by C. M. Palov
Indeed, that night stayed with Chaim Woolf for the rest of his life. Even after his mother, two small children in tow, paid a small fortune for the three British visas that secured them safe passage out of Berlin. They arrived in England just in time for the blitzkrieg of German bombs that nightly rained down on the scurrying, frightened denizens of London.
Rubin learned of these things from his aunt Tovah. She’d not been given a cuckoo clock on that long-ago night. Instead, she’d been bequeathed a badly scarred face from having been shoved into the bonfire by a gang of local boys intent on “joining the fun.” It was his aunt Tovah who told Rubin about that monstrous episode, hoping he’d understand why, each year on November 10, his father would sit for hours on end, in the dark, sobbing uncontrollably. Rubin only understood that living with his father was akin to living with a ghost. Chaim Woolf walked and talked and took meals with his family, but he had no ties or bonds with the living.
Rubin had always asserted, rather strenuously in fact, that he didn’t care. What use did he have for a father who lacked the emotional fortitude to overcome his inner demons? Chaim Woolf’s retreat from the world bespoke a weakness that made his son cringe.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
As the line of poetry popped into his head, Rubin derisively snorted. Sylvia Plath. Really. How pathetic. Besides, what need did he have for a father? What need did anyone have?
“I have my books. I am content,” he reassured himself as he entered the boudoir. Originally a staid Victorian parlor, ten years ago he’d completely transformed the space, paying a small fortune to have a room in a half-timber Winchester abode completely dismantled, the woodwork shipped to Cecil Court and reassembled. The paneled walls exemplified the very best of the era, masculine exuberance wedded to feminine civility.
He suspected that his father had never known an exuberant day in his life.
No doubt that was the reason why Rubin had been drawn to the scowling anarchists who’d invaded the London club scene in the 1970s. But, like the punk-rock movement itself, the love affair had been short-lived. Rubin had always required an intellectual challenge to maintain a long-term interest.
Enter Sir Francis Bacon.
He’d often wondered if his family history didn’t have something to do with his fascination with Sir Francis. A Renaissance man extraordinaire, Sir Francis was at once philosopher, courtier, and esoteric adept. But more important, Sir Francis Bacon was a tolerant and benevolent man of God.
Walking over to the bed, he picked up the Mylar-covered frontispiece. In the New Atlantis, Jews played a prominent role in society and harmoniously lived side by side with their Christian neighbors. The children of the Old Covenant united with those of the New. A paradise not seen since Adam and Eve blithely strolled their earthly garden. And the adhesive that bound the residents of Bacon’s utopian realm was the hidden stream of knowledge.
Knowledge is power.
I am a witness to knowledge.
Heady sentiments made manifest by the alchemical power inherent in the Emerald Tablet. Sacred teachings whose roots extended to the time before the pharaohs. To the time when Thoth and his fellow refugees fled the destruction of Atlantis.
No different from when the German Jews fled from the Nazi thugs.
Rubin chortled, cynical enough to be amused by the comparison.
In the foyer, the cuckoo annoyingly announced the quarter hour. Fifteen minutes late. Royally pissed, he strode over to the window and stared at the gloomy montage below. A few shops kept Sunday hours. Most were closed. Christians were not as rigid as Jews when it came to keeping their Sabbath.
As if on cue, the downstairs bell rang.
“About time,” he muttered as he turned away from the window.
Annoyed at being made to wait, he took his time descending the steps. Let the bastard stand in the rain a bit longer. Time was a valuable commodity, tardiness a tiresome character flaw.
Again, the bell rang.
Reaching the ground floor, he stormed across the dimly lit bookshop, in high dudgeon.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolls, you bloody impatient bastard, it tolls for—”
Unbolting the lock, Rubin swung open the shop door.
On the other side of the threshold stood a dark-haired man. Six feet in height, he had about him a classical beauty that harkened to the ancient world. A marble kouros come to life. Carved by the hand of the master sculptor Phidias.
Admittedly taken aback, Rubin could see that, like the kouroi of ancient Greece, his beautiful visitor was the living, breathing embodiment of the ideal male form.
For several moments they mutely stared at one another.
The beautiful stranger smiled. “I’m Saviour Panos. We have an eleven o’clock appointment. Please accept my apology for being a few minutes late. I hope that you weren’t inconvenienced.”
