But I am confident of other things.
Do not tell him what it is.
The name spinning round my head.
I park the car just north of the village of Valldemossa, along the easterly road to the Hermitage of the Holy Trinity. They have taken the book to the university, but I have declined going with them. The chemists will handle it, the supervisor. People with the appropriate skills. The book doctors. The surgeons. The right pigments and chemicals and machines. The right scalpels and humidifiers and magnets and weights. I walk angrily, burning off the energy.
To come so close, only to lose what is most valuable. Think of Harold Bingley, warm in his Belgravia office. Neighbours to the Queen we are, at Picatrix. An idiosyncratic location for an office, far from the relevant libraries and museums, but the one preferred by our funder as it is nearest to his favourite hotel, though we don’t see him. Only Harold Bingley has that privilege. What will he think? We have located the very object you have been looking for, through no genius of our own. A freak storm, an old church, a bunch of monks putting out a fire find a book, which just happens to be the palimpsest we have been hunting for – nothing you have done merits praise. I imagine the man who will receive this information. They have recovered the manuscript, sir, but the Illuminatus palimpsest is missing from within. It has been stolen. Disappeared. Lost.
Will he be angry?
Will he be sanguine?
Will he experience the same raging frustration?
I know nothing about him, though rumours abound. He is a Texan venture capitalist, American, New York, the guy used to fund the Met. I heard he was a professor of antiquity who came into a vast fortune inherited from his recently deceased Brahmin wife. No, no, no, Picatrix is an Israeli start-up engineer who sold his platform to Google for three billion . . . originally obsessed with collecting Isaac Newton’s alchemical notebooks, he hunts for the source material Newton studied. We talk about him, without knowing anything other than the size of his wallet, which is immense, and his intellectual persuasions, which seem – bizarrely enough – to run in parallel with mine. And now, I number one among Mr Picatrix’s team. I kick the snow. With nothing to show for it but a mildewed book with a missing set of pages.
I entered Picatrix two years ago on a sleety afternoon. Halting light peculiar to London in October. Summoned to a grand café in St James’s on Piccadilly. Dazzling black and white marble in geometric designs, sumptuous columns sprouting Japanese lacquer. Domed ceilings. Edwardian teapots in the style of George III, silver glinting. Coiffed hair and gold cufflinks. At the appointed hour Michael Crawford, Classics professor and Archivist at the Special Collections Library at Stanford University, arrived accompanied by a severe gentleman in a suit. Crawford brisk in manner, kind in language, comfortably settled into his middle sixties. Soft Midwestern tones. A mentor from my graduate days. Specialist in multispectral imaging. Papyrologist. His friend pinched in a wiry sort of way, the skin on his cheeks so pale I could see the blue of his veins.
‘Meet Harold Bingley, Deputy Head of Picatrix,’ Crawford had said.
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ I reached out my hand.
‘Likewise,’ Bingley lisped.
With that they demanded service.
‘Devilishly miserable day,’ Bingley observed, while Crawford said to the waitress: ‘No tea for me, I’ll have a fresh juice. Grapefruit and ginger? Anyone else?’ I ordered dutifully, hiding my shoes under the table. Leather brogues. I had worn them every day. Fraying laces. Holes in the side, torn seams. Mud spattered. ‘Weathered’ would be the polite word, but they were destroyed. My anxiety grew deeper. Fingers un-manicured. Not a lick of make-up. They’ll see right through me.
‘Do you like your current research?’ Bingley asked.
‘Very much.’
‘And your work with the universities? Challenging enough?’
I paused. Any positive affirmation would be a lie.
‘No.’
Harold Bingley scratched on a notepad produced from a pocket.
‘Novelty is good for the soul. A challenge best of all. Don’t you think, Crawford?’
‘It is indeed,’ Crawford said. Then the men asked me if I had any questions. Picatrix is funded by a billionaire. Would that be a constriction?
‘What’s it like working for an anonymous patron?’ I asked.
Bingley frowned.
‘How do you handle the pressure?’ I soldiered on. ‘You don’t feel at all compromised, intellectually? In terms of your parameters?’
‘I rather view it as a privilege,’ Bingley sniffed.
‘And what about the man himself?’
‘Our founder is quite secular. He does not take sides. His goal is the restoration and publication of lost manuscripts, particularly the missing literary and scientific masterpieces of antiquity . . . the disappearance of which he considers one of the greatest tragedies in history. He is an earnest palaeographer.’
‘You would describe Picatrix as a secular organization?’
‘With absolute sincerity.’
‘And if I worked for you, you would not curtail my interests.’
‘On the contrary, Miss Verco, we would fund them.’
You would what?
‘All of them?’ I stammered.
‘Within reason.’ He turned to Crawford. ‘You’re certain about her?’
I did not inspire faith.
Crawford nodded conspiratorially. ‘She’s one of our best, Bingley; I wouldn’t send you anything less.’
Bingley coughs delicately into a linen handkerchief.
