by Steve Berry
Silence reigned.
Simone’s light came back on. “Where are you?”
Cassiopeia sought cover behind a small clump of rocks away from the water’s edge. Not all that tall, so she had to lie flat on the damp ground, hunching behind. What she needed was Beláncourt’s gun. But she could not risk darting out in the open. Simone would spot her quickly with the flashlight. What would happen then was anybody’s guess. Better to stay still and quiet.
Not a sound came from Beláncourt.
The situation was tight, but not dire. She’d found herself in worse before. Luckily, a weapon was within reach, but it would take some doing to get it.
The gleam of Simone’s light jerked from one spot to another.
Searching.
“He’s dead, Simone,” she called out.
The light came her way and zeroed in. She stayed low, behind the rocks. To get her, Simone would have to come through the water, closer.
“He was aiming a gun at me. He threatened to kill me. I was entirely justified in protecting myself.”
“Yes, you were. He made his intentions clear.”
“But I don’t hate him. It’s wrong to hate anyone. He simply has no understanding of the things I do. We once loved each other. We were happy. Our marriage was good. He just could not understand the depth of my beliefs.”
She decided to keep her talking. “Were you Cathar when you married?”
“No. It came later, as I obtained my doctorate and learned more and more about the Good Ones. Their message resonated with me. I became a devotee. Eventually, I received the Consolamentum from an older woman and became Perfecti. When she died, I became the senior Perfecti. I look after the others. They depend on me. I never intended on becoming pregnant. I took measures to ensure it would not happen. But it still did. It was the work of Satan. Part of what he does. It had to end. So I ended it.”
“Why don’t we leave here and call the police? I’ll back up your claim of self-defense. You still have much work to do, and now you have The Truth.”
Simone stood at the water’s edge and stared across the dark chamber at where Vitt had taken refuge. Just beyond the stream, ten meters away. The papist was dead. Good riddance. But what of Vitt? Was she an ally? Or an enemy? She sounded like the former. But could she take the chance of finding out?
One hand held the flashlight, the other the gun.
The backpack lay before her on the ground.
She recalled the words from The Truth.
From this comes the basis for our service to God, in that we may fulfill His works, or rather, that God may consummate through us that which He proposes and wishes to be done.
Her service seemed clear.
She said, “All right, let’s leave and go to the police.”
Cassiopeia was no fool.
That concession came way too easy, especially from a person who’d just shot a man in cold blood. Sure, Beláncourt had a gun, but she’d now concluded that he was not going to use it, no matter how threatening he may have been. The man was a billionaire with a massive corporation. He was not going to throw all that away just to kill his ex-wife. He’d come to deprive her of having the manuscript, whether by taking or destroying it. No matter. There’d be no crime there.
Only satisfaction.
Simone, though, was a different matter. She was unhinged, and her offer that they leave and go to the police rang hollow. For someone so obviously competent in matters of history, it seemed inconceivable that she’d be so ill prepared here.
And she had not been.
The woman had come armed.
In the wash of the beam that swept over her, she spotted Beláncourt’s gun about two meters away, exposed, out in the open, on the floor. She readied the flashlight in her left hand, thumb on the on/off switch.
Everything had to happen fast.
She switched on the light, aimed it up and over the rock toward Simone, its bright beam right in the other woman’s eyes. Using that instant of confusion, she kept the light pointed and lunged to her right, toward the gun.
Simone was partially blinded by the searing light burning her eyes. Instinctively, she raised the hand holding the flashlight to block the incoming rays, the hand with the gun thrust forward.
Firing.
Toward the source of the problem.
Cassiopeia moved right, keeping the light aimed across the shallow pond. Simone fired twice, but at her former position, not where she was now, two meters away with her hand gripping Beláncourt’s weapon. Simone seemed to rebound from the momentary blindness, her light beam searching, then finding Cassiopeia.
But she was ready.
Gun aimed.
Trigger pulled.
The first shot caught Simone in the chest.
The second sent her down.
The other flashlight dropped away and rolled on the floor, finding the water, where it rested, partially submerged.
She’d not wanted to do that, but there’d been no choice.
She came to her feet and walked across the pond. Simone lay flat, her dead eyes boring up into the ceiling.
She shook her head.
“There was no need,” she whispered. “None at all.”
But reason had played little part in what had just happened.
Just action and reaction.
She reached down and closed Simone’s eyes, hoping she’d found the God of Good. Then she lifted the backpack with the manuscript and returned to where Beláncourt lay dead. Murdered. She felt for him. He’d lost a child through no choice of his own. Which obviously changed his life.
And not for the better.
Neither he nor Simone had been willing to concede a thing.
A sadness filled the quiet.
One that signaled forgiveness?
Probably not.
Killing someone came with repercussions, one she’d feel in the days ahead, though there’d been no choice. She should use the rest of her blasting caps and seal them both here for eternity. But that would not be smart. A man like Beláncourt would be missed. People would come looking. Questions asked. Better to deal with what happened head on. She wondered though if anyone would miss Simone Forte. Would the believers? If so, who would look after them?
