by Kate Mosse
‘Were you going to tell me about this? Were you?’
‘Go to hell,’ the German managed to say.
Authié crouched down and pressed the muzzle of the gun to Bauer’s temple.
‘Who told you to look here?’
A bubble of blood foamed in the corner of Bauer’s mouth. ‘Meine Ehre heißt Treue.’
Honour and loyalty, the motto of the SS. Even if Laval hadn’t fired, Authié was certain Bauer wouldn’t have told him anything. He pulled the trigger. Bauer’s body jerked violently once, then slumped motionless on the rough earth.
‘I thought he was pulling a gun,’ Laval said.
Authié held out the box. ‘No, he was going for this.’
‘Is it the Codex?’ Laval asked.
Authié ignored him. He hesitated, then lifted the lid of the box. A wave of triumph went through him at the sight of the papyrus inside. He lifted it out and unrolled it. Yellow, brittle to the touch, the surface covered in jagged brown symbols, letters. Seven short verses – a work of heresy, despite the sign of the cross. He was caught between awe at the power the proscribed text was said to possess and revulsion at the heresy it represented.
‘Hostem repellas longius, pacemque dones protinus . . . so shall we not, with Thee for guide, turn from the path of life aside.’
The battle cry of the Catholic crusaders as they defeated the Cathar heresy – in Béziers, in Carcassonne, at Montségur. They were not the right words for the occasion, but Authié felt in need of protection. He returned the scroll to the box and closed the lid.
‘Sir?’
‘Bring the rest of the bodies inside, then secure the cave,’ he ordered.
Authié bent down and searched Bauer’s pockets, but found nothing of significance. For a moment, he looked down at the indistinguishable pulp of matted hair, blood and brain, then he slipped the Totenkopfring from Bauer’s finger and put it in his own pocket. Finally, picking up the precious box, he made his way back to the surface.
Laval was dragging the last of the bodies into the mouth of the cave.
‘Are the charges ready?’ asked Authié.
‘In a couple of minutes they will be, sir.’
Removing himself out of range of the blast, Authié watched Laval take two small mines from his rucksack. He placed one at each end of the entrance, then took cover and pressed the handle. The two explosions, seconds apart, were muffled. Clouds of grey smoke and dust billowed out into the green countryside, the sound of rock and stone collapsing on itself. It was the way the Germans secured each of the sites they’d excavated. By sealing the cave, Authié hoped to avoid any problems. Despite his contacts, five murdered men would be difficult to cover up and he did not want to be caught up in lengthy enquiries.
Laval picked up the spent cartridges and the two rifles.
‘What do you want to do about the truck, sir?’
Authié thought for a moment. ‘We’ll have to leave it. It’s well camouflaged. Let’s hope no one finds it in the next day or so. Or if they do, that they steer well clear.’
Laval held the door open for Authié, then got into the front seat and started the car.
‘Back to Tarascon, sir? You wanted to talk to Sandrine Vidal again.’
Authié sat back in the seat, holding the box on his lap. A long sigh escaped from between his lips.
‘She can wait,’ he said. ‘Head for Toulouse.’
‡
Codex XVI
‡
GAUL
PIC DE VICDESSOS
AUGUST AD 342
Arinius emerged from the cave to a world of a luminous purple and pink sky. Green and silver leaves dancing in the breeze, a golden sun beating down upon the earth. He felt unburdened, but also bereft. He wondered if this was how women felt after giving birth, having carried a child within them for so long. A sense of emptiness. Of being alone.
He looked out over the ancient forest. He felt closer to his God than he had ever felt within the stone walls of the community. The memory of the liturgia horarum was faint in his memory now. It had been Passiontide when he last celebrated God’s presence in each of the hours of the day.
Here at the top of the world, in the ancient borderlands in the sky, Arinius knew he was as near to a state of grace as he would ever be. More than in his home city of Lugdunum, following the arc of the river Saone, standing on the quayside in Massilia, waving farewell to his friends. More completely at peace than he had been when travelling the Via Domitia or praying in the simple chapel in the fortified town of Carcaso. Even during this last voyage south through the vines on the plains of Septimania.
He wondered if he might stay here to keep watch over the Codex. Live as a hermit, like Paul of Thebes. Make his home in the caves of Gaul and Hispania, waiting until the times had changed and the true word of God could be heard. An ancient, like Moses or Abraham or Enoch. A Christian patriarch spending his life in meditation and silence and reflection.
Arinius shook his head. His mission was not yet completed. He could not renounce civilisation until he had ensured that those coming after him might have the means to retrieve the Codex in the future.
He was tired after his exertions and the labours of the day, but he knew he couldn’t afford to rest. His bones were aching and he felt the threatening pressure in his chest that often presaged a full-blown attack. He had no time to waste.
Feeling the stiffness in his shoulders and arms, Arinius bent down and picked up the bearing block, spindle and fireboard, cool now, and put them back in his sack. He tipped the grey ash on to the ground, and the few sticks in the tinder bundle that had not caught he scattered behind the rocks framing the entrance to the cave. He had left the torch shining inside the chamber.
