by C. M. Palov
“A fact that incites avaricious art collectors to take sharp razor blades to priceless antiquarian books.” Rubin’s unkind tone made it clear what he thought of the practice.
Still confused, Edie said to Caedmon, “Why did you say that this particular frontispiece shouldn’t exist? I mean, we’re looking at it so obviously it, um, you know, exists.” Too late, she realized how garbled that sounded. She immediately braced for a Rubin on wry.
Their host tapped a manicured finger against the Mylar-encased print. “ ‘Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.’ ”
Still clueless, Edie apologetically shrugged.
“The date, woman! Look at the publishing date!”
She did, but the date 1614 meant absolutely nothing to her. “Sorry, not ringing a single bell.”
“Francis Bacon died in the year 1626,” Rubin informed her. “Among his papers was discovered an unfinished, unpublished manuscript titled New Atlantis. Bacon’s longtime secretary, a man by the name of William Rawley, had the unfinished manuscript posthumously published in 1627. With a completely different frontispiece than the one that’s on the table. Publication of the New Atlantis, a parable outlining Bacon’s plan for a utopian society, sparked a heated public debate. One that continues to this very day.”
Caedmon picked up the print. His gaze narrowed as he intently examined it. “This 1614 frontispiece implies two things: First, Bacon actually completed the New Atlantis manuscript, and second, he intended to publish it in 1614. For whatever reason, Sir Francis had a change of heart. Since there are no known copies of the 1614 frontispiece other than the one before us, we must presume that Bacon had the engraved prints destroyed. Save for the one.” As he spoke, Caedmon pulled a stool out from under the sturdy worktable where they stood. He offered the vacant seat to Edie. “What I want to know, Rubin, is how in God’s name did you come by this?”
“Since you’re a member of the Antiquarian Booksellers Association, I probably shouldn’t say.”
“I take that to mean he got it off the back of the truck,” Edie snickered.
“Of all the cheek!” Rubin turned to Caedmon, an unctuous smile on his lips. “Credit me with a bit of honor; I paid a fair price.”
“Although I warrant it was an undocumented sale,” Caedmon said with a knowing glance.
“Yes, well . . . needs must.” Their host pulled a second stool out from the table.
“Have you shown this frontispiece to anyone else?”
Rubin’s eyes opened wide. “Surely you jest? Aside from Marnie, you and your American sidekick are the only ones privy to the secret. And I wouldn’t have been so hospitable except we have a mutual interest.”
“Speaking of which, what connection does your rare frontispiece have with the Templar relic discovered by Walter Ralegh?” Caedmon took the last vacant stool, brushing shoulders with Edie as he sat down.
“Before I answer: How familiar are you with the New Atlantis?” Rubin glanced, first at Caedmon, then at Edie.
“It’s been more than twenty-five years since I read it last.”
“Still on my ‘Things to Read Before I Die’ list,” Edie fibbed.
“Then we must bring you up to speed. The New Atlantis begins with a ship lost at sea ‘in the greatest wilderness of the waters of the world,’ ” Rubin began in one of those strident voices that people reserve for public recitation. “A new day dawns and land is sighted, the crew’s fervent prayers having been answered. But the hapless Europeans soon discover that the uncharted island of Bensalem is a country unlike any other. While it is a Christian realm, Bensalem practices a form of pure Christianity based entirely on the precept of brotherly love. Additionally, Bensalem is eerily reminiscent of the legendary Atlantis.”
“Plato’s dialogues Timaeus and Critias are the only ancient source that specifically mention Atlantis,” Caedmon said, elaborating on Rubin’s narration. “Technologically advanced, as well as being a great naval power, the continent of Atlantis mysteriously sank into the ocean after a failed attempt to conquer Athens. Or so claimed Plato. However Bacon’s new, improved Atlantis, renamed Bensalem, is a place of peace not war.”
“From the onset the Europeans are impressed with the Bensalemites’ advanced society,” their host continued, picking up the plotline. “Bringing us to the focal point of the tale: And that is the island’s premier institute, a college of higher learning called Solomon’s House.”
