by C. M. Palov
How the hell am I going to get through the next couple of hours holed up in this damned hotel room?
It’d reached the point where he wanted Kate so badly, he was willing to forego the sex. Just spooning with her, feeling her ass snuggled against his groin, would be pleasure enough. About to implode, he was afraid to go anywhere near the bed. Push-ups might help. Although it’d probably take a couple of hundred of ’em to take the edge off.
Hearing Kate wiggle around on the mattress, he ground his teeth.
A few moments later, she appeared at his side. ‘I should have gone with Cædmon to the Languedoc,’ she said in a snippy tone as she disposed of her rubbish in the wastebasket next to the bureau. ‘At least he knows how to have a pleasant conversation.’
‘I don’t want to converse with you,’ Finn growled, hit with a gut-churning burst of jealousy. Grabbing Kate, he yanked her into his arms. ‘I want –’
Too revved up to be romantic, he kissed Kate with a bruising intensity. Roughly. Wildly. Sliding a hand down her back, he palmed the curve of her buttock. Fully aroused, he was on the verge of taking her right there against the bureau.
Clutching his shoulders, Kate moaned, whimpered, arched into him.
Jaysus.
Chest heaving, he dragged his mouth away from hers. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. I’m not real good at courtly love so I’ll just be blunt … I want you, Kate. All I need from you is a straight-up “yes” or “no” answer.’
Staring him directly in the eye, Kate pulled the tie on her robe. Then, gracefully rolling her shoulders, she let the garment fall to the floor. Completely naked, she took hold of his right hand and placed it on her bare breast.
‘Yes.’
56
Oberkampf Neighbourhood, Paris
1942 hours
Stepping out of the bathroom, Dolf Reinhardt glanced at his watch.
Scheisse! He was scheduled to go back on duty in forty-five minutes. Striding over to the wardrobe, he pulled a freshly laundered shirt off the hanger.
A few minutes later, dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform, Dolf grabbed the black cap and jammed it on his head. He despised the ridiculous hat, but Herr Doktor Uhlemann insisted that he wear it.
Ready to leave, he quickly strode down the dingy hallway to the second bedroom.
‘Hello, Mutter.’ He wrinkled his nose at the faint scent of dried urine and sour perspiration.
The grey-haired woman who sat at the window didn’t acknowledge the greeting. She never did. Diagnosed with advanced Alzheimer’s disease, his mother had withdrawn into a non-verbal state. Day in, day out, she sat beside the window staring at the Paris rooftops, a blank, slack-jawed expression on her face. Dolf didn’t have the money to put her in a nursing facility and the one time he’d hired a health-care worker, he’d come home and found the aide yelling at his mother. He nearly killed the bitch on the spot.
While he loved his mother with all his heart, a part of him deeply resented that she’d become such a burden. The daily monotony of cleaning her foul bed pans and soiled bed sheets was grinding him down. Of late, he kept wishing that she’d hurry up and die. If she could carry on a minimal conversation, the situation would be easier to withstand. But living with a silent, frail ghost was becoming unbearable. A strange type of hell in which they shared the same space and yet she was unaware of his existence.
In a hurry, he stepped over to the dresser and retrieved a green plastic prescription bottle from the top drawer.
‘Time for your medicine,’ he told his mother, gently inserting a capsule between her lips. Grabbing the water glass from the nearby table, he finagled the straw into her mouth. ‘Take a sip, Mother.’
Never taking her gaze from the window, his mother sucked a bit of water through the straw. Dolf returned the glass to the table then pried open his mother’s mouth to make certain that she’d swallowed the sleeping pill. He next checked the restraints on her wrists. To keep her from wandering off, he was forced to strap her into the chair whenever he left the flat.
Bending down, he kissed his mother on the cheek, making a mental note to give her a sponge bath in the morning. ‘I’ll be back later this evening.’
It was the same one-sided conversation that they had each and every night.
