Men who knew him asked why, and he told them that he had found a new faith, a true faith which owed nothing to sacrifices or idols. An old man, he said, had been preaching in the camps of the steppe peoples for several years now, and his words had gained him many followers. A new religion was birthing in the far lands of the Merduks, and even the horse chieftains had taken it to heart.
When Ochali’s acquaintances in the province of Ostiber pressed him further he refused to elaborate, saying only that the Merduk peoples had found a prophet, a holy leader who was taking them out of the darkness and putting an end to the interminable clan wars which had always racked his people. Merduk no longer slew Merduk in the distant steppes beyond the Jafrar, and the men who abode there lived in harmony and brotherhood. The Prophet Ahrimuz had shown his people the one true path to salvation.
There was a thumping at Albrec’s door and he jumped like a startled hare. He had time to cover the ancient document with his catechism before the door opened and Brother Commodius walked in, his big bare feet slapping on the stone floor.
“Albrec! You were missed at Matins. Is everything all right?”
The Senior Librarian looked his normal ugly self; the face regarding Albrec with concern and curiosity was the same one the monk had worked with for nearly thirteen years. The same huge beak of a nose, out-thrust ears and unruly fringe of hair about the bald tonsure. But Albrec would never again see it as just another face, not after the night in the lowest levels of the library.
“I—I’m fine,” he stammered. “I didn’t feel well, Brother. I have a bit of a flux so I thought it better to stay away. I’m going to the privy every few minutes.” Lies, lies and sins. But that could not be helped. It was in a greater cause.
“You should see the Brother Infirmiar then, Albrec. It’s no good sitting here and reading your catechism, waiting for it to go away. Come, I’ll take you.”
“No, brother—it’s all right. You go and open the library, I’ve made you late enough as it is.”
“Nonsense!”
“No, truly, Brother Commodius, I can’t keep you from your duties. I’ll visit him myself. Perhaps I’ll see you after Compline. I’m sure an infusion of arrowroot will set me up.”
The Senior Librarian shrugged his immense, bony shoulders. “Very well, Albrec, have it your own way.” He turned to go, then hesitated on the threshold. “Brother Columbar tells me that you and he were down in the catacombs beneath the library.”
Albrec opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“Seeking blotting for the scriptorium, it seems. And I dare say you were doing a little ferreting around on your own account, eh, Albrec?” Commodius’ eyes twinkled. “You want to be careful down there. A man might have an accident among all that accumulated rubbish. There’s a warren of tunnels and chambers that have not been disturbed since the days of the empire. They’re best left that way, eh?”
Albrec nodded, still speechless.
“I know you, Albrec. You would mine knowledge as though it were gold. But the possession of knowledge is not always good; some things are better left undiscovered . . . Did you find Gambio’s blotting paper?”
“Some, Brother. We found some.”
“Good. Then you will not need to go down there again, will you? Well, I must go. As you say, I am late. There will be a huddle of scholar-monks congregated round the door of St. Garaso thinking uncharitable thoughts about me. I hope your bowels clear up soon, Brother. There is work to be done.” And Commodius left, closing the door of Albrec’s cell behind him.
Albrec was shaking, and sweat had chilled his brow. So Columbar could not keep his mouth shut. Commodius must have questioned him; he had seen Albrec and Avila that night, perhaps.
Albrec had joined the Antillian Order for many reasons: hatred of the open sea which had been his fisherman father’s daily bread; a love of books; but also a desire for security, for peace. He had found it in Charibon, and had never regretted his thirteen years in the confines of the St. Garaso Library. But now he felt that the earth had shifted from under his feet. His safe world was no longer so tranquil. There was an old saying among the clerics of Charibon that it was but a short step from the pulpit to the pyre. For the first time Albrec appreciated the truth behind the dark humour of it.
He uncovered the document, glancing fearfully at the door as he did so, as though Commodius might leap out with his face a devil’s mask again.
He should destroy it. He should burn it, or lose it somewhere. Let someone else discover it a hundred years hence, perhaps. Why should it be he who must shoulder this burden?
It is my belief, the narrative went on, that the Blessed Saint did indeed succeed in crossing the Jafrar. He was a man in the seventh decade of his life, but he was still strong and vigorous, and the missionary flame burned hotly in him. He was like a captain of a ship who can never rest until he has found an uncharted shore, and then another, and another. There was a restlessness to him which I and others believed to be the spirit of God.
As the greatest conquerors can never sit at peace and reflect upon their past victories but must always move on, fighting fresh battles, chancing their lives and their fortunes until the end of their strength, so Ramusio could never be content to cease his proselytizing, his unending work of spreading the truth. His fire was not suited to the administration of an organized church. He inspired men and then moved on, leaving it to his followers to write rules and catechisms, to make into formulas and commandments the tenets of his faith.
He was the gentlest man I have ever known, and yet his will was adamantine. There was a puissance to his determination which was not of this world, and which awed all those who knew him.
I do not doubt that he reached the steppes beyond the mountains, and that he awed the Merduks as he had the men of the west. Ramusio the Blessed Saint became Ahrimuz the Prophet, and the faith which sustains us here in the west is the same as that which inspires the Merduks who have become our mortal enemies. That is the pity of it.
There it was. Once he had read it, Albrec’s world changed irrevocably. He knew the document was genuine, that the author had lived and breathed in the same long-lost world which the Blessed Saint had known, a world five hundred years distant. He spoke of Ramusio as a man, a teacher, and as a friend, and the authenticity of his recollections convinced Albrec of the truth of what he was reading. Ramusio and Ahrimuz were one and the same, and the Church, the kingdoms, the entire edifices of two civilizations which spanned the known world were founded on a misconception. On a lie.
He bent his head and prayed until the cold sweat was rolling down his temples in agonized drops. He prayed for courage, for strength, for some morsel of the determination which had possessed the holy Saint himself.
The last section of the document was missing entirely, the rotted threads which bound the work having given way to time and abuse. He did not know the name of the author or the date of the work, but there was no doubt why it had been hidden away.