Byzantium

There followed a burst of renewed acclaim, which the good abbot allowed to continue a while, before raising his hands for silence. 'Brothers, it is right to welcome our kinsmen with praise and thanksgiving,' he said. 'However, I see that only four have returned where thirteen set out, and it would be a shameful thing not to ask after those whose absence demands explanation.'

Brynach stepped forward and related the unhappy tidings that we were indeed the only survivors of the pilgrimage and that all the rest were dead, having exchanged the white martyrdom for that of the red. This brought murmurs of sorrow and lament from the throng-especially for the deceased monks who had set out from our own community.

Bryn then motioned for Dugal to come forward. The big monk shouldered his way to the fore and took the carefully wrapped bundle from off his back and placed it on the ground at Abbot Fraoch's feet.

'Aidan here,' Dugal said with a nod in my direction, 'was not content to allow our blessed Bishop Cadoc's mortal bones to remain among the godless in pagan lands. We have brought the bishop's relics home to be buried with all honour and respect.'

The abbot regarded the bundled bones sorrowfully. 'Ah, well,' he said. 'Ah, mo croi, it is a grief to me, and to us all. Christ have mercy.' Raising his eyes once more, he said, 'Thank you, Brother Dugal. Thank you, Brother Aidan. It was good of you to be so mindful of the sympathies of others. We are, all of us, beholden to your tender thoughtfulness.'

Ha! I thought, anger flaring up within me. Shall I tell you how he died? Shall I tell you how this godly man's life was cruelly torn from him and his body thrown into the refuse pit with no more tender thought than yesterday's joint of mutton? Shall I tell you that the only reason his bones were retrieved at all was so that a band of godless barbarians could salvage their pilfered treasure? Shall I tell you the truth of God's steadfast protection?

I said none of these things, of course, but merely acknowledged the abbot's sentiments with a reverent nod.

Abbot Fraoch then said, 'Vespers have been rung, and the prayers begun. Let us go to the chapel and give thanks to God for the pilgrims' safe return.'

Everyone began talking at once, pelting us with questions and clamouring to be heard; we were swept up by the well-wishing throng and carried to the doors of the chapel. There I was to endure a time of prayer more onerous to me than a hundred days of slavery in the caliph's mines. At least when it was finally over the abbot allowed us to retreat to the cells which had been prepared for us.

He forbade anyone to ask any more questions of us that night, and dismissed us to our sleep. 'I can see you are tired from your long journey,' he said. 'Go now to your rest, and we will await your tales in the morning.'

Thus, I was spared having to talk any more about the tribulations we had survived. I left the church in despair, and made my way to the cells; Dugal walked beside me, pleased to be back among his friends and familiar surroundings once more. 'Ah, mo croi,' he sighed with contentment. 'It is good. Do you not think so, Dana?'

'Yes,' I replied.

'I tell you the truth,' he declared, 'there were times I did not think we would ever see this place again.'

'Nor did I,' I said, and thought: And now that we are here once more, I wonder what was so important. What were we trying to do? What did it mean?

'Are you sad, Aidan?' Dugal asked.

'No, just a little tired,' I said, to avoid further conversation on the subject. 'I did not foresee having to answer so many questions.'

'You have been to Byzantium,' Dugal observed simply, 'and they have not. Sure, they are curious. You cannot blame them for that.'

There was food in the cell-a loaf of brown bread and a little honey mead for our homecoming. I ate alone by the light of a single beeswax candle and went to sleep thinking how quiet it was…only to be awakened at dawn by the tolling of the matin bell signalling the beginning of the daily round.

I had not heard that sound for a very long time, but the moment I heard it my heart sank-to think that all the time I had been away, the same bell had rung the call to maiden prayers day after day after day, and nothing, absolutely nothing had changed. The monastery was still the same as the day I left; its work went on in the same, unchanging way, as it had before my birth and would after I was dust in an unknown grave.

Despair, renewed with the morning, washed over me in black waves. I had been to Byzantium, and beyond. I had beheld wonders of unrivalled wealth and power. I had served Arab potentates, and endured the life of a slave. I had loved a Sarazen princess-Christ have mercy, had I been a better man, I would be married now! Oh, Kazimain, forgive this wretch of a fool.

Truly, I had partaken of life unimaginable to the simple brotherhood of the abbey. And now, here I was, once more among the monks of Kells, and nothing had changed-save myself, and that not for the better.

I lay on my straw pallet in the pearl-grey light of dawn, staring up at the bleak stone ceiling of my cell, drowning in the futility that whelmed me over and pulled me down and down into the depths of hopelessness. I pressed my eyes shut to stay the tears, but they leaked from beneath my eyelids anyway and rolled down my cheeks.

How could I brave the day? How could I brave the innocent interest my every word held for those who had remained behind? How could I brave the endless, ignorant questions and satisfy the credulous, ignorant curiosity? What was I to do?

I remained in my cell until after the bell for prime, and then went to Ruadh's hut. He was not there, but I went in anyway and sat down on the floor to wait until he came. As I waited, I looked around at the bare stone room with its narrow windhole in the wall and the thin straw sleeping pallet on the floor, the leather bulga hanging by its strap from the wooden peg above the pallet, the shallow basin of water at the foot of the bed, the iron candletree, the stone shelf with its small wooden cross-everything exactly as I remembered it, exactly as it had been the day I had gone away.

The room spoke a lonely psalm to me, a hymn of desolation and barren futility. I felt like running out again, but presently heard footsteps approaching. A moment later, Ruadh entered the room.

'There you are, Aidan,' he said, crossing to his chair-as if resuming a discussion that had been diverted by a temporary interruption. 'When I did not see you in the hall, nor at prayers, I thought I might find you here.'

'You always know me better than I know myself,' I told him.

'I always did,' he said, and smiled. He folded his hands in his lap and gazed at me for a time, smiling to himself. 'Welcome home, Aidan,' he breathed at last. 'It is good to see you again.'

'And good to see you, secnab,' I said.

'Is it?' He lifted an eyebrow inquiringly. 'The expression on your face tells a different tale.' He paused, but when I did not deny it, he continued, 'I have been talking to Brynach. He says it was your decision to bring the book home with you.'

'Did he say what led me to that decision?'

'Yes,' Ruadh answered, 'but I would hear it from you.'

'The pilgrimage failed,' I told him, and all the bitterness I felt came surging up once more. 'There was nothing to be done.'

'He said you spoke to the emperor alone.'

'I did, yes. What else did Brynach tell you?'

'He said you saved their lives.'

That day, once so full in my memory, now seemed remote. I shook my head slowly. Here, in the unvaried simplicity of the abbey, my former life was already dwindling away to nothing.

I looked at Ruadh-my anamcara, my soul's good friend-for many years he had patiently listened to my dreams and confessions, guiding me, prodding me, helping me in any of a thousand ways with his wise counsel. He knew me better than any other, but even Ruadh would never understand more than the tiniest fragment of all that had happened. How could I tell him-where could I begin?

'It was nothing,' I said. 'Anyone else would have done the same.'

We talked a little more-mostly about the abbey and resuming my duties in the scriptorium-and when I rose to leave, Ruadh walked with me outside. 'It will take time to return, Aidan. You must not expect to come back as if nothing happened.'

Over the next days, I avoided talking about the pilgrimage. When anyone asked a question, I replied with vague, dismissive answers, and eventually the brothers stopped asking. Life in the monastery went on, after all, and