Hard to say.
But a part of her genuinely hoped that someone would.
Writer’s Note
This story deals with a fascinating area of the world (the Languedoc region of southern France), a fascinating time period (the 13th century), and a fascinating religion (Catharism). Steve set his novel The Templar Legacy there in 2006. M.J. used the locale for the more recent The Library of Light and Shadows (2017). Steve has visited the region several times. M.J. spends a month there every summer.
Time now to separate fact from fiction.
Cassiopeia’s authentic castle rebuilding (chapter 1) is based on an actual project located near Treigny, France. It’s called Guédelon Castle, described as an exercise in experimental archaeology. Only period construction techniques, tools, and costumes are utilized. All of the materials, including the wood and stone, are obtained locally. Its design is according to an architectural model developed during the 12th and 13th centuries by Philip II of France. In real life, construction has been ongoing since 1997.
Books of Hours (chapter 1) exist and were indeed the medieval equivalent of today’s coffee table tomes. Bright, vibrant, and full of illustration, they deservedly earned the title illuminated manuscript. All of their history and details as described in the story are accurate. The main difference is that ours is written in Occitan, the then-language of southern France, as opposed to Latin, the usual choice.
The Occitan Cross (chapter 1, and the art used at the point of view breaks) is today many times called the Cathar Cross. That’s a mistake. The Cathars rejected all religious symbolism and would have had no need for a cross. Today it is used as the symbol of Occitania, a cultural area that includes the southern third of France, part of Spain, Monaco, a
nd areas of Italy. About sixteen million people live in the region, but only a small portion are proficient in Occitan. In this story, all of the references from the Book of Hours and The Truth are in Occitan.
The two gold religious caskets (chapters 1 and 21) are based on actual artifacts that would have been present in Catholic churches. Considering hostilities that existed at the time, it would not have been unusual for Cathars to appropriate two of them for use.
The Lake of Learning in this story is our creation. But there is a real Lake of Learning located in Ireland’s Killarney National Park. Lough Leane, from the Irish Loch Léin, means “lake of learning.” It’s the northernmost of the three lakes there, the largest body of fresh water in the region. That lake is dotted with several forested islands, including Innisfallen, which holds the remains of a ruined abbey. The monks who once lived there were charged with teaching and learning, hence how the lake acquired its name. Steve visited the ruins and was inspired enough that he and M.J. created their own in France.
Several actual French locales were utilized. Aerospace Valley outside Toulouse is there (chapter 6). Carcassonne (chapters 14 and 15) is a world treasure. Everything noted in the story associated with that ancient city—the walls, shops, castle, and hotel—exists, including the torture museum. Mirepoix (chapter 12) is another medieval gem, its main square something to see. The Cathédrale Saint-Étienne in Toulouse (chapter 16) is indeed an odd mix of architecture and style. Then there are the Pyrenees themselves (chapter 18). Massive, mysterious, and mythical. A mountain range like no other in the world.
Montségur is a special locale (chapter 9). It was the place of the Cathars’ last great stand, one that ended in surrender and sacrifice. Everything in the story from there is faithfully recorded. The climb up is tough, arduous, and not without danger. The climb down even more precarious (Steve did it). The monument standing at the base of the pog, commemorating the lives lost on March 16, 1244, appears on the cover. There is indeed a sheer cliff face on one side, and a persistent legend is that one or more of the Cathars escaped down its side. The Story of Arnaut, though, is our invention.
The alphabet noted in chapter 17 is called Enochian, a language recorded in the private journals of the Englishman John Dee in the late 16th century. Dee claimed that the language had been revealed to him by angels. The term “Enochian” comes from Dee’s belief that the biblical patriarch Enoch had been the last human (before him) to know the language. In any event, it worked well here as a Cathar code.
The cave paintings that appear in chapters 20 and 21 exist in caves all across southern France. They are incredible wonders from tens of thousands of years ago, the “books” of that era, as images were the only way they had to memorialize thoughts.
This novella deals heavily with the Cathar religion. Both Steve and M.J. have wanted to utilize it in a story. It flourished for a long time, reaching its peak in the 13th century, when it became a direct threat to Rome and the Catholic Church. The Albigensian Crusade was the first time Christians were sent to kill other Christians, and tens of thousands were slaughtered, the Cathar religion wiped out. The pledge to the crusaders of forgiveness of all their sins (chapter 3), including the murder of fellow Christians if they participated, is real. Catharism was overseen by a select group of believers who rose to the level of Perfect. They are labeled differently depending on the texts you read. Sometimes Perfect, other times Parfait, occasionally Perfecti. We chose the latter.
The Melhoramentum and Consolamentum rituals described in Chapter 8 are authentic. The prayers and sequence of the ceremony are likewise correct. The winged dove (chapter 14) is one image the Cathars seemed to embrace, as it represented freedom. It can be found carved all over the Languedoc. All of the italicized prayers that the Perfecti (Simone Forte) utters come from the Cathar document known as the Book of Two Principles, which is the largest and most complete Cathar teaching that has survived. Sadly, as noted in the story, both the Cathars and their writings were systematically destroyed.