“The name Solomon’s House is an obvious nod to the biblical King Solomon who was famous for his wisdom,” Caedmon elaborated.
“But with a Baconian twist. In the New Atlantis, the scholars of Solomon’s House have at their disposal sacred relics as well as the ancient texts that inspired King Solomon’s much vaunted wisdom. These ancient texts are unknown to European Christians and supposedly contain the very secret of creation.”
“Let me guess. . . . This secret has something to do with the hidden stream of knowledge aka alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic.”
Rubin acknowledged her remark with a nod. “Revered by the citizenry, the scholars tirelessly conduct their research, always with an eye to improving and bettering society. Bacon alludes to the fact that their research is magically inspired by heavenly angels.”
Still trying to make sense of Bacon’s utopia, Edie said, “If I’m hearing this right, the entire population of Bensalem was communicating with angels and practicing alchemy and Kabbalah.”
“Good God, no!” Rubin exclaimed, quite emphatically. “Francis Bacon was wise enough to know that the common man, or woman”—he peered at her from over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses—“could not grasp the esoteric nature of the scholar’s research. The common man, or woman, is far too consumed with the material world to fully comprehend the spiritual realm. It is for that reason that Bensalem maintained an enlightened division of labor based on one’s abilities.”
Smelling an elitist rat, Edie pointed an accusing finger at the Mylar-covered frontispiece. “Peace and justice in Bensalem came at a steep price, that being the loss of individual liberty.”
Rubin placed his right hand over his heart, assuming a theatrical pose. “ ‘Give me liberty or give me death!’ ” Mocking oration delivered, he dropped his hand to his side. “I, for one, would gladly concede a few liberties in order to live in a virtuous, peaceful, just society.”
Well, what do you know? Even an aged punk rocker will cheerfully dip his cup in the Kool-Aid vat, Edie irreverently thought.
“All of which explains why Walter Ralegh was searching for the seventy-seventh meridian.” She figured that was as good a segue as any. “The Knights of the Helmet wanted to place their utopian colony on top of the world’s most powerful ley line.”
Rubin turned on a magnifying lamp mounted on the edge of the table. He placed the print directly underneath it. “I earlier mentioned that King James had a dread fear of the occult. I suspect that was a contributing factor in Sir Francis’s decision not to publish his masterpiece.” He wordlessly motioned for Edie to take a gander.
“Ohmygosh!” she exclaimed a moment later, recognizing a very familiar occult symbol. “Caedmon, look.”
Caedmon peered at the frontispiece through the magnifying glass. “The All-Seeing Eye,” he murmured. “Signifying divine enlightenment, the symbol can trace its lineage all the way back to ancient Egypt.”
“The symbol is also on the Great Seal of the United States. Which is printed on the American dollar bill,” Edie informed them. She turned to their host, “Does the All-Seeing Eye have anything to do with the Templar treasure?”
“The answer to that may well be hidden within the imagery that adorns this magnificent rendering.”
“Do you mean to say that the print has an encrypted message?”
“I believe so,” Rubin said in reply to Caedmon’s query. “Sir Francis was an amateur cryptologist who frequently hid secret communiqués within his published works. The iconography on the print is highly symbolic of the hidden strea
m of knowledge and the seventy-seventh meridian. Given what you’ve told me today, one may reasonably conjecture that the Templars’ sacred relic is part of that esoteric mix.”
Caedmon slowly tapped a finger against his chin, his gaze fixed on the print. “Have you had any luck deciphering the encrypted message?”
“I’m an antiquarian, not a blasted code breaker.”
“I’ll take that as a no. May I have a go at it?”
“Why in God’s name do you think I had you examine the print?” Rubin irritably retorted. “Since the frontispiece cannot leave the premises, I’ll ring the St. Martin’s Lane Hotel and have your things sent around. You and your lady love may stay upstairs in the guest bedroom.”
“So much for a fabulous night on the town,” Edie groused.
Reaching under the table, Rubin opened a drawer. From it he extracted a handheld magnifying glass, which he passed to Caedmon. “You may have need of this. The devil’s in the details, as they say.”
