen, looked as though he were waiting for me at his tether
and knew that we had a long journey ahead of us, or perhaps he knew that because he saw me approaching with the bag of fodder. I rode the donkey out of the monastery gate as the first rays of the
sun lit up the world in splendour.

At the gate I saw one of the soldiers from the Roman troop contingent, wrapped up in his heavy camel-wool cloak. He was lying on the floor next to the broken-down wall, snoring loudly in his
sleep. I said to myself, ‘Here’s the monastery guard, asleep under the protection of the guard of the universe, who never slumbers. Why don’t the priests, the bishops and the
monks take a lesson from him and leave the matters of the world to God and refrain from their internecine strife? Today, when the chance arises, I shall ask Bishop Nestorius whether there is any
truth to the reports, current among the monks, that he has oppressed those he views as heretics. I shall also ask him about what he said in the sermon he gave at his installation as bishop, when he
addressed the emperor saying, ‘Help me in my war on unbelievers and I will help you in your war with Persia. Give me an Earth free of heresy and I will give you the keys to Heaven.’ If
it is true that he said such strange things, then he must have changed since I knew him, and must now be seeking earthly things, not heaven, and I would not like to see him do that.

The guard did not notice us leaving. Even his dog, lying beside him, took little interest in my passing. The dog raised its head and saw me, twice beat its tail lightly on the ground and then
lay down again. On the slope leading from the monastery hill down to the plains which stretch to the horizon, I leant back to keep my balance on the donkey’s back. In spite of the
abbot’s admonitions my head was bare. The last of the night breezes ruffled through my hair and the cool air was delightful. The donkey’s pace suggested that he was cheerful too. He
loved to go down the hill: all creatures like to go down and take pleasure in that, except mankind, who is deceived by delusions and driven by dreams. Mankind takes pleasure in rising and climbing.
Perhaps that is instinctive in man, since he is an extension of God on High and so he likes ascents, which take him up to his elevated origins, towards the Father who is in the heavens, the Father
occluded beyond the folds of the heavens.

As light spread across the land, the donkey and I walked across the flat land, the monastery behind us and the world stretching westwards before us. After a while we came to the long road which
leads in the direction of Antioch, a road so long that it looks as if it never ends. The Romans paved this road with stone centuries ago. Why didn’t they pave roads in the Nile valley? The
Romans never took any interest in Egypt, only inasmuch as they could plunder wheat and wine from it. Or perhaps the annual flooding of the Nile was the reason why they did not pave the roads in
Egypt, since it tends to displace stones, except the stones in the old temples, because they are too massive and too stable to be affected by the Nile flood. But being massive and stable did not
protect them from the Christians. In the town of Esna in southern Egypt I saw ordinary Christians destroying the pictures drawn on the great temple by scratching the surface of the walls. They
tried to erase the pictures at the top of the columns and on the high ceilings by throwing mud at them. When it proved difficult to cover them, because the ceiling was too high, they came up with
an extraordinary idea. They would bring green reeds, grasses and old rags and set fire to them in the main hall of the temple and the other big rooms. The thick black smoke was enough to coat the
reliefs with a layer of soot. They did this for so long that they were able to cover the ceilings with black and the reliefs were effaced. After that, they turned the temple into a huge monastery,
including five churches.

The road to Antioch is long. When the sun grew fierce above us and the donkey found its stride, I nodded off into brief dozes full of visions. I love these moments halfway between waking
alertness and snatches of sleep. I imagine that God decided to create the world in such a moment. God does not sleep, He only tires and rests. His rest is like the sleep of us his human children.
Sleep is rest full of dreams and visions. I wonder if the Lord dreams. Who knows? For maybe this universe with everything in it is just one of His dreams.