Temple of The Grail (5 page)

‘I see,’ Andre answered, a frown
darkening his brow.

‘However, you must not tax him with
unnecessary questions.’

‘Of course, your holiness, we will
only disturb him for the most important of reasons.’

The abbot hesitated, perhaps a little
unsure of my master’s sincerity, then he blessed us and disappeared into the
grey void of the church.

‘Very well,’ my master whispered to
me, in heightened spirits, ‘now we know three things.’

‘Do we?’ I asked, amazed.

‘Naturally, haven’t you been
listening? We know firstly that when this abbey was built, its architects used
underground tunnels to divert running water. We also know that the abbot is
most anxious that we do not inspect the abbey by night, and also that he is not
comfortable with us asking the old brother questions. A man who may know with accuracy
the abbey’s history! I should think this is enough for one afternoon.’

‘If you ask me, master, I say we still
do not know anything at all!’

‘Patience, patience! Knowledge does
not consist of what one knows, but rather, knowing what one does not know, as
Plato tells us.’

‘What do we do next?’

‘We disobey the abbot, and inspect
the monastery by night.’

‘Disobey? But, master –’

‘Hush, Christian, in this case God
will forgive us.’

I hesitated, observing how the shadow
of dusk was settling over the compound. ‘And what about the antichrist?’

‘The only devil, Christian, exists in
ignorance and folly, as I have told you, don’t look for Satan behind every
shadow, rather learn to distinguish his form in the eyes of a man. Now to
vespers!’

It was only later, after the holy
office, as I lay on my pallet that memories of Mansourah returned with
vividness. I had no wish to cast my mind back to those days. I tried rather to
forget (if only it were possible!) the crazed blood of battle, the anguished
cries and tortured faces, the clatter and thunder of hoofs stirring up grit,
the rattle of armoured bodies charging, pressing. Yet in my ears the groans
still echo with such clarity that I almost feel the pain of wounds that gape
and fester. I watch as though I am standing, once again wide-eyed, as the
standards are raised and the banners unfurled. I hear the wild snorting of
animals on the spur, the cries of the young captains. I observe the carnage,
and note everything on parchments for future chroniclers. I see the bits of
bodies flung about, discarded, and I watch as others lose their stomachs, or
cry silently. Everywhere life-blood, sweet and metallic, and the suffocating
smoke that settles to reveal the charred flesh of Greek fire. I witness my
master’s devotion as he stitches up flesh, stuffs bowels back into abdomens,
cauterises or uses his fist in a vain attempt to stop the rush of blood . . .
hours and hours, too many bloody days with his arms to the elbows, his white
mantle stained with carmine, wading through the fields of bodies.

I remember now, old man that I am,
how a cloud of scourge struck those of us who survived in waves of fever and
dysentery, sending mucus spilling from the nostrils and spasms wrenching the
gut. I see my master, so clearly, cutting out the lower parts of his drawers
and continuing his work in a camp that is no longer filled with the stench of
blood, but excrement and doom.

Andre had urged a retreat, the king
had agreed, but it was too late for many. The Comte d’Artois, on whose command
we had proceeded to Mansourah though we were short in numbers, who laughed at
those who had advised caution, the same man who disobeyed the king’s orders by
pressing ahead to battle, had, in his ignorance and vainglory, led hundreds to
their deaths at the hands of thousands.

All I recall of the night we left was
that it was filled with cries. A confusion of arrows tipped with Greek fire,
star-like, falling around us in conflagration as we escaped. My master was
wounded by two Saracen arrows, one in the knee and the other in the chest, as
he helped men onto our little boat overflowing with terror, sickness and dying.
Damietta seemed a lifetime away.

