The Sixth Key

by Adriana Koulias

  ‘But what is love to them?’

  ‘Love is the bridge that unites the dead with the living. Love, to the dead, is a consciousness of life.’

  She put the book down and looked about her furtively, seeming fearful suddenly. ‘Soon, terrible things are going to happen. I don’t know that I can help so many young souls who are going to pass across the threshold.’

  ‘What do you think is going to happen?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ she said, wide-eyed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘War, of course! A war unlike any other war; so many will die and they will not know they are dead. Then there are others who may have made pacts, all sorts of rituals, promises . . . They will remain tethered to life, even in death, which constitutes a kind of torment. But then you already know that, don’t you?’

  I had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you? That’s all right, as long as you don’t forget the solution to the riddle of this grave.’

  ‘What solution?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? Oh, dear! You should leave. These places have a way of growing on you until you can’t distinguish whether you’re alive or dead. Look over there, see that?’ She pointed to a tall palm growing out of a grave. ‘That was once a seed, floating free in the wind, now it’s a part of this place. You don’t want to end up like that. Not all of the dead rest easy.’

  I looked at her more closely and realised that she was dressed as a woman would have dressed in the 1930s.

  She leant forward. ‘You have to come back in 2012.’

  ‘But we are in 2012.’

  ‘No! That’s still seventy-four years away!’

  I gave a nervous laugh, completely thrown. I could see that she was either an excellent actress or entirely serious. I didn’t know which would be more disturbing. ‘Has someone paid you to say these things?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, it’s about time someone was honest with me and it might as well be you!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean . . .’

  ‘You’re an actress, and someone’s hired you to play this part.

  Your costume, reading to the dead, all of it.’

  She seemed disconcerted and began gathering her books. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve given you what you want. Now you have to take the vaporetto out of here. You should slip out tomorrow, when there are many people here. You can go unnoticed . . . They are after you!’

  ‘What? Who are after me?’

  ‘They haven’t forgotten you – they know!’

  ‘Know what?’

  She stood and looked at me with what I thought was pity. ‘I have to go now. Don’t forget what I said to you: tomorrow, when the place is busy . . .’ she said this and left, not looking back.

  A moment later I was alone and it seemed as if she had never been there at all. When I returned to the monastery, the Writer of Letters was nowhere to be seen. Feeling puzzled and disconcerted I went to the library and sat down before the fire. This game had gone on for long enough. Then again, maybe that was what he wanted me to believe: that he was playing a game. No doubt he’d been standing in the distance, smiling and gauging my reaction. I resolved that to leave would be akin to a writer becoming manipulated by his own characters. I would leave when I wanted to, and I really didn’t want to. I was becoming consumed by the story and I needed to hear the rest of it. In that sense, I realised, I was not so different from Otto Rahn.

  I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear the Irish monk until he was already standing beside the chair.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked. I must have had a strange look on my face because he frowned a little. ‘Are you alright?’

  I nodded. ‘Just jet lag, you know.’

  ‘I see. Well, enjoy the quiet. Things are going to turn upside down tomorrow.’

  ‘I wonder, before you go, could you tell me something about my host?’

  He paused, a strange veil falling over his features. ‘Your host?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ he said.

  ‘What a commotion!’

  I turned in my winged chair to see the Writer of Letters walking towards us. I felt as though I had been caught in flagrante delicto – like a thief with his hand in the safe.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been too bored while I was detained?’ he said, with perfect urbane calm.

  The monk slipped out and we were alone.

  ‘Not at all, in fact I met a woman who reads to the dead,’ I said to him, ready for a showdown.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, she warned that I should leave – that someone was after me.’

  He sighed. ‘Was she wearing clothes from the last war?’

  ‘Yes, in fact she was and, I have to say, she was very good. She had me believing her for a moment.’

  ‘Very good?’

  ‘A good actress.’

  ‘I don’t know that she’s an actress. She comes here every year and reads at the graves. When one lives on this island, one gets used to such things.’