Our document, The Truth, La Vertat, is fictional. But, who knows, somewhere across Occitania there may be a manuscript hidden away that survived the purge. A trove of original Cathar thought, unfiltered and unaffected by subsequent interlopers. One that explains the religion in precise detail.
And, who knows, perhaps the words of Guilhèm Belibaste, the last Perfecti burned at the stake in 1321, may still come to pass.
Al cap dels sèt cent ans, verdajara lo laurèl.
The laurel will flourish again in 700 years.
Also from M.J. Rose and Steve Berry
The Museum of Mysteries
A Cassiopeia Vitt Adventure
By Steve Berry and M.J. Rose
Now available!
Click here to purchase.
Cassiopeia Vitt takes center stage in this exciting novella from New York Times bestsellers M.J. Rose and Steve Berry.
In the French mountain village of Eze, Cassiopeia visits an old friend who owns and operates the fabled Museum of Mysteries, a secretive place of the odd and arcane. When a robbery occurs at the museum, Cassiopeia gives chase to the thief and is plunged into a firestorm.
Through a mix of modern day intrigue and ancient alchemy, Cassiopeia is propelled back and forth through time, the inexplicable journeys leading her into a hotly contested French presidential election. Both candidates harbor secrets they would prefer to keep quiet, but an ancient potion could make that impossible. With intrigue that begins in southern France and ends in a chase across the streets of Paris, this magical, fast-paced, hold-your-breath thriller is all you’ve come to expect from M.J. Rose and Steve Berry.
The Malta Exchange
A Cotton Malone Novel
By Steve Berry
Now Available
Click here to purchase.
A deadly race for the Vatican’s oldest secret fuels New York Times bestseller Steve Berry’s latest international Cotton Malone thriller.
The pope is dead. A conclave to select his replacement is about to begin. Cardinals are beginning to arrive at the Vatican, but one has fled Rome for Malta in search of a document that dates back to the 4th century and Constantine the Great.
Former Justice Department operative, Cotton Malone, is at Lake Como, Italy, on the trail of legendary letters between Winston Churchill and Benito Mussolini that disappeared in 1945 and could re-write history. But someone else seems to be after the same letters and, when Malone obtains then loses them, he’s plunged into a hunt that draws the attention of the legendary Knights of Malta.
The knights have existed for over nine hundred years, the only warrior-monks to survive into modern times. Now they are a global humanitarian organization, but within their ranks lurks trouble ― the Secreti― an ancient sect intent on affecting the coming papal conclave. With the help of Magellan Billet agent Luke Daniels, Malone races the rogue cardinal, the knights, the Secreti, and the clock to find what has been lost for centuries. The final confrontation culminates behind the walls of the Vatican where the election of the next pope hangs in the balance.
* * * *
Here’s an excerpt:
Chapter One
Tuesday, May 9
Lake Como, Italy
8:40 A.M.
Cotton Malone studied the execution site.
A little after 4:00 P.M., on the afternoon of April 28, 1945, Benito Mussolini and his mistress, Claretta Petacci, were gunned down just a few feet away from where he stood. In the decades since, the entrance to the Villa Belmonte, beside a narrow road that rose steeply from Azzano about a half a mile below, had evolved into a shrine. The iron gate, the low wall, even the clipped hedges were still there, the only change from then was a wooden cross tacked to the stone on one side of the gate that denoted Mussolini’s name and date of death. On the other side he saw another addition—a small, glass-fronted wooden box that displayed pictures of Mussolini and Claretta. A huge wreath of fresh flowers hung from the iron fence above the cross. Its banner read e
gli vivra per sempre nel suore del suo popolo.
He will always live in the hearts of people.
Down in the village he’d been told where to find the spot and that loyalists continued to venerate the site. Which was amazing, considering Mussolini’s brutal reputation and that so many decades had passed since his death.
What a quandary Mussolini had faced.
Italy languishing in a state of flux. The Germans fast retreating. Partisans flooding down from the hills. The Allies driving hard from the south, liberating town after town. Only the north, and Switzerland, had offered the possibility of a refuge.
Which never happened.
He stood in the cool of a lovely spring morning.
Yesterday, he’d taken an afternoon flight from Copenhagen to the Milan-Malpensa Airport, then driven a rented Alfa Romeo north to Lake Como. He’d splurged on the sports car, since who didn’t like driving a 237 horsepowered engine that could go from zero to sixty in four seconds. He’d visited Como before, staying at the stunning Villa d’Este during an undercover mission years ago for the Magellan Billet. One of the finest hotels in the world. This time the accommodations would not be anywhere near as opulent. He was on special assignment for British intelligence, working freelance, his target an Italian, a local antiques dealer who’d recently crept onto MI6’s radar. Originally his job had been a simple buy and sell. Being in the rare book business provided him with a certain expertise in negotiating for old and endangered writings. But new information obtained last night had zeroed in on a possible hiding place, so the task had been modified. If the information proved correct, his orders were now to steal the items.
