The Parchment E-Book

Peter Deakin

• Herausgeber: Europa Edizioni
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The Parchment is a peripatetic adventure story, interwoven with a nascent romance that starts in Egypt when Alexandria is captured by the Muslims in 641AD. The travellers depart with a precious vellum that holds the key to unlocking the lost language of the Pharaohs as well as containing a secret formula, dating from the time of Archimedes. They encounter scenes of desolation and numerous hazards on a journey that takes them to Sicily and the Italian mainland, where the parchment is to be delivered to monks at the famous Monte Cassino Monastery. 
Describing a time when external enemies and internal divisions threatened the future of civilization, the story raises fundamental questions that are increasingly relevant today, where the comfortable existence that the West still enjoys can no longer be taken for granted in an increasingly hostile world.

Peter Deakin grew up in Sydney in a family of nine children. He worked most of his adult life as a barrister but has now abandoned the law in favour of writing and attempting to improve his watercolours. He divides his time between Sydney and his farm where he breeds Angus cattle and produces olive oil. He has two adult sons and still enjoys sailing, tennis and skiing, despite the impediments of advancing years.
He has written two non-fiction books “No Man’s Land” and “Whatever It Takes” but “The Parchment” is his first published novel, incorporating his love of history into a riveting adventure story set in the depths of the Dark Ages, when only pockets of civilization survived.

Leseprobe

BUILD

UNIVERSES

THE PARCHMENT

PETER DEAKIN

© 2024Europe Books | London

www.europebooks.co.uk | [email protected]

ISBN 9791220148047

First edition: March 2024

THE PARCHMENT

To my sons John and Thomas

In grateful acknowledgement

of the support and guidance generously provided

by my polymathic friend Tony Grey

The present is the past rolled up for action and

the past is the present unrolled for understanding.

-Will Durant

Introduction

Ancient Rome has been overrun by barbarians. The western world has descended into the Dark Ages when only pockets of civilisation survive. Trade and commerce have evaporated and once prosperous cities lie in ruins. The Plague has decimated populations and productive farmlands have been reclaimed by weeds and the relentless sand. It is only ten years since the death of the prophet Muhammad, but the Muslim army has already overrun most of the Eastern Mediterranean and Egypt, with the great city of Alexandria under siege.

Deep in the Red Sea desert, at the foot of the Al-Qalzam Mountain, lies the Coptic monastery of St. Anthony that has somehow survived persecution, civil unrest and invading armies with its store of ancient manuscripts miraculously intact. Amongst its treasures is an ancient parchment that provides a vital connection between the fading mysteries of the past and an uncertain future.

There is no longer anyone alive who can decipher the ancient hieroglyphics, recording the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the Pharaohs extending back more than three thousand years. But the parchment contains an ancient prayer that is recorded not only with hieroglyphics, but the same text appears to be recorded in Greek as well, affording a priceless opportunity to unlock the lost secrets of the stone inscriptions on temple walls.

As the abbot explains it, the Copts are the last thread holding together a civilisation invented by the Pharaohs, perfected by the Greeks and blessed by the teachings of Jesus. But how much longer can the monastery hold out with its enemies and the desert sands constantly pounding its walls? Something must be done if the last links with the ancient world are to be preserved for the benefit of generations to come.

1. The Monastery

It was one of the Bedouin boys who found his inert body lying face down under a small rocky outcrop just outside the gates of the monastery. He could distantly hear the boy’s urgent cries and the goat bells, but he couldn’t move or respond and found himself sinking further into an overwhelming red void that he was too weak to resist. Nor was he aware of the two monks who emerged from the monastery a short while later and lifted him gently onto a litter before carrying him into the infirmary.

He remembered very little of the days and weeks that followed as he was slowly nursed back to health. He recalled suffering from a thirst that could not be quenched by any water, with his face and lips still blistered and raw from the sun. His hands were so tender, he could not bear them to be touched as a result he was told of having crawled the last miles of his journey across the baking sand on his hands and knees. For a long time, he had been too feeble to even raise his head from the pillow and he was wholly dependent on Brother Anselum who cradled the back of his neck to enable him to drink the small quantities of water and nutritious broth that gradually revived him.

As his strength returned, he had attached himself to Theophilus, the monastery’s abbot, in order to improve his letters and learn as much as he could from the genial older man.

Seated deep beneath the baking sand in the monastery’s library, he stares idly at the rows of shelves laden with dusty scrolls and manuscripts. His calloused fingers fidget nervously with a plain wooden cross hanging around his neck. He has penetrating, light-blue eyes that peer intently from beneath a shock of thick brown hair. The oil lamp sputtering on the table emits a feeble, flickering light, casting eerie shadows around the library’s limestone walls.

Theophilus is bent over a bundle of papyrus scrolls, with a face that looks as ancient and weathered as the frail paper in front of him. His elongated fingers which protrude from the sleeves of a plain woollen habit move stiffly as he strains to read one of the documents. The old man holds a single papyrus scroll closer to the lamp; a deepening frown etched across his forehead. He pauses and sighs profoundly, before turning to the young man.

