Peter spoke his confusion. “Sorry, but I’m not following this at all.”
Maureen filled him in. “This was a common theme for the ancients, starting with the Egyptians. Sacred locations on earth are built to mirror the heavens. For example, the pyramids in Giza are laid out to mirror the constellation of Orion. Entire cities were planned to match the pattern of the stars. It fulfilled the alchemical philosophy of ‘As above, so below.’ ”
“The wedding fresco is a map,” Sinclair explained. “Sandro was telling us where to look.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying that one of the greatest painters in history was in on this Magdalene conspiracy theory?” Peter was tired and feeling far less diplomatic than usual as a result.
“Actually, Father Healy, I’m saying that many of the greatest painters in history were in on it. We have the Magdalene to thank for so many things, including a wealth of artistic treasures from great masters.”
“Like Leonardo da Vinci?” Maureen asked.
Sinclair’s face darkened so quickly that Maureen was taken aback.
“No! Leonardo is not included in that list for good reason.”
“But he painted Mary Magdalene in his fresco The Last Supper. And there is so much popular speculation that he was a leader of a secret society that revered her and the divine feminine.” Leonardo was the one artist Maureen had heard about over and over again while researching Mary Magdalene. She was shocked and confused by Sinclair’s unexpected distaste for the subject.
Sinclair took a sip of his wine, setting the glass down very deliberately. When he spoke, it was with an edge. “My dear, we will not spoil this evening with talk of that man or his work. You will find no references to Leonardo da Vinci in my house, nor in the homes of anyone in this area. For now, that explanation will have to suffice.” He smiled to lighten the mood a bit. “Besides, we have so many other wonderful artists to choose from, like our Sandro, Poussin, Ribera, El Greco, Moreau, Cocteau, Dali…”
“But why?” Peter asked. “Why are all of these artists involved in what is essentially a heresy?”
“Heresy is in the eyes of the beholder. But to answer your question, these great artists painted for wealthy patrons who supported them and their work, and the majority of those noble patrons were related to the sacred bloodline and were descendants of Mary Magdalene. Take these Botticelli wedding frescoes, for example. The groom, Lorenzo Tornabuoni, was from one strand of the bloodline. His bride, Giovanna Albizzi, was from an even more exalted noble lineage. You will notice in the fresco that she wears red to symbolize her relationship with the Magdalene line. That was a very important wedding because it merged two very powerful dynastic families who had been at war for a very long time.”
Neither Maureen nor Peter spoke, waiting to see what other details Sinclair would choose to share.
“It has even been speculated that all of these artists were bloodline themselves and that their great talent came from divine genetics. This is entirely possible, probable in Sandro’s case. And we are certain it is true of several French masters, like Georges de la Tour, who painted his muse and ancestor over and over again.”
Maureen was excited that she recognized this reference. “I saw one of de la Tour’s paintings during my research. The Penitent Magdalene is in Los Angeles.” She had been very moved by the beautiful painting’s use of light and shadow. Mary Magdalene, her hand on the skull of penitence, stares into the flickering light of a candle that reflects in a mirror.
“You saw one of the Penitent Magdalenes,” Sinclair clarified. “He painted many with subtle variations. Several have been lost. One was stolen from a museum in my grandfather’s day.”
“How do you know that Georges de la Tour was related to the bloodline?”
“His name is the first clue. De la Tour means ‘of the tower.’It’s a bit of a pun, actually. The name Magdala comes from the word ‘migdal,’ which means tower. So she is literally Mary from the place of the tower. As you already know, some argue that Magdalene is a title, meaning the Mary was the tower, or the leader of her tribe.
“When the Cathars were persecuted, the survivors were forced to change their names to protect their identities, as Cathar names were highly recognizable. They hid their heritage in plain sight, using names like de la Tour and…” — he paused here for dramatic effect — “de Paschal.”
Maureen’s eyes widened at this. “De Paschal?”