CHAPTER 48
To kill or not to kill . . . always the question.
Standing beside the unkempt bed, Saviour rubbed a hand over his bare chest as he stared at the sleeping woman. At the bony backside. Softly rounded buttocks. Tousled blond hair. A first for him. The fact that she was a woman, not a blond. It’d been rather amusing, the way she’d gasped in surprise when he took her from behind. But gasps soon turned to whimpers and moans. Then a climactic cry. Anemostrovilos. The Greek word for “cyclone.” So similar to the Greek word for “sodomy.”
In no hurry, he took his fill of the somnolent Jocasta. Although Marnie Pritchard claimed to be thirty-five years of age, he placed her closer to fifty. Old enough to be his mother. It’d been a long time since he’d given that bitch even a passing thought. Five years after leaving the flat in Vardalis Square, he’d caught sight of his mother at the Apokries Festival before Lenten Monday. By then, the anger had mutated into a bland indifference; he’d turned and walked away from Iphigenia Argyros without so much as a wave of the hand. A free man.
Tilting his head to one side, Saviour noticed that Marnie had a mole on her upper left back. And a small pucker of cellulite under the curve of her ass. While she hadn’t been a fount, Marnie had given him some valuable information. For starters, he’d learned that Caedmon Aisquith was impersonating someone named Peter Willoughby-Jones. Making him think that Aisquith/Willoughby-Jones might be a fugitive from the law. He’d changed his own last name from Argyros to Panos after he killed Evangelos Danielides. He chose the new surname in memory of Panos Island. So he would never forget the degradation that he’d suffered and how he bested the dragon.
He’d also learned that Rubin Woolf was an expert on Francis Bacon. While he’d never heard of Francis Bacon, Mercurius was well-acquainted with the name and had been greatly interested to learn of this. Throughout the evening, he’d slyly probed and prodded, but Marnie Pritchard clearly had no knowledge of the treasure. A pity that.
His evening’s work unfinished, Saviour left the bed and padded to the dresser and snatched up Marnie’s expensive leather handbag. Purse in hand, he headed for the en suite bathroom, a luxurious room boasting a claw-footed bathtub and gas fireplace. Taking care not to make any noise, he closed the door. Sitting on the commode lid, he riffled through the bag, commandeering a cherry-red mobile phone and a key ring. He muted the ringer before shoving the mobile into his trouser pocket. Fingering through the keys—the organized Marnie having labeled them for him—he removed the silver key marked SHOP.
About to exit the bathroom, he, instead, stepped over to the gilt mirror that hung above the vanity. Frowning, he leaned closer to the glass, annoyed to see two long scratch marks etched into his smooth skin. Mercurius often admired his muscled physique. The reason why Saviour took such care with his appearance, wanting his mentor to find him physically desirable.
Together, he and Mercurius made a perfect whole. Wisdom wedded to youth. Mind and body united. A fact that Saviour realized not long after Mercurius had found him hiding in the Agía Sophía. That was when Mercurius had offered him the opportunity to be reborn, his beloved bestowing upon him a gift that could never be repaid. Though Saviour happily made the effort, Mercurius the only man, other than Ari, whom he had ever trusted. Dishonesty a trait bred in the womb.
As he left the bathroom, Saviour saw a length of fabric hanging from the back of a chair. A Fendi silk jacquard scarf. Perfect. He plucked the scarf from the back of the chair and walked over to the bed.
As he stared at the sleeping woman, he wrinkled his nose. Patchouli. A certain Düsseldorf banker had also doused himself with the sickening fragrance, the fused aroma of patchouli and sauerkraut having triggered a murderous rage.
Saviour wrapped one end of the silk scarf around his palm. Just as he was about to perform the same motion with his other hand, Marnie opened her eyes and drowsily smiled at him.
“Don’t go . . . sweet sorrow and all that.”
Dangling the length of silk, Saviour slowly trailed it over her bare breasts.
To kill or not to kill . . . always the question.
CHAPTER 49
“ ‘God is in the details.’ Who said that, Flaubert or Mies van der Rohe?” Edie, propped against a menagerie of flounced pillows in the middle of the bed, peered over the top of an art magazine.