“Listen to this Petrus,” says Theophilus. “We have just received a report from Alexandria that two weeks ago the city was captured by the Muslim army commanded by General Amr. The Byzantines have been expelled.”

“It is just as you said,” he replies.

“But I fear there is worse to come,” says the old man. “During his lifetime, the prophet Muhammad extended an Ahtiname to us, protecting us from his armies. But there are those amongst his followers who hate us Christians and wish to drive us from their territories and create a caliphate that spans the world.”

“I am an old man and I am content to die here amongst the date palms and olive trees we have planted in the desert. But these walls we have built cannot withstand the ravages of war and sand forever. Like the desert tulip that blooms on the Saqqara Road, we will soon be trampled underfoot, with our precious scarlet vestments shredded by the winds of change.”

“But what can we do?” he asks in an exasperated tone that reflects the frequency with which the question had been posed of late.

“As St. Augustine wrote after the collapse of Rome we must build a spiritual city on the ruins of the material world,” Theophilus replies. “We must preserve our literature and our learning, so that in years to come, when science and the search for truth have returned to the world, someone may rediscover the treasures of our culture. Do you remember the place below the cliff at Nag Hammadi that you visited in order to find the sabakh soil for our garden?”

“Yes, I remember it.”

“Tomorrow I am going to send our camels there again with earthenware jars, but one jar will be buried, because nomads and barbarians do not dig for soil where there is no sign of water. Inside that jar, we have sealed copies of the gospels and other liturgical texts as well as extracts from the writings of Plato and Aristotle. When the reign of terror ceases, which eventually it must, these books will be unearthed by someone looking for soil and so something will be preserved of our religion and culture.”

“Am I to travel with them?”

“No, my young friend, God has chosen you to embark upon a much longer and more dangerous journey far from these walls. But more of that anon, today we are expecting a visitor whom I would very much like you to meet. Come.”

Helping the old man rise unsteadily to his feet, he followed him towards the hollowed steps that wound up from the depths of the library to the heat and the light of the world outside. They emerged into a cloistered quadrangle where even the geckos had retreated into the shadows just as the monastery’s bells started ringing to enjoin the monks to prayer. Soon the muffled slapping of sandaled feet was replaced by the simple harmonies of male voices echoing in plainsong from the chapel.

Being curious to see if there was any sign of their expected guest, he absented himself from the service and climbed to the top of one of the belltowers. Looking towards the east, he was startled by an approaching cloud of dust stirred up by what appeared to be a small army of men on horseback. Galloping frantically, only a few hundred yards in front of them, was a solitary figure bent low over his horse.

As he scrambled down the steps of the tower, he could see that the gap behind the rider was rapidly closing. “Our visitor is approaching and looks to be in trouble,” he shouted to those below him. “Open the southern gate and be ready to secure all entrances once he is inside.”

By the time he had rushed down to the entrance court, there was a clatter of hooves and swirling sand as a dusty figure leapt from his weary horse and helped secure the gate behind him. Just as the heavy iron bolt was rammed home, the clamouring and stamping of irate pursuers slammed against the solid timber doors. The sound of swords and fists pounding at the entrance reverberated through the monastery.

“That was close,” said the rider.

“They certainly don’t sound very friendly. What was the problem?”

“Oh, nothing much really – it was just a trifling squabble over water.”

“Nothing involving water is trifling in this part of the world.”

“Welcome Gregorio,” called Theophilus, descending with hesitant steps to the lower courtyard. “Have you met my young assistant Petrus?”

The two men shook hands, though he eyed the newcomer warily. His bulky figure was encased in flowing robes that spilt out from below a refined and yet remarkably composed face. His tousled hair had been bleached blonde by the sun and his ocean-coloured eyes almost disappeared as he smiled at Petrus.

“You were always one for the dramatic entrance,” Theophilus remarked, “but you don’t usually bring the party with you. And what have you done to your hair? It is not exactly what St. Anthony prescribed for the monks of this monastery.”

“We’ll leave that explanation till later I think,” said Gregorio, looking around cautiously at the anxious figures that had emerged from the depths of the monastery in response to the disturbance at the gate.

“We can’t afford to alienate the nomads of the desert,” said Theophilus, “so I’ll see if they can be placated by some of our figs and honey. Petrus, will you come with me to assist? Meanwhile, I will have you shown to your quarters Gregorio.”

The noise and dust outside gradually subsided as baskets of fruit with jars of honey were lowered from the walls, and flashing swords were reluctantly returned to their sheaths. With a forgiving wave, the leader pulled his reins away from the gate and the subdued horde plodded back into the deepening shadows of the desert.