As he turned to leave, Dolf glanced at the framed picture hanging on the wall next to his mother’s chair. The faded photograph, published in a 1943 edition of the Völkische Beobachter newspaper, was of a six-year-old girl with long blonde braids attired in a traditional dirndl dress. Arms extended, she offered the Führer a slice of freshly baked black bread on an ornately carved wooden platter. Taken during Walpurgisnacht, the pagan spring festival when bonfires burned bright to lure witches from their covens, the photograph had captured the hearts and souls of the German people. Enthralled by the sight of their Führer with such a lovely child, households across the Reich framed the photograph and hung it alongside their cherished family portraits.
An overnight celebrity, his mother, Hedwig Krueger, became known to an entire generation as ‘the Führer’s Little Handmaid’.
Before she lapsed into a demented state of mind, his mother often spoke of that long ago May day, fondly recalling how the Führer, his piercing eyes as blue as the lake waters at Königsee, pinched her cheek and squeezed her shoulder, thanking her profusely for the slice of schwarzbrot.
Dolf stared at the photograph for a few more seconds before turning to leave.
When he was a young boy and his mother would tuck him in at night, she used to always tell him that good things come to those who wait.
At thirty-seven years of age, Dolf Reinhardt was tired of waiting.
57
Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc
2159 hours
Catching his first glimpse of the stacked mound of kindling and the dour-faced Dominican priest, Cædmon’s heart slammed against his breastbone.
‘There’s been a mistake!’ he fearfully exclaimed. ‘I’m not supposed to be here!’ ‘Here’ being an unlit funeral pyre at the foot of Montségur.
The priest smiled humourlessly. ‘This is penance for your sins.’
‘What sins?’ he demanded to know as two soldiers, each garbed in a bright blue surcoat emblazoned with a white fleur-de-lis, roughly grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to the pyre. Grinning, they bound him, hand and foot, to a stake in the middle of the wood stack. Horrified, he stared at the fleur-de-lis. The monarch’s royal lily.
‘Repent, sinner!’ the priest commanded in a booming voice.
‘But I did nothing wrong!’
‘You were born with the taint of original sin.’
‘At least I don’t bugger little boys on the sly!’ he shot back. ‘How many indulgences did that cost, you feckless bastard?’
The Dominican motioned for the fire to be lit. Then, wearing the sneer of the self-righteous, he said calmly, ‘ “Nulla salus extra ecclesium.” ’
Outside the Church there is no salvation.
Christ.
Almost immediately, the flames set his khaki trousers ablaze. Cædmon screamed, the pain of seared flesh more than he could bear.
‘For the love of God! Give me another chance!’
‘Am I dead?’
Grappling with the odd sensation of being tethered to his own corpse, Cædmon opened his eyes. To his dismay, he could perceive no difference in the tarry gloom. Even more worrisome, his chest cavity felt empty. Hollowed out. Ready for the Egyptian embalmers to begin the laborious task of mummification.
‘Ah … still among the living,’ he murmured a few seconds later, able to hear his own faint breath. Unwilling to take a chance with the grim reaper hovering so near, he inflated his lungs with a robust, life-affirming gulp.
It came as something of a surprise to realize that he wanted to live.
While there had been times over the course of the last two years when he thought death might be a welcome alternative, he now knew that was an illusion born of grief.
The same dark illusion that usually induced a burst of frantic regret somewhere between the sixth and fifth floor.
He reached for his water bottle, the side of his hand bumping against the defective torch. A split-second later, the light came on, the narrow confines of the tunnel softly illuminated.
‘There is a God,’ he murmured.
Turning on to his belly, he took a swig of water before packing the bottle in his rucksack. In the golden beam, he could see that the tunnel took a sharp turn up ahead. Shoving the rucksack and flashlight in front of him, he doggedly squirmed forward. He’d come too far to back out of the venture.
A few minutes later, grunting, he navigated the tight turn, worming his way into a small vestibule. Although there wasn’t enough room to stand upright, he was able to squat comfortably. As he inspected the space, he noticed that one of the walls was constructed of densely packed rubble rock. A false wall! Lacking excavation tools, he clawed excitedly at the rocks with his bare hands.
