Brother Bernard's Requiem (standard:fantasy, 8110 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Mar 26 2005	Views/Reads: 3391/2237	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
1535 - King Henry VIII will shortly begin the dissolution of the monasteries. A monk travels to Istanbul on a mission of hope, to find a relic and stop the destruction.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Mehmet reached through, ringing a bell housed within a small alcove and
summoning the innkeeper. 

*** 

The room was spartan.  On the floor was a straw mattress, chair and a
table with a clay oil lamp. 

The innkeeper lit the lamp and approached Bernard with an outstretched
hand.  He paid the man and he left, slamming the door behind him. 

He opened the side pouch of his pannier and removed a linen bag.  Inside
was a role of parchment, quill pen and an earthenware bottle of 
precious ink.  He placed the items on the table and after a moment 
began to write. 

5th April, Anno Domini 1535. 

My Dearest Brother Matthew, 

At last I have reached Istanbul.  It staggers me to think that this was
once a Christian city - glorious Constantinople, where the Word spread 
over the lands of the east, uniting the people under one God.  Now I 
fear the ruler of this land, Suleyman the Magnificent, has a similar 
goal in mind.  His armies have already taken Rhodes and Belgrade, and 
it was only by the grace of God that he did not capture Vienna.  He 
sees himself as the Slave of Allah, sent to conquer the world in the 
name of Islam.  The frightening thing is, he may succeed. 

Yet, if Suleyman is fearsome to his enemies, then he is magnanimous to
his subjects.  He has brought stability, establishing laws and 
undertaking great building works.  His people prosper and his court has 
become a gathering place artists and philosophers.  Nor does he treat 
his non-Muslim subjects harshly.  Many of his top advisors are 
Christian and he forbids the suppression or molestation of other 
religions within his lands, provided, of course, that they acknowledge 
his rule.  There is many a Christian monarch who could learn from his 
example. 

Tomorrow I will seek out Byzas the merchant.  I must confess to you, my
Brother, that I have been assailed by doubts as to the wisdom of this 
course of action.  It sometimes seems to me that I have been sent by 
the shade of an idea in search of a shadow.  If what we have heard is 
correct, then what can truly save us?  A relic?  The finger bone of a 
saint, or a sliver of the true cross?  Will this ward off King Henry's 
men when they come to pull down the walls around us?  Forgive me, my 
Brother, but I think not.  I know that you would scold me for such 
thoughts, I can almost see you shaking your head, old-friend.  But of 
all our Benedictine Brothers I have always been the most paltry in 
spirit, the most in need of your prayers. 

No, I have seen much of the world and know first hand of man's cruelty. 
When Lords and Kings act it is the common people who suffer, and no 
earthly force can prevent it.  We live in evil times; indeed, as I grow 
older I begin to give credence to Brother Simon's belief that we are 
entering the final days.  Soon the Beast will rise and the people's 
suffering will be ten-fold.  We must remember our duties and help those 
less fortunate; all the time keeping in mind that evil's kingdom is 
both temporal and temporary, soon to be swept aside by the coming of 
the Lord and our deliverance. 

My Brother, do you see how my thoughts have turned during this journey? 
I am no longer the carefree Bernard you once knew.  I left that man 
behind at the Abbey of Monte Cassino, when I heard the gossip of the 
Monks; of what King Henry has planned for the monasteries. I sincerely 
hope you received the letter I wrote then.  I fear time is running out 
for us, by the time this letter reaches you the monastery may already 
be gone, sold-off to fatten the King's already burgeoning coffers.  But 
alas, there is nothing I can do.  It is in the hands of God.  Let us 
pray that our Holy Father and King Henry can come to an agreement even 
at this, the final hour. 

In the meantime I pursue my quest.  Though all the world may crumble
around me I will do the Abbot's bidding.  I will find Byzas and 
purchase a relic.  I will endeavour to bring it back to you, and, by 
the grace of God, it will offer the protection and sustenance our 
Brothers so badly need. 

Remember me in your prayers my friend. 

Your Brother, Bernard Devereux. 

He put down the pen and rubbed his weary eyes.  He wished it were all
over, that he had already found Byzas and was on his way home.  A wave 
of grief and longing momentarily washed over him.  Although he had only 
just arrived, he was acutely aware of the strangeness of where he was; 
the all-encompassing foreignness of Istanbul.  It was more than just 
the heat that lingered into the night.  It was more than the sound of 
the Mosque calling the faithful to prayer.  It was everything: the 
strange buildings and trees; the dark-skinned people who watched him 
out the corners of their eyes; the sharp, dry smell of spice; the way 
dust gathered in the corners of the curb; even the dogs that he saw in 
the street were unfamiliar and scabrous creatures.  A million tiny 
fragments of foreignness that would mean nothing on their own, but 
combined to form a mosaic of idiosyncrasy. 

He was suddenly sure that he would never see home again.  He felt it
absolutely; he would never return to England. 