The ringing of heavy bronze bells soon resumed, summoning the monks to their evening meal, with the welcome return to familiar routines helping to settle the jarred nerves of the monks. After the meal was over, as the last light of the day faded from the ragged summit of the mountains behind the monastery, Gregorio leant back into his cushions and looked around him at the walls of the monks’ common room decorated as they were with faded paintings of the apostles. Smiling benignly over all of them from the cupola was the depiction of Christ, his head encircled by a holy nimbus, with two fingers of his right hand raised in blessing. It was as if all the dramas of the day had been dissolved and his strengths were being restored by the timeless serenity of the monastery.

“So, what is the latest news from Alexandria?” said Theophilus. “We have heard that the city has been taken.”

“The news is not good,” said Gregorio. “After his conquest of the city, General Amr invited our Patriarch Benjamin to return from his banishment and we thought we would be permitted to practice our faith without interference so long as we paid the taxes demanded of us. Since then, the church of St. Mark by the Sea has been burnt to the ground and many other churches and monasteries have been looted for their treasures.”

“When the Caliph was asked what should be done with our manuscripts, he said that if they accord with the Qu’ran, then they are superfluous, because the words of the prophet will suffice. And if they conflict with the book of truth, they are pernicious. Either way they should be destroyed. Even as we speak, many of our ancient manuscripts are being used as fuel for the bath-houses of the city.”

“We are entering an age of darkness, where the sources of learning and civilisation are threatened on all sides by the forces of the barbarian and the crescent moon,” said Theophilus. “We are teetering on the edge of a yawning abyss. Soon, there will be no trace of our civilisation and all the glories of ancient Egypt will lay buried and forgotten beneath the shifting sands.”

“They have also imposed a new tax on all non-believers called al-jizya,” said Gregorio, “and every farmer working his land must pay the kharaj tax as well. They say that those who cannot pay will have their land confiscated or their children taken from them and sold into slavery.”

“But we were promised we would be left alone if we helped the Arabs overthrow the forces of the Eastern Emperor.”

“I know, but they regard Egypt as a land of gold belonging to anyone who is strong enough to take it. They now insist that we Copts pay the tributes of defeat and every monk is now branded with the shape of a metallic ring. If any monk is found in the city without the brand, they chop off his hand. That is why I have grown my hair and now dress as a merchant.”

“As Livy has written, ‘Vae victis’ (Woe to the conquered),” said Theophilus. “This is dreadful. How can they treat us like this, when they believe in a single God like we do, revealed to us all in the books of the Old Testament?”

Unable to restrain himself any longer he said, “Perhaps it is time for us to change our ways – stand up for what we believe in and fight.”

“Ah my young firebrand,” said Gregorio, “you have never seen a battlefield strewn with the dismembered bodies of brave young men who thought they could make a difference. Taking up arms against the overwhelming forces of this enemy is pointless. Leave the fighting to the warriors – that’s their job. We must hold firm to our beliefs and defend what we can, but we will be slaughtered if we try to take on their army.”

“It is only the naive man who wants to die for a cause. The wise man prefers to live humbly for one. That is what life in the monastery means. Remember the wisdom of Antiochus of Ascalon who said that virtue is sufficient for happiness, nothing but virtue is good and emotions are not to be trusted.”

“But I am not a monk,” he countered. “I am not cut out for quietly pacing out the stone slabs of the cloister in prayer. My God does not come to me from the book of hymns. I am only young, but I am strong and my heart craves action.”

“Don’t worry; you will see action soon enough,” said Theophilus. “All that you have said, Gregorio, makes our mission even more urgent. Come my friends, we shall retire to further discuss these matters. They may have been expelled from Alexandria, yet the Byzantines still have their spies within these holy walls. But even the biggest-eared monk cannot overhear us through the three-foot-thick walls of my study.”

The three men rose from their seats and made their way slowly back along the cloistered corridor to the rear of the monastery where the monks’ cells were located. Throngs of fluttering moths were ministering to each of the lamps now illuminating the monastery walls and a premonitory glow was emerging from the east ahead of a new moon.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” said Theophilus ushering them inside. “Sit yourselves anywhere you can find a perch.”

The cell was only slightly larger than the other cells provided for the monks, but its walls were adorned with cedar shelves, that sagged under the weight of paper and books of every size and description, with the stacks extending onto the modest furniture of the room and even onto the bed and the floor.

“Well, Gregorio. We must put into action the plan we previously discussed.”

“I agree. What has been done with our books?”

“We have left some in jars at Dishna and tomorrow another jar will be taken to Nag Hammadi and buried in the soil there.”

“Good. At least something of ours may survive these terrible times. Have you heard from the Patriarch and our friends in Sicily?”

“Yes, they are both expecting you.”

“How many men do you think we will need for the mission?” Gregorio asked.

“I have decided to send Petrus with you,” said Theophilus.

“But with respect, he is just a boy.”

“Exactly, and if it was not for his quick-thinking, this afternoon we might not be enjoying this little chat.”

“But I cannot be nursing a boy on this journey. It is too dangerous.”

“I can defend myself well enough,” he blurted.

“I am sure you can, but we are talking about enemies beyond count.”

