Citadel (49 page)
‘I’m grateful for your help. How long will it take to get there?’
‘Two hours, give or take. Monsieur Baillard arrived in Tarascon this afternoon. He’s going to meet you at the cave.’
‘OK.’
Raoul hauled his rucksack on to his shoulder. It was heavy now with tools borrowed from the outhouse in Coustaussa.
Eloise led him west along a network of lowland mountain paths, cross-country from Belcaire towards Tarascon. They didn’t speak much. From time to time they heard a car and took cover, waiting until it had passed before continuing on through the dark land of the Ariège. Raoul wanted to ask her about Sandrine. He’d attempted to quiz Geneviève earlier, but her loyalty to her friend meant she deflected all his questions.
‘Sandrine said your families have known each other all your lives,’ he said, hoping to draw Eloise out.
‘That’s right.’
‘She said she and Geneviève were particular friends, whereas you and Marianne were more the same age.’
‘Yes. We’re very distant cousins, in fact, on our mother’s side.’
‘Really?’
Raoul wanted to know what Sandrine had been like as a child, the sorts of things they’d done in the long summers in Coustaussa before the war. He wanted to know about Yves Rousset. When Sandrine had mentioned him, against all common sense he’d felt jealous.
‘Sandrine said that—’ he began.
‘Best we don’t talk, Monsieur Pelletier,’ Eloise said quietly but firmly, though Raoul thought he heard a flicker of amusement in her voice.
‡
‡
GAUL
PIC DE VICDESSOS
AUGUST AD 342
A
rinius screamed.
Scrambling to his feet, still holding his arms in front of him to keep the demons away. Striking the air with his hands in an attempt to drive out the images of skull and bone. Empty sockets and unfleshed limbs, the tendrils of skin trailing like weed.
Blood and fire and glass.
He fell to his knees, his head bowed and his eyes open, fighting to survive the horrors embracing him. A rushing of air, spirits, creatures, brushing against him, skimming his head and his legs, flying and sweeping, physically present but transparent also. Invisible.
‘Deliver us from evil . . .’
His heart was thudding, as if trying to force its way through the carapace of bone. His skin was slippery with sweat and the sour smell of fear. Lips automatically mouthing prayers, holy words of God to cast out the darkness of his thoughts.
‘
Libera nos a malo
,’ he repeated. ‘Amen,’ he cried, making the sign of the cross. ‘Amen.’
He was in the presence of something powerful, malevolent, though he did not know what.
‘Lord, save my soul.’
He continued to pray without ceasing until his throat was dry and his mind was exhausted. Using words as weapons to drive out the evil threatening to swallow him whole. Every prayer or incantation he had ever been taught, the word of God to ward off the temptations of the Devil.
Finally, just when his strength was extinguished and he could fight no more, Arinius felt the threat lift, like an animal slinking away to its lair. Gradually his pulse slowed. Gradually the sounds of the glade around him came back to his consciousness, birds and the light call of an owl, rather than the screaming and the agony of the voices inside his head.
Arinius sat back on his heels, felt the welcome support of the damp grass beneath his legs, the sweet texture of the earth under his hands. Then he laughed. A single shout. Like the great battles foretold in the books of Tobias and Enoch, the Armageddon promised by the Book of Revelation, Arinius knew he had been tested. Tested and not found wanting.
Exhausted, but with a lightness of spirit he had not felt for some days, he stood up. Carefully, he opened the cedarwood box and lifted the papyrus out. He stared at the seven verses, each of which told a story he could not read.
With the memory of the shadow of evil still upon him, he wondered. Had he been misguided? Was the Abbot right to order the destruction of such works? Did he know that the power contained with the Codex was simply too strong for men to bear? That these were words that would not save the world but destroy it?
For the first time in many weeks, Arinius felt the need of the comfort of the Christian offices. He prayed for guidance, kneeling on the hard ground while he tried to decide what he should do. Listening for the word of God in the silence. A moment of gnosis, of illumination. All doubt banished.
He made the sign of the cross, then stood up. There were two patches of damp on his knees, circles of dew. He was resolved. Comforted by his thoughts.
It was not his decision to make. He was no more than a messenger, a courier. Such a judgement was not in his hands. The knowledge should not be destroyed.