Bernard got up and tottered to the mattress, throwing himself down.  He
began to cry.  He felt pathetic; a pathetic old-man assailed by his 
fears. 

Gradually, the tears subsided and were replaced by prayers.  By the time
sleep came, he felt lulled; once again calm. 

*** 

“Today I will take you to the Bazaar,” said Mehmet chewing a piece of
bread.  “The merchants are sure to know this man you seek.  This 
Byzas.” 

“I hope so,” said Bernard.  “The Abbot was vague.  I was told only that
he was in Istanbul and well-known in certain circles.  Being a 
merchant, surely he will be known to others of his class.” 

“It is possible, especially if you have coin.  Here, in Istanbul, coin
can buy anything, even information.” 

They bid the innkeeper goodbye and set off into the streets.  The city
was alive with the bustle of people going about their business.  
Bernard had never seen so many humans crammed into such a confined 
space.  Indeed, the narrowness of the street and the press of commuters 
forced him to alight from the donkey and continue on foot. 

Istanbul was a cornucopia of humanity; a celebration of all its wondrous
variety.  On a single street Bernard saw Arabs, Ottomans, pitch-skinned 
Africans, a pale and emaciated European led in chains, even a sallow, 
narrow-eyed man who Mehmet informed him was from far-off Cathay. 

“He is here to deal in silk, Father,” said Mehmet.  “There is much money
in silk.” 

“But why does he look so?  His eyes are strangely narrow, and he is such
a small fellow.  I've never seen anyone like him.” 

Mehmet shrugged.  “Allah loves variety, who can fathom his ways?” 

They made slow progress through the streets, eventually reaching the
thoroughfare that led to the Bazaar. 

It seemed that Mehmet had been right: here, you really could buy
anything.  There were utensils stacked precariously under the shade of 
a linen awning, lumps of fragrant incense shaped into cones and 
pyramids, jewellery – a hoard fit for a king – displayed on rugs, 
swords, livestock, and slaves.  Bernard could not help avoiding the 
poor wretches' eyes as he approached.  He was shocked to discover a 
child, no older than five, tied to a dealer's stall by a coarse rope. 

“Enemies of the Great Suleyman,” said Mehmet as they passed.  “Captured
in battle and to be sold as slaves.” 

How could children be enemies of Suleyman? thought Bernard.  They were
innocent; pawns in the game which great men played.  He bit his lip and 
reminded himself he was in a strange land.  Customs were different here 
and it would not do to criticise Suleyman in his own kingdom.  But 
still, he felt a shiver of disgust and dread pass through him.  The 
child, arms wrapped around itself as though seeking warmth in the barmy 
heat, dredged up bitter memories for Bernard.  Poor child, he thought.  
How he wished he had the fortitude of Christ in the Temple.  The 
courage to overturn the dealer's table, scattering the man's coins. 

A broad and well-paved road ran up the centre of the thoroughfare. 
Horses, donkeys and people pulled goods along in covered carts.  The 
pavements were packed with customers loitering at the stalls, set out 
under the shade of palm trees. 

They walked onwards making slow progress.  They passed a group of old
men seated on cushions.  Each of them puffed on hookahs and stared at 
the thronging crowd through a hashish haze.  There was the blue-bottle 
buzz of a piper.  A legless beggar danced merrily on his hands, calling 
for alms. 

Mehmet led them to the top of the street towards an archway.  There,
framed by the dark maw of the arch, stood a round and sweating Ottoman. 
 He was clad in silk and carried an ivory gavel as though it were a 
sceptre. 

"Here is the Viser, Father.  The overseer of the Bazaar.  If this Byzas
is here, he will know." 

The man did not look at them as they approached.  He stared haughtily at
the market place, surveying the business as though he were sole ruler 
of this land. 

Mehmet cleared his throat and spoke to the man.  The language was
unintelligible to Bernard, but he recognised the name "Byzas" as it was 
uttered. 

The Viser looked down his bulbous nose at Mehmet, and then deigned to
glance at Bernard.  He paused, and seemed to appraise them, as though a 
life time of trade had blessed him with the gift to weigh men's souls. 

"Byzas does not work at the Bazaar," said the Viser in Greek.  "His is a
special business, not for the common herd, eh?" 

"But do you know where to find him?" asked Bernard.  "I must meet him." 

The Viser smiled and tucked the gavel under his arm.  "Such information
may be had.  I can tell you who can take you to him."  He rubbed his 
fingers together in the universal sign for money.  "One gold piece?" 

Bernard reached for his purse.  It always came back to money, he
thought, handing a coin to the Viser.  The man looked both surprised 
and disgusted as he tucked it away. 

"Go to Hagia Sophia.  The Great Church, here in Istanbul.  There, on the
steps you will see a boy.  Byzas' son – Hasad.  He will show you the 
way.”  He looked Bernard up and down and added, “If he thinks he can do 
business with the likes of you.” 

They nodded and went on their way.  Bernard felt irritated at the man's
superior air, the way he had looked at him with disdain. 

