by Steve Berry
“God bless you,” she told him. “In our prayers, we ask for God to make a good Christian out of us and lead us to our rightful end.”
He smiled at her.
She returned his warmth and felt his pain.
The Melhoramentum completed, she stood.
She’d driven from Toulouse after watching Beláncourt Aerospace for most of the day. Its owner had come to work, gone to lunch, returned, then left exactly on his regular schedule. Cassiopeia Vitt had not reappeared over the past two days.
A dead end.
And frustrating.
She flushed the anxiety from her mind and tried to concentrate on her duties. Tonight was a special joy, one every Perfecti relished in performing. She’d come to this rural farmhouse, near the village of Aug, to perform the Consolamentum. Consolation. The laying-on of hands. A spiritual baptism, marking the transition from simple believer to Perfecti.
The most sacred ceremony for a Cathar.
No water or submerging was involved, as established by John the Baptist for Catholics. Instead, as practiced by Jesus, this rite depended on the Holy Spirit to penetrate the soul and offer redemption and purity. Striking in its simplicity, but powerful in effect, the ritual had been handed down from generation to generation of Bons Crestians.
“Take me to her,” she said.
The old man led her to a small bedchamber. The wan and weak light of a lamp barely lit the room. An elderly woman lay under a colorful quilt. Her face was gaunt, like a cadaver, her thin white hair nearly gone. She’d been sick a long time and death was near. The God of Good was coming to claim another spirit.
She removed the leather-bound gospel from her shoulder bag and held it over the woman’s head. “Bless us, bless us, O Lord God, the Father of the spirits of good men, and help us in all that we wish to do.”
From the sacred book she removed a sheet of paper upon which she’d printed the Lord’s prayer. She handed it to the husband, who slowly read the sacred words aloud.
Our father, which art in Heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day our super-substantial bread,
And remit our debts as we forgive our debtors.
And keep us from temptation and free us from evil.
Thine is the kingdom, the power and glory for ever and ever.
Ordinarily, simple believers would never invoke God in this way, the prayer reserved only for the Perfecti. But this was a special occasion. A new soul was being welcomed into the fold, the husband speaking for the wife, who would now become a child of God, with God becoming her father, conferring the right onto her to address Him as Our Father.
“Scriptures say that the spirit dwells within the Good Ones, those who have been adopted, as a son, by God,” she said. “Tonight I have come to welcome another. Please repeat the Lord’s Prayer.”
He read the words again.
The old woman lay still, her breathing labored, a slight smile to her thin lips.
“Can she speak?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not for the last week. I doubt she can hear us either.”
“Then you must speak for her.”
The Consolamentum was usually given to the dying. Simple believers facing imminent death, who were ready to ascend to the next level of faith. Where papists baptized at birth in anticipation of a long life serving the Church, the Good Ones waited until death, when the spirit would finally be free of the evil physical world, headed for the glory of the God of Good. As long as the believer died quickly, no opportunity would come to fall back into sin. But, if the postulant recovered, then he or she became a Perfecti, required to live the rest of their life as one.
That did not appear to be a possibility here.
“Do you renounce the harlot church of the persecutors?” she asked the old woman. “Their replica crosses, sham baptisms, and magical rites?” She laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder, then touched her head with the Gospel. “I must remind you of all that is forbidden, and all that will be required of you.”
The husband bowed his head.
“We are the poor of Christ, who have no fixed abode and flee from city to city like sheep amidst wolves. We are persecuted, as were the apostles and the martyrs, despite the fact that we lead a most strict and holy life, persevering day and night in fasts and abstinence, in prayers, and in labor from which we seek only the necessities. We undergo this because we are not of this world. False apostles, who pollute the word of Christ, who seek after their own interest, will lead you and our fathers astray from the true path. We, and our fathers of apostolic descent, have continued in the grace of God and shall so remain to the end of time. To distinguish us, Christ said By their fruits you shall know them. Our fruits consist in following the footsteps of Christ. Pardoning wrongdoers, loving enemies, praying for those who calumniate and accuse, offering the other cheek to the oppressor, giving up one’s mantle to him that takes one’s tunic, neither judging nor condemning. Will you fulfill these requirements?”
Tears filled the old man’s eyes. “She has will and determination. Pray God for her that He give her His strength.”
The correct response.
This man had prepared himself well.
“Do you ask pardon for all her past sins?” she asked.
“By the grace of God, I do.”
She laid the Gospel upon the old woman’s head, her right hand atop the book. Together, she and the husband adored the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, asking God to welcome His new servant and send down the Holy Spirit to inhabit the postulant’s corporal body.
“Repeat after me,” she said. “Holy Father, welcome thy servant in thy justice and send upon him thy grace and thy holy spirit.”
The old man said the words.
She opened her Gospel to John 1. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made. Without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
She smiled down at the old woman. Only a Perfecti could welcome another, which meant the line from one to the next stayed unbroken back to the time of the apostles and Christ. How special. And wonderful. She bent down and bestowed the kiss of peace on a dry cheek. “You are now one of us.”
