the grievances, so to speak, writing them down. The Book of Sins, I called it.' He smiled sadly. 'Rome's sins against us.'
'But we sailed on without it.'
'Well,' Brynach shrugged, 'that could not be helped. When I finished my little red book, Bishop Cadoc had three copies made: one was kept at Ty Gwyn, one at Hy, and one at Nantes, in Gaul.'
'That was where Cadoc and Honorius met,' I said, recollecting our previous talk.
'Indeed,' he confirmed. 'Having laboured so long over our appeal, we thought to share the fruit, so to speak. The churches of Gaul are pressed as sorely as those of Britain and Eire. We hoped to enlist these brothers in our cause.' He shook his head again. 'We were making for Nantes when the Danes attacked us.'
'But you reached Nantes,' I said. 'You must have retrieved your red book.'
'We did, yes.'
'And you brought it to Byzantium, did you not?' Brynach affirmed my question with a nod. 'What happened to it?'
'We were to deliver it into the emperor's hands,' Brynach replied simply, 'but-' Frowning, he hesitated.
'But it was lost when your ship was attacked,' I suggested, believing I had guessed the book's fate.
Brynach glanced up quickly. 'By no means,' he said. 'The book is still in Byzantium. And that is cause for hope. Nikos, the very man you condemn out of hand-he has the book even now.'
I stared in stupefaction at the senior monk, overwhelmed by the immensity of the catastrophe: the hopelessness of Bishop Cadoc's doomed trust, and Nikos's monumental treachery. I felt as if the weight of the world had shifted and rolled upon my chest.
'Nikos!' My hands balled to fists. 'You gave it to Nikos! In God's name, man, why?'
Dugal, kneeling over the bubbling pot, stirdle in hand, looked from one to the other of us, a troubled expression on his face.
'Peace, brother,' Brynach soothed. 'We gave it to him, yes, for safe-keeping. And that is how I know he was trying to help us.' Brynach's faith was as genuine as it was misplaced. 'Nikos was much impressed by my thoroughness and particularity. 'Such a meticulous indictment,' he told us, 'could not fail to move the emperor.' Those were his very words.'
The ache in my chest gave way to a hollow feeling. I felt as if I were a gourd, ripe to bursting, split down the middle and scooped out in a single, devastating swipe. Nevertheless, like murky sediment settling in a pool, the thing was gradually coming clear. I pressed on. 'What of the governor? What was his place in this?'
'Cadoc knew him well; the two had been friends in Gaul. Cadoc, then a priest, baptized Honorius into the faith. In respect of this singular blessing, Honorius always held that if Cadoc ever required his aid, he would give it. So it was that the bishop hoped to claim that promise. Over the years, Honorius had risen to a position of considerable influence; he was to guide us to the prize we sought.'
Almost fearfully, I said, 'This prize-what was it?'
'A dispensation from the emperor,' Brynach replied, his voice taking on strength once more, 'for the free practice of our faith.'
I could make no sense of this. 'Have you lost your mind, brother? Whatever can you mean? We are free,' I asserted, forgetting for the moment that I was done with such things and no longer cared one way or the other. 'We owe allegiance to no earthly king.'
'Not if Rome has its way,' countered Brynach blackly. 'Even now the Pope is raising the cry of heresy against us.'
'Heresy!' I could not imagine what Brynach was talking about. 'It is absurd.'
'But true just the same,' replied the monk. 'The Pope would bring all who call themselves Christian beneath his sway. We have always vexed Rome, I think, with our different ways. The Pope would have us bow the knee to his authority.'
'So you hoped to appeal to a higher authority,' I mused, hopelessness settling over me once more.
'There is no higher authority on earth than the emperor himself,' Brynach declared, growing earnest. 'He can grant us the peace we seek. Once we reach Sebastea,' he said quickly, 'we can-'
His words, combined with his rekindled intensity, filled me with alarm. 'The pilgrimage is ended,' I said ruthlessly, my tone growing harsh. 'We are returning to Trebizond, and then travelling on to Constantinople. It is finished,' I stated flatly. 'The pilgrimage ended in disaster long ago.'
Brynach opened his mouth, and then closed it again without speaking. He rose and went back to his place at the cooking pot. I thought the matter ended there; however, I was gravely mistaken.
63
My mind squirmed like an eel caught in the eagle's grasp. Upset by Brynach's talk, disturbed, angry, I walked a long time, watching night descend through a ruddy desert sky, trying to regain my peace and composure. The more I walked however, the more agitated I became-but obscurely so: I did not know what I was anxious about, nor could I discern the source of my aggravation. All the while, my thoughts spun and shifted, flitting first one way and then another, but never finding rest.
Once, I felt as if I were about to burst with a sudden blazing insight. I waited, almost panting with anticipation. But nothing came, so I made my way back to camp and found a place to be alone with my troubled thoughts. Was it, I wondered, something Brynach had said that now sat so ill with me?
Tossed by the turmoil of my unsatisfactory meditations, I heard, but did not attend, a soft, strangled sound. It came again, and I turned to see Dugal, his head bent, shuffling towards me, hands covering his face. Even in the darkness, I could see his broad shoulders curved down as under an unseen burden. He came to where I sat on my solitary rock a short distance from camp.
'Dugal?'
In a moment, he raised his face. I expected tears, but his eyes were dry. The torment he felt was etched in every line of his face, however, and his voice was raw when he spoke. 'Christ have mercy!' he said. 'It is all because of me.'
'Sit you down,' I told him sternly. Still preoccupied by my own concerns I had no inclination towards gentleness and understanding. 'Tell me now, what ails you?'
'All the evil that has befallen us-' he said, his voice cracking with regret, 'it is all because of me. God have mercy on my soul, I am the cause of our afflictions.'
'Tch!' I clicked my tongue at him. 'Listen to you, now. Even if you were the Devil incarnate, you could not have wrought such havoc.'
In his shame, he bent his head to his hands, and covered his face, murmuring, 'Jonah…I am Jonah.'
Rising to my knees, I leaned towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. 'Hear me, Dugal,' I said firmly. 'The fault is not yours. The misfortunes which have befallen us are the work of a zealot who shrinks not from murder, or any other crime, to further his wicked purpose.'
'The man you describe is me,' came the muffled reply. 'I am that Jonah.'
'Do not be a fool,' I told him bluntly. 'The man I describe is Komes Nikos. The iniquity is his alone.'
Dugal, however, would not be comforted. 'You do not understand,' he said, his cry a very wound. 'From the beginning-before ever we left Eire…' He shook his head, overwhelmed by misery.
'Stop that, Dugal. Look at me.' I spoke severely, trying to brace him with sharp speech and firm purpose. 'Look me in the eye, man, and tell me what you did.'
Slowly, a man crushed by his burden of guilt, Dugal raised his head. There were tears in his eyes now. He pushed them away with the heels of his hands.
'Well? I am waiting.'
'I cheated my way onto the ship,' he said at last.
'What ship?' I could not imagine what he was talking about.
'Our ship-Ban Gwydd,' he said; once loosed, the words came tumbling out. 'I knew I would never be chosen like you, Aidan. But I knew also I could not let you go on pilgrimage without me. So, with God as my witness, I schemed and plotted night and day for a way to get aboard that ship. I steeled myself to do whatever vile thing