Mehmet smiled.  “He is a proud man, Father.  Do not take it personally. 
He would have had more respect for you if you had bartered.  To give 
him what he asked without barter is an insult.”  He laughed.   “How I 
wish I could afford to insult people so!” 

*** 

Hagia Sophia - the Church of the Holy Wisdom - dominated the city's
skyline.  Once the pride of the Eastern Church, the rise of Islam and 
the conquering sword of the Ottoman had stolen that pride.  The mosaics 
and holy iconography which had long awed pilgrims and priests alike had 
been judged an affront in the eyes of Allah.  But rather than destroy 
the cathedral, the Ottoman Sultans had ordered its conversion.  Hagia 
Sophia now wore the name of Mosque, just as it now wore a layer of 
plaster, obscuring the face of Christ.  Four towering minarets had been 
built to flank the domes and buttresses of the original building, and, 
like Paiges to a king, proclaim the glory of their sovereign ruler - 
Allah the Great and Merciful. 

Bernard could not help but be moved by the grandeur of the building. 
His mind rebelled under the scale of the edifice; he could barely 
comprehend the effort it must have taken to erect such a monument.  For 
that is what Hagia Sophia was: a monument; a concrete homage to God's 
greatness, Emperor's vanity, and man's determination. 

It was Dhuhr when they came to the Mosque – the hour of prayer.  The
minarets proclaimed and the faithful came.  Bernard and Mehmet kept 
their distance as the worshippers ascended the marble steps. 

“I do not see the boy,” said Mehmet, standing on his tip-toes to see
over the crowd.  “Perhaps he goes inside to pray?” 

“Perhaps,” said Bernard.  “We will wait here until it is over.” 

Gradually, the crowd thinned as one by one they went inside.  After a
few minutes the stairs were bare, save for a few stragglers who hurried 
from the street into the Mosque. 

“There Father, a boy, sitting on the steps.” 

Bernard saw him.  A small, skinny figure, dozing in the shade of the
Mosque's dome.  He looked to be around twelve or thirteen.  “Come, 
Mehmet.  We must speak with him.” 

They approached.  The sound from the donkey's hoofs roused the boy.  He
sat up on his elbows and looked in their direction. 

Bernard looked at the boy and felt the world lurch.  One moment, the
comforting solidity of the paving beneath his feet, the next, a 
yielding sponginess like walking on moss.  He stumbled, and realized it 
was not the ground that was at fault but his legs. 

The guide ran to his side and hooked an arm around his waist, supporting
him.  "Are you sick, Father?  You are pale like a ghost." 

"A ghost," echoed Bernard.  "Yes, a ghost." 

Mehmet helped him to the foot of the stairs and sat him down, loosening
his robe.  "It is the heat perhaps."  He began fanning the monk with 
the hem of his shirt. 

From where he sat, Bernard could see that the boy had arisen and was
regarding them with interest. 

James, he thought.  It is James.  My boy, come back to me in the very
flesh!  The resemblance was remarkable. The boy had the same dark hair 
and brown eyes.  The same oval face and dimpled chin.  Even the way he 
moved was James; the leisurely, half slouching gait, as though his body 
were devoid of sinew or bone.  But, as the first vestiges of shock 
began to ware away, Bernard could see the differences.  The boy's 
complexion was dark, while James's had been pale.  Also, the boy was 
scrawnier; an inner-core of hardness manifested itself on the planes of 
his face.  It was a hardness which had been missing from Bernard's long 
dead son.  It was as though the boy had been forced to grow-up fast, he 
thought.  As if some external influence or pressure had toughened him 
on the inside. 

"Are you well, Father?" said Mehmet.  "Istanbul is a bad place to be
struck by a fever.  Especially for a foreigner." 

"I feel better now, Mehmet.  Thank you, my friend, you were right, it is
the heat." 

Mehmet looked relieved.  "The boy," he said.  "He comes this way." 

Bernard placed a hand on the guide's shoulder and struggled to his feet.
 The boy was nervous; he glanced around him as he descended the steps, 
as though expecting to be accosted at any moment. 

“God be with you,” said the boy. 

Bernard was taken aback, not just by the boy's mastery of Greek, but by
the salutation. 

“Are you Christian?” asked Bernard. 

“Yes.  My family are all Christians, descended from the original
dwellers of this city.” 

“And I am addressing Hasad, son of Byzas?” 

The boy looked around again to see if they were being overheard.  “Yes,
my apologies if I seem cautious, but my father's business is a secret.  
Istanbul is a most liberal city, but there are many who are zealous in 
their faith.  Many who would delight in seeing a Christian merchant 
driven out. Especially one who deals in the goods my father sells.” 

Bernard nodded.  “Then you know why I seek your father?” 

“Oh, yes.  But you should know that his services do not come cheap. 
These are valuable items.  Forgive me for asking, but can you afford 
such goods?” 

“Do not worry, my young friend.  Take me to your father and I promise he
shall not be disappointed.” 

