“What do you know about the Grasal?” Boron asked, turning suspicious immediately, as if Kyot had laid a hand on something that was his property. “Well then,” Baudolino said, “I see that this object means a lot to both of you. What is it? As far as I know, a grasal, or gradalis, is some kind of bowl.”
“Bowl? Bowl!” Boron smiled indulgently. “More of a chalice.” Then, as if making up his mind to reveal his secret, he went on: “I’m amazed you haven’t heard of it. It is the most precious relic of all Christianity, the cup in which Jesus consecrated the wine at the Last Supper, and in which later Joseph of Arimathea collected the blood that flowed from the ribs of Christ on the cross. Some say that the name of that cup is the Holy Grail, others say it is Sangreal, royal blood, because he who possesses it becomes one of the chosen knights, of the same lineage as David and Our Lord.”
“Grail or grasal?” the Poet asked, immediately alert, hearing of something that could confer some kind of power.
“We don’t know,” Kyot said. “Some also say Graal. And it may not necessarily be a bowl. Those who have seen it do not recall the shape; all we know is that it is an object endowed with extraordinary powers.”
“Who has seen it?” the Poet asked.
“Surely the knights who guarded it in Broceliande. But every trace of them has also been lost, and I have met only people who tell of them.” “It would be better if they told about that thing less and tried to learn more,” Boron said. “That boy’s been to Brittany, he’s barely heard it mentioned, and he’s already looking at me as if I wanted to steal from him what he doesn’t have. That’s how it is with everybody. You hear talk of the Grasal, and you think you’ll be the one to find it. But I’ve spent five years in Brittany, and in the islands beyond the sea, without telling stories, only to find—”
“And did you find it?” Kyot asked.
“The problem wasn’t to find the Grasal, but to find the knights who knew where it is. I traveled, I asked questions, I never encountered them. Maybe I wasn’t one of the chosen. And here I am, rummaging among parchments, hoping to uncover a clue that escaped me while I was roaming in those forests….”
“Now why are we here talking about the Grasal?” Baudolino said.
“Whether it’s in Brittany or in those islands, it doesn’t concern us, because it has nothing to do with Prester John.” No, Kyot said, because where the castle is and the nature of the object it houses have never been clear, but among the many stories he had heard there was one according to which one of those knights, Feirefiz, had found it and given it to his son, a priest who was to become king of India.
“Nonsense,” Boron said. “Would I then have searched for years in the wrong place? Who told you the story of this Feirefiz?”
“Any story can be valid,” the Poet said, “and if you follow Kyot’s you might find your Grasal. But for the moment the question is not to find it, but to establish if it’s worth connecting to Prester John. My dear Boron, we’re not seeking a thing; we’re seeking someone who will tell us about it.”
Then he turned to Baudolino. “What do you think? Does Prester John possess the Grasal? Is that the source of his great distinction, and could he transmit that distinction to Frederick, making him a gift of it?”
“And could it be the same ruby cup that the prince of Sarandib had sent to Harun-al-Rashid,” suggested Solomon, who in his excitement had begun to speak through the toothless side of his mouth. “The Saracens honor Jesus as a great prophet; they could have discovered the cup, and then Harun might, in turn, have given it to the Priest….”
“Splendid,” the Poet said. “The cup as harbinger of the reconquest of what the Moors had held as unjust possessors. Better than Jerusalem!” They decided to try. During the night Abdul managed to remove from the scriptorium of Saint Victoire a parchment of great value, never scraped. It lacked only a seal to make it seem the letter of a king. In that room meant for two people, which now housed six around a rickety table, Baudolino, his eyes closed, dictated as if inspired. Abdul wrote, because his calligraphy, which he had learned in the Christian kingdoms beyond the sea, could suggest the way an Oriental would write Latin letters. Before beginning, he had proposed, so that all would be suitably clever and inventive, emptying the pot of the remaining green honey, but Baudolino objected: this evening, they had to have clear minds.