Ten minutes of diligent digging exposed a small opening. Cædmon poked his head through the breach.
Un-bloody-believable!
Bowled over, he stared in wonderment at the hidden chamber. Scores of stalactites dripped like icicles while stockier stalagmites rose up from the rock floor. A few had conjoined, giving birth to lone columns, the unexpected juxtaposition of wobbly shapes breathtakingly surreal. Imbedded mica and crystallized rock created a shimmery effect. In a word, it was spectacular. A limestone cathedral hidden in the depths of Mont de la Lune.
The fact that the cavern had been deliberately hidden made him eager to explore. Wriggling his way through the opening, Cædmon stood upright, taking heed not to touch the fragile rock formations.
‘ “Take my counsel, happy man; act upon it if you can,” ’ he sang in a deep baritone, testing the acoustics with the silly Gilbert and Sullivan ditty. Enchanted, he listened to the sound of his own voice echoing back at him.
Torch in hand, he turned in a slow pirouette, shedding light on numerous nooks and niches. Any one of which could have concealed a treasure. Near the end of the rotation, his breath caught in his throat.
The cathedral had an altar!
Hurriedly wending his way between the limestone formations, he approached the simple altar comprised of a granite slab supported by two sturdy boulders. However, it wasn’t the altar that ensnared his attention; it was the stone ossuary prominently displayed in the middle of the slab. In ancient times, ossuaries were used to store the bones of the dead.
Excitement mounting, he shined the torch on the limestone box. As he did, he lightly grazed his fingers over the elaborately incised sides that depicted the sun, moon and a star. The same symbols that were on the Montségur Medallion. He tucked the torch under his arm. His mind racing wildly at the thought of whose bones might be nestled inside the box, he slowly raised the lid.
‘How utterly extraordinary!’ he marvelled, astonished to find not a set of desiccated bones, but a golden statuette.
Even more astounding, it was a figurine of the Egyptian goddess Isis. Nearly a foot in length, the idol clutched a small ankh, had a star on her headdress with cow horns and wore a sun orb menat necklace. Isis, who ruled the heavens and governed the depths of the earth. Isis, who could create and destroy with equal aplomb. Isis, who lovingly gathered the dismembered pieces of her mutilated husband Osiris so that she could conceive her divine son Horus.
Isis. Whom the ancient Egyptians revered as ‘the Mother’.
Cædmon adjusted the torch beam to better examine the figurine. Although the outer layer of gold leaf was remarkably well preserved, enough of it had flaked away for him to see that the idol was actually cast from bronze. Since Egypt was the only civilization in the ancient world to gild bronze, the idol’s provenance was indisputable. If he had to make an educated guess, he’d date the figurine to the Ramses Dynasty. Which meant that it was at least three thousand years old.
Un-bloody-believable.
‘This shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here,’ he whispered to the figurine. Granted, in ancient Egypt the devotees of the Isis mystery cult worshipped in underground sanctuaries; a tribute to the goddess in her guise as the wife of Osiris, Lord of the Dead. But to find an Egyptian divinity in the Languedoc defied conventional history. While a seafaring people, the Egyptians had never ventured into this part of the world. Yet Isis, somehow, made the journey.
Which begged the question … Was Isis the beating heart of the Cathar heresy?
In the third century BC, in the wake of Alexander’s conquest of Egypt, the worship of Isis spread like wildfire throughout the Greco-Roman world. The last of the great Mother goddesses, a few centuries later, Isis worship competed with the burgeoning new religion of Christianity. When the Church Fathers embarked on a violent campaign to eradicate their competitors, the Isis cults simply re-branded themselves as Marian cults. A fluid transition given that Isis, often depicted suckling the infant Horus, was the original Madonna, sharing many traits with her Christian counterpart.
With that history in mind, it was conceivable that the underground network of goddess worship made its way to the Languedoc. As for the three symbols incised on the Montségur Medallion – the sun, moon and a star – Cædmon now realized that they represented Isis, her husband Osiris and their son Horus. The Egyptian Trinity.
