Citadel (39 page)
‘A weapon?’
Baillard shook his head. ‘No. At least, not in the way you mean,
filha
.’
‘Then what?’
‘He had discovered a map that reveals the final resting place of an ancient religious text, a Codex. He was due to deliver the map to me in person some weeks ago, but he never arrived.’
‘Where’s the map now?’
Baillard raised his hands in a gesture of ignorance, then let them fall.
‘Even if you find the map, are you sure the Codex itself actually survives?’
‘Instinct says it does, but I have no proof.’
Sandrine frowned. ‘In any case, how did Antoine know what was in the Codex if no one’s even seen it?’
‘Fragments are known. My belief is that some verses were—’
‘Written on the map itself,’ she jumped in, then turned red. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
Baillard smiled. ‘I came to that same conclusion myself,’ he said with a momentary sparkle in his eye. ‘Antoine could read Latin and Greek. I am certain he found the map – had sight of it at least. It is the only explanation that serves.’
‘I tried to do some research,’ Sandrine said, ‘though it didn’t get me very far. When I badgered her, Marieta finally admitted that the words reminded her of certain lines in the Book of Revelation, but she wouldn’t say any more than that. I went to the municipal library in Carcassonne to see if I could find any mention of such a connection, but it was closed for the summer.’ She paused. ‘Marieta seemed terrified, Monsieur Baillard, even at the thought of it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she right to be?’
He did not answer the question. ‘The Codex is a Gnostic text, condemned in the fourth century as heretical. The authorship is unknown although, as Marieta told you, the verses are believed to bear some similarity to the only Gnostic text included in the Bible, the Book of the Revelation of St John the Divine.’
‘Are there other books that might have been included in the Bible but were left out?’
‘The Bible is a collection of writings, not a single unified text.’
‘But that’s not right . . .’
Baillard allowed himself a smile. ‘For the first few centuries of its mission, the Christian Church was under attack – not least from the continued Roman occupation of the Holy Land – so the need to strengthen and unite was paramount. It was important to establish an incontrovertible, agreed holy book. The matter of which texts should be viewed as legitimate, which not, was the subject of much heated debate. The texts chosen to form the Bible were standardised in Greek, then translated into other languages. In Egypt, for example, into the Coptic language of the early Egyptian Christians. As communities developed – monasteries, places of worship – other key texts were translated and disseminated. Often on papyrus, gathered into individual leather-bound books known as codices, to keep them safe.’
He took another sip of his drink. ‘The orthodox lobby won. A certain interpretation of Christianity triumphed. Despite this, the doctrine of equality under faith never entirely went away, though it was driven underground.’ He paused, a gentle smile lighting his face. ‘In the past, I had many friends who were of the Albigensian faith – Cathars, as they are sometimes called now, although at the time they referred to themselves as
bons homes
, good men, good women. Some consider them Gnostics and argue that they are the natural descendants of those early Christians.’
While they had been talking, night had fallen over Coustaussa. Sandrine got up to close the shutters, then lit the old brass lamps as she’d seen Marieta do a thousand times. The hiss and spit of the oil, then haloes of yellow light flared and warmed the corners of the room. She glanced across at her guest, realising he had removed himself. Memories of the past, friends lost, in the presence of ghosts. Echoes in the landscape.
‘Go on, Monsieur Baillard,’ she said gently.
He looked up again and nodded. ‘The battles between Gnostic and orthodox thinking lasted some two hundred years – a little more or less in different parts of the world – but the time that concerns us now is the fourth century, when many of the Gnostic texts were destroyed. We have no way of knowing how many priceless works were consigned to the fire, only that much knowledge was lost.’
‘How do we know of their existence in the first place?’
‘A good question. In
AD
367, an edict went out from Athanasius – the powerful Bishop of Alexandria – that heretical texts were to be burned. However, the threat preceded this by some years. Athanasius was a controversial figure – sometimes his views were in favour, sometimes not – but Christian leaders took matters into their own hands well before this edict and ravaged their own libraries.’
