Azazeel (30 page)

When the sun was high in the sky and the road unwound under the tapping of the donkey’s hoofs, I had more brief naps and dreams. That day I saw many visions – the soft egg-shaped
rocks moving from their usual spots and floating on the water of the Nile, drawn by the current towards the great sea; the hills to the east of the valley in my native country, its arid stones
adorned in greenery, grasses and trees, beautiful where once they were dreary; many faces laughing; Octavia asleep in her diaphanous silk dress; seagulls on the wing above the waves of the sea; the
walls of Jerusalem turned sparkling white. Whenever I dozed off, I saw a new sight.

The sun was directly overhead and the donkey tired, so we rested under some shady bushes on the edge of a small and sleepy town called Sarmada just off the road. I preferred that we rest at some
distance from the houses and the people of the town. I could see the houses from afar, still beneath the midday sun. The donkey was happy as he chewed the fodder, which was enriched with corn. I
was not so happy with the bites I took slowly from my loaf of bread. At the time I had an unusual desire for boiled eggs, but it was a fasting period and there was no question of yielding to my
cravings. Will my desires continue to torment me all my life? Why haven’t I lost my craving for things, after all these prayers, masses, ascetic practices and varieties of abstinence? Is it
not time that I transcended childish ways and refrained from the illusion of taking pleasure in trivial things? I must be resolute and determined with myself or else I will become like this donkey,
enjoying his fodder. Does this donkey know that the universe has a Lord?

I dozed off and when I awoke the shadow of the trees had swung a little towards the east. I mounted the donkey and rode past the town without giving the scattered houses a single glance. At the
time Sarmada meant nothing to me, and how would I have known then that these humble houses once held Martha, who was to shake me through and through. I learnt that from her weeks later, after I had
passed unawares through the town.

I reached Antioch before sunset. The city has a large gate and much tumult, like all great cities. I had no trouble reaching the main church, next to where Bishop Nestorius was staying in the
adjoining guesthouse, as the abbot had told me the night before. A cheerful young man volunteered to take me from the city gate to the door of the guesthouse. Antioch is bigger than Jerusalem but
smaller than Alexandria. Judging by their features, the people are pleasant, their faces more cheerful and friendly than those of the Alexandrians, and less sad and hard than those of the
Egyptians. When I drew close to the big church, I saw more clerics in their decorative ecclesiastical garments moving around the church, a splendid building with high walls like all strongholds of
religion.

At the small garden at the entrance to the guesthouse I told the guard I had come in response to a summons from Bishop Nestorius. He showered me with welcomes and took me in at once. As he took
the donkey’s halter he told me that Bishop Nestorius was attending a service in the big church. ‘If you want to join them, I’ll take you there,’ he added. ‘I recommend
you do that, because at this holy service there are three senior bishops, so do not miss this rare opportunity, goodly monk.’

The hymns and the night prayers lasted until the dawn mass and the church was full. The mass was impressive, with hundreds of monks, priests and believers, and innumerable candles and lamps with
flickering flames. The lights rippled like waves and angels hovered in the church air. I was overwhelmed by the anthems and the melodies as the young deacons chanted: ‘Blessed are thou,
mankind, with the grace of heaven.’ The sanctity of the place bathed my heart in light, dispelled my fatigue from the day’s journey and inspired me to seek heaven. I went up to the
altar to take communion and when the priest put the wafer in my mouth and I sipped the diluted wine, I felt for a moment that they were indeed the body and blood of Jesus permeating my body and my
whole being. Taking communion is an extraordinary ritual if the symbolism of it complements our faith. When I turned from the altar, I felt that delightful dizziness which convulses the soul during
mass. When I noticed Nestorius in his bishop’s garments my heart leapt and I was flooded with that joy that sometimes comes to us from beyond the universe.

