After only a few sips, I felt large and expansive, friend and brother to all mankind. It was with great reluctance that I set aside my cup, but when talk turned to the reason for our visit, I feared I might lose the power of speech if I drank any more of the wonderful elixir.

'We have it on good authority,' I began, as the kindly abbot watched me dreamily over the rim of his cup, 'that your community excels in the making and copying of manuscripts.'

'It is,' replied Demitrianos, 'a task in which we have long experience. If some small fame has travelled beyond these walls, I am glad, for it means that God's praise likewise increases.'

'As you know,' said Padraig, 'we have just arrived in Cyprus from Egypt where Duncan was a prisoner for many months.'

'Yes,' nodded the abbot with benign admiration, 'you showed great fortitude and forbearance in your captivity,' he told me. 'Our Lord was surely with you.'

'While he was a guest of the caliph,' Padraig continued, 'he wrote of his experiences -'

'I thought I would not live to see my young daughter,' I explained, 'and wanted her to know what had happened to her father.'

'A thoughtful and commendable bequest,' mused the abbot loftily. 'A very labour of love, to be sure.'

'Unfortunately,' I continued, 'all my work was ruined.' I went on to tell him what had taken place in the escape from the caliph's palace, leaving out any mention of the raid on the treasure house and the rescue of the Holy Rood.

Abbot Demitrianos frowned and clucked his tongue. 'Regrettable, to be sure.' He reached for the jar and offered to refresh our cups. 'More alashi?' I declined, but Padraig succumbed. 'Still,' the abbot continued, tipping the jar into his own cup, 'your life has been redeemed, all praise to Our Great Heavenly Father, and that is of inestimable value to your dear little daughter.' He raised his cup and imbibed deeply of the potent drink.

'As it happens,' said Padraig, 'this work was written on good papyrus, which the Egyptians use instead of parchment.'

'We know of it, to be sure,' replied the abbot contentedly. 'We call it papuros. Fine stuff, but very brittle, and lacking the durability of good parchment. I suppose, however, if you cannot obtain the sheep…' he sighed as if it were the chief lamentation of his life, 'what can you do?'

'This is why we have come to you,' Padraig said. 'We have brought the papyri with us in the hope that the wise brothers of Ayios Moni can help restore what has been lost.'

'To be sure.' The abbot slid a little down in his chair; he looked from one to the other of us with a slow blink of his eyes. 'Although it grieves me to tell you, my friends, experience tells me that nothing can be done. Papuros is very delicate, as I say; once ruined, it cannot be salvaged.' He lifted the jar. 'Are you certain you will not have more alashi?'

Again, I declined politely, and was surprised when Padraig helped himself, emptying the jar into his cup. 'I have no doubt that what you say is true,' the thirsty priest replied. 'Yet, it seems to me that the work might be copied.'

The bell for night prayers began tolling just then. Padraig stood. 'Ah, night prayers. I am keenly interested in attending the service tonight. Perhaps, with your kind permission, we might continue this discussion tomorrow. I think if you were to have a look at the papyri, you will see what I mean.' Turning to me, he said, 'Come, Duncan, we must hurry to the chapel. I thank you for your kindness, and bid you God's rest tonight, abbot.'

The abbot blessed us with a benediction and sent us off to prayers. We left him to his rest and, as I closed the door behind us, I noticed Padraig still clutched his drink in his hand. 'A lesser man would have surrendered long ago,' I told him.

'A lesser man did,' he replied, tipping the nearly full cup onto the ground. He lay the empty vessel beside the door, and we hurried to the chapel, taking our places at the rear of the small assembly of monks. There were two short benches either side of the door, and upon one an elderly brother sat with his hands folded in his lap, snoring softly; all the rest stood with their hands raised, palms upwards at shoulder height, intoning the prayer in a humming drone.

Padraig joined right in, but I did not know the prayer and found it difficult to follow the recitation. From time to time, one of the monks would raise his voice and call out a phrase and, just as I was beginning to grasp the prayer, suddenly the chant would change, and off they would go in a new direction. After a while, I gave up and sat down on the bench beside the sleeping brother until the service was over. He woke as I sat down, looked up blearily, smiled at me, and then went back to sleep. I wished him pleasant dreams.

The guest lodge was comfortable enough, if small; we woke the next morning well rested and ready to be about our business. After morning prayers we broke fast in the refectory with a meal of bread and honey, ripe olives and soft goat's cheese. The brothers asked us to tell them more about our experiences in the Holy Land, especially Antioch, where Paul, the great apostle, and his companion Barnabus the Generous had preached and worked. 'They came to Cyprus, too, you know,' one of the elder brothers informed us. 'Paphos was the first city to become Christian in all the old Roman empire. It is true.'

'Verily,’ added another, 'you can still see where Paul was chained to the pillar and scourged for impugning the supremacy of the emperor.'

Padraig and I soon exhausted our small store of memories of Antioch. I wished I had more to tell them; I had spent but a single day there, and had seen almost nothing of the city. At least I was able to describe the Orontes valley and the famed white walls of Antioch rising up sheer from the river bank, and something of the wide main street leading to the citadel, as well as the citadel and palace.

Abbot Demitrianos entered while we were eating and joined us at table, helping himself to bread and cheese and joining in with the brothers. I liked him for his easy, unassuming ways, and his disregard for rank and ceremony. In this he reminded me of Emlyn, and I found myself wishing I was long since on my way home.

After the meal, the abbot took us to the scriptorium and introduced us to two of the senior monks who had the charge of the work of the monastery.

'I present to you, Brother Ambrosius,' the abbot said, indicating a small, round-shouldered monk with sparse white hair-the monk with whom I had shared a bench during prayers the night before. '… and Brother Tomas, our two most skilled and experienced scribes. If anything can be done for you, they will know.' The two bowed in humble deference to one another, and invited us inside. The room was small, but airy and light; a number of wide windows along the south wall allowed the sunlight to illumine the high work tables of the monks. Most of them were still at their morning meal, so we had the scriptorium to ourselves for the moment.

'My brothers,' said Padraig, 'we come to you with a problem, begging your help. You have heard me speak of Lord Duncan's captivity among the Muhammedans.' The two nodded enthusiastically. 'As it happens, he used the time of his imprisonment to make a record of his experiences. Unfortunately, that record has been damaged.' Padraig went on to explain about the papyri and my escape through the underground canal.

When he finished, the abbot said, 'I have already warned our friends that there may not be any remedy for them. Nevertheless, I will let you decide.'

'Please,' said Brother Ambrosius, 'might we see the papuri in question?'

'It will be easier to make a determination once we have completed an examination of the documents in question,' added Brother Tomas.

'By all means,' said Padraig. I brought out the bundle, laid it on the nearest table, and began to unwrap the still-damp sheepskin.