Azazeel Page 3

  The voice of Bishop Theodore rang throughout the spacious hall and a sense of humility settled on those seated. All eyes were fixed on the bishop, as were mine. I wished then that I had started my theological studies under him and had drawn water at the well of his eloquence, which so impressed one’s heart and mind and rescued one’s spirit from anxiety and doubt. My mind wandered for a moment, then I listened again to more from the Bishop of Mopsuestia, that fine town in the heart of Anatolia. His voice, now gentle, again filled the council room:

  ‘Dear friends, look at the sermons of Jesus Christ and rejoice in the words of cheer which St Matthew the Apostle has preserved in his Gospel. He tells us in every time and every place: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Before Christ, was there ever such good news as this? Or such a sign of exultation? Know that Christ came for our sake, and we must live for His sake. His incarnation, suffering, dying and resurrection from the dead are a victory over Satan, and atonement for the sins of the first man, who was deceived and sinned. Our faith in Christ is the way out of the age of sin towards the prospect of salvation which the will of the Lord has granted us. And so, dear friends, be Christians and call on your people to have faith, that they may be, and you with them, truly the children of God in the new age of mankind. Cross the bridge which spans the sufferings of Jesus, that you may be as perfect as your perfect Heavenly Father. The sign that you have crossed that bridge is baptism. Baptism is a rebirth, a resurrection of the spirit from the death of the body, a way to grace and union with Christ. Baptism is salvation and a new creation, so know in your hearts the secret of baptism.’

  When the bishop spoke the word ‘baptism’ I gave a slight shiver, which no one noticed but a bright-faced priest of about forty years sitting to the right of the bishop. I found out later that he was the reason I was summoned – a famous priest of Antioch originally from the town of Germanicia or Marash with the ecclesiastical name of Nestorius, one of the most loyal disciples of Bishop Theodore and one of the greatest admirers of his interpretations of the Gospels.

  As the sun set, the bishop of Mopsuestia showed signs of fatigue. His tone slackened and his voice fell quiet as he wrapped up his speech to his audience, who seemed overcome with spiritual rapture, as though his talk had raised them to the highest heavens. The last thing he said to them was this: ‘We were but dead and Adam had destined us to annihilation by committing the sin of rebelling against his creator, and Satan remained immortal, but when the Lord appeared to us in Christ, by the grace of God a chance arose for us to escape annihilation and death through repentance and approaching the prospect of salvation through the door of baptism.’

  A monk of Arab features, advanced in years, mumbled as if he wanted to say something. When Bishop Theodore looked at him encouragingly, the priest asked him about a sensitive subject. How, he said, did we inherit from Adam the sin of rebelling against God? What was our fault, we his descendants, who did not commit this sin? The bishop answered him with a smile. ‘We commit many other sins, no less grave than rebellion and eating from the forbidden tree, although we are the sons of Jesus, not because we inherited from Adam his sin, but rather because we inherited from him the disposition and readiness to sin. This is a long subject, holy father, and we can discuss it at length in a future session.’

  Nestorius stood up, signalling that the lesson was over, and everyone prepared to leave. They blocked my view of Bishop Theodore as they approached to receive his blessing by kissing his hand. I stood up and I saw Nestorius lean down to take the bishop’s hand and guide him through the throng to his room. As he passed in front of me, he looked towards me with serene affection, as though he had known me a long time. His look disturbed me.

  Before they summoned me I spent a long hour in the spacious hall with some of the monks and priests. In the meantime they brought me a plate covered with a Damascene napkin with decorated borders, holding the fine fruits which grow on the trees of the north. Bishop Theodore was not suffering from a specific disease but his seventy-four years, coupled with the rigour of the pilgrimage journey, had exhausted him. I realized that two days earlier when he passed in front of me at his awesome appearance at the head of the procession, but I did not want to hurry in telling him what I knew of his condition. Instead I approached him, showing the appropriate solicitude and reverence. I took his hand gently and kissed it, then began to take his pulse. It was rather weak. I took from my bag some herbs which invigorate the pulse and stimulate the flow of blood from the heart. I asked that they be boiled on a low fire, then left to cool, and he should drink them warm. Nestorius gestured to one of the deacons standing at the door, and the deacon rushed off to do what I requested. We stayed silent a moment as Bishop Theodore looked towards me, and I looked towards my feet. When the servant came in carrying the cup, Nestorius took a drink from it before offering it to the bishop.