‘So Gnostics were already taking steps to hide or protect texts they thought were at risk,’ Sandrine said.
Baillard nodded. ‘According to contemporary records, there was a mass burning of books in 342 in Lyon – Lugdunum as it then was – but some texts were successfully smuggled to safety. To Egypt, to Jordan, and hidden there.’ Baillard paused. ‘Only very recently has it come to light that the Codex considered by the Abbot to be the most dangerous of all the proscribed texts might never have left these shores.’
‘And Antoine died because of this,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘For a book.’
‘Not even a book,’ he said. ‘A single sheet of papyrus, seven verses.’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘Given our situation now, and with everything that is happening, it seems so . . . not irrelevant exactly but . . .’
Baillard stared. ‘Pujol thinks the same. But the knowledge contained within those seven verses is said to be as powerful, as terrifying, as anything in the Old Testament or the prophecies of Revelation.’
Sandrine leant forward and met his gaze. ‘What knowledge?’ she asked, surprised to hear her voice so steady when her heart was beating so fast.
‘Christians believe that, at the final reckoning, we shall all be reunited at one unique moment of apocalypse. Such belief is fundamental to many faiths, in fact. To our modern minds, this idea is strange. Dismissed as magic or superstition or fairy tale. But to those who have walked this earth before us, down the generations, such concourse between this world and the next was seen as natural, evident.’
‘But what, precisely, does the Codex promise?’ she said again.
‘That, in times of great need, in times of great hardship, there is an army of spirits that can be called upon to intercede in the affairs of men.’
‘Ghosts, do you mean? But that’s impossible!’
‘The dead are all around us, Sandrine,’ Baillard said in his soft, measured voice. ‘You know this. You feel your father close to you here, do you not?’
‘Yes, but that’s different . . .’
‘Is it?’
She stopped, not sure what she was trying to say. Was it different or the same? Her dreams were filled with ghosts, memories. She sometimes thought she saw her father on the turn of the stairs, the outline of him in his chair by the fireplace.
‘Has this . . .’ She hesitated, working out how to frame the question. ‘Has this army ever been called upon before?’
‘Once,’ Baillard replied. ‘Only once.’
‘When?’ she said quickly.
‘In these lands,’ he said. ‘In Carcassonne.’
For an instant Sandrine thought she could hear the words beyond the words, feel the presence of an older system of belief that lay beneath the tangible world she saw around her.
‘The spirits of the air . . .’ she murmured. ‘Dame Carcas?’
She spoke without thinking, and as she did so, Sandrine experienced a moment of sudden illumination. In that one instant, she thought she understood. Saw it all clearly, the ineffable pattern of things, the past and present woven together in many dimensions, in colour vivid and sure. But before she could catch hold of the memory, the moment had passed. She looked up and saw Baillard was staring at her.
‘You do understand,’ he said softly.
‘I don’t know, I thought I did . . .’ She hesitated, not sure what she felt. ‘But even if the Codex did survive and is here, somewhere, waiting to be found . . .’ She stopped again. ‘Our enemies are real, and this . . .’
Now it was Baillard’s turn to hesitate. ‘The war is far from over,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Here in France, in the world beyond our borders, I fear the worst is yet before us. Decisions are being made that are beyond human comprehension. But . . .’ He paused. ‘Evil has not yet won. We have not yet passed the point of no return. If we can find the Codex – and understand the words it contains, harness them to our needs – then there might still be a chance.’
Sandrine looked at him with despair. ‘England fights on, I know, but we have lost, Monsieur Baillard. France is defeated. People – even in Carcassonne, in Coustaussa – seem to be prepared to accept that.’
Baillard looked suddenly older. The skin on his face seemed stretched tighter, pale and transparent, a record of all the things he had seen and done.
‘They do not think they have a choice,’ he said softly. ‘But I do not believe Hitler and his collaborators will be satisfied with what they have, whatever compromises Pétain has offered. And that,
filha
, will be when the real battle will begin.’
‘The Nazis will cross the line,’ she said, a statement not a question. ‘They will occupy the Midi.’
