All those gathered replied, "Amen! So be it!"

So, it has come at last, I thought, and my heart quickened. The waiting is at an end; this night the decision will be made.

"Brothers, to prayer!" With that Abbot Fraoch sank to the floor, prostrating himself before the little stone altar.

No more was said; no more needed saying. Indeed, we had leeched all meaning from the words long ago through endless discussion and debate. Thus, having watched and fasted and studied through the dark months, we now sought the blessing of the heavenly throne. We lay down upon the bare rock floor of the cave and abandoned ourselves to prayer. The air in the cave was dense with the warmth of so many bodies, and thick with the smoke and scent of the candles. I knelt, doubled over upon myself, arms extended and head touching the stone floor, listening as the whispered invocations filled the cave with a familiar drone.

Gradually, the murmuring abated and after a time a silence deep and calm as the gravemound returned to the cave. But for the soft flaring of the candles as they fluttered, and the slow, regular breathing of the monks, not a sound could be heard. We might have been the last men on earth; we might have been the dead of another age awaiting our return to life.

I prayed as fervently as ever I have in my life. I sought wisdom and guidance, and my seeking was sincere, I swear it! I prayed:

King of the Mysteries, who wast and art,

Before the elements, before the ages,

King eternal, comely in aspect,

who reigns for ever, grant me three things:

Keenness to discern your will,

Wisdom to understand it,

Courage to follow where it leads.

This I prayed, and meant it every word. Then I prayed that the honour I sought would be delivered into my hand. Even so, I was astonished when, after a lengthy span, I heard footsteps pause near me and felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard the abbot call my name, saying, "Rise, Aidan, and stand."

I lifted my head slowly. The candles had burned low; the night was far spent. Abbot Fraoch gazed down upon me, nodded gravely, and I stood. He passed on, moving among the prostrate bodies. I watched him as he stepped this way and that. In a little while, he stopped before Brocmal, touched him, and bade him stand. Brocmal rose and looked around; he saw me and inclined his head, as if in approval. The abbot continued on, walking with slow, almost aimless steps, over and around the praying monks until he came to Brother Libir. He knelt, touched Libir, and told him to stand up on his feet.

And there we were: we three, quietly observing one another-Brocmal and Libir in gratitude and pleasure, and myself in amazement. I was chosen! The thing I sought above all else had been granted me; I could scarce believe my good fortune. I stood trembling with triumph and delight.

"Rise brothers," Fraoch croaked, "look upon God's chosen ones." Then he called us by name: "Brocmal…Libir…and Aidan, come forth." He summoned us and we took our places beside him. The other monks looked on. "Brothers, these three will undertake the pilgrimage on our behalf. May the High King of Heaven be exalted!"

Sixty pairs of eyes blinked at us in mingled surprise and, for some, disappointment. I could almost hear what they were thinking. Brocmal, yes, of course; he was a master of all learning and bookwise craft. Libir, yes, a thousand times yes! Renowned for his wisdom and quiet zeal, Libir's patience and piety were already legendary throughout Eire. But Aidan mac Cainnech? It must be a mistake-the disbelief on their faces was not difficult to read. More than one monk wondered why he had been passed over for me.

But Abbot Fraoch seemed more than pleased with the choices. "Let us now thank God and all the saints for this most satisfactory conclusion to our long deliberations."

He led us in a simple prayer of thanksgiving, and then dismissed us to our duties. We left the cave, stooping low as we crawled from the narrow passage, and stepped into the dawnlight of a brisk, windswept day. Moving into the pale rose-red light, it seemed to me that we were corpses reborn. Having passed an eternity under the earth, we now awakened, rose, and quit the grave to walk the world once more. For me, it seemed a world vastly changed-new-made and potent with promise: Byzantium awaited, and I was among the chosen to undertake the journey. White Martyrdom they call it, and so it is.

We walked along the Blackwater and sang a hymn to the new day, reaching the gates of the abbey as the rising sun touched the belltower. After prime we assembled in the hall to break fast. I sat at the long table, much aware of my new prominence. Brother Enan, who read the Psalms for morning meal, could not contain his elation at the fact that our community was, as he put it, "to send our most revered members to help bear the great book across the seas to the Holy Emperor." Enan asked a special prayer of thanksgiving for the three chosen ones-a request the abbot granted. Then, in a mood of reckless jubilation, he read the Magnificat.

Listening to the cadence of those well-known words, I thought: Yes! This is how it is! This is how it feels to be chosen, to be called of God for a great undertaking: My soul praises the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. Yes!

It was, as Abbot Fraoch maintained-and everyone else agreed-a great honour for us all. Truly, it was an honour I had sought as ardently as any of the others. Now it was mine, and I could scarcely credit my good fortune. Listening to Enan pray thanks to God for this exalted boon of a blessing, my heart soared within me. I was humbled, pleased, and proud-all three at once-and it made me giddy; I felt I must laugh out loud, or burst.

Once, during the meal, I raised my bowl to my lips and happened to glance down the long refectory table to see a fair few of the brothers watching me. The thought that they should find in me something worthy of remark roused in me a flush of guilty pride. Thus, I ate my broth and barley bread and, for the sake of my well-meaning brothers, tried not to appear too delighted, lest I appear haughty in their sight and thereby give offence.

When the meal finished, Abbot Fraoch summoned me with a gesture. I bent near to hear him. "I expect you will have much to consider, Aidan," he whispered. Having lost his voice to a Sea Wolf's blade years ago, our abbot's utterances were never more than dry whispers and raspy croaks.

"Yes, abbot," I replied.

"Therefore," he continued, "I grant you leave from your duties. Use this day to rest, to think…to prepare yourself." I made to protest, but he continued. "Your pursuit of this opportunity has been most vigorous. Your zeal is laudable, son. But there is more work to come, and a strenuous journey when the weather turns." He laid a hand on my shoulder. "A day for yourself now, Aidan-it may be the last you will have for a very long time."

I thanked him and took my leave, then hurried across the yard to my cell. I entered and pulled the oxhide cover over the door, whereupon I threw myself onto my pallet and lay kicking my feet and laughing. I had been chosen. Chosen! I was going to Byzantium! I laughed until my sides ached and tears came to my eyes and I could laugh no more.

Elation left me exhausted. As I had not slept the previous night, I closed my eyes and composed myself to rest, but my mind whirled. Think, Aidan! Think of the places you will see, the people you will meet. Oh, it is wonderful, is it not?

My thoughts flitted like scattering birds and, tired as I was, I could not sleep.

So, I thought to meditate. As the abbot suggested, it was an arduous journey and I must prepare myself spiritually and mentally. It seemed right to bring before my mind all the dangers and hardships that might befall us on our way. But instead of dangers, I saw vast mountain ranges swathed in cloud, and strange seas sparkling under foreign skies; I saw people thronging the streets of great cities and the courtyards of shimmering palaces. Instead of hardships, I saw eastern potentates, kings, queens, bishops, and courtiers-all arrayed in splendour to rival the glory of the sun.