  ‘How do you find the taste, dear Nestorius?’

  ‘Good, your Grace the Bishop. It is sweet and aromatic and will cure you, God willing.’

  The bishop cheered up and signs of relief appeared on his face. He sat up straight and began to sip from the cup. ‘God bless you, Nestorius, God bless you, Father physician. What is your name?’

  ‘Hypa, your Grace the Bishop.’

  ‘Strange, Egyptian, when did you adopt this non-Egyptian name?’

  ‘When I left Alexandria, father.’

  ‘And where had you been before?’

  With great courtesy Nestorius interrupted the conversation and asked the bishop to lie down a little to rest. The bishop answered him with a sweet smile, teasing him affectionately. ‘Leave aside your paternal feelings, Nestorius, because my father died long ago and I am on my way to join him. Let me speak to this physician monk for I am pleased to see him. The innocent surprise in his eyes reminds me of the surprise I used to see in the eyes of my brother in spirit, John Chrysostom, when we were young.’

  Nestorius shook his head in submission and prepared to leave the meeting. In a low and gentle voice, he said, ‘As you wish, your Grace. I will see you, Hypa, in the big room after you finish your conversation.’

  ‘No, Nestorius, sit with us, and you, Hypa, tell me where you were born and when you went to Alexandria.’

  Nestorius gestured to the three deacons and the servants at the door, and they all left. Our conversation continued until the servant of the lodge came in carrying dinner on an old wooden table. He put it to the right of the bishop’s bed. Theodore sat up straight and invited us to gather around the food. He joked to Nestorius, saying in Syriac, ‘These morsels may be the last supper for me.’

  ‘May the merciful Lord prolong your life for us, father, for we shall always need you.’

  I ate with them shyly and the food was wholesome and delicious, and when I praised the taste, the priest Nestorius said to me in jest, ‘This is blessed food, cooked in psalms on a low fire of hymns.’ We smiled at his humour and the bishop turned again towards me, encouraging me to continue what I had been telling him. I had already spoken of my birth in the village south of Aswan and my studies in Naga Hammadi and Akhmim. Of course I did not tell him the misfortunes that befell me on the bank of Elephantine Island or the horrors that took place in front of my eyes in Alexandria, or my flight from that city the day of the great terror.

  The bishop was interested and listened to me politely. He was smiling and I did not want to dispel his smile by speaking of misfortunes or recounting the vicissitudes of life. He chewed a piece of food which Nestorius offered to him, soaked in olive oil and mountain marjoram, and asked me, ‘Have you studied logic, my child?’

  ‘Yes, your Grace, I studied it in Akhmim from a non-Christian man who came from around Assiut. He was proficient in the old philosophies, and erudite.’

  ‘That’s logical, my child, for from those parts came the most important philosopher. Do you know who I mean, Hypa?’

  I hesitated a mome
nt and then, in deference to the status of the bishop, I said, ‘No, your Grace, I don’t know.’

  ‘Tell him, Nestorius.’

  ‘Your Grace, you mean Plotinus.’

  ‘Yes, Father Nestorius, yes.’

  Nestorius smiled and from the corner of his eye he gave me a look that meant he realized I had refrained from answering out of politeness towards the bishop. I looked at my toes in embarrassment. Bishop Theodore did not notice any of this. He was looking up around the room and seemed to be talking to himself or confiding with his old colleague John Chrysostom. ‘I often think of Plotinus, and of Egypt. I think many elements of our religion come from there, and not from here. Monasticism, love of martyrdom, the sign of the cross, the word “Evangel”, even the Holy Trinity, which is an idea that first appeared clearly with Plotinus, for in his book, The Enneads, he says...’

