The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [310]
Ludovico da Bologna had lived for a considerable time in Jerusalem. He had spent years on missions in the East, and had taken Ethiopians and Byzantines and Persians to Rome. He had tried to travel to Ethiopia, and had encouraged this man Nikolaus to attempt it as well. While repelled by the Patriarch’s habits, the Abbot could not wholly decry what he was doing.
It was time to open the Coffin. He made a sign for the hymn, ‘Let us praise the divine Ekaterina,’ to be followed in due course by the Kontakion and the Megalynarion. The merchant Nikolaus at least, one supposed, would understand them.
The final resting place of the ever-memorable Ekaterina, once Dorothea, was under an arch to the right of the altar. Standing at man’s height from the ground, the marble coffin was small, the insatiable hunger for holy relics having diminished the sacred frame through the centuries. Nevertheless, as always, the Abbot felt an echo of the terror, the compassion that had seized him when, a young man, he had stood thus, and watched the magnificent cloth lifted aside and the great key inserted and turned by the Sacrist. And men of the world though they might be, the pilgrims standing there now with their tapers on each side of the tomb were also reduced to a deep, waiting silence. The girl-boy, though brave, was painfully white. The key clicked and the Sacrist drew back the lid.
The nobleman, Adorne, Baron Cortachy, began to move forward. The Abbot, leading his monks to the coffin, saw the movement from the side of his eye, and the hand of the Sacrist restraining the gentleman. Only when the brethren had made their reverences would the pilgrims be allowed to approach and salute the Saint, and touch to the relics the precious articles they had brought to be blessed, while dropping their offerings into the casket. For those who had brought no rings, no medals, the convent supplied snippets of silk, soaked in the precious oil of the sanctuary lamps, and touched to the bones. The oil itself, with all its healing properties, could also be carried away. Pilgrims came to Saint Ekaterina through much suffering, and were not sent away empty-handed … for she preached Christ in the stadium, and trampled upon the serpent, and spat upon the knowledge of the philosophers, sang his monks triumphantly, waiting behind him. The Abbot bent over the Coffin.
All was as it should be. The beautiful diadem ringed the fragile skull, lacking the jawbone. The left hand lay, white as milk, its long fingers adorned with fine rings. The curved ribs and the disarticulated leg bones lay under silk, rendered the colour of honey from the fragrant oils they once exuded. Around, in cups and caskets and boxes, were the precious gifts left for the Saint. No man, even the humblest, ever left less than a ducat.
The Abbot kissed the holy fingers, and stepped aside as his monks followed suit. Then, as was fitting, he summoned the chief of each party of pilgrims, the man Adorne and the merchant Nikolaus, to stand one to each side of the Coffin and, setting their candles aside, to stoop and pay their respects.
They stood looking instead at each other. The dazzling riches below lit their faces, causing the Abbot to admire the tableau: the brilliant carved tomb; the two fine men, one older, one young, their features made spiritual by the light, and by the fatigue of their long and difficult journey. Then the younger one, his face luminous, spoke two words in Latin. ‘You may have it.’
‘So I thank you. Where have you hidden the rest?’
It was unseemly. The Abbot spoke sharply in Greek. ‘Do you worship? Or do you return to your quarters?’
‘We worship,’ said the younger one quickly; and, bending, kissed the Saint and moved on. The other, hesitating, did the same; and then paused to empty his satchel and present its contents, deftly, one by one to the relics. It was done with reverence; indeed, his expression