The boy took one last look at Bernard and came to a decision.  “Very
well.  I will take you to my father's house.  But you must come alone.” 
 He turned to Mehmet.  “I mean no offence.  I have strict 
instructions.” 

Mehmet looked uncomfortable. “I do not think this is a good idea,
Father.  It is a dangerous city to be alone.” 

The boy cut in - “He will not be alone, my friend.  I will escort him
and my father shall take him back.  Is there an inn or a house you are 
staying at?” 

Mehmet told him of the inn where Bernard had spent the night. 

“I know of it.  We will return your charge to the inn before night fall.
You can meet him there.” 

“You see, my friend,” said Bernard.  “You worry too much.  I am in good
hands with Hasad and we shall meet again before the end of the day.”  
He took four gold pieces from his purse and gave them to the guide.  
“Meet me back at the inn and you shall have four more.” 

Mehmet, looking doubtful, dropped the coins into his purse.  It was more
money than he could make in a month by farming.  	Hasad took the 
donkey's reigns.  “We go now, before the Mosque empties.” 

“Goodbye Mehmet.  I will see you at the inn.” 

They moved off, over the square and into the street.  Bernard turned
around and saw Mehmet walking away in the direction they had come. 

It would be the last time he saw the guide. 

*** 

Trade brings wealth, and of all the cities of the world, Istanbul was
the best situated for trade.  Suspended on the narrow land-bridge 
between Europe and the East, it was the meeting point for desert 
caravans and Western mule-trains.  But the city was also flanked by the 
sea; the Black Sea to the East, the Sea of Marmara and the 
Mediterranean to the West. 

Byzas' home was in the prosperous part of the city looking out over the
ever changing Marmara.  The wealth of the traders was made manifest by 
the splendour of their homes and Byzas' was no exception.  His house 
was made from richly veined marble.  The windows and doors were 
ornately carved from mahogany and looked out over a well manicured 
garden.  A paved pathway, shaded by date palms, led them past a 
fountain where Bernard could see the steely flash of fish darting from 
his shadow. 

“Paradise,” said Bernard.  “Truly wondrous.” The boy nodded
disinterestedly.  He pulled the reigns of the donkey towards a 
honeysuckle covered outbuilding where a servant worked a currycomb over 
a stallion. 

“Adem,” the boy called.  “I have brought a customer to see my father. 
See to the animal while we go inside.” Bernard loosened the panniers 
and slung them over his shoulder, his back groaning in protest at the 
weight. 

“Come, I will lead the way.” 

It was blissfully cool inside.  Bernard was grateful for the respite
from the mounting heat of the day. “I can have someone carry your load 
if you wish?” said Hasad, motioning to a nearby servant. 

“No.  Thank you, but I prefer to carry it myself.” 

“Very well.” 

Bernard followed the boy through the anti-room and into a dimly lit
chamber.  A workman, engaged in the intricate job of setting a mosaic, 
bowed to Bernard as he passed, all but ignoring Hasad. 

Strange, thought Bernard.  The servants he had seen looked clean and
well-dressed.  But Hasad, their Master's son, was clad in grubby robes, 
his hair greasy and dust chocked.  Indeed, it seemed that the workman – 
employed from the city and unfamiliar with the household – had not even 
recognized Hasad as the air to this fine estate.  Surely Byzas would 
not treat his son so?  On reflection, it struck him strange that Hasad 
had been left alone on the steps of the Mosque to await customers.  
Byzas must have someone else who could perform such a task – one of the 
servants perhaps? 

They continued down a hallway, finally coming to an iron-studded door
which would not have looked out of place in a castle keep.  Hasad 
straightened his robe fastidiously and knocked. 

"Come," echoed a voice from behind the door. 

The room was large, but cramped with a deluge of parchments and dusty
furniture.  The window shutters were closed and barred and the only 
illumination was from a stuttering tallow lamp.   By this light Bernard 
could see stacked coins and the shadowy figure of a man counting his 
money. 

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” he held up a finger, “I'll be with
you in a moment.  Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three...” 

“Father I have a customer,” said Hasad. 

The man – Byzas, Bernard now realized – shot to his feet, sending the
coins flying.  “Damn you!  Did I not say one moment?  Now I have lost 
count!”  He raised his eyes and with outstretched hands implored heaven 
in a most theatrical fashion.  “What have I done, Oh Lord?  What have I 
done to deserve an oaf for a son?  Haven't I always served you?  Why do 
you curse me so?” 

He took a step towards Hasad and the boy cringed.  Bernard was sure
Byzas would pounce, but he seemed to control himself, pointing a 
stabbing finger at his son.  “Fetch us wine.  You can manage that, 
can't you?  Tell me you are good for something!” 

“Yes father.” 

“Then go!  Oaf!” 

The boy left the room, almost running. 

Bernard felt stunned.  The merchant had gone from placid to raging in an
instant; as unpredictable and violent as a winter storm. 

“Please accept my apologies,” said Byzas.  “The young are so
irresponsible.”  He stepped forward and extended his hand, and for the 
first time Bernard had a clear view of the merchant. 