No wonder the Church Fathers were so determined to wipe the peaceful Cathars off the face of the planet. According to the official history, always written by the victors, the Cathars believed in two separate gods. But perhaps there was more to their heretical dualism than the simplistic belief that the forces of good and evil, in the guise of the Light and Rex Mundi, were locked in eternal battle, mortal man caught in the crossfire. Perhaps the Cathars’ real crime was that they worshipped a female Egyptian deity.
Reaching into the ossuary, Cædmon removed the golden statuette.
Spellbound, he stared at the small, perfectly formed goddess. The Mother. Suddenly light-headed, he spread his feet wide to steady himself. The limestone sanctuary all but spun around him, stalagmites morphing into an unearthly coterie of female adherents.
‘The maiden phoenix, her ashes new create …’
To his surprise, tears rolled down his face. In that instant, he couldn’t distinguish between the sacred and the profane. Reason and desire. The inane and the arcane. What he knew about the Cathars and what he knew about the Egyptians was now jumbled together, separate strands of history that should not be tied together.
Yet here was the knotted proof cradled in his hands. A collision of two different cultures bound by the common worship of Isis. Woman primeval. Indeed, the Church Fathers in Rome had been horrified by the role that women played in Cathar society. In the Languedoc, women were not seen as the devil’s handmaidens, but as vibrant members of the community who participated equally with men in religious rites and political affairs.
His gaze fell on the miniature ankh that the figurine grasped in her right hand, so blatantly similar to the Cathar cross that had been carved at the cave entrance.
Bloody hell. The clues have been there all along. Staring me right in the face.
The Latin phrase incised on the back of the Montségur Medallion – Reddis lapis exillis cellis. The last two letters of each word spelled the phrase ‘Isis Isis’!
His curiosity running at full throttle, Cædmon wondered what other elements of the ancient Egyptian religion the Cathars might have incorporated into their religious practice. And what of the Lapis Exillis, the Holy Grail? Supposedly it had been ‘returned to the niche’. He knew that in the Middle Ages, the ‘aumbry’ was a niche, typically located to one side of the altar, specially designed to hold sacred vessels.
Replacing the figurine in the stone box, he anxiously shone the torch at the limestone wall behind the altar, which had been sanded smooth. In the angled beam of light, he saw a delicately carved image of a dove in flight. A Christian symbol for the Holy Spirit, the dove was also sac
red to Isis. A bird of gentle disposition, it symbolized the ancient maternal instinct. Beneath the incised dove, a large rock had been wedged into a square recess.
Cædmon stepped towards the aumbry. Trembling with anticipation, he pulled the rock out of the recess.
As he caught his first glimpse of the Lapis Exillis, his breath hitched in his throat.
‘Un-bloody-believable.’
58
Hotel des Saints-Pères, Paris
2250 hours
Slipping on her robe, Kate tiptoed away from the bed.
Finn, sprawled on top of the tangled sheets, still dozed.
Achy all over, and discomfited about the reason for the sore muscles, she snatched an apple from a plastic shopping bag and limped over to the antique bureau. Seating herself in the upholstered Regency-style chair, she stared at the drawn curtains. Thoughts racing, she silently counted the pink peonies that patterned the heavy fabric.
In the last three hours, her relationship with Finn had undergone a major upheaval and she didn’t have a clue what would happen next. It was like driving down a winding mountain road, at night, with no headlights. While a collision might not ensue, there would be an aftermath. A repercussion. A consequence that neither had considered during the exuberant free-for-all. They’d shared something profoundly intimate; she couldn’t shrug it off and pretend that hadn’t happened.
Although, being a man, that might be exactly what Finn would try to do. So be it. She wasn’t going to make any demands. Didn’t even know what she would demand if she was so inclined, still grappling with her newfound feelings.
Given all that had transpired in the last four days, she wondered if her life would ever again be the same. At some point in time, would she be able to return to Washington and pick up where she’d left off? For the last two years, her few remaining friends had been urging her to make a change. Somehow she didn’t think this was what any of them had had in mind: being on the run in Paris.