“No bloody idea.” Caedmon sat on the other side of the guest bedroom at a large oak desk, his arse planted on another of Rubin’s unbearably uncomfortable chairs. This one a Gothic revival fit for a feudal baron. “On second thought, didn’t Michelangelo first coin the phrase?”
“Well, whoever said it, I agree with Gloria Steinem”—Edie wickedly grinned—“ ‘the goddess is in the questions.’ ”
“Well put.”
Craning his neck, Caedmon glanced at the clock on the night table: 10:05 P.M. Time to set out on his quest, smash his nose to the grindstone, and decipher the rare 1614 frontispiece.
“Still convinced that the Muses have something to do with Bacon’s secret message?”
“Mmmm . . . er, yes.” Elbows on the table, he rubbed his eyes. “In Greek mythology the Nine Muses, offspring of Zeus and Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, divinely inspired the arts. But more important than that, in a time before the printing press was invented, the Nine Muses were the source of oral knowledge.”
Tossing her magazine aside, Edie got off the bed. Silk, satin, and tasseled pillows tumbled in her wake. Unlike Rubin’s boudoir, the guest suite was a veritable explosion of clashing Victorian pattern, the color green being the only common denominator.
Edie stood behind his chair. Wrapping one hand around a spiny Gothic chair post, she reached over top of him and snatched the Mylar-covered print. “Okay, we’ve got Nine Muses with Pallas Athena, the tenth muse, in the twelve o’clock position. We can only hope that a picture isn’t really worth a thousand words. Otherwise it’s going to be a very long message.”
“And that’s a mere sampling of the mythological objects. We mustn’t overlook the occult symbols—the two columns, the ladder, the tree, the mulberry, and of course, the All-Seeing Eye.”
Lifting her wool skirt, she hitched a hip onto the edge of the table. “Yeah, I noticed the ladder, the tree, and the piece of fruit in each of the muse panels, but I thought that was just a decorative element.”
“Trust me, nothing in this frontispiece is purely decorative. In fact, the ladder, the tree, and the mulberry represent the three branches of the hidden stream of knowledge.”
“As in alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic, right?” She scooted closer, her outer thigh pressing against his forearm.
“Correct. The ladder symbolizes magic, specifically the type of celestial divination practiced by John Dee. Since one can climb up and down the rungs of a ladder, it represents direct two-way communication between heaven and earth.” With his index finger, he lightly circled a medallion with a leafy tree. “This is the Kabbalah Tree of Life, which symbolizes the process by which the universe came
into being. It’s more familiarly depicted as a diagram with the ten Sephiroth that represents the ten attributes of God.”
“Ten seems to be a popular number. There are, after all, ten muses illustrated on the frontispiece.”
He wearily nodded, having already tried, unsuccessfully, to use it in a numeric cipher.
“And finally there’s the mulberry, which changes in color from white to red to black during the ripening process. The change in color symbolizes the three stages of the alchemical process, known by their Latin names: albedo, rubedo, and nigredo.”
“White, red, and black. The same three colors that make up the Templar Beauséant.” Using her arm to support her upper body, Edie reclined back. “Coincidence or do you think the Knights Templar were practicing alchemy in their secret sanctuary?”
“I won’t know the answer to that until I decipher the frontispiece. That’s the nature of the esoteric beast, the creature too often leads one into a bloody labyrinth,” he uncharitably grumbled. Framing either side of his face with the palms of his hands, he, again, stared at the engraved illustration. “The secret of the Templar relic could well be hidden in this frontispiece, and I’m determined to break the code.”
“You do know that your interest in the Knights Templar borders on idolatry,” Edie chided, pointedly glancing at his silver ring.
Caedmon let his hands drop to the tabletop. “The first person to launch that accusation was my aunt Winifred, a sharp-tongued spinster with whom I spent the summers of my youth. She lived and died in the hillside village of Garway in far-flung Herefordshire. The only noteworthy attraction in the village was St. Michael’s where, in the twelfth century, the Knights Templar constructed a circular church.”
“Is the circular church still standing?”