“Of course. The Paschal name was used to shield one of the most noble of Cathar families. Again, hiding in plain sight. They called themselves de Paschal in French and di Pasquale in Italian. Children of the paschal lamb.”
Sinclair continued. “And I further know that Georges de la Tour was bloodline because he was the Grand Master of an organization dedicated to preserving the traditions of pure Christianity as brought to Europe by Mary Magdalene.”
It was Peter’s turn to ask. “And what organization is that?”
Sinclair gestured for them to look around. “The Society of Blue Apples. You are dining in the official headquarters of an organization that has existed on this land for over a thousand years.”
Sinclair declined to discuss the society any further, brushing it off with the efficiency of a master manipulator. They spent the rest of the meal discussing their day at Rennes-le-Château and learning more about the enigmatic priest Bérenger Saunière. Sinclair was fiercely proud of his namesake. “The Abbé baptized my grandfather in that church,” Sinclair explained. “It’s no wonder old Alistair was so dedicated to this land.”
“He obviously passed that dedication on to you,” Maureen observed.
“Yes. When he named me after Bérenger Saunière, my grandfather laid a particular blessing on my head. My father objected, but Alistair was made of steel, and no one opposed him for very long, certainly not my father.”
Sinclair declined further explanation, and Maureen and Peter didn’t push for any on what was obviously a personal and sensitive subject. When he was satisfied that the meal was over, Sinclair herded Maureen and Peter out of the dining room. “Come, I want to get back to this issue of Sandro and your marvelous discovery in the Louvre. This way.”
He ushered them into an incongruously modern room filled with state-of-the-art home theater equipment and several computers. Roland was stationed at one of the monitors and offered a genial “bonsoir” as they entered. The French servant punched some keys on a keyboard and then leaned over to press a button on a console. A projection screen dropped from the far wall.
A map of the local area appeared on the screen ahead of them, and Sinclair pointed out several landmarks. “You’ll notice familiar villages: Rennes-le-Château is right over here, and of course, here we are in Arques. The tomb of Poussin that you saw yesterday is here.”
“And that is on your property?” Maureen asked.
Sinclair nodded. “We are certain that one of the most precious treasures in human history is located on these grounds.”
He gestured to Roland, who dropped a grid of the constellations to overlay the local map. The constellations were labeled, with Scorpio falling directly atop the village of Rennes-le-Château. Arques rested between Scorpio and Sagittarius.
“Sandro has drawn us a map. That was his real wedding gift to the noble couple. In fact, what he created was so dangerously accurate that it had to be destroyed immediately. The frescoes were on walls that were part of the Tornabuoni property, so they couldn’t demolish them. Instead, they whitewashed over the painting. They remained hidden until the latter part of the eighteen hundreds, when they were uncovered quite by accident.”
The dawning of realization came over Maureen. “That’s why you live here. In Arques. You think Mary Magdalene buried her gospel here?”
“I’m certain of it. And now you see that Sandro knew it as well. Look at the fresco again. Roland, if you please.”
Roland punched keys that brought up the fresco from the Louvre. Sinclair pointed out the elements. “See, th
e woman with the scorpion is here. Then moving to the right, there is a woman next to her who is not holding a symbol of any kind. Sitting above them on a throne is the woman with the archer’s bow. But look closely. This woman is draped in red, Mary Magdalene robes, and she is offering the sign of benediction directly over the head of the woman who sits between her and the scorpion woman. That’s the X that marks the spot on the map, between Scorpio and Sagittarius.
“Sandro Botticelli knew the location of the treasure, and Nicolas Poussin certainly did as well. And they were kind enough to leave us clues to find it.”
It wasn’t making sense to Peter. “But why would these artists make maps for public display to reveal the location of such a priceless treasure?”
“Because this treasure has to be earned. It cannot be uncovered by just anyone. We can stand in the very place where the Magdalene buried her treasure every day of our lives, but we will never see it until she decides to show it to us. It was ostensibly hidden with an alchemical process, a lock that can only be opened by the appropriate…energetics, shall we say? The legend says the treasure will reveal itself at the proper time, when one chosen by the Magdalene herself comes to claim it. Sandro and Poussin both hoped it would be uncovered in their lifetimes and tried to assist the process.
