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Most definitely.
“I watched you as you studied the photos. That book spoke to you. It means something to you.”
Simone nodded. “As a scholar who has devoted the better part of her life to studying ancient religions, Catharism being one of those, what you’ve found could be historic.”
She waited for more.
“Did he tell you The Story of Arnaut?”
“He did. At the top of Montségur.”
“I see he’s not changed. Always a flare for the dramatic. But it did probably make the story more vivid.”
“Enough that I engaged in further research, which led me to you.”
“The legend is that Arnaut was sent away from Montségur, right before the citadel surrendered, on a special mission. Holed up there were the last of the Cathars’ Perfecti. The most important minds they had. They’d all climbed the pog and taken refuge inside the castle. Their last act was to safeguard their most sacred object.”
“Which can’t be monetary.”
“Not in the least. It was called La Vertat. The Truth. A manuscript that memorialized all that it meant to be Cathar. Their bible, if you will. The only written account of the religion’s beliefs. Once they realized they were not going to leave Montségur alive, they either created or modified a Book of Hours. One with a rose on its cover and many symbols inside. All written in Occitan. They called it Le Camin de Lutz. The Path to Light.” Simone pointed at the phone. “That book.”
“Beláncourt refused to tell me anything about the treasure, only that its finding was intensely personal to him. This Path to Light, is that significant?”
“Those last Perfecti knew the end was near. The crusaders had won. They were about to be extinguished. They wanted their religion to live on. To not die or be forgotten. Prior to ascending the mount, they hid away a special writing. La Vertat. Where there are many versions of the Christian Bible, printed over the centuries and translated by a multitude of people, for the Cathars there is but one, with no copies. The Truth. The Book of Hours supposedly leads the way to find that truth.”
Simone Forte seemed smart, intelligent, straightforward and genuinely intrigued. She also knew Roland Beláncourt better than anyone alive. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Absolutely.
“Would you like to examine the book?” she asked her.
The woman’s face lit up. “It would be marvelous to have a look.”
She needed answers and this source seemed the fastest way to obtain them.
“I’ve always thought the Camin de Lutz a myth,” Simone said. “A story. A fable. There was no Path to Light. Which meant that there was no La Vertat. But what you found seems to suggest otherwise. That Cathar bible may actually be out there, waiting to be found.”
“Is there any more to the legend?”
“Only bits and pieces. It is said the Cathars hid The Truth well. They did not want the crusaders to ever find it. No one has any idea where that could be. I know a few antiquity scholars who searched for a time but gave up. There is but one other clue to the location that survived the centuries.”
She waited.
“Le menarà al lac del saber.”
She translated the Occitan.
The rose will lead to the Lake of Learning.
Chapter 15
The Perfecti stood on the ramparts of Carcassonne and watched Cassiopeia Vitt drive from the car park. She’d followed her from the inquisition museum, imagining being with Vitt in that car, insisting that she be allowed to have the illuminated manuscript. Holding it, studying it, then following its lead—the Path to Light—deciphering what had been encrypted into the illustrations and finding The Truth. Being here, in Carcassonne, always made her think of the past. Hard not to, considering the ambiance. Why had her religion threatened so many? Why had it been necessary to eradicate so peaceful a people?
All sacred beliefs contrasted Light and Dark. Catholics. Protestants. Muslims. Hindus. Buddhists. Even pagans. Cathars were no different, striving for inner liberation, focusing on spirituality. Evil might triumph temporarily, but sanctity always prevailed.
The Albigensian Crusade no exception.
Evil won for a moment, but at a price.
The papacy was permanently damaged by the savagery, its status weakened, while the power of kings grew. The fanatical suppression of fellow Christians had consequences since, if the Cathars could be silenced, why not everyone else? Another crusade called to attack the Franks? Or the Spanish? Or the English? Anyone who disagreed with Rome? That fear had not gone unnoticed and the secular powers set about on a course to dominate Rome and control its pope.
And they did.
For a long time.
She continued to watch until Vitt’s car disappeared around a bend in the road. Then she descended the ramparts and walked to the count’s castle, passing an endless line of shops and cafés, busy with visitors. Carcassonne’s legacy stretched back to the dawn of history. Always sleepy and slow. Impregnable to all enemies, save two.
Treason and famine.
