The Pegasus Secret (24 page)

“Reilly.”

“Reilly, yes, yes. Surprising you would remember that from a newspaper or television account months ago.”

Lang leaned foreword, hands on the paper-swamped desk. “His work on the Templars, it burned, too?”

Stockwell’s Santa Claus face was masked with melancholy, the loss of scholarly work more lamentable than that of a colleague. “I’m afraid so. The original of the manuscript, notes, everything except his first draft.”

Maybe Lang hadn’t made the trip for nothing after all. “Where might that draft be?”

“The University library.”

“You mean I can just go to the library and read it?”

Stockwell stood and looked around as though he might have forgotten where he had parked his sleigh. “Not exactly, no. I mean, I’ll have to get it. Poor Wolffe ran me a copy on the machine, asked for help. Chap could never edit his own work. I was working on it when he . . . Well, he won’t be publishing anyway, not now, will he? I left it at
my carrel, planned to finish it up, submit it in his memory. Let’s be off, shall we?”

Lang would have been surprised had the good professor been wearing something other than a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He reached behind the door and took a tweed cap from a coat rack. His universal uniform of academia was now complete.

They dodged bicycles until they turned into Catte Street. Before them was the massive fourteenth-century Bodleian Library, the repository of an original draft of the Magna Carta, innumerable illuminated manuscripts and at least one copy of every book published in Great Britain.

Stockwell pointed to the adjacent round building of enthusiastic Italian Baroque architecture, featuring peaked pilasters, scrolled windows and a domed roof. “Radcliffe Camera,” he said. “Reading room. Meet you there soon’s I collect Wolffe’s papers.”

Lang entered through a heavy oak door, ducking to get under a lintel no more than five and a half feet high. Anyone who doesn’t believe in evolution should try smacking their heads on a few medieval doors, he thought grimly.

The Camera served as a general reading room. Oak tables, built to modern proportions, lined two walls. In the center, some of the library’s more famous contents were on display in cloth-covered glass cases. Light struggled through opaque glass windows and filtered from miserly overhead lamps. The quiet was tangible, a dusty deafness interrupted by the occasional sound of a page being turned or the beep of a laptop. A lurch in the gastrointestine made Lang wonder where the men’s might be, the loo, in Britspeak. This was not the place he could pass gas and escape undetected. He had been in noisier graveyards.

Lang waited for Stockwell, lifting the light-shielding cover from one case and another. A few Latin phrases greeted him like old friends, but most of the writing was
Saxon, Norman French or some other language he had never seen.

He was concentrating on an elaborately illustrated, hand-lettered Bible in what, he was guessing, was Gaelic when the professor appeared at his elbow so suddenly he might have dropped down a chimney.

He took a sheaf of papers from under one arm and tendered them to Lang. “Here you go. Drop the lot off at my office when you’re done.”

Lang took them, scanning the first page. “Thanks.”

Stockwell was headed for the exit. “Pleased to do it. Friend of Jacob’s and all that.”

Lang sat at the nearest table, concentrating on what he was reading. For the second time in a very short period, he experienced a jolt in his stomach. But this one had nothing to do with Rachel’s cooking.

Account by Pietro of Sicily
Translation from the medieval Latin by Nigel Wolffe, Ph.D.

I shed my novice status shortly after our arrival at Blanchefort, taking my vows as a Brother of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon before the autumn harvest. I shed also my innocence and my faith, now I realize.

True to the inducements I had been offered, I supped on meat twice daily and bathed myself twice weekly until All Hallows’ Eve, when the air’s chill made it impractical to do and I was subjected to the body’s natural vermin once again. Even these deprivations seemed trivial, for I was allowed to change my vestments
¹
for clean ones weekly, thereby ridding myself of my small tormentors.

Not only did my belly grow with victuals far richer than those consumed by others in God’s service, but my knowledge increased its girth as well. I know now that I should have remembered Eve’s original sin in thirsting for forbidden knowledge, but like hers my mind possessed an unquenchable thirst. Uncontrolled lust for knowledge, forbidden or not, can be as deadly as carnal lust, as I was to discover all too late.

The castle had a library the likes of which I did not know existed except, perhaps, under the direct keep of the Holy Father in Rome. I had become used to one or two manuscripts illustrating both in word and picture the Holy Writ. The Brethren’s collection included volumes with scribbling resembling worms with brightly coloured ornamentation, which, I was told, was the wisdom of the Ancients preserved by the heathen Saracen.

When I asked why works of pagans and heretics were allowed in consecrated quarters, I was told that writings forbidden most Christians were permitted here. It was a refrain I was to hear repeated often, that the Knights were not bound by the same dictates as the rest of Christendom.

In acting as scribe and counting house clerk, I made another discovery. The Brothers had a system by which a Christian on a pilgrimage might both protect his money while being able to use it when he wished. A traveler could deposit a certain number pieces of gold or silver with any Temple and receive therefore a piece of parchment bearing his name, the amount deposited and a secret sign known only to the Brethren. When this parchment was presented at any other Temple, be it in Britain, Iberia or the German duchies, a like amount as the pilgrim had deposited would be paid over to him, thereby preventing the common scourge of robbery upon the highways or piracy upon the seas.
²

For this service, the Temple issuing the parchment and the one rendering value for it received a fee. This seemed to me like the sin of usury, a practice forbidden Christians but allowed the Knights. Worse, the Temples were in the business of letting money out for profit, the same as any heathen Israelite.
³

More curious were the sums of money that came from Rome in regular increments. Unthinkable riches arrived to be placed in the Temple’s treasure room. This wealth was not distributed as alms to the poor as Christ admonished but went to purchase lands, arms and such excess as the Brethren
might desire. Even so, a substantial fraction of the Holy See’s bounty was not spent but rather accumulated for purposes I only now understand.

