by Steve Berry
“Do I learn why we are here now?” she asked.
“I’m after a treasure.”
Why was she not surprised? “This is about gold or jewels?”
He grinned. “There is endless speculation about this particular treasure. Gold and jewels are but two of the possibilities.”
Now she was curious.
“Popular culture, particularly in books—some obscure, some worldwide bestsellers—have assigned all sorts of explanations to what the Cathar treasure might be,” he said. “Many believe it to be the Holy Grail. But that’s nonsense. The Cathars could not have cared less about the cup of Christ.” He paused. “That just makes for great stories tourists love to hear. The most mystical believers think the treasure was a text that explained an alchemical secret for how to turn base human instincts into pure and holy good. The kind that would bring spiritual enlightenment to men for all time. Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?”
That it did.
“But that’s nonsense too,” he said. “Follow me.”
He led her from the enclosed space of ruins through a doorway in the wall. They stood on a precipice, staring across a valley, green as emerald, to peaks on the horizon that eventually joined the Pyrenees. Patches of light swept across the hillsides. Above, a hawk rode the warm currents. The breeze whipped her hair. She wanted to stretch out her arms and ride the wind too. Weightless. Free of the burden of being locked to the land. Where the other side of the pog was climbable, this side dropped in a sheer fall of over a thousand meters. Heights were not her thing. She tried to avoid them but had found that a challenge. Planes and helicopters were bad enough. Tall buildings, worse. Here, she was standing on solid ground, which helped, but she had no desire to venture too close to the edge. Interestingly, no barriers existed to block any approach. An easy matter to leap right off.
“Spectacular view, isn’t it?” he said.
Yes, it was.
The height and vista seemed to energize Beláncourt. His face was more alive than she’d yet seen.
“There is a more rational approach to what the treasure might be,” he said.
She dropped her backpack and removed two bottles of water.
They both drank long swallows.
“This was a nearly impregnable fortress,” he said. “The original building rose three stories. The area around the central courtyard, where we just were, housed workshops, storage rooms, and stables for horses and mules. The inhabitants here were able to hold out for ten months in a siege, against an entire crusader army below. With your knowledge of medieval architecture, can you visualize how it might have looked all those centuries ago?”
Her mind had already made that analysis. “It would have taken years to build a stone fortress this high up, considering the path we just hiked. The rock would have been hewn out of the ground, then brought here and laid in place. Tough enough in the 17th century, when this version was erected, the difficulties in the 13th century would have been formidable. It’s quite astonishing that any of it still stands.”
“Not only standing,” he said, “but still holding onto its secrets.” He swept his arms out at the wide panorama. “The crusaders had the other side of the hill covered. Their armies were all up the path toward the fortress. No way to go up or down. But here, on this side, where there is nothing but a sheer drop down, there were no sentries. Just a few troops in the woods below to guard the base. That information we know from crusader accounts that have survived. I told you there was a two-week lull between the surrender and when the Cathars came down to die. That’s the critical time, when something happened.”
She waited.
Then listened.
Chapter 11
Arnaut knelt under the flickering light of torches, his face drawn with fatigue, his eyes glowing with anticipation. The council of elders remained silent, sitting in a circle on the hard ground, drifting in and out of meditation as if of one mind. He, too, bowed his head in prayer.
“You are Arnaut,” the senior Perfecti said. “Who loves the wind, and chases the hare with the ox, and swims against the torrent.”
He liked that description.
“You have been chosen,” the older man said. “Now it is time for you to leave.”
He lifted his head but stayed on his knees. The other men rose from the circle and gathered around him. He’d lived in the mountains his entire life and knew the forests, glacial tunnels, and caves better than any of the others. He was also utterly trustworthy and devoted to his faith, all of which had made him the perfect choice.
He’d been among the first group to settle the pog of Montségur. A place to be free of the papists, to meditate, to be safe. An eagle’s nest, where an enemy could be seen approaching from every direction. The lord of Foix himself had allowed them to fortify the mount with a citadel and construct a village at its base. They came under his protection, which had brought the wrath of the crusaders who’d burned Foix to the ground. Now an army was camped below, soldiers occupying the hillside up toward the fortress, the whole site under siege.