Settling himself on the plateau below the cave, he looked around, judging the distance between the juniper glade and the cruciform entrance to the cave, studying the avenue of oak trees and the way the light patterned the face of the rock. Arinius coughed and pressed the heel of his hand against his ribs, trying to steady his breathing and not let an attack take hold. He unpacked his materials from the bag: the squares of milk-coloured wool, an earthenware bowl, oil and the ink he had made.
He coughed again, feeling the ache in his ribs. This time, the attack lasted a little longer. Struggling to catch his breath, Arinius poured a little oil from the bottle and mixed it with the ink. With the tip of a blackbird’s feather, he experimented with a few strokes until he had the pressure and daub just right. To his relief, he found the wool held an image perfectly well and did not smudge.
Another bout of coughing, but he drank some barley beer and it soothed his throat. He had little appetite these days, but the beer always helped. Then he took a new square of wool and, dabbing the tip of the blackbird’s wing in the ink, began to paint a map of the valley.
Arinius worked quickly, glancing up from time to time, then back to the work of art taking shape in his hands. Finally, it was finished. He signed his name and, beside it, put the sign of the cross. Then he laid the map out to dry, holding it in place with a stone at each corner.
He was very breathless now and he felt the familiar irritation in his throat that often presaged a bad attack. He tried to stop it, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt as if his lungs were turning inside out as he gasped for air. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and, when he looked down, he saw starbursts of bright blood all down the front of his tunic. Then it took him again and he became light-headed, dizzy from the repeated coughing. He wrapped his arms around his ribs, trying to stop the pain, but nothing made any difference. He was losing his strength. He tried to catch his breath, he tried to stay on his feet, but he couldn’t hold himself up any longer. His legs buckled and he fell to the soft ground. In desperation, he stretched out towards the map, but it was out of reach.
‘God spare me,’ he tried to say. ‘Lord, deliver me.’
The words died on his lips.
‡
Chapter 96
TOULOUSE
AUGUST 1942
Leo Authié walked through the labyrinth of small streets in the oldest part of the city, heading towards the Place du Capitole. In the 1930s, the area had been bohemian, full of jazz bars and poetry cellars and eccentric pavement cafés. Now it was more like a slum, whole families living in single rooms, men with no work on every street corner, children with bare feet begging and holding out their hands.
He walked down rue de la Tour until he found the street he was looking for, and turned into it. Halfway along the rue des Pénitents Gris was an antiquarian bookseller. There was no name, no number, but the display of books in the window – Bertolt Brecht, Walter Benjamin, Einstein, Freud and Engels, Gide, Zola, Stefan Zweig, Heinrich Heine, Arthur Koestler, all authors banned by the Vichy government in accordance with Berlin’s wishes – told Authié he was in the right place. The proprietor of the bookshop was known to the police in Toulouse as a leading socialist and a distributor of radical newspapers. He had been arrested several times.
Authié pushed down on the old-fashioned handle and stepped inside on to a coarse rush mat. The silence thronged around him, the air long undisturbed. He strode across the wooden floor, taking off his hat and gloves, then put them down and tapped the bell on the counter.
‘Service,’ he said. ‘S’il vous plaît.’
A man in his sixties, dressed in black and with a shock of white hair, appeared from the back of the shop. His face was smooth, but his skin hung loose around his neck, his hands, as if he’d been a bigger man once.
‘Monsieur Saurat?’
The man nodded, his eyes wary. He didn’t look like the medieval scholar Authié had been led to expect.
‘You are Saurat?’ he said again.
This time, the man answered. ‘I am.’
Authié produced the box from the inside pocket of his jacket, making no attempt to conceal the revolver in its holster as he did so.
‘I have a job for you,’ he said.
He opened the lid, revealing the scroll of papyrus. Saurat’s eyes widened.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, his voice high-pitched. ‘The oil in the tips of your fingers, in your skin, could cause irreparable damage.’
Authié was still in two minds. The man was unsound, he knew that from his police file, but he was said to be an authority.
‘May I?’ said Saurat.
Authié nodded. Saurat put on a pair of half-moon spectacles, then took a pair of white linen gloves from under the counter.
‘I want to know how old this document is,’ Authié said.
Saurat picked up the box first, turning it over in his hands to examine it from every angle.
‘Walnut wood. Commonly used in the third and fourth centuries, in particular. In good condition. I assume it has been in a museum?’
‘I am not interested in the box, Saurat. What can you tell me about the text?’
Without a word, Saurat placed the box on the counter and turned his attention to the papyrus.
‘Have you unrolled it?’
‘Yes.’
Saurat’s hand beneath the counter again, this time bringing out a large magnifying glass. He leant even closer and slowly read each line.
‘I was told you were the expert,’ Authié said impatiently.
‘An expert.’
‘In what particular field?’
‘In medieval texts – Latin, Greek, old French, Occitan. This is written in Coptic, outside my usual period.’ Behind his glasses, his eyes lit up. ‘Is it for sale?’
Authié stared at him. ‘How old is it?’
Saurat looked back to the document. ‘I cannot be certain, although it is not unlikely it also dates from the fourth century. May I ask where you acquired this, monsieur?’
