There was a confused silence, and to my delight I saw a congregation of frowns. The abbey’s head librarian, Brother Macabus, a middle-aged monk with very curly hair, deep folds under both eyes, and a curiously small nose, answered my master, also in Greek, ‘Is that which is holy loved by the Gods because it is holy, or is it holy because it is loved by the Gods?’
My master smiled. ‘Indeed. Is that not a timeless question, brother?’
The pope’s legation was silent. The only sound was that of men shifting in their seats with obvious bewilderment.
From my right there came a voice, ‘The Greeks honoured the body more than the soul.’ It was Brother Setubar, the old bent monk, speaking in slow deliberate words. ‘They were fools! Learning is only good for the body, the soul nourishes itself with spiritual things. As a physician I knew this, and so I learnt only what was necessary and no more. It is only pride that moves a man to know more than he ought to know, and it is pride which makes him think that he knows more than he should! We are born and from that moment we are depravati . . . corrupt, a body that dies little by little, that is all we need to know, everything else is dung!’ He ended, muttering something in his own German vernacular.
‘And yet Peter tells us,’ my master retorted, ‘that one must travel through the barren desert of doubt to find at its end the green meadows of faith and comprehension. A faith that is enlightened by knowledge. Peter denied Christ and was absolved.’
‘Peter was absolved, but Judas atones in hell for his sins!’ the old man cried. ‘Man should seek to know God! He should not seek knowledge of the world!’
It was at this point that I realised my master had manipulated the entire conversation in order to investigate the mysterious author of the note and I admonished myself for having thought ill of his intentions.
‘God is knowledge, venerable brother, by definition, and he did indeed create the world as we are told in Genesis,’ Andre said finally, almost a little heated now.
‘Yes, preceptor,’ Rainiero joined in, ‘but knowledge of God and knowledge of the world are not the same thing! One must shun the world and its iniquity and live only for revelation, in contemplation of holy scripture.’
My master smiled a terrible smile, close to a leer. ‘Then, by God! you have much in common with my Jewish friend, for he believes the same thing.’
We had come around full circle.
The inquisitor, full of malice, held his breath until his lips were almost blue. ‘Jews are fomenters of dissent, responsible for infecting Christian heresies – which are in any case multifarious – with the devil of cabbala. And if that were not a most heinous sin, they allow their adulterations to land in the curious hands of Christians who eagerly consume their demonic formulas!’
‘Formulas?’ my master inquired, raising a thick brow.
‘Everyone knows them, preceptor . . . the mystical meanings of mystical acts; numbers that are diabolically numerical; letters that are more meaningful than words, and words that have no meaning unless read backwards. Points and strokes, ciphers, acrostics and the unholy symbolic interpretation of biblical texts! Necromancia, astrologia, alchemia!’
When he finished, there was a hush, the other members of the legation looked down at their hands or their plates, shifting in their seats in an embarrassed fashion.
‘Your erudition is remarkable, Rainiero!’ my master remarked. ‘You must have spent many moments studying these things!’
‘You know being a man of war,’ he answered caustically, ‘that one cannot fight an unknown enemy. One must rather study an adversary’s every move, every thought . . . even if doing so constitutes a perpetual affront to one’s mildness and tranquillity of soul.’ He then raised his face, and rolled his eyes in a heavenly direction. ‘Often I am haunted! Haunted by those things that have come into my hands through the power afforded me! The most terrible works! The most heinous depravities! And yet I have forced myself to become familiar with the errors of the Devil, lest his falsehoods be mistaken for truths. I say, blessed is the man who is ignorant, blessed is he whose soul is protected from the weakness of his intellect!’
My master considered this for a moment. ‘But your grace the evil one does not merely work, as you know, through primary causes, that is, in a writer’s thoughts, but also through secondary causes, namely, in the disposition of the reader.’
The bishop filled his mouth with food, letting the juices run down the corners of his mouth. ‘That is also true,’ he confirmed and tore into the carcass of a bird.