“In Botticelli’s case, Giovanna Albizzi was believed to have the potential to find the treasure. She was by all accounts an astonishingly virtuous and spiritual woman, as well as a brilliant and educated one. In Ghirlandaio’s portrait of her, he included an epigram that read ‘Would that art could represent character and mind, there would be no more beautiful painting on earth.’ Do you remember the other fresco in the Louvre? The one they call Venus and the Three Graces presenting gifts to a young woman? Well, the young woman, dressed entirely in red, is Giovanna Albizzi. You will note that she is wearing the same bloodline necklace in Botticelli’s fresco that she wears in Ghirlandaio’s portrait. It was a very valuable piece of jewelry made for her to celebrate peace between these very powerful families. There were high hopes for the exalted Giovanna.
“Sadly, it was not to be. Poor, lovely Giovanna died in childbirth just two years after the wedding.”
Maureen was taking it all in, trying to process the Italian story with what she had seen earlier in the day at Rennes-le-Château. She was struck by a thought.
“Do you think that Saunière could have found Magdalene’s gospel? Is that what made him so wealthy?”
“No. Absolutely not.” Sinclair was emphatic on this point. “Saunière was definitely looking for it, however. Locals say he would walk for miles in the area, examining rocks and caverns, looking for clues.”
“How can you be so sure he didn’t find it?” Peter wanted to know.
“Because if he had found it, my family would have known. Besides, it can only be found by a woman, a woman of the bloodline who has been chosen by Magdalene herself.”
Peter could no longer hold in his suspicions. “And you think Maureen is the chosen one.”
Sinclair stopped for a moment to consider, then replied with his customary candor. “I admire your directness, Father. And to answer in kind…Yes, I do think Maureen is the chosen one. No one else has succeeded, and thousands have tried. We know the treasure is here, yet even the most intrepid have failed in their attempts to uncover it. Myself included.”
When he turned to Maureen, his expression and tone both softened. “My dear, I hope this is not frightening to you. I know it must all sound strange and even shocking. All I ask is that you hear me out. You will never be asked to do anything that is against your will. Your presence here is entirely voluntary, and I hope you will choose to continue your stay.”
Maureen nodded at him, but said nothing yet. She didn’t know what to say, how to respond to such a revelation. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about it all. Was it an honor to be thought of in this way? A privilege? Or was it just plain scary? Maybe she was nothing more than the pawn of an eccentric and his cult. It seemed impossible that all of this could be not only true, but also connected to her. But there was something about Sinclair’s manner that felt ultimately sincere to her. For all of his extreme opinions and eccentricities, Maureen didn’t find him erratic.
Finally, she responded simply, “Go on.”
Peter pressed for more details. “What makes you think that Maureen is the one?”
Sinclair nodded to Roland. “Primavera, please.”
Roland punched more keys until a full-screen version of Botticelli’s masterpiece, Primavera, appeared in glorious color.
“More from our boy Sandro. You know it, of course.”
“Yes.” Maureen’s reply was barely audible. She wasn’t sure where this was going, but her stomach was clenched in a tangled knot.
Peter replied. “Of course. It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world.”
“The Allegory of Spring. Few people know the truth behind this painting, but once again Sandro is paying tribute to our lady. The central figure here is the pregnant Mary Magdalene — note the red cape. Do you know why our Mary represents spring?”
Peter was trying to follow Sinclair’s thinking as closely as possible. “Because of Easter?”
“Because the first Easter fell on the vernal equinox. Christ was crucified on the twentieth of March and rose on the twenty-second of March. An esoteric legend here in the region indicates that Magdalene was born on the twenty-second of March as well. The first degree of the first zodiac sign, Aries the ram. It is the date of new beginnings and resurrection, and it carries the added blessing of the master spiritual number twenty-two, the number of the divine feminine. March twenty-second. Does that date mean anything to you, Maureen, my dear?”