“You will not be armed, Gregorio.”

“What!” Gregorio thundered. “How can we survive without weapons?”

“You will simply travel as pilgrims wishing to visit the tombs of Saints Peter and Paul in Rome. Need I remind you of the words of our Saviour himself, ‘Put your sword in its place, for all who take up the sword will perish by the sword.’ You cannot possibly bear arms. You will only attract attention and invite conflict.”

“Are we really going to Rome?” he asked.

“Perhaps, but first we must get you to Alexandria and safely across to Sicily. Gregorio, why don’t you let off some steam by taking a walk in the moonlight? Reflect on what I have said and you will see that it is the only way forward. As you yourself said – we cannot win this battle with force of arms. In two days’ time there is a caravan of merchants coming through here and I have arranged for both of you to join them. You will meet a man called Simeon who is with the caravan. He has travelled widely and will assist you on your journey. The traders are usually given safe passage through the desert because they pay good money for the woven carpets and palm oil of the Bedouins.”

After Gregorio had stomped out, Theophilus turned to Petrus, before saying, “Now then young man, I want you to listen very carefully to what I have to say, as it will help you understand the importance of the mission you are about to undertake. Although we have not succeeded in luring you into the life of a monk, the cross you have worn around your neck from the time we first found you in the desert shows that you are from amongst the ancient Greeks who remained in Egypt after the armies of Alexander the Great had departed.”

*****

History tells us that after the Pharaohs had ruled Egypt for more than 3,000 years, the country was invaded by Alexander the Great who founded the city of Alexandria named after him. It was one of Alexander’s generals Ptolemeus, who was left to administer the new city and he succeeded in establishing a Dynasty that made Alexandria famous throughout the known world. It was the Greek descendants of the Ptolemies who erected the Pharos lighthouse that became one of the ancient wonders and they also founded the great Library of Alexandria that contained over 700,000 manuscripts. The library was established as the centre of learning and scholarship where everything that had been written was to be stored or copied.

Like all kings, the Ptolemies thought they would rule forever. They assumed that their lighthouse and library would continue to stand as beacons of excellence illuminating the rest of the world. But their rule ended with Queen Cleopatra when Egypt became part of the Roman Empire.

The country was later introduced to Christianity after the arrival of St. Mark, but for many centuries the Christians were persecuted and punished for their beliefs by the Romans, resulting in the establishment of monasteries in remote desert areas in an attempt to try to preserve their Egyptian and Christian traditions. After Constantine the Great became Emperor, Christianity became more widely practiced and accepted and it was the religion of the Copts which was the only version of Christianity that managed to fully integrate itself into the mysterious ways of the Orient.

But the success of that integration was to the detriment of the ancient traditions. With the increased use of the Coptic language, the old systems and writing became superseded and eventually there was no-one alive who could translate or read what the ancient Egyptians recorded all those centuries ago.

The Copts never invaded anyone, quietly enduring injustice and persecution at the hands of different invaders because of the strength of their faith and a desire to live in peace. Although their religion and culture survived, they were never adept at the art of war and fell too easily under the sway of Roman, Persian, Byzantine and now Muslim conquerors.

Unlike all previous invaders, the followers of Muhammad were not merely interested in the wealth and territory of Egypt, they were desirous of its souls; wielding their lethal scimitars in one hand, they brandished their Qu’ran in the other to try to convert the country to their faith. Like their Christian brothers, they are obsessed with an abiding fear of hell and a fervent belief in eternal salvation for the righteous. But what is unique about the Muslim soldier is that he is convinced that if he dies fighting for his religion, he is guaranteed a passage to heaven. They have been captivated by an idea and inspired by an ideology. What started as a religion has been transformed into a political and military force that has taken their religion to a higher plane where they regard the conquest and subjugation of all non-believers as a pious obligation in honour of their prophet. They have just enough religion to let them hate, but not enough religion to love anyone who is not of their faith. Although there are many moderate Muslims, there is a powerful group who are intent on fulfilling the words of the Qu’ran which describes casting terror into the hearts of infidels and striking off their heads.

*****

As Theophilus explained the situation: “Under the yoke of a ruthless conqueror we are left with decorations on temple walls and diminishing volumes of ancient papyrus that are completely illegible today. The Pharos lighthouse is broken and the great library has been burnt to the ground. Our most treasured manuscripts are being burnt and plundered by our enemies. Only the traditions of our language and religion remain, connecting the Greeks with Egypt. We are the last thread that ties together a civilisation invented by the Pharaohs, perfected by the Greeks and blessed by the teachings of Jesus.”

“However, we have just discovered an ancient parchment that records in Greek what appears to be a fragment of a hymn from the time of the Pharaohs. Miraculously, the same text appears to be reproduced on the parchment in hieroglyphics, so the document represents a priceless connection with the past and a unique opportunity to unravel the mysteries of the language of the ancients. I have chosen you to be the bearer of the manuscript and carry it to the safety of a fortified monastery in Italy where it can be studied and preserved. But it must not fall into the hands of our enemies and you are not to mention to anyone what I have told you, do you understand?”