Arinius returned the Codex to the box, and the box to the bag. He had faith that others could withstand such an onslaught, as he himself had done. In the full and certain promise of the resurrection and the life to come.
He coughed, but this time there was no blood. He took a deep breath, drawing the fresh dawn air into his lungs, then continued on his way. The sky turned from white to a pale blue. Couzanium was many miles behind him. The Pic de Vicdessos was within reach. A lodestar, guiding him to his final destination at the edge of his known world.
‡
LOMBRIVES
AUGUST 1942
T
he sky was turning from white to a pale blue in the hour before dawn when Raoul saw a solitary figure making his way up the hillside.
Baillard was no longer wearing his pale suit. Instead, he was dressed in the open smock shirt and blue canvas trousers worn by the older men of the Tarasconnais villages, though his shock of white hair and his bearing were unmistakable.
Although there was no one about, Raoul didn’t reveal he was there, in case Baillard was being followed. He watched and waited in silence as Baillard made his way up the hillside with the steady pace of a man half his age.
‘
Bonjorn
, Sénher Pelletier.’
‘Monsieur Baillard.’
‘We have two hours before it will be properly light.’
Raoul nodded. ‘I’m ready.’
They were south of Tarascon, in the deep valleys that ran all the way down to Andorra. Raoul followed Baillard up through a gully on a gravel path, passing several small caves with irregular openings leading into dark tunnels beyond.
‘Do you have somewhere particular in mind, Monsieur Baillard?’
‘A place the locals call the Col de Pyrène.’
After ten minutes more, they reached a plateau. Baillard stopped. Raoul saw there was a distinctive ring of large boulders, natural protection, and a cluster of juniper bushes. Beyond that, woodland.
‘This is it?’ he said doubtfully.
Baillard gestured that he should follow. When they reached the summit, Raoul saw that there was in fact a narrow opening in the rock. Invisible from below, it looked as if it led nowhere. When he peered closer, he realised there was in fact a small gap between two spurs of rock.
‘Easy to describe.’
‘Exactly so. We have to rely on Sandrine to pass on the information without them realising she’s doing so. She needs to pinpoint the place, but without coordinates or any map reference.’
Raoul bent down and looked into the darkness.
‘It’s distinctive, Monsieur Baillard, but isn’t that a problem? It doesn’t seem likely that anything hidden here would remain concealed for long, let alone thousands of years. Local people must know this stretch of the mountains.’
‘You will see,’ was all Baillard said.
He produced a battery torch from his pocket. Raoul did the same and followed him, threading his way through the limestone chicane into a tunnel shielded from the world outside. The ground sloped down. Raoul was forced to duck his head. The further they went, the lower the temperature dropped, but the air was fresh.
After a few minutes, the tunnel opened out into a wide clearing about four metres across, with a high domed roof and jagged fissures of rock that seemed to sparkle.
Raoul sent the beam of his torch all around to gauge the space. ‘I’ve heard of the Tomb of Pyrène in Lombrives and the Salon Noir in Niaux, but nothing about this.’
‘The
bons homes
took refuge in these mountains,’ Baillard said. ‘There are hundreds of hidden places that do not appear in the tourist guidebooks, though one day no doubt they will.’ He walked to the centre of the cave, his torch sending elongated shadows dancing over the ground. ‘But it is this that interests us.’
Raoul looked and saw that there was a long, cylindrical shaft in the centre of the ground, like a bore hole.
‘It is natural or man-made?’
‘It’s a sink hole, a fissure widened by water dissolving the limestone. But the land has shifted. This one has been dry for millennia. If I am not mistaken, the site chosen by Arinius will have many of the same properties. A number of the caves in this stretch from here to the foot of the Pic de Vicdessos have cracks in the earth like this.’ Baillard angled the beam of light down into the spiralling darkness. ‘This is why it is right for our purposes. There is a narrow ledge, do you see? If you could make it a little wider, enough to hold this, that would be ideal?’
Baillard produced a small box from his pocket.
‘Is that a forgery too?’ Raoul asked.
‘Oh no,’ he said lightly. ‘It dates from the fourth century.’