The mass lasted two hours, until the sun rose and its light came in through the church windows. I left the church with hundreds of others, all of us filled with grace. I hurried to the courtyard
of the guesthouse to be ready to receive the reverend Nestorius. He arrived within minutes, surrounded by a group of priests and flanked by two bishops whom I soon discovered to be John, the bishop
of Antioch, and Rabbula, the bishop of Edessa. When the reverend Nestorius saw me, he came forward to welcome me and I noticed that those around him looked at me with respect. None of them knew me
but they knew that if Nestorius took an interest in a monk then he must be significant. I am insignificant, but the Lord works in mysterious ways.

At the door to the guesthouse Nestorius whispered to me that he would now leave me to rest and would see me after the noon prayer. A young servant took me to a room on an upper floor for me to
rest a while. The room was square, tidy and clean. In the right-hand corner was a small bed, under a window in the shape of a large cross, and on the opposite wall hung a wooden cross and a
brightly coloured icon of the Virgin Mary carrying her infant at her breast. I sat on the edge of the bed, drawn to the picture of the Virgin, whom they portray here with features different from
those we know in Egypt, though her spirit is one and the same in all the pictures, and her head is covered in the same way in all the icons.

The Virgin... I looked at her at length that day until I fancied I could really see her in front of me. What peace you pour into our souls, Immaculate Virgin! What beauty radiates from your calm
face and your lidded eyes! Ah, if only I had lived in your time and bathed in the light of your presence, Mother of Light! Are you aware of me? Can I rest my head on your holy and immaculate
breast?

I stood up and pressed my face against the image of the Virgin, shut my eyes as warm tears ran down into my beard. I stayed a moment clutching the icon, and sensed that she was carrying me up to
a distant heaven. I felt two tears descend from the Virgin’s eye, wetting my cheek, and I broke into sobs. I embraced the icon, clung to it in fact, and from it emanated a coolness, a
tranquillity and peace of mind. Celestial light filled my head and chest...

‘Hypa.’

‘What is it, Azazeel? What do you want now?’

‘Tell me about Antioch, meeting Nestorius and the rest of what happened.’

I went back to the bed and threw myself down on it, as though I had returned from a whirl around the distant heavens. Unexpectedly I fell into a deep sleep which lasted till around noon. That
day I did not sleep seated, as I usually do. I woke up cheerful, my heart full of love. I decided that when I went back to the monastery I would compose a hymn to the Virgin Mary, starting with the
words: ‘Wellspring of compassion, source of light.’ I went down the stairs, lit by daylight which streamed through many windows of unusual shape. Many priests, deacons and servants were
walking up and down the long corridor which links the rooms and the lobbies. I asked after Pharisee the monk but could learn nothing about him. I asked where Bishop Nestorius might be and they took
me to a large hall at the entrance to the big guesthouse. The high windows of the hall overlooked a little garden and on all four sides benches were arranged, covered with antique cushions of
coloured wool.

Nestorius was sitting in the right-hand corner of the room, holding in his hand a large book. Five old men surrounded him, including the two bishops who were with him at the mass. When he saw me
he put the book aside and stood up to greet me. I hurried up to him and kissed his hand. He kissed my head and blessed me. Then he had me sit nearby among them. I still remember the conversation
word for word.

‘Your Grace, I’ve been longing to see you,’ I said.

‘You should have let us know, even if only by sending a letter to Constantinople.’

‘I’m sorry, father, but I’m not accustomed to writing letters.’

‘But you are in the habit of writing marvellous poems. Did you know, Rabbula, that Hypa is a poet no less talented than you, and like you he writes poetry in Syriac and Greek, although he
is of Egyptian origin and Coptic is his first language?’

Bishop Rabbula smiled sullenly out of courtesy. Then he said that he would not judge the quality of my poems until he heard them from me. ‘Only his poems show if a poet has the gift of
poetry,’ he said, ‘and the testimony of his admirers does him no good, even if they have the prestige of Bishop Nestorius.’ Everyone laughed solemnly at his subtle wit, though it
did not amuse me. Bishop Nestorius picked up the book that was in his hand when I entered and proffered it to Bishop Rabbula. I took it from him and passed it on to Rabbula, who put it carefully on
his knees.

‘This, Hypa, is the translation of the Gospels which Bishop Rabbula did from Greek to Syriac. Have you seen it before?’ Nestorius said.

