The Seer and the Scribe (21 page)

“Father Abbot!” Brother Rudegerus's voice shattered the peace as he rushed into the dining hall. All the monks suddenly stopped chewing their bread and held their wooden utensils suspended in midair so as not to miss one word of this brazen interruption. Rudegerus the Guest Master continued, “Father, there's a stranger in the Infirmary who's speaking out of his mind! I fear he might be possessed by an evil demon.”

The Abbot bent his head slightly and said, “Now, now, let's not make more of the situation than necessary, Brother Rudegerus.” The Abbot gave a hand signal for everyone to continue their meals and rose from the table. “Is this man able to speak?”

“When he was not raving, he apparently asked to speak with you, Abbot Burchard.”

“I see. Show me this beleaguered man and I will give him counsel. Brother Volmar, you may want to accompany us in case this stranger has a request that needs to be recorded.”

Volmar reached for the bread and tore off a few chunks to slip into his pockets for later. “Thank you, Father. I assume I'm in your good graces again?”

“I never said that,” the Abbot remarked lightly as he led the way to the Infirmary.

Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery

5
^th
of November, Mid-Day

Brother Rudegerus walked with them to the cavernous room of the male Infirmary. He motioned to the man lying on the cot in the far corner. “If it were up to me,” he grumbled, “I would've bound him with chains. Brother Paulus felt it was unnecessary and refused to listen to my warnings.”

The Abbot simply grunted in dissent and left Brother Rudegerus's side, walking directly towards the sick man. Lining the walls on both sides were humble pallets raised on wood platforms and tied together with knots of rope. A fire burned brightly in the open hearth. It lent a warm glow to the noisy, bustling hall. The Infirmary was crowded with
homeless men and boys, their skin lined and toughened prematurely like old leather. Respectfully, they were silent as the Abbot and the two monks walked past, then they continued what they were doing.

Brother Paulus waved his hand from the far corner of the room. He put down the spoon he was using to feed one of the elderly residents and went to wash his hands in a basin. Volmar admired how his movements never seemed hurried, but instead were methodical and careful. It was as if he walked in another plane of existence, where scientific discipline ruled and challenged the noisy confusion of pain and poverty that surrounded him daily. He was disappointed, though, that he couldn't see Sophie anywhere.

“I wish his friend was still here, he could tell you more of the man,” Brother Paulus said, joining the Abbot and Volmar.

“His friend?” Volmar asked.

“The stranger who brought him in, a personable younger man of Persian descent, said he owed his life to this man. I gathered he was Matthias's assistant in a hospital in Jerusalem during the war. By the way, Sophie recognized Matthias as the man in the forest who saved her grandfather's life two summers ago.”

Volmar registered both facts with wonderment. He turned to the Abbot. “Atif?”

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.

Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery

5
^th
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.”