  I measured my words. ‘And so you didn’t put her up to this?’

  ‘Me? No. I think your writer’s imagination is carrying you away.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘The fact is,’ he said, settling into his chair, ‘most people are in constant contact with the dead only they know nothing of it because it lies in the subconscious. For most of us, the time of going to sleep and waking is most propitious for communicating with them. You see, they have no past; they live in that world of galleries, like those that Borges spoke of – where everything is present. They have no concept of yesterday or tomorrow or, for that matter, time itself.’ He looked at me expectantly. ‘I would like us now to turn to something else. I want to tell you about the symbol of the snake and the anchor in Rahn’s story. You’ve seen it before, haven’t you, on those letters from me? Do you recall?’

  The watermarked paper he used for his letters! He had planned everything down to the very smallest detail – why? Perhaps reason didn’t come into it at all? The Writer of Letters might be seriously deranged; he could be a brilliant psychopath. I searched his face a moment and looked away to the fire. Then again, I could be making too much of it, allowing the story to affect me, reading into things. I tried to calm down. This thought immediately called to mind Rahn, travelling to Wewelsburg on that train, splashing water on his face and telling himself the same thing. Perhaps this had been the intention of the Writer of Letters: to show me first-hand what it was like to be Rahn. If so, he was cleverly achieving it by degrees.

  The Writer of Letters looked at me quizzically a moment, perhaps trying to discern the tenor of my thoughts. With a smooth voice he said, ‘That watermark was used by Aldus Manutius, one of the great printers of Venice.

  ‘You must imagine it is 1515 and the famous Venetian printer is working amid the dust and heat of his printing shop when a visitor is announced. The visitor is a stranger but the moment the man shows him the tattoo on his wrist, Manutius knows the importance of the visit. Manutius likewise shows him his own tattoo, which depicts the same symbol, and the man is satisfied.

  ‘The visitor removes a book from a velvet pouch and hands it to him. Manutius holds it tentatively in his hands. He knows what it is, you see, because of the embossed gold letter H on the front cover.

  ‘Manutius opens it and begins reading the German words:

  The Holy Apostolic Chair, unto which the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven were given by those words that Christ Jesus addressed to Saint Peter: I give unto thee the Keys of the Kingdom of Heaven, and unto thee alone the Power of commanding the Prince of Darkness and his angels, who, as slaves of their Master, do owe him honour, glory and obedience, by those other words of Christ Jesus: Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve – hence by the Power of these Keys the Head of the Church has been made the Lord of Hel
l . . .

  ‘The first time Manutius had heard mention of this book had been from his pupil and friend, Pico della Mirandola, the young humanist who had worked for Lorenzo the Magnificent in Florence. He had whispered to him something of a terrible book, which had come into his hands and which he would one day translate into Italian; a book spoken of only in whispers. By chance, or maleficent providence, the book had somehow escaped the purifying flames of that infamous monk, Savoranola, who inspired the people of Florence to throw into the Bonfires of the Vanities many heretical books, jewellery, and even works of art. Now, Manutius cannot believe what he holds in his hands. He looks up to the man who has brought it. “Is this . . . Le Serpent Rouge?”

  ‘“Yes, the original penned by Pope Honorius himself, with an interpolation added at a later date.”

  ‘“Dear Lord . . . what shall I do with it?”

  ‘“Lock it up and guard it with your life. Do not read further than you have. You will soon hear from us again.”’

  I looked at the Writer of Letters. ‘Let me see if I have it right. There are three copies of the Theban magician Honorius’s book, and one fell into the hands of a pope, who called himself Pope Honorius – is this the one that fell into the hands of Manutius, Le Serpent Rouge, the book Rahn is looking for?’

  ‘Indeed.’ His eyes gleamed.

  ‘But I’m confused – what about the treasure of the Cathars?’

  ‘There are two aspects to this mystery: Le Serpent Rouge and the treasure of the Cathars, in which Rahn suspects he will find the missing key that completes it. To know what happened when the key of the Cathars and Le Serpent Rouge came together at the same time and in the same space, we need to go to the gallery called Chavigny. There we shall find those happenings at the court of Francis, son of Catherine de Medici . . .’