‘All I need to know is if it is genuine.’
Saurat laid the glass back on the counter. ‘Without running proper tests on the papyrus, it is impossible to be certain. You would do better to take this to the university.’
Authié stared coldly at him. ‘It is a simple yes or no, Saurat. I’m not asking you to translate it or do anything other than give your considered opinion as to whether this appears to be authentic.’
Saurat took off his spectacles. ‘I still recommend you have it analysed properly. But, having said that, within my knowledge of documents of this era from Egypt, primarily, perhaps also Syria and Persia, I would be confident saying that this one could be dated to the third or fourth century.’
‘Thank you,’ said Authié. ‘Put it back in the box.’
Saurat picked up the papyrus, replaced it and closed the lid, then pushed the box across the counter.
‘Is it for sale, monsieur? I would give you a good price for it.’
Authié laughed. ‘Do you people think of nothing but money?’
‘Business doesn’t stop,’ Saurat replied, meeting his gaze.
Authié put the box back in his pocket. He was aware of the man’s eyes jealously following his every move.
‘It is not for sale, Saurat. It never will be.’
‘A pity,’ he said mildly. ‘I would very much like to own it.’
Authié took up his hat and gloves and walked quickly to the door.
‘It would be in your best interests not to mention this conversation to anyone. Do I make myself clear? Not least, the selection of books in your window could get you into a great deal of trouble.’
The bell jangled as the door shut.
Saurat stood in the silence for a few moments. Security, secret police, Deuxième Bureau, he didn’t know, only that the man wasn’t to be trusted. When he was sure Authié wasn’t coming back, he locked and bolted the front door and pulled down the blind. Then he went to the telephone. It took a couple of minutes for the operator to place the call.
‘It’s in play,’ Saurat said, without identifying himself. He listened, then answered the question. ‘Oh yes, he believed me. What? Yes, he was French.’
He hung up and poured himself a generous measure of brandy. He hoped the information would get to its final destination.
Three hours later, a telephone rang in a small house in the Ariège. A heavy man levered himself up out of his chair on the terrace and went inside to answer.
‘Pujol,’ he said.
He listened, then nodded.
‘I’ll tell him.’
‡
Codex XVII
‡
GAUL
PIC DE VICDESSOS
AUGUST AD 342
‘I thought you were dead.’
The words were spoken in a dialect Arinius did not know, so he struggled to make sense of them. He opened his eyes to see a girl of fifteen or sixteen looking down at him in the half-light of the dusk.
‘Or ill,’ she added.
He realised he must have been unconscious for hours. The light had fled from the mountain and the woods around him were now black. Arinius stared up at the pretty, round face. She was wearing a blue tunic, with wide sleeves, though her hair was loose rather than braided. He could see from her colouring that she was a descendant of the Volcae or the Tertelli who lived in the valleys before the Romans came.
He sat up. ‘I’m not dead,’ he said, though for a moment he thought he might be. Perhaps she was an angel?
‘I can see that now.’
He smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘Are you ill?’
Arinius looked down and remembered the attack, the panic as he lost consciousness. Quickly, he glanced over at the rock and saw that the map was still there, undisturbed.
He sighed. ‘I am tired. I’ve been travelling for some time.’
‘Where have you come from?’
‘Where have you come from?’ he said back at her, enjoying her spirited way of talking and meeting his eye.
‘I asked you first.’
Arinius laughed. ‘Aren’t you afraid to be out here on your own?’
‘Why should I be?’
‘It’s nearly ni
ght,’ he said, though, even as he was speaking, he could see there was no trace of fear in the girl’s face. Only wide-eyed interest and confidence. He laughed again, and, this time, was rewarded with a smile.
‘What were you doing?’ she asked, looking at the writing materials spread all around him, his bag and the squares of wool. ‘It’s too dark to see anything out here.’
‘It is now,’ he agreed. ‘It wasn’t when I started.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘Why would you come here to paint?’ she asked. ‘Or whatever you’re doing.’
‘Well,’ he began, then realised he couldn’t think of a plausible answer. ‘It’s as good a place as any.’
‘It isn’t! It’s a stupid place to come! ’ she said crossly. ‘There are wild animals out here, didn’t you think? Down there, we have houses and tables where it might be easier to work.’ She shrugged. ‘But if you are all right in the woods, then . . .’
With a flick of her long brown hair, she picked up her basket and turned away from him.
‘Don’t go! ’ he called, desperate not to lose her company. ‘I was unaware there was a settlement so close. I would, of course, much prefer that. Could you show me the way?’
She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. ‘If you like.’
Arinius gathered his belongings and, aware of the girl’s sharp eyes on him, returned everything to his bag. He retrieved the map, rolled it and put it inside the bottle.
‘What were you painting?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘Nothing that matters.’
‘Most people don’t come here,’ she said, changing the subject again. ‘That’s why I was surprised to see someone. You.’
‘Why don’t they come here?’
‘There are legends about this valley. The Vallée des Trois Loups, it’s called.’
‘What kind of legends?’
She stared cautiously at him. ‘You have heard of Hercules?’