They promptly asked themselves if the Priest should not write in his Adamic language, or at least in Greek, but it was decided that a king like John probably had at his service secretaries who knew every language, and out of respect for Frederick, he would write in Latin. Also because, Baudolino added, the letter was intended to amaze and convince the pope and the other Christian princes, and therefore it had, first of all, to be comprehensible to them. They set to work.
The Priest Johannes, by the power and grace of God and of Our Lord Jesus Christ, master of all those who rule, to Frederick, holy and Roman emperor, wishing him good health and perpetual enjoyment of the divine benediction…
It has been announced to our majesty that you held in great esteem our Excellency and that word of our greatness has reached you. Also we have learned from our emissaries that you wish to send us some pleasing and entertaining gift, to delight our clemency. Gladly we accept the gift, and through our ambassador we send you a token, on our part, as we desire to know if you follow, as we do, the true faith, and if you believe completely in Our Lord Jesus Christ. In the breadth of our munificence, if you desire something that can procure for you pleasure, inform us, either by a word to our messenger or by a sign of your affection. Accept in exchange…
“Stop a moment,” Abdul said. “This could be the point where the Priest sends Frederick the Grasal!”
“Yes,” Baudolino said, “but these two nitwits Boron and Kyot haven’t yet managed to tell us what it is!”
“They’ve heard so many stories, they’ve seen so many things, maybe they don’t remember everything. That’s why I suggested the honey: we have to encourage the flow of ideas.”
Yes, perhaps Baudolino, who was dictating, and Abdul, who was writing, could limit themselves to wine; but the witnesses, or the sources of the revelation, had to be stimulated with green honey. And thus after a few moments Boron, Kyot (stupefied by the new sensations he was experiencing), and the Poet, who had now developed a taste for the honey, were seated on the floor with foolish smiles engraved on their faces, raving like so many hostages of Aloadin.
“Oh, yes,” Kyot was saying, “there is a great hall, and torches that illuminate it with a brightness beyond anything imaginable. An attendant appears grasping a spear of such whiteness that it shines in the glow of the fireplace. From the tip of the spear comes a drop of blood and it drips on the hand of the attendant. Then two other attendants arrive with honey-gold candelabra, in each of which at least ten candles are alight. The candles pale, as do the moon and the stars when the sun rises. The Grasal is made of purest gold, studded with extraordinary precious stones, the rarest that exist on land or in the sea…. And now another maiden enters, carrying a silver dish….”
“So what’s this damn Grasal like?” the Poet cried. “I don’t know. I see only a light….”
“You see only a light,” Boron said, “but I see more. There are torches illuminating the hall, true, but now thunder is heard, a terrible shaking, as if the palace were collapsing. A great darkness falls…. No, now a ray of sunlight illuminates the palace, seven times brighter than before. Oh, the Holy Grasal is entering, covered with a cloth of white velvet, and as it enters, the palace is filled with the perfumes of all the spices of the world. Gradually, as the Grasal moves around the table, the knights see their plates fill with all the foods they could desire….”
“But what’s this Grasal like? Devil take it!” “Don’t curse. It’s a cup.”
“How do you know if it’s under a velvet cloth?”
“I know because I know,” Boron said stubbornly. “They told me.” “May you be damned through the centuries and tormented by a thousand demons! You seem to have a vision, and then you tell us what you’ve been told and can’t see? Why, you’re worse than that asshole Ezekiel, who didn’t know what he was seeing because those Jews never look at pictures and only hear voices!”
“Please, you blasphemer!” Solomon interjected. “Not just for my sake: the Bible is a holy book also for you, you loathesome gentiles!” “Calm yourselves,” Baudolino said. “Now listen to this, Boron. We’ll assume that the Grasal is the cup that held the wine Our Lord blessed. How could Joseph of Arimathea collect the blood from the crucified Christ if, when he takes Jesus down from the cross, our Savior was already dead, and, as you know, the dead