‘No, reverend father, but I’ve heard of it. It is without doubt a splendid work.’

Bishop Rabbula ran his hand over the cover of his book and his face glowed with pride. He shook his head boastfully and said, ‘This is a modest effort. I wanted it to divert people in our
church from the Diatessaron and the infidel who translated it.’
¹³

I would have liked to take the translation and look at it, but I dropped the idea because of the arrogance I detected in Bishop Rabbula. After a while the two priests took leave of us, while the
two bishops and a man from Antioch wearing priest’s vestments remained. I knew the two bishops because of their reputation and Nestorius had introduced me to the priest with the words:
‘This is the priest of our church, Anastasios. He comes from Antioch but he’s with me in Constantinople now. He is a brother with a distinguished intellect and a heart full of
faith.’

I nodded to the priest in friendly greeting and he nodded coldly in response. His face had a certain severity, and a vigilance for which at first I could see no reason, but in our conversation
what he said brought to light what was hidden in his heart. When Bishop Nestorius began to speak, everyone stopped smiling and it seemed we were about to take up some weighty matter.

‘Hypa, I sent for you to consult you about something,’ Nestorius said.

‘I beg your pardon, father, but who am I to advise His Grace the reverend Nestorius?’

‘It’s a matter than concerns Alexandria.’

My heart thumped and I shivered. Again Alexandria! So it was a weighty and grave matter, fit to wipe away the smiles which shortly before had graced the faces of those present. Nestorius reached
out towards me, offering a papyrus scroll, inscribed with many words in two parallel columns, the first in Coptic and the other in Greek. At the top of the scroll a headline in the two languages
made my heart stop. ‘The epistles of Pope Cyril, Archbishop of Alexandria, the Western Pentapolis, Egypt and Abyssinia, Successor to St Mark the Apostle and Pastor of his Mission, followed by
the twelve anathemas which Pope Cyril placed on the person of the heretic Nestorius.’

When I saw the headline, and when I later read the epistle, a slight shudder shook my body, as though hot sand rather than blood were coursing through my veins. I had a sudden foreboding that
terror was inevitably on its way. The past was leaping ahead of us from its hiding place, and the claws of hatred were about to dig into our bare backs.

SCROLL SEVENTEEN

M
y eyes ran quickly over the lines of the scroll and I scowled at what I saw. Nestorius asked me to read Cyril’s three epistles and see
whether the Coptic translation was any different from the Greek version. He leant back against the wall, while I bent my head forward slightly. I read the first lines of the first epistle
meticulously and in a raised voice, but my voice soon began to falter and drop as I delved deeper into the text of the epistles, which were as bellicose as daggers drawn. I had known the first
epistle for some time already, and the second too, because I had seen copies of them in the monastery in Greek. They had been in the possession of the monk Pharisee and he had lent them to me. I
gave them back to him the next day without comment on my part, ignoring the sarcastic smile on his face when he took them from me. At the time I thought that the matter would go no further. The
first and second epistles contained hostile and censorious inquiries, written by Cyril, about reports that Nestorius rejected the beliefs of both ordinary and leading Christians, especially their
belief that Mary was the mother of God.

I read the first epistle quickly, looked at the Coptic translation and found it faithful to the original Greek text. I told the three bishops that, and Bishop Rabbula nodded in agreement.
Bishops Nestorius and John did not move. Anastasios the priest pursed his lips and shows signs of aggravation and irritation. The Coptic translation of the second epistle had expressions which were
insulting and harsher than in the Greek text, which in turn was harsher than the text of the first epistle. I read them the letters in the two languages and pointed out the slight differences in
the Coptic translation, I mean the words which were harsher.

The third epistle, which was followed by the twelve anathemas, was the strongest in tone and contained the most severe threats, in both languages. It began thus: ‘Cyril and the
ecclesiastical synod held in Alexandria in Egypt send the greetings of the Lord to the most venerable Nestorius, our partner in service...’ When I read that to them and told them there was no
difference between the Greek and Coptic versions of the preamble, Bishop John of Antioch commented sarcastically to the effect that Bishop Cyril always started off polite.