Brother Ambrosius stopped me at once. 'Allow me,' he said, stepping in and staying my hand. 'Let us see what we have here.' He bent to his work, holding his head low over the skin as he carefully unpeeled the wet leather. Brother Tomas joined him on the opposite side of the table, and in a moment the two of them had exposed the tight roll of papyrus scrolls.

They gazed upon the soggy mass of slowly rotting matter as if at the corpse of a much-loved dog, and clucked their tongues sadly. There was a green tinge along the edges of the rolls, and the papyrus stank with a rancid odour. The two monks raised their eyes, looked at one another, and shook their heads. 'I fear it is as the abbot has said,' Ambrosius told me sadly. 'There is nothing to be done. The papuri can never be restored. I am sorry.'

Even though I was already resolved to this prospect, I still felt a twinge of disappointment.

'I am certain you are right,' replied Padraig quickly, 'and we anticipated as much. But perhaps you could tell me if I am right in thinking that these pages could be copied?'

This request occasioned a second, closer inspection, and a lengthy discussion between the two master scribes. They carefully pulled apart one section and carried it to the nearest window where they held it up to their faces and scrutinized it carefully. 'It could be done,' Tomas allowed cautiously. 'Each leaf of the papuros must be dried very slowly and flattened to prevent it from cracking to pieces.'

'Then,' Ambrosius continued, 'it might be possible to inscribe what was written thereon. Although it is Latin,' his voice took on a rueful tone, 'the hand is fair and open, the marks, however faint, could be traced and copied.'

'It would be a very great undertaking,' suggested Tomas, looking to his superior. 'But it could be done.'

'Truly, that is good news,' the abbot said. 'However, I fear we will not be able to shoulder this admirable labour for you. We are but a small community, and the pressure of work already begun is such that we would not be able to contemplate any new endeavours, however worthy, for a very long time.'

'I am prepared to pay you,' I offered. 'Such a service requires great skill and effort, I know. I would be more than happy to pay whatever you deem appropriate.'

'Please,' said Demitrianos, raising his hands in protest, 'you misunderstand me. I was not fishing for payment. It is not your silver I am after; I am telling you the truth, my friend. As much as I would like to help you,' he spread his hands, 'but -'

'Forgive me, abbot,' said Ambrosius, speaking up. 'Something has just occurred to me. A word?'

He led the abbot a little apart and the two of them spoke to one another quietly for a moment. I heard the abbot say, 'Very well.' And then he turned and smiled, and said, 'Our brother has just brought a matter to my attention which I have overlooked. He insists there may be a way we can help you-provided you are agreeable.'

'I assure you I am most agreeable to anything-within reason,' I allowed, 'and the limits of my purse.'

'The work we do here is not only for ourselves, but also for the wider world-for edification and learning, for posterity, for succeeding generations. This is why we take such great care-so that those who come after us will enjoy the benefit.' He made a gesture towards the elderly monk, who stood looking on hopefully. 'Brother Ambrosius reminds me that what you have written of your sojourn in the Holy Land might well prove a unique, and therefore valuable, reflection of our perishable age. He suggests that we should honour your request.'

'Indeed,' I said, pleased with the turn the thing had taken. 'I am glad to hear it.'

'There is just one stipulation,' Abbot Demitrianos said, raising a hand to check my eagerness. 'That we should be allowed to make not one, but two copies.'

'One copy for you, of course,' said Ambrosius, unable to restrain his eagerness, 'and one for our use.'

In truth, it had not occurred to me that my scribblings would be of any interest to anyone save myself and those of my family who cared about what had happened to me. While there was nothing in the papyri of which I was ashamed, I was not sure I wanted anyone else to read my mind and heart.

Before I could decide, however, Padraig nodded enthusiastically and said, 'An excellent solution. Of course! Nothing would please us more than to know that Lord Duncan's work might continue to serve in this way.'

'There is one other thing,' suggested the abbot, in a slightly embarrassed tone. 'I am reminded that the scriptorium is in need of a new roof. Needless to say, it would greatly contribute to our work if we did not have such a burden hanging over our heads as it were.'

'I understand completely,' I replied. 'I would be happy to stand the cost of a new roof for the scriptorium.'

Brothers Ambrosius and Tomas both clasped their hands in delight and praised the Great Creator for his bounteous provision. We thanked the brothers for the consideration, and arranged for a time to return and collect the finished copy; then, before the sun had quartered the sky, Padraig and I were on our way back to Paphos.

We arrived the evening of the next day to learn that Yordanus was gone.

FORTY-SEVEN

'He went where?' I said, disbelief making my voice harsh. Anger blazed up bright and hot as the sun beating down on my head, though I tried my best to quench it.

Sydoni bit her lip. She knew I was displeased, and was loath to withhold the truth from me-though it meant betraying her father's purpose. 'He went to Famagusta,' she said timidly. 'He took Wazim with him. I know you said -'

'When?' I demanded. 'How long has he been gone?'

'He departed the same day you left for the monastery. I suppose you are right to be angry. But he is only trying to help.'

'It will be no help to any of us if the Templars find us here.'

'He promised not to do anything without your consent,' she said half-heartedly.

'Then he should not have gone at all!' I snapped.

'He only went to see to his affairs-nothing more.' She was growing defensive. 'Never fear, my father will not betray your precious secret.'

'It was a foolish thing to do!'

'Peace!' said Padraig, entering the courtyard just then. 'The entire island will know of our business if you do not desist.' He cautioned us to leave off squabbling, and went to see that the rood was still safe in its box beneath his bed.

As much as I might have wished otherwise, Yordanus was gone and there was nothing to be done about that now. Still, I fussed and fumed, and finally Padraig sent me down the road to walk away my frustration. I stumped along in the hot sun, and felt the heat on my skin; soon I was sweating and tired, and though angry still, I had neither the will nor the strength to maintain it any longer. I stopped and looked around, and found myself at one of the many ancient ruins that occupy the hilltops in that part of the island.

Little more than an overgrown mound now, with wild olive trees and bramble thickets, there were still a few sun-bleached sections of toppled columns to be seen, an arch and part of a wall-rising from the surrounding wrack like the enormous bones of a monstrous creature. My anger finally subdued, I sat down on the carved capital of a ruined column in the shade of a half-dead palm tree to rest and collect myself. I could see the bay from where I sat, and watched a few boats returning from the day's fishing, but there was no sign of the ship.

Padraig and I had arrived back in Paphos at midday and, upon coming in view of the shallow bay, I had suddenly become agitated. By the time we descended the hill overlooking the harbour, I knew what it was that disturbed me: Persephone was missing; the ship was not in the harbour, and nowhere to be seen.