  35

  Chavigny

  ‘In the world there will be made a king who

  will have little peace and a short life.’

  Nostradamus, Century I Quatrain 4

  Blois Castle, France, 1556

  The night was tempestuous. The moon was in Scorpio and it was a terrible omen, but Chavigny, drenched to the bone, did not know this and so he walked into the grand apartment panelled in oak unperturbed.

  Neither the torches nor the light of a hundred candles flickering in their silver stands could pierce the darkness of this room. Nor could they cheer the mood, for screams and moans could be heard coming from a four-posted bed canopied in black silk.

  A number of men stood around the bed, arguing. The air reeked of incense mingled with the smoke from a monstrous fire and the sickly smell of corrupted flesh. Chavigny had to stifle a cough. He looked to his master, whose face was silhouetted beneath his physician’s cap, and noted that his features betrayed no disgust or concern. This did not surprise Chavigny, for in the past ten years he had come to know the most foundational aspect of his master’s character – that he could be expected never to behave in a way one expected, even if one expected the unexpected.

  ‘The king dies?’ he asked into his master’s ear.

  ‘You realise this only now, and you want to be a physician?’ his master said, staring at a woman standing among various physicians and monks. She was dressed in black and her pale, round face was like the reflection of a moon cast upon the waters of a dark lake.

  ‘No, I will not allow it.’ Her tone was emphatic and regal.

  ‘Who is she?’ Chavigny whispered again.

  ‘The Queen Mother.’

  ‘Madame . . .’ said one of the doctors unrolling his sleeves. ‘My mind is decided – this is the only course.’

  ‘Why do you prolong my husband’s suffering?’ another woman spoke now. She was seated by the bed, her back to them. Chavigny guessed that she was Mary, Queen of Scotland and France.

  ‘It is only a device to relieve the pressure,’ the doctor offered. ‘Without it, your son will die, madame!’

  ‘Maitre Pare,’ replied the Queen Mother, ‘it seems to me that to cut into my son’s head will only relieve him of his life.’

  ‘Madame!’ The physician was affronted. ‘As the master of the king’s wellbeing, I will take charge of his health as I see fit!’

  ‘You want to cut into my son’s skull as if it were a watermelon – I will not allow it! As a member of the council of the regency, I order you to stop. For I have requested the attendance of another physician. A man of great reputation and worthy accomplishments . . . And he is just arrived,’ she said, pointing to Chavigny’s master.

  The room erupted in a shiver of whispers.

  ‘Maître Michel de Notre Dame, come into the light,’ she said, with a welcoming hand.

  In a moment, Chavigny’s master was standing before the Queen Mother and was taking off his physician’s cap. Chavigny observed him with affection: a gnome-like man, with a flat, unwrinkled face framed by white hair cropped short, and a beard that grew long over his chest. His nose was straight, his cheeks ruddy, and his expression taciturn, even when he smiled.

  ‘Your servant has come as requested, your majesty. Nostradamus at your service,’ he said.

  Her face seemed to soften at the sight of him; she offered her hand and he kissed it. Her tone turned grave. ‘This is our son, monsieur, you have met him before, in better days.’

  ‘I remember it, your majesty,’ he said.

  ‘He is gravely ill, and we are, as you can see, at your disposal.’

  Nostradamus looked at the Queen Mother, and Chavigny could see he was thinking. ‘May I speak plainly, your majesty?’ he said, finally.

  ‘I expect it, Master Nostradamus.’

  ‘If we are to do anything—’ he looked about him, ‘—we must have fresh air. No more candles, no incense and all men and women, priests and doctors must go. They suck the goodness out of the air.’

  Another round of indignant whispers circulated the room.