He was squat and powerful, his chest and arms hugely muscular.  Beneath
his silk robe there was the beginning of a pot belly - the product of 
too much good living.  He wore rings on every finger, glinting and 
flashing in the lamplight, and around his neck, a gold chain with a 
single, well-cut ruby.  The eyes of a raptor peered out from beneath 
heavy black brows; a hooked nose and full, grey flecked beard give him 
an air of dark brutality. 

“I am Byzas,” he said.  “Your servant and humble merchant in this fair
city.” 

Bernard took his hand and endured the crushing handshake.  “I am Brother
Bernard Devereux, of the Benedictine Order.” 

“A priest!  We do not often have the pleasure of meeting foreign clergy.
Have you travelled far?” 

“From England.” 

“Ah, you came by ship?” 

“No,” said Bernard, “by land.  No one from England dares come to
Istanbul by sea.  Not while the pirate Barbarossa rules the waves.” 

Byzas laughed.  “You may call him pirate, but we call him Admiral.  He
is the servant of Suleyman.  But come, I am neglecting my duties as a 
host.  Let us retire to the sitting room.” 

He ushered Bernard out of the room and locked the door behind him.  They
went down the hallway and left, into an airy, well lit room filled with 
divans and wooden furniture. 

“Please, sit.  Now, my son mentioned that you wish to purchase
something.” 

“Yes,” said Bernard.  “You have heard of the troubles in England?” 

Byzas shook his head.  “We do not often get news from so far afield. 
Although, I have heard rumours of your King Henry's quarrel with Pope 
Paul.” 

“Yes.  Well it has escalated.  The King is considering breaking
relations with the Church.  He badly needs money to make war on his 
enemies and the Church is rich.  There is good English land in the 
hands of the monasteries.” 

“Ah, King Henry is a wise man,” said Byzas, a look of admiration painted
on the dark canvas of his face.  “A double blow – A strike against Paul 
and a strike against his enemies!” 

Bernard said nothing, only stared solemnly at the Merchant's gleeful
face. 

“Still, it does not explain why you are here.  How can I assist you in
your struggle?” 

“My Abbot believes that we need to strengthen our monastery if we are to
survive.    We need a holy relic to bolster the faithful and re-enforce 
our spirits for the time ahead.” 

Byzas laughed again.  “And to bring pilgrims, eh?  Pilgrims mean money
and money means power.  It is a clever plan, Father; perhaps your only 
plan.”  He got up and began pacing the room.  “Yes, with money from 
pilgrims you can pay bribes; stall the destruction of your monastery.  
Who knows, maybe you can even stop it indefinitely if enough come to 
worship.  The King would be reluctant to destroy a site which generates 
such popular support.”  He turned to Bernard.  “I can help you, but it 
will not be cheap.” 

“I realize that.  I am prepared to pay a fair price.” 

They were interrupted by Hasad carrying a tray with a jug of wine and
two cups. 

“At last!  What took you so long?” 

The boy hurried to place the tray on the table and then stood back. 

“Well, why are you waiting?  Pour!” 

Bernard felt anger well up inside of him.  How could Byzas treat his son
so badly?  Worse even than the lowliest servant or slave.  The boy was 
clearly terrified.  His hand shook as he poured the wine, though he was 
careful not to spill a drop. The merchant seemed to relish the boy's 
fear.  His eyes glittered, drinking in Hasad's discomfort, a faint 
half-smile playing across his lips. 

Bernard longed to confront the merchant.  The result of such a
confrontation was obvious.  Bernard was old and withered by time and 
the elements, while Byzas was in the prime of life, hale and powerfully 
made.  But still he longed for it to happen; his anger gave him 
strength, a long absent vitality. 

“You should cherish your son,” he said hoarsely.  “There may come a time
you wish you had him next to you.” 

Byzas face darkened as he looked at the monk.  He snatched a cup from
the tray and drank the wine in a single gulp. 

“What do you know of family or children?” 

“More than you think, Byzas.” 

The exchange was growing heated.  Hasad shuffled uncomfortably and bowed
his head, unwilling to meet either man's eye. 

Bernard felt ashamed.  By losing his temper he was only drawing
attention to the boy.  He sighed.  “Look Byzas.  I myself had a family, 
long before I joined the Order.  I was a farmer – a successful man in 
my own way.  I did not have the splendour which you surround yourself 
with, but I had other treasures: a wife and a son who loved me and whom 
I loved.”  He lifted his cup and took a drink.  It had been so long 
since he had tasted wine – not since mass at Monte Cassino – and the 
drink sat heavy in his stomach, slowly burning.  “They were taken from 
me,” he said.  “The harvest was poor that year.  Men from a nearby 
village came in the night with spears and rusted swords.  I barricaded 
us in and used an axe to keep them at bay.  Eventually, they sickened 
of their sport.  They were hungry but not hungry enough to risk 
dismemberment.  They set fire to the farmhouse and disappeared into the 
darkness.” 