The husband knelt beside the bed, holding his wife’s hand.
Crying.
She retreated to the front room and prepared to leave.
Her work done.
Chapter 9
Cassiopeia was impressed with Beláncourt’s plane, one of his company’s private jets, outfitted in the same caramel tinted leather from his office. True to his word, the aircraft had been waiting in Lyon at eight a.m. The ride through smooth, warm air had taken less than an hour and, when the plane landed at a tiny landing strip near Lavelanet, Beláncourt was waiting for her.
“I trust you had a pleasant ride?” he asked.
“It would be hard not to.”
He smiled. “It’s one of our premier products. About forty million euros, fully outfitted. Should I reserve you one?”
She smiled at his attempt at charm. “Maybe two.”
He laughed. “From what I’m told, you could afford them both.” He motioned. “I have a car.”
They walked toward a black Mercedes sedan and he opened the front passenger door for her, then slipped in behind the steering wheel. She was surprised at no chauffeur, but assumed privacy was the theme for this day.
She was familiar with the west Ariège department, the land abutting the Spanish border, where rivers cascaded out of the Pyrenean foothills forming magnificent valleys. She loved Foix, a jewel of a town, tucked between two of those rivers, crowned by an ancient chateau high on a hill. The counts of Foix once ruled the area who, along with the counts of
Toulouse and Carcassonne, defended the Cathars during the Albigensian Crusade. But Simon de Montfort, who led the pope’s crusade, vowed to make the Rock of Foix melt like fat and grill its master in it. He failed. Four times. But he did burn the town beneath the castle to the ground.
“Why are we here?” she asked.
“To show you something that may help clarify matters. I’ve found that seeing is much more powerful than mere explaining.”
“Are you always so cryptic?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so. My Catholic upbringing, perhaps. But I’ve always believed that when our curiosity and sense of wonder are doubly engaged, we are more willing to entertain the fantastic. Even the preposterous.”
“I’m more interested in your attack on my family business. And all over a rather unimportant Book of Hours. Hardly a valuable religious treasure. There are hundreds of them still in existence.”
“Ah, that’s where you are wrong. There is only one like the book you found.”
A fact she realized, but she was trolling, slow and careful, trying to widen her net, hoping to snag a morsel or two of information. But she’d already allowed him to set the ground rules for the day, so she might as well enjoy the ride. She had to admit, she was curious as to what this man was up to.
“Do you know much about the Cathars?” he asked.
Actually, she did. A medieval religious sect that believed in duality. They claimed Satan was the creator of the physical world and everyone was trapped inside his evil universe, awaiting death and an ascent to heaven, where the good God reigned. They prided themselves on sacrifice, living ascetic lives, swearing off meat, wine, possessions, and children. All to free themselves of the world’s temptations. The goal? To become so pure that, when they left their mortal coil, God would welcome them with open arms.
She told him what she knew.
“The idea of two gods, one good, the other evil, smacked the Catholic Church right in the face,” he said. “The Cathar’s God of Good was the God of the New Testament, the creator of the spiritual realm. For them, the God of Evil, Satan, was the God of the Old Testament. To a Cathar, human spirits were genderless angels, trapped in the material realm of the God of Evil, destined to be reincarnated over and over until they achieved salvation through the Consolamentum, which would allow them to finally become Perfecti and be with the God of Good. That’s why they were so unafraid of death. In fact, they welcomed it since the physical world meant nothing to them.”
She knew the history of what happened. How many were slaughtered? Best estimate? Around twenty thousand. Nothing short of genocide. What happened at Béziers, on July 21, 1209, seemed typical. The city was besieged and two orders were given to its inhabitants. The Catholics were to come out and leave, and the Cathars were to surrender. Neither group obeyed. The city fell the following day and all of the buildings were burned to the ground. Then the entire population—men, women, and children—was rounded up. When his men asked how to distinguish between Cathar and Catholic the crusader’s commander simply said, Kill them all. God will know his own.
And they did.
“The Cathars never stood a chance,” he told her. “The invaders were highly motivated. First and foremost there was the matter of all their sins being forgiven. Quite a gift for the medieval mind. Then there was the land grab. The crusade was a way to wipe out the local nobles and extend French power all the way to the Pyrenees. But it also made the papacy more dependent on the French kings, which eventually led to the Vatican’s Avignon exile.”
Which lasted nearly eighty years. Seven popes ruled from France during the 14th century, never setting foot inside the Vatican. It took a great ecumenical council in 1417 to resolve the civil war.
They kept driving through the lovely countryside, the day bright and sunny.
“I’ll try not to bore you with too many details,” he said. “But there are some things about the Cathars that I’d like you to understand.”
Keeping him talking was the whole idea of her being there. “Please, feel free to tell me what you like.”
“I want to say that I’m sorry for the legal difficulties I inflicted on your company. I can fix it all with one telephone call. But I had to get your attention and make you understand the seriousness of my offer.”