“I understand, but how will we get away with this?” he asked.

“The parchment can be carried in your bedroll as part of your groundsheet. The material is made from calf skin, so it is quite thin and I will arrange for it to be sown into the fabric and covered with linen and canvas to protect it from the elements.”

“That sounds like a good idea, because hopefully no-one will be interested in my bedding, especially with some of my anti-social habits.”

“I don’t wish to know about that, but hopefully our ruse will pass the sort of inspections that you are likely to encounter. So, guard it well. The most profound purpose in life is the achievement of something that will outlast you. Here is your chance to save something worthwhile and leave your mark on history. You have a heavy responsibility my friend, but I am confident you will succeed. Now it is late, so I suggest you retire. I will search out that grumpy companion of yours and see if I can win him over to our plans.”

Walking back to his modest cell, he wondered whether the journey upon which he was about to embark would throw any light on his past, or whether he was destined to remain adrift with nowhere he could call home other than the source of the kindness he had received from the monks. His first memories were of his time as a slave and he had no recollection of his early childhood. Without family ties and commitments outside the monastery, he was free to depart without delay, but he was nervous about the challenges that lay ahead, particularly because his youth had already alienated the first of his travelling companions.

Although he had tried to apply himself to his studies during his time at the monastery, he had found himself more at home in the vegetable garden than in the library and as a result had not yet learnt to read and write fluently. He could recall very little of what had passed as his childhood and nothing of what he could remember was enjoyable. The only time in his life he had come close to achieving any inner peace had been here in the monastery. If he could repay some of the generosity that had been extended to him, by succeeding in what Theophilus had asked of him, he was certainly willing to try.

2. Farewells

He eventually fell into a fitful sleep with all the excitement of his coming adventure spinning inside his head. But he was awoken suddenly by the sound of a woman screaming hysterically. Sitting upright in bed, his head finally cleared enough for him to realise that it had only been one of his recurring nightmares in which he heard the frantic wailing of his mother as he was violently wrenched out of her arms as a young boy. He was never able to picture his mother’s face, but he vividly remembered her screams as she clung to him desperately. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not recall anything of his life before being taken from his mother – it was as if an impenetrable barrier had descended over his early years, preventing any exploration of where he came from and who he really was.

He had been cast adrift at a young age, never knowing his home port or his destination. He had attempted to retrace his journey a thousand times, but every time he tried to return to his origins, the trail would be lost in the darkest recesses of his memory. It felt as if he had never existed before the recent past and it was only the cross around his neck that provided any tangible proof that there had been a time in his life before the present. It was as if he had been reincarnated from another life only to be punished in his new life for sins he could not recall.

He wrestled with his pillow the rest of the night and felt as if he had only just fallen asleep when the morning bells rang in the new day. As a result, he failed to attend the lauds held in the chapel at first light and looked suitably guilty when he later filed into the refectory to take his breakfast on the side-bench reserved for novices who had not taken their final vows. Although he received some curious looks, he was grateful that no-one questioned him as he was never a convincing liar and he could not think of any plausible excuse for why he looked and felt so weary.

Following his breakfast, he returned to his cell to make arrangements for his departure and select the few possessions that he would carry with him on the journey. He had decided to distribute the remainder of his modest belongings amongst those of his companions whom he would miss the most and he spent the rest of the morning writing farewell notes explaining that he had been called away on an urgent mission and apologising for his failure to say goodbye.

After his exertions of the previous day, Gregorio had slept well and followed his usual routine by rising early to enjoy every available hour of daylight. He followed the example of Pope Gregory the Great who prayed as if everything depended on God and worked as if everything depended on his own exertions. Although trained as a monk, he had resisted all attempts to attach him to a single monastery as his free spirit matched his mind and was always keen to explore new territory. He had travelled the world as a trusted collector of the Church’s revenue and had been widely praised for his work as someone who was firm but fair; unlike many of his predecessors he had resisted the temptation to reward himself out of the monies that had been entrusted to him.

Gregorio saw himself as a champion in search of a cause, whose life had been spent in preparation for an ultimate ordeal that had never quite arrived. It was not that he was frustrated by what he had achieved in his life, but rather he felt unfulfilled like a brilliant teacher in charge of a class of uninterested students. His old friend Theophilus had asked him to lead the expedition upon which he was about to embark and he was excited by the prospect of a new challenge that he hoped would satisfy both his yearning for adventure and his enthusiasm for expanding his knowledge of life.

Knowledge of history was what Gregorio regarded as the key to understanding the world. Those who work to undermine what holds society together do not always intend to destroy it, but experience teaches us that once the fabric starts to fray, it is more vulnerable to disintegrate at the hands of the ruthless and the desperate. For Gregorio, civilised life was like a silken cocoon suspended by a frail thread connecting us to our past, that gradually unravels as it leads us into the future as part of the tapestry of the universe. The more threads that could be woven into the tapestry, the stronger society would be. But, if the thread was severed, the cocoon will rapidly tumble out of control into the infinite void of space.