‘This is our offer, Miss Verco. It will only come once. Our team is elite. We are in the unique position of being able to empower the minds we wish to work with. Picatrix trusts your intelligence, and if you prove yourself in the field, we will follow where you go. Now, as this is your interview, it’s my role to ask questions. How would you describe yourself?’
‘You’ve knocked the wind out of her, Harold.’ Crawford laughed across the table.
Harold Bingley smiled coyly.
‘Why so shy, Miss Verco? Where does your elusive passion lie?’
On the road from Valldemossa to the Hermitage of the Holy Trinity I pull my collar up against the cold. The monks will show me where they found that damn book. Now. Today. Walk faster. The rain has turned to snow, and it drifts lightly down. It is not a long journey and the cold helps clear my head, scarf wrapped round my throat, hat pulled close over my ears. Bare fingers in pockets. Buses fly by, roaring up into the mountain, careening around a one-lane highway. I move swiftly, heading towards Deià, where the road forks, until I hear the honk-honk of a truck behind me. ‘Bon dia, Nena! Com estes?’ the farmer calls, his red nose swollen, slapping the side of his pickup, arm hanging from the open window. ‘Where are you going?’ I tell him I am walking to the hermitage. ‘Anem!’ he shouts. ‘Hop in! It’s too cold to walk.’ In the truck he chatters idly. ‘Did you hear? The bolt struck a chapel! In the dead of night! A fire on the cliff!’ I listen to the farmer, who asks about the house, our garden, if my Francesc can help him with his wife’s roses. I nod. Francesc has green thumbs, Francesc has broad hands.
‘You’re not at the university today?’ the farmer asks. ‘I saw your man going down this morning in the car.’
‘No,’ I shake my head. I’m a free woman.
‘You make a nice couple,’ the farmer remarks as we veer into the mountain. He glances down at my chapped fingers. ‘You should wear gloves in this weather.’
Here on the western range of Mallorca, the forest slopes from the sea. Hidden fields populated by olive groves and moribund sheep; a road, unmarked, leads from the winding coastal highway through blue, arterial woods. The truck rumbles and shrieks, mirrors pulled in; my driver inhales as we squeeze through a thin mouth of stone. A monk in the garb of a workman greets us fresh from feeding his flock. His hands crusted in a powdery, paprika dust. Teeth jagged as the Pyrenees, as he informs us in the
old Mallorqui dialect of the state of this year’s lambing. No man here under fifty, I think to myself. These aged monks are a dying breed.
As I wait for the arrival of the man who found the Book of Hours, I lean on a low rock wall. Eyes wandering over gardens and orchards and outstretched cliffs. Comforted by the wilderness. By the sea.
Harold Bingley’s voice cuts through me, mixing with the wind. I return to the grand London café. Lights dripping down from the ceiling. Ebony glass and gold inlay. Salmon and caviar. Bingley poured himself another cup of tea through a fine silver strainer. He took a bite from a finger sandwich, and gave a little murmur of pleasure. Divine. He wiped the corners of his mouth delicately with his napkin.
‘Crawford tells me you are something of an expert in our area. One of a select few who believe Ramon Llull’s simulacrum had flesh and blood.’
‘The historical evidence for the existence of the alchemist Rex Illuminatus is irrefutable.’
‘You are very bold in that assertion.’
‘Because it is the truth.’
‘Then what I have to say should interest you most profoundly.’
Bingley smiled conspiratorially.
‘A philosopher in the thirteenth century writes alchemical recipes, in the tradition of the Franciscan alchemist John of Rupescissa’s Book of Light, onto a series of Greek codices, creating a palimpsest of a remarkable nature on two fronts. First, because the Latin work seems to have been signed by none other than Rex Illuminatus, making it the first piece of Illuminatian writing ever to have been discovered in the original. Second, because, Miss Verco, the Greek subtext echoes findings in the sixth volume of the Nag Hammadi codices. We are effectively looking at a Hellenic poem, presumably composed in Alexandria in the second or third centuries CE, which has been recopied by a later scribe onto parchment, which Illuminatus wrote over in the thirteenth century. We know of this book because we have one page of it, due to a most unusual series of circumstances.
‘A gift of coincidence, Miss Verco, pure chance. That ephemeral thing which drives our industry. Several months ago, a research colleague at Oxford University brought forward citations of Rex Illuminatus’s work referenced in unpublished laboratory notebooks written by the American alchemist Eirenaues Philalethes in London in 1657. These notes contain translated fragments of a text which appears to be four centuries older, excerpts from a magical book, known to medieval scholars as The Chrysopeia of Majorca. These laboratory notebooks link the authorship of The Chrysopeia of Majorca to a mysterious Catalan living at Westminster Abbey at the behest of the Abbot Cremer and Edward III between 1328 and 1331. An individual who can only be the alchemist Rex Illuminatus.’ Bingley paused. ‘You have heard of these laboratory notes?’
‘Yes, but I have not been given access to them.’