  A cardinal standing nearby said, ‘Madame, this man’s work has been called into question by the Holy Inquisition on numerous occasions. He is a sorcerer, a necromancer . . . a—’

  Catherine, the Queen Mother, raised a hand and cut in with an imperious tenor: ‘Nostradamus is a doctor who saved thousands from the plague in many diverse places. He is renowned for his remedies and for bringing the near dead back to life. I have summoned him and he has come in haste. If he says all men should leave for the king’s sake . . .’ She paused, fixing this man with her pointed eyes. ‘Then, Monsignor Cardinal de Lorraine, how could those of us who love France do otherwise?’

  Ambroise Paré, the surgeon, flew into a rage. ‘I will not allow a charlatan maker of jams to touch the king! I am master of this room!’

  Another man countered, saying, ‘I say all of you have had ample time to perform a miracle, and you have not done so! It will not hurt to add another voice to your choir of physicians.’

  Ambroise Paré moved his incredulous and angered gaze from the Queen Mother to this man. ‘Monsieur de l’Hospital, you do not know anything about medicine!’

  Another now stepped into the light. This had to be the Duke of Guise, for Chavigny had heard tell of the scar on his face, received at the siege of Calais, which had earned him the nickname Le Balafre, the scarred. Catholic to the marrow, he was tall and dark of eye and when he spoke his voice made inroads into the heart. ‘The king dies, madame. Will you give orders to arrest the Prince of Navarre? He will dethrone your son before he is yet cold.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘Will you give the order, then, madame?’

  ‘No, I will not,’ came her firm reply.

  ‘Then I must surmise,’ the duke said, ‘that you are an enemy of the crown and that the king is in this bed by your own doing because you are in league with the Protestant princes of the blood.’

  ‘How dare you! The King of France is first and foremost my own son! In any case, why would I need to arrest the Prince of Navarre? I have another son waiting to take the king’s place if he dies,
’ Catherine said, with utter calm.

  ‘Charles is too young,’ said the Duke of Guise, smiling affectedly. ‘You know this yourself. Your behaviour forces us to consider that you have become infected with the heresy of the Huguenots and that you now wish to see your son, who was a loyal Catholic, dead, and replaced by a heretic.’

  Catherine’s face grew blank, studied and hard. ‘Us? When you say us, you mean yourself and the cardinal, your brother! It is well known that both of you have something to gain from my son’s death, namely the throne, which the house of Lorraine covets through an ill-conceived notion that it is the rightful heir of the house of Charlemagne! I warn you, you had best take care that the court does not hear how it is in this room! For how many are faithful to you? How many will run to the princes of the blood when they learn that Orleans is arming itself against you and your brother? You might find yourselves stepping onto the scaffold that you have so hastily prepared for Louis of Conde!’

  A tremble seemed to pass through the entire party. The doctors and nobles left the room one by one, and this meant that Chavigny and his master were alone with the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici. When she noticed Chavigny hanging in the shadows, she said to Nostradamus, ‘Who is that young man? Is he yours?’

  ‘Oh!’ His master turned around, as if Chavigny were an afterthought. ‘That is my secretary Jean-Aymes de Chavigny of Beaune. Chavigny, come, let the queen get a look at you!’ Nostradamus waved an impatient hand in his direction, and Chavigny walked reluctantly into the light and dropped down to his knees before the Queen Mother. He realised that he was shaking a little, for his heart was pounding. He was conscious of his road-soiled attire, of his unruly hair dripping rainwater on the flags at his feet, his possibly bleary eyes and undoubtedly scrubby jaw.

  ‘Your majesty,’ he said.

  ‘Get up, sir! You look pale from your long and arduous journey. The question is,’ she said to Nostradamus, ‘is he discreet?’

  Nostradamus nodded. ‘He has a doctor’s degree in law and theology and his small time as the Mayor of Beaune, in Burgundy, was salubrious. He is learned and vain like all young men and stubborn-minded at times. I tell him he should drink more to loosen himself and I do what I can to encourage him to enjoy life a little, for he is far too serious. He has a good hand for writing though – and, I think, a heart to match. He thinks he is a poet, but his poems are clumsy.’