“We will eventually go down,” the senior Perfecti said. “We have all decided to leave this world. But not right away. We will provide you the time needed to accomplish your task.”
“I prefer to join you and the rest.”
And he meant it.
“That is not possible. It is important to all of us that you be successful.”
He wanted to argue but knew the effort would be useless. The decision had been made and there would be no retreat.
The older man walked over to a crevice in the stone wall and lifted a small gold casket, bringing it closer. Two of the other Perfecti approached and tied the vessel to his spine, across his chest, hard and tight, as one would secure a pack to a trusted stallion.
Which was how he felt.
The senior Perfecti stood over him and bestowed a blessing. Then the older man said, “You recall all of the instructions you’ve been given?”
He nodded.
“Perform them, exactly as told.”
Another nod.
He was helped to his feet. One of the others presented him a cloak and a satchel of provisions, which were also tied to his body. Then the torches were extinguished and he was led from the fortress to the west wall of the mount. A black abyss lay below, studded with jagged peaks sharp enough to pierce a man’s lungs. A rope had already been tied that dropped down to a point where the rocks could then be descended by hand. The air was chilly, the night brisk on his bare face and hands. In daylight the descent would be difficult. But in the pitch of night? Could he make it to the bottom?
The senior Perfecti drew close in the dark and whispered a final thought in his ear. Then the older man placed the kiss of peace on his brow. “May God be with you.”
“And you, as well.”
“Our fate is decided. Yours remains to be seen.”
He made it to the bottom.
By the grace of God.
The climb down had taken longer than he’d thought. The moon had been high in the sky when he began but was now much closer to the western horizon. Dawn was not far away, but night still enveloped him. He’d carefully felt his way down the cliff. The first signs of meltwater had trickled the rock face and made the going even more treacherous. The rope had taken him only part of the way. The rest had been thanks to his own strength and determination.
He’d prayed the entire way.
Twice he’d slipped, sending scree into the blackness.
Which might alert one of the patrols.
Luckily, no one had noticed.
One last time, he glanced up at the fortress. Invisible in the night. All of the people who meant anything to him were there.
Would he ever see them again?
Two weeks had passed.
He’d made it away from Montségur without incident. Another reason he’d been chosen was his ability to navigate the woodlands, night or day, with confidence and agility. He’d followed the inst
ructions he’d been given precisely. No exceptions. Going north where the Perfecti had told him to go, beyond the reach of the crusaders, and leaving the gold casket.
Now he’d returned to Montségur.
The sun had risen two hours ago and the crusaders’ camp seemed abuzz with activity. It remained where they’d first pitched their tents and unhitched the trundle wagons of their whores. He’d listened from the top, night after night, to the roll of their drums, the shrill wails of their flutes, and the cries of feasting, drinking, and wenching. A similar buzz seemed evident now. So he found a position at a distance, behind one of the thick poplars, where he could observe. Reclimbing the mount to the citadel would be impossible, and he’d known that when he left.
His was to be a one-way mission.
He should have stayed where he’d gone.
But something had drawn him back here.
A new structure stood off to one side, not there two weeks ago. A large pyre. Raised, with wood stacked beneath it, like for a fire. Curiously, it was surrounded by a palisade with an open gate in front. From the woods at the base of the pog, where the trail up began, a line of people emerged. One after the other. Men, women, children. Walking in solemn procession. One of the soldiers approached the pyre with a torch and lit the wood beneath, which caught quickly in the dry, late-winter air, forming a raging blaze.
And when they caught the souls of my people, they gave life to their souls. And they violated me among my people, to kill souls which should not die and to save souls alive which should not live.
He finished uttering the sacred words and cursed the God of Evil for making sure he’d returned at this moment. But he thanked the God of Good for what was about to happen.
The line of believers stopped at the open gate in the palisade. He recognized all of them. They’d come down, just as the senior Perfecti had said. That old man led the line, his head bowed, hands folded at his waist.
Two men approached the Perfecti, both of whom he recognized.
The Governor of Carcassonne and the Bishop of Narbonne.
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.