Why did these recollections return at
that moment to torment me? I can only say, now that I am far removed from those
days, and so, able to see them all the more clearly, that in my heart I
perceived an equivocal peril in the monastery. A peril whose dissimilar
similitude may have appeared all too vague, because in my spiritual illiteracy
I could only ascertain the letters and not the words (as yet unknown to me)
whose nature reveals truths gradually. So that I saw only the signs, or sign of
signs (alas!) illegible, and yet unmistakable; our capital tells us that a
Templar must not walk according to his proper will, and to honour this rule is
the duty of every faithful knight, but my master, like the Comte d’Artois, had
a will of his own, and although devoted to his faith, I believed some part of him
(perhaps the infidel part) sought to be as free as those eagles one sees
soaring above all things, and I feared for him. I feared that his disregard for
the rules of obedience, driven as I knew it was by his love of logic and
freedom – so similar and yet dissimilar to that other, whose nature was
driven by pride and ignorance – might lead us all into the pit.

At last, in the grip of such
sensations I said a prayer, letting it rest in the bosom of those higher beings
of whom it is said that they are wisdom personified. Deciding that all learning
and reason is for naught, when one is bound by other laws, laws that bind a
monk to his superior, and he to his conscience, and then finally to God . . .

The bell tolled the hour as we
crossed the compound on our way to the refectory for the great dinner. With the
relief afforded by prayer I found that I welcomed the idea of going to the
table, even though in my heart I continued to feel a profound dread.

My master accompanied me to the
cloister buildings, dressed in formal dress: the usual padded undercoat beneath
the surcoat of the order, which was long and came to the ground at a severe
angle. It was made of burel cloth, or coarse linen bleached white bearing the
well-known red cross of the order. It had no lining of lambskin, or wool, so it
did little to protect one from the cold. My master, not one to savour the
vanities that others found essential, never complained, even on such a night,
for although the storm had not come as predicted and the wind had died down,
the cold air penetrated to the bone. When I asked my master if he was cold he
reminded me that habits of coarse wool such as the one given me by the abbey,
although warmer, also harboured fleas and lice. A lifetime of itching, he told
me, was often responsible for turning away many an aspirant novice from the
ideal of monastic life. I scratched, certain that my body was already food for
some unseen, but no doubt hideous, vermin.

Thus we continued, seeing little
beyond a few paces as the evening fog descended. Half way across the main
courtyard, my master handed me a parchment. I held it to my face, and as we
neared the lighted cloister door I could barely make out a message, written in
Greek,

Those who inquire the light of knowledge, die in blind
ignorance.

‘But that does not make sense,’ I
remarked.

‘I suspect that what he meant to say
was . . .’ my master instructed, ‘those who seek the light of knowledge die in
blind ignorance. An incautious translator such as yourself may very easily
confuse the words seek and inquiry. The Greek vernacular, like Latin,
Christian, is fraught with traps for the unsuspecting.’ He proceeded to tell me
that someone had left the parchment in his cell while we were out investigating
the abbey.

I was about to ask many questions when
I realised that we were almost upon Eisik whose figure stood just inside the
east door. He looked like a man unable to decide his next movements, taking one
step forward, and then shaking his head, taking two steps back. All the while
he muttered lengthy lines of dialogue in Hebrew below his breath, which, in the
cold, created billowy clouds around his form.

‘Holy fathers!’ he exclaimed, turning
around and staring at us with his big eyes as though he were looking at the Devil
himself. ‘You startle me! Feel my heart, for the love of Abraham! It pounds
like that of a hare!’ then, ‘You’re late, late I tell you! And now what misery
. . .! All eyes will be upon me. I think I shall return to the stables to eat
in peace!’ He turned to leave, but my master stopped him.

‘Nonsense, old man! It will be a fine
dinner, you are my guest and therefore welcome. Walk with us and tell us your
thoughts. Come, what do you think of the abbey? Is it filled with the ghosts of
dead monks, then?’ my master said, laughing a little because he thought lightly
about such things, but I shuddered as we entered the dark and solemn cloister.

‘By the God of Israel you are
impertinent!’ Eisik scowled and pointed his finger at my master. ‘We must not
laugh before mysterious and holy things! We must have reverence!’