Whereas many people saw mountains as obstacles to be overcome, Gregorio saw them as opportunities for a better view; where others saw rivers as dangers to be negotiated, he saw them as helpful channels to the open sea.

Gregorio had always agreed with what Marcus Aurelius had written many centuries before, that what was worth living for was “Justice in thought, goodness in action, speech that cannot deceive and a disposition glad of whatever comes.”

Unlike many scholars, Gregorio was also a man of action who enjoyed physical exertion and he started his day with a brisk walk around the monastery before settling down to his books. In the monastery’s library he had found a copy of the “Secretum Secretorum” in which pseudo-epigraphical letters were purportedly sent by Aristotle to Alexander the Great during his campaign in Persia. It included fascinating references to a unified science, the secrets of which could only be discovered by a man of the highest moral and intellectual standards. He became so absorbed in what he was reading that he also failed to attend the lauds and, not for the first time, missed breakfast altogether.

Just as he was finishing his packing, there was a loud knock on his door and, without waiting for an answer, Gregorio strode into the room.

“Are you packed and ready to go?”

“Almost. There are only a few more things left to do.”

“Theophilus has suggested that you might like to show me the way up the mountain to St. Anthony’s cave as I have never previously had the opportunity to see it.”

“That’s a good idea, as I was hoping to find time to say goodbye to him myself before we leave tomorrow. Does it suit you to leave now?”

“I am at your disposal.”

It was still early afternoon as they commenced the steep climb that led from behind the monastery up to the hermit’s cave to which St. Anthony had retreated before the monastery bearing his name had been established. They clambered steadily upwards through thinning vegetation and increasingly rugged terrain following the well-worn trail that had been carved out of the mountainside over the centuries.

Gregorio was the first to break the silence of their exertions. “Well – if I am to be your travelling companion, I should know something about you,” he said. “How did you come to live here at the monastery when you do not appear suited to life as a monk?”

“It is a long story, but I was taken from my family when I was less than five years old and sold as a slave to a trader who travelled throughout Egypt,” he explained.

“Do you not remember anything of your early childhood?’

“Not really. I seem to have lost all memory of those younger days. My only link with the past is this small cross that I have worn for as long as I can remember,” he said, pulling at the leather thong around his neck to display a small wooden cross with flared ends that showed all the signs of having been constantly burnished by the sweat and fondling of many lonely years.

“Those early years must have been very hard for you,” said Gregorio. “What happened after that?”

“I was not mistreated, though I was made to work hard, I knew nothing of life except weariness and fear. I never learnt to read properly, though my master did teach me my numbers. I thought many times of trying to escape, but I didn’t know where to run to if I fled. I lost count of the years, but my life in slavery continued until two years ago when we were travelling with some mercenaries and a group of merchants from Sidon and were camped at a beautiful oasis about four days walk from here.”

“During the night we were set upon by a group of Berbers, and although they were only intent on robbing the merchants and killing the mercenaries, I decided to take advantage of the confusion by slipping away into the desert. They tried to find me, but I was able to avoid them.”

“After two days, they gave up, so I returned to the oasis and managed to salvage some scraps of food from what they had left behind. Fortunately, I had taken my water gourd with me, so I was able to carry water, but I knew I could not survive on water alone and the date palms were not in fruit at the time, so I decided I would try to reach the monastery we had passed a few days earlier. I followed our tracks back into the desert and eventually found my way back to this monastery where I convinced the monks to take me in.

“You must be destined to achieve something great in your life, for you to have survived so much when you were still so young,” said Gregorio.

They continued their climb in silence and were within sight of the summit, when they were suddenly enveloped by a swirling mist that if he had not been so familiar with the trail would have had them hopelessly lost amongst the strewn rocks and ravines. Despite the chill of the mist, they were sweating profusely by the time they finally reached a small ledge located in front of a narrow tunnel leading into the cool and dark chamber of the cave.

Seating himself quietly to one side, he offered silent thanks to the saint for all the kindnesses he had received from the monks of the monastery and asked for his blessing in meeting the challenges that lay ahead. In front of the modest shrine that had been erected in the saint’s honour, he noticed a small papyrus scroll that had been left behind by an earlier visitor with a passage that had been marked in the margin.

“What’s that?” asked Gregorio.

“I don’t know. It seems to be some sort of prayer,” he replied, handing it to his companion.

“That’s quite extraordinary. It contains an extract from the Gospel of Truth that is almost exactly scripted for our situation. Do you mind if I read it to you?”

“Please go ahead.”

“We were in a fog, but we are now enlightened

By a path and that path is the truth.

The father has become a path

for those that went astray and

Knowledge to those who were ignorant,

A discovery for those who sought and

A support for those who tremble,

A purification for those who were defiled.

