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They spoke to the old man, who slowly shook his head. Then he entered the palisade and, with no hesitation, stepped into the flames. One by one the others each shook their heads and followed him. He knew what they were being asked.
Do you renounce your faith?
None did.
Once all were inside the palisade the gate was closed.
The air became rank with spiraling black smoke. The stench of burnt flesh, blood, entrails, and hair filled his nostrils. The reality of what he was seeing sent him to his knees.
Grief overwhelmed him.
He stared up at the summit of Montségur and considered joining his compatriots, taking his place as another burnt offering to the now conquered citadel. But the words of the Perfecti, whispered into his ear before he descended the mount, echoed in his mind.
“Go with God, my son. Be safe. Bear witness to our memory so that fifty, a hundred, or five hundred years from now we will be known.”
Cassiopeia listened to Beláncourt finish the story.
“As I told you below, two hundred and five died that day. That is a fact. But the Story of Arnaut? That’s a matter of dispute. Did someone manage to escape the mount? And carry away a treasure?” He shrugged. “It’s possible, but that would have been a hell of a descent.”
They still stood on the western edge, precisely where the Cathar Arnaut would have begun his climb down.
“And whether that same Cathar managed to return two weeks later at the precise time of the mass execution?” he said. “That’s a bit improbable too. The best guess is that the story I just told you is a composite from several people, passed down through the centuries as the tale of one.”
“How did you learn it?”
He chuckled. “I was told by someone who was in a position to know.”
“That’s quite vague.”
“I realize that. Let’s leave it there, for now. The Cathars, though, did not fare well after Montségur. The Inquisition kept hunting and torturing them for confessions. They were burned at the stake, their houses and lands seized. By the 14th century they were all but gone. The last known Perfecti, a man named Guilhèm Belibaste, was burned at the stake in 1321. But not before saying something quite prophetic. Al cap dels sèt cent ans, verdajara lo laurèl.”
The laurel will flourish again in 700 years.
“By the time Belibaste roasted,” he said, “thanks to the Albigensian crusade the Languedoc had been absorbed into France, the whole region under Paris’ control, the Catholic Church back in total command.”
“What did he mean by the laurel will flourish again?”
“In Christianity, the laurel symbolizes resurrection. I suppose he means the Cathars would rise again. I have to say, I thought the whole story a myth. But it may now have been proven true, thanks to the emergence of the gold casket and book you found.”
“Hence your interest?”
He nodded. “Precisely.”
“The story says Arnaut went north from Montségur. Where exactly?”
He shrugged. “No one knows. But Givors is north. The fortress there at the time may have been his destination. It lay just outside what was then regarded as Cathar territory. So it would have been safe from crusaders. All we know now is that the casket was there for you to find.”
“So the book inside is the treasure?”
He did not answer her. Instead, he stared off into the distance at the trees below, only the wind passing between them.
“There are Cathars today who still come here and hold vigils,” he said. “They claim the stones seep the spirits of their ancestors.”
“I thought Catharism was a dead religion.”
“There are converts who continue to carry the mantle.”
“Are you one of them?”
He shook his head. “I am a practicing Roman Catholic. To me, a Cathar is a heretic.”
An interesting choice of words for the 21st century.
“You approve, then, of the massacre?”
He frowned. “Your point?”
“Heretics were burned.”
“Centuries ago. Not anymore.”
This man did not like to answer questions. So she asked again, “Why are we here?”
“I wanted you to see and feel what that man long ago risked his life to protect. I believe The Story of Arnaut to be true, and the book you found holds the key to proving that. It’s a map. What the Cathars called Le Camin de Lutz. The Path to Light. But it’s only decipherable if you know what to look for.”
“And you do?”
“I know someone who does.”
She said nothing.
He faced her. “I want you to know that I am not some treasure hunter. This is not about wealth. Finding whatever there is to find is a deeply personal quest of mine. I do not want to share more than that with you, or anyone for that matter. Just know that finding this is important to me.”
She could see that he was being truthful.
“I respect your privacy, as to your motives,” she said. “But my company is still under attack.”
He said nothing.
So she tried, “I’m also assuming that the book I found is a conduit for the location of the treasure?”
He nodded.
“The elders sent Arnaut off with the Book of Hours, inside the gold casket, so it would be safe. They knew where it was secreted. Arnaut knew. But no one else.” He paused. “I’m hoping you will reconsider and sell me the book. If you don’t, I assure you, what I’ve done so far to Terra is just the beginning. Things will become much worse for your company. And you will have an enemy.”
A smile of contempt formed on his lips.
“One that can destroy things as easily as they are built. So I urge you to carefully consider the situation before dismissing me again.”
Chapter 12
The Perfecti sat in a café.
She’d driven from Toulouse south to Mir
epoix, about an hour’s journey, to clear her head. She’d almost been caught at Vitt’s chateau. But the risk had to be taken. She should have confronted the man on the ground and tried to retrieve the book, but the look in his eye had signaled she would not have been successful.
Better to retreat and regroup.
Formulate another plan.
But what?
She loved Mirepoix. Once a Cathar center, home to a cluster of Perfecti in the 13th century. The town’s lord, Roger de Mirepoix, had been a believer. Here was where six hundred Cathars had convened a great council and commissioned the writing of a great manuscript.
La Vertat.
The Truth.
They’d also asked another local lord if they could rebuild the fortress at Montségur, a decision that led to its construction, occupation, eventual capture, and the sacrifice of its inhabitants.
The town continued to exude a medieval feel. Its arcaded main square was surrounded by sagging wooden arches, topped by half-timbered houses. St. Maurice’s Cathedral had stood since the 14th century, just after the suppression of the Cathars, when the papists retook control. This was one of her favorite places in the Ariège, home to a mere three thousand people, forty-one of which were currently believers.
Flowers bloomed everywhere in planters, baskets, and climbing trestles, the air fragrant with pollen. She sat near the old magistrate’s house, the wooden beams supporting the upper structure carved with tragic faces, bearded men, alligators, and tortoises. Her lunch consisted of a stew with carrots and beans in a thick broth. Normally, it also included sausage. But she’d not eaten meat in over two decades. She stared at the bowl, steam rising from its surface, her mind at a loss as to how to proceed.
Theft had failed. Normally, she’d simply wait and try again. But the presence of Roland Beláncourt urged a speedier approach. He was her papist. Her crusader trying to interject himself into something where he did not belong. The world seemed no different now than it had centuries ago. Threats still existed. Danger surrounded. People did not understand. All the Good Ones ever wanted was to live a life free of constraints, dedicated to peace, preparing themselves for an eventual final death and a welcomed release to the God of Good.