‘I beg your pardon, Eisik,’ my master
said, ‘but you have not answered my question. Tell me, what are your
impressions of the abbey?’

‘That you should ask me such a
question is beyond my understanding!’ He shrugged his shoulders, ‘Have I not
trained you to see the signs? They will have eyes to see but will not see, ears
to hear but will not listen . . . It seems you have forgotten what I have told
you, namely, that everything is an outward and visible suggestion of an inward
and spiritual being.’ He sighed. ‘Well, well, it seems an old man must repeat
himself
ad infinitum
or else leave men to their ignorance . . . There
are signs! Signs that point to signs whose indications allude to other signs,
sometimes tangible, other times indiscernible, though always, to an initiate,
very clear; that is to one who cares to listen. For one who is able to decipher
the meaning of meaningful things, the voice of the spirit is crystalline.’ He
paused then, stopping us with his hands and cocking his head to one side. ‘Ahh!
You see! Everything speaks!’ he affirmed with a shake of his head.

‘Come, it is you who must speak, but
not in riddles,’ My master said.

‘Bah! Knowledge lies not in the
person who speaks but rather in the person who listens . . . or was that
eloquence? I cannot remember now . . . In any event, this will be the first day
that a Nazarene admits to needing Jewish knowledge! As I have said, the signs
are all here. The abbey faces east, accessed through a forest, like the mystery
temple at Ephesus where the image of the Goddess Artemisia also faced east.
Behind it the mountains, ahead of it the valley, the sages tell us that the orientals
consider this alignment quite favourable,’ then he smiled. ‘And also
strategically it is very wisely constructed, my friend. To attack such a place
would be difficult.’

‘Then you are saying it reminds you
of the Cathar strongholds?’

The old man nodded. ‘I sense a
Gnostic temple where the four ethers are concentrated and fused, linking the
past with the present and future. Then too, one cannot discount the position of
the planet Mercury at our arrival, nor the portal and the raven as a messenger
that spoke three times indicating the three
Templa
or sacred places
dedicated to God, and so it scarcely goes without saying, my friend, that there
are Templars here. You know it as I do, I feel their presence . . . after all,
the abbot greeted you with the
greeting
didn’t he
?
’ He slapped two hands together happily. ‘Soon
you will see that I am right!’

‘I take your point,’ my master
conceded, ‘and yet I must say that it is remarkable that a Jew should know the
greeting, considering it is only used by those admitted into the order. Perhaps
you would like to enlighten us?’

Eisik lowered his eyes cautiously, ‘I
know many things, Andre, and yet I know nothing! Nor do I wish to know anything
as it happens for it is blissful to live in the divine numbness of ignorance .
. .’ then he graced me with a rare smile, ‘but knowing nothing is also
something.’

‘Not according to Plato,’ answered
Andre. ‘Tell me then, what does your knowing without knowing say to you about the
inquisitor?’

‘For one, his hair is frizzy, which
means he has a choleric temper. Secondly he is balding . . .’

‘But he is tonsured,’ my master
pointed out.

‘Even so, he balds and we are told
that such men are crafty, avaricious, hypocritical and make a pretence of
religion. But his eyes . . . his pale eyes indicate to us that he is touched
with madness . . .’

‘You may call me an unbeliever, dear
friend, but in this case I do believe you.’

At this point we arrived at the
dimly-lit south walk that led to the great doors and I was struck by the devil
of curiosity, no longer able to refrain from asking more about the note.

‘Note?’ Eisik’s faculties were immediately
aroused. ‘What note?’

My master explained about the
parchment with the strange Greek message, and Eisik shook his head before
exclaiming.

‘You see! Gnostic, as I have told
you! And worse still, a warning . . . a peculiar thing, for one knows not if it
warns against a possible tragedy or a probable one!’

‘Perhaps both, as Aristotle tells us,’
my master answered.