He took a curve in the road and, as they came around the bend, a verdant green valley, ringed with mountains, came into view.
“All of this land was once owned by Cathar nobles,” he said.
Including, as she’d already surmised, where they were headed.
The Castêl de Montségur.
Mountain of Safety.
A limestone pog, twelve hundred meters high, crowned with the ruins of a castle that, in the mid-13th century became a Cathar stronghold, occupied by passionate believers bound by a common conviction.
It became the last redoubt.
Beláncourt slowed the car as they drove though the village of Montségur. Seven hundred years ago more Cathars called it home. A single street ran through the tiny town, lined with tourist shops, a couple of inns, and a few cafés. Past a small church they continued down a tree-lined road, coming to a stop about ten minutes later in a graveled parking lot. She climbed out into the warm sun and stared up the green hill to the sheer, sand-colored mount, the high crag emerging from the trees like bone out of flesh, the ramparts stark against a cerulean blue sky.
“It’s still impressive,” he said to her. “After all the centuries.”
Few other cars were present, the site short on visitors today. Odd for a Saturday.
“It’s the most significant monument left to the Cathars’ existence,” he said to her. “Now it’s a tourist attraction. Have you ever been to the top?”
She shook her head. Strange how she’d visited so many spots around the world, many quite obscure, but had never ventured to this one, right in her back yard.
“It’s a brisk climb up,” he said. “Popular among hikers.”
She was having trouble reading him. He sounded both angry and nostalgic at the same time.
“You ready?” he asked.
“We’re going up?”
“That’s what we came for. You look like you’re in great shape. It should not be a problem.”
Yes, she jogged a few times a week and never shied away from long hours of physical activity at the construction site, but climbing a steep mountain trail should be interesting on her calves and challenge her aversion to heights.
She followed him across to a flight of roughhewn steps cut into the rock that started the path upward. A wooden sign in the shape of an Occitan Cross, similar to the one from the Book of Hours, welcomed them with a description of the site and an explanation about the trail. Off to one side stood a stone memorial, the Prat dels Crémats. Field of the Burned. She read the inscription on the stele. Als catars, als martirs del pur amor crestian. 16 de març 1244. The Cathars, martyrs of pure Christian love. 16 March 1244.
Holy ground.
Her curiosity level was piqued. Beláncourt had brought her here for a clear reason.
“When the castle yielded,” he said to her, “surrender conditions were agreed upon. All of the people holed up in the castle were allowed to leave, except those who would not renounce their Cathar faith. Of course, none did. So a two-week truce was declared for everyone to think on the matter. They did, praying and fasting. During that time, a number of the defenders decided to join the ranks of the Perfecti. They received their Consolamentum, a baptism, bringing the total number of Cathars to around two hundred and five. Finally, on the day noted there on the memorial, March 16, everyone from the castle came down to here and died in a huge fire that had been set. They walked right into the flames, entirely on their own.”
“They were true believers,” she said.
“Or fools. It’s hard to say which.”
“Their deaths are still remembered.”
He nodded. “That they are. Which does count for something.”
&nb
sp; “Why are we here?” she asked again.
“I will explain once we’re at the top.”
Chapter 10
Cassiopeia kept a close watch on her feet, making sure each step landed on solid ground. The loose soil and pebbles were a challenge. The rocky path wound up the cliff face through stands of cypress and pine, fragrant in the spring air. The wind steadily increased, blowing with more gusto the higher they climbed. Viewing stops had been created at points along the way and they lingered at one that offered a panoramic view of the forests below. Above them, the castle loomed ferocious and unwelcoming. Almost threatening. As if warning her not to come closer. The mountain’s sheer power and height had surely proved the citadel’s best defense. Bringing a fully equipped army up here would have been nearly impossible. No wonder a siege mentality had prevailed.
Beláncourt stayed quiet on the climb and she remained wary of his every word. She was only here out of necessity since placating him seemed the fastest route to removing the pressure on her company. She owed the over ten thousand employees that their jobs stayed secure. She owed her parents that the family concern would be protected. She owed history to make sure the book she’d found was preserved.
It took about forty-five minutes, but they finally reached their destination. Her legs had handled the strain just fine. The castle itself was simple in design. A single postern, a massive keep, walls reinforced by limestone rock surrounding a long central courtyard. It all seemed icy cold, nearly corpselike.
“This is not the original Cathar stronghold,” he said. “Everyone who comes here thinks that it is, and the locals and guidebooks don’t do much to discourage that. This is a 17th century French fortification that was destroyed during a war. The original Cathar castle was razed to the ground after the surrender.”
He led her toward an opening in the towering wall. The wind whipped with no mercy, rushing across them as if angry. Scattered clouds overhead cast shadows on the ruins. Once inside, the wind was blocked, offering a feeling of protection, but also one of isolation as nothing could be seen past the stone. A few other visitors had braved the climb and were enjoying the ambiance.