Both of which had extracted a toll.
She found the fortified castle, which contributed six towers to the outer walls, crossed the bridge-moat, paid the admission fee, then climbed a spiral staircase that wound a path up into one of the towers, a place few tourists ventured. At the top the arches opened out toward the lower city, with its paved streets laid out at right angles, flat as a checkerboard, no different than a thousand other communities around France. No noise intruded from below, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She soaked in the encircling panorama of the valley beyond and the muddy River Aude. Beauty loomed in every direction beneath a cloud-flecked sky.
The Cathar message would resonate today.
She was convinced of that.
The laurel will flourish again in 700 years. That was what the great Guilhèm Belibaste had said in 1321, right before they burned him. Had that time come? Perhaps. Miraculously, the Book of Hours had appeared from the ground. Fate? A sign? Coincidence?
Hard to say.
Carcassonne had once been a formidable Cathar stronghold. Eventually, in 1209, the crusaders laid siege, forcing people to crowd into the city, seeking safety. Too many. A hot summer taxed the water supply and forced some difficult decisions. No one, Cathar or crusader, wanted to destroy the town. And there was no way the defenders could hold out. So a deal was offered. If the inhabitants surrendered, all lives would be spared, provided the people walked out wearing nothing but their shirts and breeches, carrying nothing, as one had said, but their sins.
And that was what happened.
Such a disgrace.
Two hundred kilometers away, in Marmande, a different result occurred. By then ten years had elapsed since the fall of Carcassonne and the crusaders had perfected their terror. No deals were offered. Five thousand died after the city was taken. Men, women, children. Lords, ladies, peasants. All stripped naked, their flesh, blood, brains, trunks, limbs, and faces hacked to pieces. Lungs, livers, and guts were tossed aside on the open ground, as if they had rained down from the sky, left for the animals. Marshland and dry earth ran red with blood. Not a soul was left alive, the town razed and set afire.
And not atypical.
She’d spent half of her life devoted to learning how to be a Cathar, communing with others of a like belief. Of course, the great paradox was that the only historical assistance came from Inquisition records, or other enemies of the religion. Not a single original Cathar text had survived. Not one. History truly was written by the victor. But there may be a chance to rewrite those lies. The Book of Hours may now be in reach.
Which could lead to The Truth.
She heard voices below, beyond the stairway.
Tourists. Exploring the castle.
She needed to leave and return to Toulouse. Only a hundred kilometers to the west. The drive would give her time to think. Time to determine what might have to be done. Unlike her ancestors, she did not intend to willfully submit to
oppression. Seven hundred years had taught that the meek only get killed.
And that would not be her fate.
She would not allow this opportunity to pass.
Chapter 16
Roland Beláncourt entered the Cathédrale Saint-Étienne. Nobody knew when the great church had first been built. Best guess was sometime during the time of Charlemagne. The present misshapen building appeared as if it had been taken apart by a child, then reassembled in the dark. A merger of two incomplete styles, one massive and powerful, the other sleek and luminous.
Dark and Light.
The heretic, the Bishop of Toulouse, had incited the locals against Rome from its pulpit. The counts of Toulouse had worshipped here, which explained why, after the crusades ended the local lineage had been extinguished and a stamp of royalty placed throughout the church. That’s when the fabulous Baroque altarpiece, the intricate grills, and an ensemble of magnificent stained-glass windows appeared to evidence both French and papist wealth and power.
He paraded down the center aisle, the pews filled with people who’d come for the Sunday evening mass. Most of the heads were bent in deliberation, only a collective silence binding them. He caught the stares, as some recognized him. Toulouse was the birthplace of European rockets, the Concorde, and the Airbus. The French space agency was headquartered nearby, along with the national weather service. There were countless research centers, high-tech firms, and elite training schools. He was right at the center of everything, his company a giant, owned and operated by a native son. Which these people clearly knew. But they also needed to know he was a man of God. His allegiance to the Church and Rome. Religion mattered to him, as it should to everyone. His parents and grandparents had worshipped right here. As their grandparents before them. He’d supported this cathedral with both time and money, the local bishop a personal friend.
He took his seat and the mass began.
He knelt, along with the rest of the congregation.
The choir began its angelic rendition of Gloria in Excelsis.
He closed his eyes and prayed.