Bernard sat looking into the distance.  He could almost see the flames;
feel the crippling heat, the sting of smoke in his eyes.  “They died,” 
he said.  He raised his hand and touched the burn scar on his face.  
“Sometimes I wish I had died with them.” 

The room was silent.  Hasad stared at his feet, while Byzas refilled his
wine glass.  The merchant wore a frown.  Bernard could see that his 
words had not touched him. 

Byzas swallowed another mouthful of wine and said: “Yes, yes, tragic,
Father.  There is much tragedy in the world.  We can do nothing about 
the past, but perhaps we can salvage the future.  The future of your 
monastery.” 

He put down his cup and got to his feet.  “Come, Father.  I will show
you the collection.” 

*** 

They were beneath the house in a rock lined passageway.  It was dank and
dim, illuminated by a single lamp which Byzas held aloft.  The dancing 
shadows and echoing footfalls made Bernard nervous.  As they made their 
way he found himself stopping, peering behind him, sure that they were 
being followed.  As he squinted into the darkness, Byzas, ahead and 
draped in angular shadows, urged him on, contempt dripping from his 
tongue. 

“Come, come.  Not much further now.  There are rats here.  No place to
dally.” 

Bernard followed reluctantly.  He was scared of what lay behind, scared
of what lay ahead, but most of all scared of being left alone.  His 
fear was tangible, and the merchant could sense it.  He doubled his 
pace and disappeared around a corner, leaving Bernard and Hasad 
stranded in the darkness. 

Bernard threw out his hands, groping blindly.  Ahead, the ghostly
laughter of Byzas floated ethereally. 

“...Hurry, hurry.  The rats, remember the rats...” 

Bernard slid his feet along the floor, feeling, probing.  He chocked
back a scream as a hand grabbed his robe. 

“Hasad?!” 

“Y-Yes.  I'm scared.  Please, can I take your hand?” 

Bernard reached out and grasped the boy's hand.  He felt his resolve
quicken as he did so, stoked by the fires of rage.  Byzas was a bully, 
he realized, someone who was not completely happy unless he was 
dominating others – terrorising them.  Well, he would not be a victim.  
He had been a victim before and had suffered.  Suffered all the more 
because he had let it happen; stood by frightened while others 
terrorised him and his family.  No more.  No matter what they do to 
you, no matter how they hurt you, you must never simply take-it, he 
thought.  No one can hurt you as much as you can hurt yourself.  There 
is no torture as painful as guilt. 

They shuffled forward, offering one another physical and moral support. 
Eventually they came to the corner and fumbled along the wall, until 
they were around it. 

Byzas stood at the end of the passageway framed in an open doorway.  “So
you found your way,” he laughed.  “I thought I'd lost you for a moment. 
Thought you were food for the rats.” 

“Your son was terrified, Byzas!  Don't you care?” 

“Ha!  The boy could do with toughening up.  He has too soft a life.  He
must learn to fend for himself – as I did.” 

Bernard tensed.  He needed all his will to keep from throwing himself at
the man.  He took a deep breath and said a silent prayer for patience, 
but even as he did he could feel his rage rise once again. There was a 
tug at his sleeve. 

“No” whispered Hasad.  “He is my father.  He deserves my respect.” 

Bernard doubted whether Byzas deserved or wanted his son's respect.  The
man cared for nothing except himself and his money, and least of all 
other people.  As they spoke he was busying himself inside the room, 
lighting candles, oblivious to Bernard's anger and Hasad's sorrow. 

“It isn't right that you should endure his hatred.” 

Hasad shrugged.  “I cannot blame him.  My mother, she was –” he paused
and swallowed hard as though he had a bad taste in his mouth “-She was 
unfaithful to my father.  A harlot.  She suffered for her sin as the 
law requires.  Now do you see why my father treats me so?  I am his 
only son – he knows it and I know it, but still – there is always that 
sliver of doubt in his mind.  Whenever he looks at me he is reminded of 
her infidelity.  Of the shame she brought upon his name.” 

What a tangled briar life is, thought Bernard.  He longed once again for
the security of the monastery, the quiet, regulated life, as 
predictable as the turning of the seasons.  Anything but this mad quest 
that had been forced upon him, anything but this mad world he was 
forced to encounter. 

“Hurry,” shouted Byzas, “the day draws to a close and I have other
business.” 

The room was lit by a multitude of candles set in silver candelabras. 
On one side there were barrels and fluted wine jars.  On the other, a 
wide partition of canvas, stretching from ceiling to floor. Byzas 
reached over and pulled the canvas to one side.  Beyond it were rows of 
wooden shelves stacked with the very treasures Bernard had come to see. 


“Relics,” said Byzas.  “Some hidden here before Constantinople fell,
others purchased farther afield or liberated from the holy-land.” 

Bernard was awestruck.  He could almost feel holiness radiating from
them like heat from the sun.  Some of the items were unassuming – bare 
bones or common-place items like cups and robes.  Others were 
resplendent – jewelled casks of silver and gold which Byzas informed 
him held the skulls of prophets and saints. 