“Not in the least,” Rubin assured him. He tugged at the bottom of his vest, self-consciously aware of his middle-aged paunch.
“May I come inside?”
“Where are my manners? Of course, please come in,” Rubin invited. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “I trust that you like martinis.”
CHAPTER 58
“. . . and Benjamin Franklin’s code name was Moses.”
“Indeed?”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Edie scooted her chair closer to the flat-screened monitor.
To get out of the rain, she and Caedmon had ducked into an Internet café called Pie-Ro-Mania. Owned and operated by an American expat, the joint billed itself as a “No Latte Zone” that served dark-roast coffee and homemade pie by the slice. The décor was equally bare-bones with several rows of conference tables lined with monitors and keyboards. The music—Muddy Waters—and the incredibly flaky piecrust more than compensated for the spartan design. She’d ordered pecan with a big dollop of whipped cream.
“The whole time that he was living at the town house on Craven Street, ol’ Ben was engaged in high-level espionage activities,” Edie continued. She hurriedly ripped open a cellophane package with plastic cutlery, anxious for a sugar fix. “Those were the turbulent years leading up to the Revolution. And, according to the biography that I read a few years back, Franklin used the secret code name ‘Moses.’ ”
“Which explains why he titled the hidden pages The Book of Moses. It’s a tongue-in-cheek reference to his espionage activities.”
“Okay, book title explained. But what I want to know is how did Franklin get a hold of the Bacon frontispiece? Ohmygosh! This is to die for,” she exclaimed around a mouthful of pie. “You sure you don’t want some?” She extended her plastic fork in Caedmon’s direction.
He politely shook his head, clearly spooked by the idea of so much corn syrup having gone into a single slice of pie. “Perhaps Franklin’s enigmatically titled missive will shed some light.” Caedmon opened the leather pouch and carefully removed the dozen or so sheets of thick old-fashioned paper. “Let’s have a go at the missive, shall we?”
“Since we have no idea as to the contents, I think we should read this quietly at our desks rather than reciting it aloud.”
Caedmon inched his chair closer to hers. “I agree. Sub rosa.”
The Book of Moses London March 17, 1775
I write this missive in haste, fearful that the bloody backs will barge through the entry at any moment, an arrest warrant in one hand and a length of rope in the other. Lest I be accused of fraudulent alienations, a principal offender of the Crown, in word and deed, I am transcribing an account of my actions during the years 1724 to 1775.
The particulars of my life story are familiar enough to readers of my scribblings. While I wrote naught but the truth in my autobiography, I am guilty of having spun a lie of omission. The lapse involves my arrival in London in 1724. A penniless lad, a mere eighteen winters upon my head, I apprenticed myself to one John Watts, a printer by trade. My lodgings, though sparse, did accommodate most comfortably, youth more accepting
of privation. Endowed with a prying nature, I spent my evenings combing through the stacks of printed material housed in the shop storeroom. Which is how I happened upon an incised plate that I recognized as a frontispiece. Curious, I inked the plate and drew a print, surprised to find myself holding a frontispiece for the New Atlantis by Sir Francis Bacon. My attention was immediately drawn to a glaring inaccuracy: the date incised onto the plate. I had more than a passing familiarity with the work in question, having read the volume the year prior. Therefore, I knew that it had been published in 1627, not 1614 as indicated on the frontispiece. Surely the graver made grave error.
Thinking the illustration a fine work of art nonetheless, I tacked it onto the wall beside my cot. Innumerable nights I stared upon those muses before I realized that the date was not the engraving’s only error. Indeed, there seemed to be a glaring number of mistakes. Which led me to deduce that a message was hidden within those inconsistencies. Soon enough, I discovered a numeric cipher, which, when translated into the Latin alphabet, read ‘Moses Egypticus mined Thoths stone.’ I did not know it at the time, but that curious message would one day change the course of my life.