Peter had already discerned the connection and turned to see how Maureen was handling this revelation. She was speechless for a long moment. When her reply came, it was hoarse, whispered.
“It’s my birthday.”
Sinclair turned to Peter. “Born on the day of resurrection, born to the bloodline of the Shepherdess. Born under the sign of the ram on the first full day of spring and rebirth.”
He delivered the final decree to Maureen. “My dear, you are the paschal lamb.”
Maureen had excused herself immediately from the room, needing time to think and to process all of the information and Sinclair’s implications. She reclined on the bed and closed her eyes.
The knock on the door was inevitable, but it came sooner than she had hoped. She was thankful it was Peter’s voice on the other side of the threshold.
“Maureen, it’s me. May I come in?”
Maureen rose from the bed and moved across the room to open the door.
“How are you feeling?”
“Overwhelmed. Come in.”
Maureen motioned for him to sit in one of the rich, red leather armchairs that flanked the fireplace in her sitting area. Peter shook his head. He was too wound up to settle in a chair.
“Maureen, listen to me. I want to get you out of here before this gets any weirder.”
Maureen sighed and took the seat herself. “But I’m just starting to get the answers that I came for. That we came for.”
“I can’t say that I care much for Sinclair’s answers. And I think you’re at great risk here.”
“From Sinclair?”
“Yes.”
Maureen gave him an exasperated look. “Oh, please. Why would he want to harm me if he sees me as the answer to his lifelong goal?”
“Because his goal is a delusion, wrapped in centuries of superstition and legend. This is very dangerous, Maureen. We’re talking about religious cults here. Fanatics. What worries me is what he’ll do to you once he realizes that you’re not his savior.”
Maureen was silent for a moment. Her next question was surprisingly calm.
“How do you know I’m not?”
Peter was stunned by the question. “You’re buying into all of this?”
“Can you account for all of the co
incidences, Pete? The voices, the visions? Because outside of Sinclair’s explanation, I can’t.”
Peter’s tone was firm, as though he were speaking to a child. “We’re leaving in the morning. We can catch a flight from Toulouse to Paris. We can even fly from Carcassonne to London…”
Maureen held her ground, inflexible. “I’m not leaving, Peter. I’m not going anywhere until I have the answers I came for.”
Peter’s escalating agitation was getting the best of him. “Maureen, I swore to your mother before she passed away that I would always look after you, that I wouldn’t let what happened to your father…” Peter stopped himself, but not before the damage had been inflicted.
Maureen looked like she had been slapped. Peter backpedaled quickly. “I’m sorry, Maureen, I…”
She cut him off cold. “My father. Thank you for reminding me of yet another reason I need to stay here. To find out what Sinclair knows about my father. I spent most of my life wondering about him, when all my mother would tell me was that he was criminally insane. I suppose that’s what she told you, too. But in my memories of him, as dim as they are, I simply know that isn’t true. If anyone else can give me a larger picture of him, I’ll do whatever it takes to see that. I owe it to him. And to myself.”
Peter started to say something, but thought better of it. Instead he turned to leave the room, looking tormented. Maureen watched him for a moment, softened, and called out after him.
“Please, try to be patient with me. I have to figure this out. How will we ever know if these visions mean anything if I don’t follow this through? What if — just what if — even a fraction of what Sinclair presented tonight is the truth? I have to know the answer to that, Pete. If I leave now, I will regret it until I die, and I don’t want to live like that. I’ve been running all my life, running from everything. As a child, I ran from Louisiana — ran so far and so fast that I don’t even remember any of it. After my mother died, I ran from Ireland and came back to the U.S., running to a city where there were no memories, to a place where everyone becomes someone different than what they were born to originally. Los Angeles is a place where everyone is like me, everyone is on the run from what they once were. But I don’t want to be that anymore.”
The Expected One Page 15