Raoul wondered how Baillard could have acquired a Roman box in the space of twenty-four hours.
‘This is walnut wood, which was widely used in the Ariège in the past. I do not yet know if Arinius himself placed the Codex in such a box – in a box at all – but again it is a story that will serve our purposes for the time being.’
‘It’s amazing it’s survived all this time,’ Raoul said.
‘The temperature is constant and it is very dry. Many things do survive undisturbed, more than we realise.’ Baillard nodded. ‘Now, if you will, Sénher Pelletier, we must hurry.’
Raoul opened his rucksack and took out the tools Sandrine had given him from her father’s garden store. A hammer, a chisel and a wrench. He peered down into the shaft, seeing that it was narrow enough for him to be able to hold himself up with braced legs. Then he took a stone and dropped it into the darkness, counting until he heard it land at the bottom.
‘About ten metres,’ he said.
He sat on the side, then put his legs out, bending at the knees, and lowered himself into the space. The rock pressed hard into his shoulders, but it was relatively flat. He took the strain of his own weight in his upper back and his thighs.
‘OK,’ he said, reaching up his right hand. Baillard passed him the hammer and the chisel. ‘Thanks.’
Slowly, Raoul worked his way down the shaft, braced across the opening, until he was level with the ledge. He found a toehold for his left foot, then jammed his right leg and knee into the rock, leaving him enough space to manoeuvre. He started to chip away at the cavity above the ledge, enlarging the space little by little, until it was wide enough to hold the box.
‘Here you are.’
He tossed the tools up to Baillard, who caught them easily and put them aside.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked Raoul.
‘Yes.’
Baillard lay flat on the ground, holding out the box at full stretch into the hole. Raoul strained to reach up to take it.
‘A little further,’ he said. ‘I’ve almost got it.’
Baillard worked his way further forward on his stomach, spreading his legs for balance until Raoul’s fingers grasped it.
‘Got it,’ Raoul said.
He put the box inside the cavity, then scooped some of the dust and scree from the ledge and smeared it over the lid.
‘Is it done?’ Monsieur Baillard asked.
Raoul heard the urgency in his voice.
‘All done,’ he said.
He made it back to the surface more quickly than he had gone down. Raoul wiped his hands on his trousers, brushed the worst of the climb from his clothes, packed the tools back in the rucksack and stood up.
In silence, the two men made their way back along the tunnel, through the chicane of rock, towards the light. Raoul stopped in the entrance, half expecting to see a line of soldiers waiting for them, but the countryside was as still and quiet as before.
He sighed with relief. He struck a match and lit a cigarette.
‘Do you want me to secure the cave?’ he asked.
‘No. When Madomaisèla Sandrine talks about Antoine having found the Codex, she will imply that this is a new hiding place, one chosen by Antoine, rather than the original place. In truth, I think little will happen until Antoine Déjean’s funeral. Madomaisèla Eloise is already setting rumours running in Tarascon that something’s been found.’ He looked at Raoul. ‘You are willing to remain here and keep watch? You might be waiting some time.’
‘I’m as safe here as anywhere,’ he said. ‘How will I get a message to you when I need to?’
‘Madomaisèla Eloise will arrange for food and drink to be brought to you. Each afternoon at three, a messenger will wait for you at the crossroads on the Alliat road.’ He broke off and pointed to the crest above the plateau. ‘The password will be: “Cazaintre’s garden is overgrown.” Your response will be: “Monsieur Riquet is tending to it.”’
Raoul wondered if the choice of password was a coincidence or deliberate in some way. If not, how did Monsieur Baillard known he’d hidden from the police on Bastille Day in the Jardin du Calvaire, designed by Cazaintre, or that his home was on the Quai Riquet?
‘All right.’
Baillard looked at the sky. ‘My profound thanks, Sénher Pelletier. But now, if you will forgive me, I must leave you. I should be back before it gets much lighter and the town begins to wake.’
He turned to go.
Quickly, Raoul reached out and touched his arm. ‘Don’t let anything happen to her, Monsieur Baillard.’
Baillard stopped. ‘She told me to do the same for you,’ he said gently, ‘though Sandrine is more than capable of looking after herself. It is one of the reasons you can let yourself love her.’