We have been beset by the shadows

and phantoms of the night,

But when morning comes, we know that

The fear we experienced was nothing.

Happy is the man who comes to himself and awakens.”

He was greatly reassured by the prayer and they both found a new spring in their steps on the descent, with all traces of the fog dispelled. As the golden glow of the late afternoon sun reflected off the mountain, he was overwhelmed by the vista extending all the way to the distant shimmering waters of the Red Sea.

They had reached a small outcrop at the rear of the monastery from where they could hear the tinkling of tiny bells used by the goatherds to keep track of their flock as they shepherded the animals out of the rocks to shelter in the friary overnight. Glancing downwards, he noticed the conical flowers of a small lily growing in a rocky cleft beside the trail, with its tumbling leaves spiralling like a ribbon from around the bloom. It was the first time he had ever seen such a flower during all his years in the desert. Looking up, he sighted a skein of noisy, migrating cranes flying high overhead in the direction of their journey the next day across the desolate Wadi Araba. Although he kept his thoughts to himself, he felt that all the omens were favourable for their journey.

The light had by now retreated from the sky and the red under-bellies of the clouds on the horizon were fading to black. Below them lay the complex of buildings, towers, quadrangles, and gardens that made up the monastery within its fortified walls. Approaching from the east and drawing close to the entrance gates, they saw a trailing line of camels heavily burdened with the wares of the traders who would be sheltered overnight by the monks before departing with their new travelling companions the following morning.

The warming glow of lamps began to emerge as they were lit in the windows and corridors below and, as if on cue, the bronze bells of the chapel echoed up from their towers, summonsing the monks to evening vespers. He was transfixed by the illuminated tranquillity of the scene, contrasting so starkly with the barren expanse of desert stretching away from its cosy walls. Entering through the rear gate, they joined the line of hooded figures filing into the chapel singing the timeless melodies that had been part of the church ever since Christianity had first taken hold in Egypt.

The monastery’s Coptic liturgy was said to have derived from the rituals of the Pharaohs, but Theophilus had also introduced the monks to the solemn and haunting chants of Pope Gregory that he had come to enjoy so much during his stay. The steady humming of deep male voices, merging into the cadences of the tenors never failed to inspire him in a way that convinced him of the existence of something supernatural, even if he could not accept all that the monks took for granted. Although he had never been a particularly tuneful singer, he joined the other voices enthusiastically in chanting their praise of the Almighty:

“Tua est potentia, tuum regnum

Domines tu es super omnes gentes

Da pacem Domine in diebus nostris”

Following the service, they partook of the evening meal, aware that it might be quite a while before they had the opportunity to enjoy such an array of fresh and tasty food again. As the meal concluded, they noticed the uplifted eyes of the abbot, indicating that he required their attendance in his room for one final meeting.

On re-entering the cell, it appeared even more cluttered and crowded than last time, largely because of the presence on the bed of a huge dark-skinned man with close-cropped curls and chestnut-coloured eyes who smiled broadly at them as they stood in astonishment before him.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce Simeon from the monastery of St. Catherine. Simeon, this is Gregorio and Petrus,” said Theophilus.

Their hands were keenly grasped by two enormous fists as the man towered over them. “I am delighted to meet you both. Theophilus has told me all about you.”

Too taken aback to even be able to find suitable words in reply they each simply nodded an acknowledgment.

“We are a bit crowded in here, but please close the door after you,” said Theophilus. “I hope you can squeeze in somehow. As I have explained to Petrus, I have entrusted to him the task of carrying a precious parchment that records in hieroglyphics, a fragment of a Great Hymn dating from the time of the Pharaohs. The original appears to have been transcribed at a later date into Greek although the grammar and the order of the words are unusual.”

“We have used our best scholars to try to decipher the ancient Egyptian symbols with the use of our text, but we have failed. There is one Irish scholar, a disciple of St. Columbanus, who now resides in the fortified Benedictine monastery of Monte Cassino in Italy. He has spent his life studying ancient texts and has worked for years trying to understand and decipher the symbols of the early Egyptians. It is to him that this parchment must be delivered if we are to preserve our links with the past. He had visited Alexandria many years ago, but he is now elderly and can no longer travel long distances. If we fail to get the parchment to him, we may never be able to decipher anything that is written on the walls of the temples of the Pharaohs and all their literature and learning will be lost to us forever.”

“Legend has it that the parchment also contains a hidden reference to the third ingredient that Archimedes employed in making an explosive black powder that was used to try to destroy the Roman galleys during the siege of Siracusa, but no-one has yet been able to identify it. What is left of Western civilisation would be obliterated by the followers of Muhammad if they were ever to lay their hands on such a destructive force, so you must ensure that the parchment is taken safely out of Egypt without our enemies knowing of its existence.”

“Simeon has also brought some leather ware with him that you will each find very useful. These look like ordinary leather belts, but sown into the inside are a series of small pockets, each designed to carry a single gold coin, so that your money can be protected. Apart from the weight of the belts, the money will be almost undetectable.