‘We can arrange that.’ Bingley made a scratch on his notepad. ‘Said laboratory notebooks were compiled and archived in the Bodleian library by a young English scholar in 1829, one Charles Leopold Ruthven, who went on to publish accounts of an extraordinary find at an unspecified monastery on Mallorca. He recounts the discovery of a palimpsest sewn into an illuminated Book of Gospels. Enchanted by the quality of the illuminations and the bizarre nature of the prayers – simultaneously apocalyptic and alchemical – Ruthven cut a page from the book and returned with it in secret to Oxford, where a series of studies took place in the hopes of revealing the nature of the Greek letters written vertically beneath the horizontal Latin. This is the page we now have in our possession. What was the book Ruthven had seen in Mallorca? We asked our friends at the university to investigate. A volume in a list of works held by the Mallorcan Diocese in 1825 entitled The Chrysopeia of Majorca dated to 1276 ce. In 1835, when another list is published, the book vanishes from the records. We have reason to assume, Miss Verco, that the book was stolen, shortly after Ruthven’s visit to the monastery.’
His voice echoes through me.
‘It was a work of mesmerizing beauty. A magical book, layer upon layer of history. The manuscript’s value, if it still exists, would be in the millions, the ideal purchase for a private buyer. But if the book went to auction it would run the risk of disappearing from public access. The buyer always controls their purchase. The same would be true of a claim made by the Church; should it fall into the possession of certain members of the Archdiocese, I can guarantee you that the Illuminatus Palimpsest would never see the light of day. Obviously neither case is ideal. As a philanthropic venture, my benefactor would like to avoid these scenarios if possible. And so we come to you, Miss Verco. We are in need of a scholar. A book hunter. You’ve been described as a Renaissance woman by your colleagues and impulsive and rash by your critics. Given your peculiar set of skills, our benefactor seeks your services. He would like you to go to Mallorca for a year or two, maybe more. Work with our faculty at the University of the Balearic Islands, make an inventory of all manuscripts at the monasteries and abbeys in the Serra de Tramuntana. The groundwork is in place already. The local diocese has agreed to collaborate, as have our academic partners. Should we find anything of value, we will have the world’s top institutions at our disposal, the brightest minds, the finest laboratories. Such is the power of Picatrix, Miss Verco. Which brings me back to the page of the palimpsest preserved in Ruthven’s collection. He did not have the technology to read the Greek . . . but today we can.’
Harold beamed, turning to his colleague.
‘Michael has been an immensely valuable resource at Stanford. He’s connected us to the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center, and the Synchrotron Radiation Laboratory. Using Synchrotron light to pick up the iron traces on paper from faded gall inks, we’ve gained access to the submicroscopic world on the page.’
Harold removed a laptop from his briefcase.
‘Now. Why don’t you take a look for yourself?’
II
ILLUMINATUS PALIMPSEST
Single folio – verso and recto
Greek subtext as translated by Picatrix
London, 2012
You have called me
Thrice Great
Two-Faced
Forked Tongue.
You have called me
Devil’s Mouthpiece
Eve’s Blessing
Vulture’s Seed.
Skin of transgression and her Sin.
The Silence who speaks in Song.
I am the Beggar Queen who cast off Kings
Carrying silver cities on her shoulders,
Plucker of roses and violets,
Irises and hyacinths and narcissus,
Crocus gatherer
Dwelling in the deep
I gathered you like stamens
And ate the seeds of summer and birthed the cold of winter.
My tears formed rivers and oceans.
My womb the many-tiered world,
Yet I am empty,
Parthenogen Eternal!
Self-Making and Self-Destroying
Knowing and Unknowing
I am the forgotten and I am the omnipresent.
Alpha and Omega.
O!
Babylon you called me!
Grinding me to dust.
Dust!
I bear this proudly.
I say I am Foundation.
Root of your root.
Clay of your clay.
I am the Light Who Raised You To The Knowing
And I am Thunder
The Perfect Lightning,
I am the Storm of the Mute and I am the Alphabet of Birds,
I am the Cry from the Dark and I am the Listening.
I am the Holy Path that you have called Knowledge,
And I am the Path that you abjure as Unholy.
I am eternal and I am ephemeral
I am your Mother,
and I am your Daughter
I am Wife of your Wife,
and I am Whore of your Whore,
Dust of your Dust,
and Ash of your Ash.
/> I am the Moon’s marriage and the Virgin’s child.
The Conquering Blade and The Spirit of Insurrection.
I am the Serpent’s Tongue and her Master.
III
DONUM DEI
Boots leave claw prints in earth, black holes where the rubber has crunched into snow. Ash and fire on the air. Smoke from a farmer’s chimneystack. The path frozen over, darting through the olive grove. The wind cold as a Norse god, ice on the tip of your tongue. The terrain drops steeply as we enter the woods. Pine needles underfoot, snowdrifts interrupted by black trunks. I shudder, pulling my jacket close, up round my ears, feeling my breath quicken. There he scrambles. Much faster than me. I look to my guide, thick turtleneck, polyester coat, hunched shoulders tight against the cold. Full of thunder. Already the sun fading. Clouds ominous. Stomping out the light.
The Serpent Papers Page 2