  I don’t know why but I suddenly jumped in, and without a thought interrupted the bishop’s meditations. ‘No, father, Plotinus’s trinity is philosophical: with him it’s the One, the First Mind and the World Soul. The trinity in our religion is heavenly and divine: the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. There’s a big difference between the two.’

  ‘Gently, monk, you should not interrupt his Grace the Bishop in that way.’

  Nestorius’s decisive words brought to a stop my sudden and senseless outburst. My embarrassment was unrelieved by the sympathy of Bishop Theodore, who looked at me with great affection, with his same smile, though now rather faint and tired.

  The bishop put his right hand on my left shoulder, blessed me with a prayer and made the sign of the cross on my brow with his finger. Then he crawled towards his cushion and there was nothing for me to do but leave. I apologized to the bishop in a stammer and wished the ground would swallow me up, to spare me my embarrassment.

  ‘Never mind, Nestorius. Youth is a blazing torch. At your age we too were on fire. Dear Nestorius, accompany the good monk out and be good to him, for I do love him.’

  ‘Don’t worry, father. I’ll walk with him as far as his room, at the gate to the Church of the Resurrection. I am going there for the night prayers and to attend mass.’

  ‘God bless you, Nestorius.’

  When we left the lodge, two deacons walked behind us, along with a thin man of about forty who I think was one of the servants of the Antioch diocese. They walked close behind us and we walked without talking, with Nestorius praying under his breath and me in embarrassed silence.

  Halfway he opened the conversation with a question. ‘Hypa, have you read Plotinus’s Enneads?’

  I answered cautiously: ‘Yes, father, and I studied it for several months in Naga Hammadi, and I have a copy which is more than a hundred years old.’

  ‘Good, I would like to read it.’

  His answer reassured me and I set aside some of my caution. I wanted our conversation to continue, so I told him the book was in my room. Then I added hesitantly, ‘I also have another book you might want to see, might want... It’s Arius’s book entitled Thalia.’

  ‘Thalia! We read that poem long ago in Antioch, and I thought our copy was the only one to escape being burned. Anyway, let me see your copy. Is it complete?’

  ‘Yes, father, and written in Coptic on papyrus.’

  ‘In Coptic! Amazing. How many languages do you read, Hypa?’

  ‘Four, father. Greek, Hebrew, Coptic and Aramaic. And my favourite is Aramaic, because that is the language Jesus the Messiah spoke.’

  ‘We no longer call it Aramaic, but Syriac, to distinguish the blessed Christian era of the language from the earlier pagan and Hebrew era.’

  ‘I agree with you, father, I agree completely, because languages do not speak for themselves. People speak them. And if they change, the language changes, and Jesus the Messiah changed the language as He changed its people. He made it a holy language.’

  ‘True, Hypa, true, my child.’

  What he said put me at my ease and I set aside more of my caution. I wanted our conversation to last till night ended. Our walk had brought us from the narrow lanes to the wide avenues, and as the large square opened in front of us the big church loomed, with its lofty domes, like a dream wrapped in the star-studded blackness of that clear spring night.

  When we could make out my room from afar, after a moment of silence Nestorius said, ‘God preserve you, Hypa. Talking of Jesus the Messiah, do you have a copy of the Gospel of Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, father, and I also have a copy of the Gospel of the Egyptians, and the Gospel of Judas, and the Book of Secrets. I like to collect books.’

  Nestorius smiled and told me I kept all the forbidden books. I said the authorized books were available in the church and everywhere. His smile broadened. After we said the night prayer in the Church of the Resurrection, I took the opportunity to invite him back to my room. He liked the idea and agreed. I was glad that he agreed, but I did not know that this meeting, which lasted till the brink of dawn, would change my life and that afterwards I would move from Jerusalem to the north, where I am settled today in this isolated monastery, far from my native country, impossibly far.

  We came back from the big church to my room, anticipating a friendly meeting. That night I felt a deep tranquillity in the company of Nestorius. I opened the door, lit the slender lamp hanging in the right-hand corner and gave my important guest a welcome. When I opened the only window, a cool breeze from the clear sky wafted in, and an air of friendliness filled the room.

  Nestorius looked long at the picture of the Virgin hanging over the bed and said nothing. After a while he looked around the room and said, ‘Your room is clean and tidy, Hypa. That shows your personality. Where are the books you told me about?’

