Temple of The Grail by Adriana Koulias Page A

poor man must have
died of excitement,’ my master concluded, ‘and yet I can see why you look
troubled.’
    ‘You can? I mean . . . I do?’ the
infirmarian asked, as bewildered as I.
    ‘Yes, of course, and I cannot say
that I blame you.’
    ‘No? But . . .’ Asa looked to his
master Setubar for guidance. ‘I do not understand, preceptor? You have not even
seen the body?’
    ‘I do not need to see it, brother, to
know that you have a problem.’
    ‘I do?’
    ‘Of course. You have a problem, a
most unfortunate, puzzling one, because you know that the symptoms this corpse
displayed in the throes of death coincide precisely with death by poisoning.’
    The man was shocked into silence and
my master savoured his next words. ‘A problem . . . and yet at this point we
must be prudent, my dear colleague.’
    ‘Prudent?’
    ‘Yes, Asa,’ the old man broke in, in
the solemn way of Germans. ‘The Templar preceptor, who is also a respected
doctor as you know, is displaying wisdom. We cannot be certain, and so we must
be very circumspect, for we do not wish to alarm our community nor disturb the
inquiry with foolish assumptions.’
    Asa’s eyes held the old man’s gaze
for a moment. ‘Master, perhaps . . .’
    ‘Nonsense!’ the old man exclaimed
with authority, ‘The monk was old, it was time he died, perhaps his heart
ceased to beat?’
    My master sensed that he had stirred
up something between the two men, and this pleased him, for he took another
bite and chewed his carrot smiling. ‘Brother Setubar, you were the infirmarian
before Brother Asa?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
    The old man eyed Andre with a great,
unreserved suspicion. ‘I held this esteemed position for many years, though I
did not particularly relish it. Now I am enjoying the accomplishments of my
pupil, though he still needs a little guidance.’
    ‘Was it you then that amassed this
fine collection of simples?’ he asked, investigating the shelves crowded with
vials, earthenware pots, and jars of thick glass in which various coloured
powders were distinguished by labels in strange vernaculars. He stopped more
than once to investigate further, picking one out from the rest, opening its lid,
and sniffing its contents.
    ‘A small, though comprehensive,
collection that you might find interesting,’ the man said a little proudly,
suddenly unguarded. ‘Some were gifts from pilgrims travelling from every part
of the known world, as repayment for lodgings and food.’
    ‘And what lies behind this door?’ my
master pointed with his carrot to an aperture on the far wall to one side of
the fire.
    The infirmarian, without glancing up
from his work, answered, ‘The chapel, preceptor.’
    I knew it was common practice for
monasteries to have a small chapel near the infirmary for those whose illness
prevented them from attending the services in the community church. However, I
noted a lingering curiosity in my master’s eyes.
    ‘Yes, of course . . . and now, on
another matter, do you keep poisons here or in the herbarium, Asa?’
    ‘Any potentia , used
incorrectly, may be said to be a poison, preceptor,’ Asa pointed out.
    ‘No, I mean a specific poison,
something very potent, that only requires the smallest amount to kill.’
    ‘We do have various substances,
powders, derived from herbs we dry in our herbarium, atropa belladonna,
colchicum autumnale, digitalis purpurea, datura stramonium. These compounds
are very good in minute amounts for various treatments, but they are at the
same time deadly. You don’t think that . . .’
    ‘I am exploring all possibilities,
brother, and also I have to admit, all things curious interest me . . .’
    ‘We are not here to satisfy your
curiosity of insignificant things, preceptor,’ the old man snarled.
    ‘No, you are quite right, I shall
endeavour to be curious only of significant ones . . . and as it appears
significant, I shall ask you where you keep these herbal compounds. Not in