“All of them genuine,” said Byzas.  “The Pope would pay a ransom for
some of these items and Suleyman would too – if only to destroy them.” 

Bernard picked up a splintered arrow, the feathers missing from the
shaft. 

“One of the arrows which killed the blessed saint Sebastian,” said
Byzas.  “If you look carefully you can still see the blood.” 

“And this?” asked Bernard lifting a heavy wooden box, banded with gold. 

“Please, be careful, Father.  Open it – inside is a finger bone of Saint
Peter, the fisherman and Christ's apostle.” 

“Remarkable!  And so many of them, so many to choose from!” 

Hasad had moved to Bernard's side and was fingering a small clay cup
that rested on the shelf.  He picked it up and turned it over, 
examining the bottom with childish curiosity. 

“Put that down,” snapped Byzas.  “That belonged to Saint Stephen – he
tasted wine from that cup before he was martyred.  It is worth ten of 
you!” 

Hasad wilted under his father's gaze and hurried to place the cup back
on the shelf.  But he misjudged and the cup toppled and rolled, falling 
to the ground where it shattered like an egg. 

“You fool!” shouted Byzas.  “Have you any idea how much you have cost
me?  An idiot!  An idiot for a son!” 

He sprang lithely, and before Bernard could react, grabbed the boy by
the throat and slapped him across the face.  He beat the boy to the 
tune of his words. 

“Imbecile!  Whore-son!  Wastrel!...” 

“No!” shouted Bernard.  He ran to the merchant and tried to pull him
away, but Byzas was too strong, too determined in his punishment of his 
son. 

Hasad's face was turning crimson, eyes bulging fish-like from their
sockets.  Bernard, panic-stricken, stood back and surveyed the room, 
desperately searching for some way to stop the merchant.  His eyes 
settled on the wooden box, the one which held the Saint's finger-bone.  
Without thinking, he grabbed it and lifted it, bringing it down heavily 
on the back of the merchant's head. 

Byzas grunted and let go of his son.  He sank to one knee and held the
back of his head. 

Bernard stood and numbly watched the merchant.  He looked down at his
hands – the box had splintered and the band had buckled.  He noticed 
that the gold was nothing more than painted lead.  Hasad coughed and 
retched on the floor – at least he had saved the boy. 

“Kill you” groaned Byzas.  “I will kill you for that!”  The merchant
rose to his feet.  Towering, smouldering with a deep, infernal rage.  
“You bastard!  I'll make sure your soul never has rest.”  He grabbed 
the monk and threw him to the floor. 

Bernard felt strong fingers probe the skin of his throat and then a
moment of agony as they bore in, digging at the flesh.  He gagged and 
gasped, fighting for air.  But there was none.  He beat at Byzas' back, 
but the blows echoed hollowly, ineffectual and barely felt. 

“Die!” commanded Byzas.  And Bernard did. 

*** 

Matthew followed Hasad down the steps and into the darkness.  It was
winter in Istanbul and the walls of the passageway were entombed in a 
thin layer of ice. 

“Please be careful,” said Hasad, “the steps are steep and dangerous.” 

Matthew clutched the wall for support as he descended and thought of his
friend.  Did Bernard come this way?  Did he perhaps walk down these 
very stairs before disappearing from the world, forgotten, never to be 
seen again?  Well, not forgotten, not entirely, he thought.  He still 
remembered.  He would never forget the monk, the man that had been his 
true friend and brother; his mentor at the monastery. 

“My father is waiting for us,” said Hasad.  “He has asked that you be
taken directly to him.” 

How easy it was to find Byzas, thought Matthew.  How easy if you have
the money and the influence of a Pope behind you.  Still, he felt like 
an impostor.  From poor Benedictine monk to Vatican advisor in a matter 
of three years.  He wore the rich robes and flashing rings of a 
courtier now, but in his own mind, his own inner image, he would 
forever be clad in the coarse serge of the monastery.  He supposed it 
was right that he felt like an impostor – for in a way he was.  True, 
Pope Paul had sent him on legitimate business - to purchase a relic for 
the new church of St. Thomas, but, important as that might be, he had 
his own reasons for volunteering.  The last letter which Brother 
Bernard had written had mentioned that he was seeking Byzas, and 
although Matthew had no way of knowing if the monk had found him, he 
must start somewhere in his search. 

“This way please your Excellency.  Mind your footing.” 

They smell money, thought Matthew.  They will treble their prices.  No
matter, the church could afford it; even with the loss of revenue from 
England it was still immensely rich.  He wondered what had become of 
the monastrary and the other monks.  Perhaps they were dead, or settled 
back into secular life, farming or fishing for a living.  He said a 
prayer of thanks that he had escaped in time – well ahead of King 
Henry's men and off on a ship bound for Napoli and then to Rome.  
Others had not been so lucky; others had died, refusing to admit 
Henry's false charges of corruption and vice.  Matthew felt saddened.  
The Abbot had died in such a way, under torture in the king's prison. 