“That should at least protect us from the pickpockets,” said Gregorio.

“The bronze coins we use in the monastery will be worthless once you leave Egypt, so I have arranged for you to each receive a modest sum in gold denarii that will be issued to you when you attend on the Patriarch in Alexandria.”

“From here you will journey westward until you reach the Nile at Beni Suef, but the route involves travelling for four days without access to reliable water, so horses are out of the question. You will have to use the camels of the Arabs.”

“I hate those smelly animals,” muttered Gregorio.

“From Beni Suef you will travel upstream to a convent of nuns at a place called Gabal al-Tayr and from there they will arrange your transport downstream to the coast. It is much safer by water than on land and much more comfortable than riding on those unruly camels. Speaking of which, you also need to come and meet the master of the animals who is down in the courtyard, as he will be responsible for your safety until you reach the river. His name is Khalil and he has agreed to allow you to join his caravan. Although he is a devious old fox, he knows the desert better than anyone in Egypt. He embodies the spirit of the nomads which is like the desert wind – it blows strongly where no-one but the Bedouin can survive.”

“After that you will be on your own. Apart from your personal items, Simeon is happy to bear most of the burden of carrying your possessions. Now I suggest you all get an early night as you will be woken before dawn tomorrow to travel with the caravan.”

Returning to his cell, he lay down on his small bed, not because he was interested in sleep, but rather to compose his thoughts for the challenges that lay ahead. Whenever he felt anxious, he found himself fidgeting with his left earlobe, in which there had always been a small perforation that he found himself rolling between his thumb and forefinger. Looking up, he saw the swaying silhouette of the olive tree outside his window projected by the moonlight onto the wall above the door. Although the tree had grown during his occupation of the room, its moon-shadow was the same shape as he had first seen on awakening from what seemed like a very long sleep to unfamiliar surroundings.

He had not been completely frank in the version that he had provided to Gregorio, largely because the truth of his experience had been far more traumatic than he had wanted to admit to his new travelling companion. After escaping from his master, he had followed the tracks of the caravan back into the desert, but on foot he had become weaker by the hour and without food to sustain him his progress became slower and slower.

During the night, he had seen lightning and heard the sound of distant thunder rumbling across the desert from a mountain range on the horizon, but apart from seeing some ominous storm clouds lit up by lightning, he had taken little notice of it. The following day, he continued to follow the well-defined trail left by the line of camels that led back along a dried riverbed. As he retraced his steps from his earlier passage through the desert, he heard a portentous rumbling noise which appeared to be getting closer and louder by the minute.

For some time, he was unable to make out what was happening, but fortunately he was in a section of the valley where he was close to one of its sides, because he was suddenly confronted by a tumbling wall of dust-coloured water churning down the ravine, with pieces of timber, weeds and other debris being pushed ahead of it at a frightening speed. Despite his weakened state, he managed to clamber up the nearest bank just as the seething tumult of gushing water swept past him. If he had been any slower to react to the noise he had heard, he would have been swept to his death by the force of the water as it roared past him.

Almost as quickly as it had arrived, the water disappeared leaving a muddy and confused trail of debris behind it, making it even more difficult to make any progress towards his destination. Worst of all, the water had obliterated any trace of the tracks he had been following and he began to hallucinate and became quite delirious in the humid heat that the flash-flood had left behind.

He had almost given up all hope of survival, when he chanced upon an amaranth flower that had miraculously sprung up amongst the rocks and he remembered that one of the merchants had told him that its leaves and purplish-red flowers were edible and nutritious, so he chewed on them greedily until he felt quite revived. It was only then that it occurred to him that if the Almighty had nurtured a humble flower and allowed it to survive for so many years in such an inhospitable landscape, it was inconceivable that He would abandon a creature in his own likeness.

Having convinced himself that he was destined to survive, he resumed his journey and, miraculously, although he had no real idea of his whereabouts, he found himself within sight of the monastery after another two days of wandering. Burnt and blistered by the relentless sun, dehydrated and delirious, he was reduced to crawling on his hands and knees and ultimately collapsed under a rock shelf, where he would have died except for the timely arrival of the Bedouin boy who was shepherding his goats. He remembered nothing of his rescue, but he was later told that no-one thought he was likely to survive when he was first brought into the monastery and it was only because of the dedicated and expert care he received from Brother Anselum and his assistants that he eventually emerged from his comatose state. He was so traumatized by his experience however, that he could not remember much at all of the days he spent in the infirmary.

Since those momentous events, he had been made to feel welcome by everyone at St Anthony’s and he had thoroughly enjoyed his time in the monastery. Although he was not convinced he was suited to the austere life of a monk, he had relished his work in the monastery’s vegetable garden and prided himself on the quality of the produce he had grown. With such momentous events unfolding elsewhere, he was keen to explore the world outside the monastery and leapt at the chance to be able to help to make his mark by helping to achieve such a worthwhile objective.