  ‘Under the bed you’re sitting on, father.’

  ‘Call me by my name, Hypa, for we are all brothers. We are all feeble sheep in the fold of the Lord.’

  ‘No, you are more like the shepherd, father, God preserve you with His eternal and everlasting care.’

  He laughed an agreeable, luminous laugh as he stood up to let me fold back the Damascene camel-hair kelim, the decorated kelim which right now is spread beneath me. In fact it’s been my only carpet ever since. I lifted the slats of the bed, exposing the books and papyrus scrolls. When I lifted the last slat and all my hidden treasure appeared, Nestorius leant out of my window and called the three retainers. When they were close, he told them to go back to the lodge.

  ‘It looks as if I’ll stay the night with you, Hypa.’

  ‘I would be delighted, blessed father. I’ll sleep on this bench.’

  ‘I don’t think either of us will sleep tonight.’

  All the while that Nestorius was carefully examining my treasures I kept turning to his radiant face, as I prepared for the two of us a warm drink of aromatic mountain mint and a plate of dates and dried figs. His figure showed dignity and genuine goodness. His wide eyes were of a colour which blended green and honey, full of curiosity and intelligence. His white face was slightly flushed and his neat beard was pleasantly blond, with some grey hair which added to his radiance. His manner had a divine serenity which many monks lack, both young and old.

  I put his cup of mint down near to him, turned up the lamp and sat on the bench opposite the bed which doubled as a hiding place. I contemplated his radiant smile and saw him as a sublime example of what a man of religion should be.

  ‘Cicero’s speeches! You cunning Egyptian monk. You like rhetoric, as we do. What’s this large volume? The City of God,’ he said, shaking his head in surprise.

  ‘Yes, reverend father, it is Bishop Augustine’s book. These are the first and second parts of it, because he has not yet completed the book.’

  ‘I know, Hypa, I know, but I’m surprised it has reached you here.’

  ‘Reverend father, the pilgrims bring with them all things new and old, and they give me books sometimes, and sometimes I buy books from them, but this book is not quite new, because the first part is dated the year 413 of th
e birth of our Saviour Christ, and that is more than ten years ago.’

  He asked me if I knew how to tell when the book was written, and out of deference I said no. I asked him to do me the honour of telling me. He turned towards me, his smile yet more radiant with divine grace. He told me of events of which I knew but had never connected. In summary, he said, ‘Augustine is a holy man and no previous African bishop has been the like of him. Perhaps no one of such virtue and high-mindedness ever lived in the city of Hippo. But he joined the service of the Lord late, after spending most of his life as a soldier and fighting many wars. In the year 410 of the Glorious Nativity, the war took place in which Rome famously fell to the Goths, even if they did not destroy the city as was expected of them. Rome, as you know, is the capital of the universe and the city of the world. If the world falls, the heavens rise! In exchange for the fall of the city of man, the glory will be to the city of God. After deep thought in the three years which followed the temporary fall of Rome, he wanted to declare that it was fallen for ever. He declares in the title of his book that the city of God will never fall, unlike the city of man which is of necessity ephemeral. He also wanted to absolve Christianity of the ignorant accusation that it caused the terrible fall of Rome.’

  Then he asked me about the rest of my hidden treasure, and I took out the bag in which I keep Egyptian texts. He began to ask me the titles of the books and Coptic papyrus scrolls, and sometimes I would answer him before he even asked me. After looking long at the Coptic translation of the Maymar of the Holy Family’s Journey, written by Bishop Theophilus the Alexandrian, Nestorius looked distressed and suddenly was lost in thought for I know not what reason. To bring him out of his reverie, I said, ‘The Maymar of the Holy Journey is well known in Egypt. Have you seen the Greek original, father?’

  ‘I have seen it, but Hypa, I wonder at the audacity of that bishop. How can he tell stories about the Blessed Virgin Mary, and describe her and cite her words, based only on his claim that he saw her in a dream? Ha, we don’t need that. What is this old Coptic scroll and what are these fine images drawn on it?’