Baillard nodded. ‘This status quo will not hold for much longer. And that is when possession of the Codex, for good or ill, could make – will make – the difference. Between certain failure and the slightest possibility of victory.’
‘A ghost army,’ Sandrine whispered.
Baillard nodded. ‘One that has not walked for more than a thousand years.’
‡
‡
GAUL
COUZANIUM
AUGUST AD 342
A
rinius emerged from his stone shelter to another perfect morning. A gentle wind whispered in the air and the dawn sky was an endless pale blue. All around him the colours of summer were now painted bright. Yellow
Ulex gallii
, its scent gentle in the dawn, the tiny pink heads of orchids blinking out from between the grasslands. Three days had passed since the storm, and, although he sensed a change in the air, a hint of more rain to come, there was not a cloud to be seen.
He turned to face the sun. Arinius no longer kneeled to pray, but rather stood with his arms outstretched and his face lifted to heaven. He thought of his brother monks observing Lauds in the cool grey spaces of the community in Lugdunum and did not envy them their confinement.
‘In the morning, Lord, I offer you my prayer.’
He no longer needed the tolling of the bell in the forum to remind him of his obligations. Now, after his months alone with God, Arinius spoke words of his own devising. He gave thanks for the new day, for his safe delivery through the storm, for the sanctuary of the gentle and hospitable land in which he found himself.
‘Amen,’ he said, making the sign of the cross with the fingers of his right hand. ‘Amen.’
When his offices were over, Arinius went back inside to fetch his bag. He broke his fast with the victuals he had purchased in Couzanium: a portion of wheaten bread ground with millet, a handful of walnuts, washed down with the
posca
infused with the memory of the wine he had bought from the merchant. The iridescent glass glinted in the morning sunlight, reflecting blue and green and silver.
The young monk sat and looked out across the valley. At the earth slashed through with red iron ore on the hills on the far side of the river, the expanse of grassland and woods. The land was evidently rich with fruit and nuts and, last night’s storm notwithstanding, it seemed to be a tranquil place to rest a while. To prepare for the final stage of his journey into the mountains.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, Arinius decided to prepare his writing materials. He did not want to carry his tools into the mountains, only those things he would need for the journey. He got out the square of spun wool he had purchased in the travelling market in Couzanium and spread the yellow-white yarn flat on the ground. Grasping the iron handle of his hunting knife, he began to cut the fabric into squares.
It was hard and repetitive work. He felt the sweat pooling in the hollow at the base of his throat and on the back of his neck. The muscles at the top of his arm and in his shoulders began to complain, to ache. From time to time he paused to add another cut section to the pile, before returning to the diminishing square of fabric.
Finally, he had finished. He stood up to stretch his legs, clenching and unclenching his fingers. He drank the last of the
posca
, ate another portion of bread, then gathered his basket to go out in search of the materials he required for the next stage of the operation. In the community in Lugdunum, Arinius had been taught to create a form of ink, a mixture of iron salt and nutgall, and a gum from pine resin. He hoped in this valley to be able to find everything he needed. The liquid looked blue-black when it was first used, but quickly faded to a pale brown. He also needed to find the right sort of feather to fashion a crude reed pen. In the past he had tried crow’s feathers and those of geese, but through trial and error had discovered that blackbirds’ feathers were the easiest to use.
With the Codex still carried beneath his tunic, and his leather bag over his shoulder once more, Arinius ventured out into the valley to find what he needed.
‡
COUSTAUSSA
AUGUST 1942
S
andrine took the shopping list Monsieur Baillard had written and cycled down to Couiza. The storm had cleared the air and the morning was fresh and pleasant. A few clouds, the trees green and glistening on the horizon, the sky an endless blue. The sort of day one remembers.
Marieta seemed none the worse for her ordeal, but Sandrine wanted to let Marianne know what had happened all the same. By ten o’clock she was again standing in a slow-moving queue in the post office. Although the phone rang in the rue du Palais, no one answered. It meant she would have to try again.