Oh, Bernard, he thought.  If only you could see me now, respected – a
man of influence and wealth – an advisor to His Holiness no less.  
Would you understand?  Would you forgive me for breaking my vow of 
poverty?  Could you see that I had no choice, that this is my way of 
serving the greater good of the church?  And what of you, old-friend, 
where are you now?  Are you alive somewhere?  A captive – a prisoner of 
Suleyman?  Or are you dead, killed for the gold you carried, bones 
rotting by the roadside? 

He pushed such thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on Hasad as he
led the way.  He wanted to ask the boy if he had seen Bernard, but 
something prevented him.  The lad was pale and haunted; a large bruise 
marred the side of his face.  The way Hasad had looked at him when he 
told him he was a priest made Matthew suspicious.  The boy had flinched 
and seemed panicked, and it was only when Matthew told him he was from 
Rome, the Vatican itself, that he had calmed down.  He could not quite 
put his finger on what he suspected the boy of, but there was 
something... 

“Here we are Excellency, my father waits within.” 

Hasad opened the door and Matthew entered. 

Byzas stood waiting for him, wearing his best salesman's smile.  He
rubbed his hands nervously on the side of his robe, wiping his sweaty 
palms. 

“Welcome, welcome my friend.  An honour to be in the presence of one of
His Holiness' servants.” 

Matthew nodded, the merchant definitely smelled money.  “The pleasure is
mine, Byzas.  His Holiness has heard much of your generosity to the 
Christians of this city and much of your collection.” 

“Ah, yes, the collection.  The finest in Christendom, the work of many
generations, Excellency.” 

“You know that His Holiness is looking for a relic.  Something
exceptional for the church of St. Thomas.  Can you help?” 

“I always endeavour to assist,” said Byzas.  “However, I am saddened to
part with an item from my collection.  It grieves my heart to do so.” 
Matthew threw a heavy purse of gold at the merchant's feet. “Then allow 
this to mend your broken heart.  You will be well compensated by His 
Holiness.” 

Byzas' eyes glittered wickedly.  “See to that,” he said to Hasad
pointing at the purse.  “Let me show you my collection Excellency, the 
finest in – “ 

“-Yes, yes, the finest in Christendom.  You've mentioned that.” 

The merchant grit his teeth and then hurried to the canvas, throwing it
back with a flourish. 

“Impressive,” said Matthew.  “Some fabulous workmanship.  Tell me, what
have we here?” 

“Ah, you have a keen eye.  That sir is part of the cross of St. Andrew. 
It still bares the hole where one of the nails was fixed.” 

“Yes, interesting.  What about this here – what's in this glass vial?” 

“A lock of hair from the Virgin.  Taken by St. John and preserved in
olive oil.  It was liberated from the infidels during the first 
crusade.” 

Matthew nodded, he had his doubts about that one; he was a believer but
not naïve.  Still, if the people thought it was genuine then that was 
what mattered. 

“It is an impressive display, Byzas.  But this is His Holiness we are
talking about.  The church of St. Thomas is his legacy; his monument 
for future generations.  He must have something special, something that 
will forever awe the faithful.” 

Byzas bit his lip in an uncharacteristic gesture of nervousness. 
“Something special,” he said.  “I-I'm not sure...” 

“Come now, no false modesty.  His Holiness will pay handsomely.” 

The merchant let out a sigh and seemed to find resolve.  “I have
something.  Very precious.  Never before seen by one of my clients and 
never before offered for sale.  But as it is for His Holiness...” 

Byzas went to the back where the room ended in a rough stone wall.  He
crouched down and to Matthew's surprise started to pull at one of the 
blocks.  “Here, Hasad, help me.” 

The boy stood by his father and dug his nails into the gap between the
stones.  Hasad looked shaky and ill, as though he were fevered. 

Bit by bit they worked the stone out until eventually it was free. 
Byzas reached inside and brought out an object wrapped in silk. 

“What have we here?” said Matthew.  “Wine from the feast at Cannas? 
Bread from the last supper perhaps?” 

Byzas laughed.  “Something better than that.  A treasure so precious
that Pope Peter himself will bow down in prayer.”  He lifted the bundle 
and brought it down beside Matthew.  “This was excavated from beneath 
Herod's palace in Jerusalem.  A Saracen nobleman found it and sold it 
to my father's father.  It almost bankrupted him, but it was worth it.” 


Matthew was intrigued despite his scepticism.  Byzas was a scoundrel, of
that there was no doubt, but sometimes even a scoundrel might stumble 
onto something truly precious. 

Byzas untied a knot in the silk and unwound the material.  Inside there
was a glass jar, something suspended within a tawny liquid. 

“The head of the Baptist,” said Byzas reverently.  “Taken by Herod and
preserved in honey.  A true relic – a treasure beyond value!” 

“Unbelievable,” said Matthew.  “His Holiness will be –” 

He stopped and crouched down for a better look.  Through the pale amber
of the honey, Brother Bernard stared back. 

THE END. 


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