At first I feared to corrupt my soul, for gluttony takes many forms, including the wanton dissipation of wealth. I sought out Guillaume de Poitiers and interrupted his gaming with other Knights. Indeed, gaming, eating and the consumption of wine occupied more of the day than did practice with the sword, pike or lance.

He invoked the name of several saints along with consigning to hell the wooden cubes which he and his fellows constantly rolled, wagering on the outcome. “Ah, Pietro, little brother,” he said, his voice full of the aroma of the grape. “I see by your face you are disturbed. Do the figures in your counting house become amok?”

At this, there was much gaiety among his companions.

“No,” I said solemnly. “I am overcome by such curiosity as I cannot bear in silence. The Holy Father sends us great sums as he does to all Temples. Yet it is the duty of the body of the Holy Church to remit to Rome what they can for the sustenance of that same Holy Father. I understand not.”

“In the beginning of our Order,” he said, “we had no choice but receive support from Rome were we to equip and maintain ourselves against the infidel.”

“But now the Holy Land is lost, by God’s unknowable will,” I said. “The Order can no longer protect pilgrims to Jerusalem any more than it can attack Saracens from here.”

He nodded and pointed to a nearby window. “See you Serres there? And on the other side is Rennes. It is the Holy Father’s pleasure that we guard those towns. For that he sees fit to reward us.”

“Guard from what?” I asked. “There are no hostile armies nearby and the time of the barbarians is long hence.”
⁴

“So you might think,” he said. “But it is not our place to question Rome. Only one prideful would do so.”

I took his meaning and felt my face flush with shame.

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Besides, it is not always armies or barbarians we have to apprehend. This is the area of two pernicious former heresies that could have destroyed the Holy See as surely as any band of armed men: the Gnostics and the Cathars.”
⁵

“And we must guard Cardou from their successors,” spoke Tartus, a German.

“But that is but a mountain, bare and empty,” I said.

Guillaume de Poitiers gave his brother Knight an abashing glare. “So it is. Brother Tartus has enjoyed God’s gift of wine to excess, I fear. We guard towns, not empty hills.”

Tartus appeared ready to speak again but did not. I was aware there was a secret that was being kept from me. There I should have allowed the matter to stand. Would that I had not continued so or that I had sought God’s help before relying upon my own.

At the first opportunity, I repaired again to the library to ascertain who these Gnostics and Cathars might be.

I found both had their origins in the Holy Council of Nicea,
⁶
at which the early Church adopted the four books as gospel, rejecting others. One of those rejected was that of Thomas, who wrote that Jesus instructed his followers to adhere to the leadership of James upon His death.
⁷

This Thomas might have been he who was the doubter, insisting to touch Our Lord’s wounds, for it is from him these Gnostics and Cathars drew their loathsome heresy which, though such was not their purpose, denied the Holy Scriptures, many of which were writ in the blood of martyrs.
⁸

I was at first unable to discover the reason these apostasies found such sustenance here in the Languedoc as would require the maintenance of the Knights at such great expense.

Days later, I came upon the answer, a manuscript apparently taken from a Gnostic heretic shortly before his soul was sent to hell and his body to the stake. Rolled rather than
bound, it consisted of a single scroll of vellum,
⁹
badly spelled, poorly written and greatly faded. Had I not let my curiosity overcome my devotions, I would have realized this diabolic writing had been placed in my hands by the devil himself, just as he tempts many of the unwary with the promise of knowledge, for this document was obscene to all Christendom.

The Gnostic author of this abhorrent writing gave not his name but spoke of earlier writings which he purported merely to translate from the ancient Hebrew and Aramaic. They bespoke as follows:

After the Crucifixion of Our Lord, Joseph of Arimathea,
¹⁰
who was Jesus’s brother, and Mary Magdalene, who was Jesus’s wife,
¹¹
fearing persecution also, fled to the far end of the Roman Empire which was then called Gaul. The area was peopled by a number of Jews including the exiled Herod.
¹²
They brought with them only that which could be carried. Included among this impedimenta was a large vessel, the nature of which they kept secret and which they hid in the hills of this region near the River Sens and the mountain called Cardou, the same as the mountain Tartus had said the Brethren guarded.

It is here that this narrative denoted its heretical source which I dared not repeat lest my soul be forever damned for such blasphemous utterances. I did, however, seek out Guillaume de Poitiers and tell him some of the things of which I had read, though not the part that would damn me forever should I speak it. He was undistressed by it, saying the ravings of madmen had naught to do with us and our duty of loving and protecting The One True God.

But they did, as I was to learn to my sorrow.

Translator’s Notes

1
. The Latin
vestimentum
meaning clothing, is the word used. Since Pietro would have worn robes, the translator has chosen a literal translation.

2
. This was, no doubt, not only the first system of cheques or drafts, but the first travelers’ cheques.

3
. By Papal decree, only Jews were permitted to charge interest on loans. This explains the rise of the Jewish European banking houses.

4
. Although he uses the Latin word for barbarian, it is likely he refers to the Vikings whose raids extended even to the Mediterranean from the eighth until the tenth century.

5
. From the Greek word for knowledge,
gnosis
. The Christian Gnostics believed that Christ was mortal, born of Mary and was touched by God. His spirit, not his corporeal body, ascended into heaven. The Cathars believed Christ was an angel who never really existed in true human form. The potential damage either belief might have done the early or medieval Christian church, which had committed itself to the Pauline doctrine of the physical resurrection and ascension of Christ into heaven, is obvious.