In truth, ’twas a strange riddle, one I could not penetrate. Though I did strenuously attempt the feat, burning my Betty lamp into the wee hours, books a lonely man’s steadfast companion. From my reading, I ascertained that “Thoth’s stone” referred to an ancient relic known as the Emerald Tablet and that this relic had been much coveted during the Middle Ages. Particularly in alchemical circles. I also knew from my reading of the Bible that Moses, the Hebrew patriarch, was trained in all the arts of Egypt. Was it possible that during ancient times, no less a personage than Moses had this relic in his possession and that centuries later it had been bequeathed to Sir Francis Bacon? If so, what happened to the sacred relic upon Sir Francis’s death?
While those questions bedeviled me, I grew desirous of more animated companions than my growing collection of leather-bound volumes and soon began to patronize the coffeehouses of London. At each week’s end, meager earnings in hand, I traded my black bib and apron for beggar’s velvet, and made straightway for St. Paul’s coffeehouse, where, for a modest admission, I could enjoy the exalted company of poets, writers, and the like.
The ease with which the coffeehouse habitués bandied ideas, both scientific and arcane, astounded me. One night, hoping to impress, I mentioned the Bacon frontispiece and the hidden cipher to a newly formed acquaintance. Aghast, the man informed me that I would be wise not to make mention of this in so public a place. Rather than dampen, this ominous warning aroused my curiosity. Over the course of many months, I gently probed the clientele of St. Paul’s. While a strong brew heightened a man’s faculties, I discovered that, inundated with spiritous drink, that same man’s faculties fled for higher ground. Indeed, I was privy to many a drunken murmuring, the common thread being the Freemasons. One saturated fellow did let slip that the Freemasons were the guardians of a sacred relic that they inherited from a well-known English nobleman. A lofty claim. One I would have rejected outright had it not been for the encryption on the frontispiece. I gently pressed the matter, but my drunken companion refused to give up the prize. Struck by divine inspiration, I vowed to join the ranks of the Freemasons. What better way to siphon from that well-guarded well of knowledge?
In 1726, I returned to Philadelphia and eventually secured an invitation to join the Grand Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons. The secret proceedings were carried out with an air of constipated gravitas, and I was forced to swallow many an amused guffaw. What man would not be struck by the patent absurdity of a Philadelphia merchant claiming descent from sun-worshipping Egyptians? Not content to stop there, my brethren did maintain that the mysticism of the Nile had a guiding hand in the construction of Solomon’s Temple. Even going so far as to claim that behind each of history’s great achievements, there beamed the illuminating rays of the Light, the name they bestowed upon God Almighty. Who but an itinerant simpleton would proclaim as truth such outlandish assertions? Or spout incomprehensible drivel and pass it off as “knowledge.” To my great disappointment, I soon came to realize that the members of the Philadelphia Lodge had no knowledge of Francis Bacon or his sacred relic. However, the inane rituals and silly natterings did serve a purpose, namely to open the doors of Philadelphia’s most exclusive drawing rooms, providing me with the entrée denied by birth. Where men of high standing once turned a blind eye, they now greeted me with open arms.
As the years passed, I never forgot the unsolved puzzle of the Bacon frontispiece. From time to time, I would make the acquaintance of a man who intimated that he had knowledge of the sacred relic. More than a few of my esteemed Royal Society fellows implied as much. While I have never profaned the name of God nor purposefully set my sights on Perdition’s pathway, in this one instance, those endowed with a less charitable bent may claim that I did well succeed at both endeavors.
“Astounding. I’ve always thought of Franklin as a brilliant boffin, but I must now add Machiavellian schemer to the list.” There was no mistaking the admiration in Caedmon’s voice. “Care for another slice of pie?”
About to put in an order for lemon meringue, Edie reluctantly shook her head at the last. “I’m a little confused. What do the Freemasons and the Royal Society have to do with Francis Bacon?”
“Given his slavish devotion to Bacon and the Bard, Rubin could better answer the question. He is, after all, the resident expert on the Knights of the Helmet. That said, I’ll take a stab.” As he spoke, Caedmon slowly twisted the silver signet ring. As though he was channeling the Templar grand master who wore it last. “During the mid-seventeenth century, there was a resurgent interest in Bacon and his utopian vision for creating a society dedicated to the principles of the hidden stream of knowledge.”
“I’ve heard this tune before.” Edie moved her hands through the air like a symphony conductor. “Alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic. The Unholy Trinity.”
“While the Royal Society promoted the advancement of philosophical, mathematical, and scientific learning, a good many fellows were secretly engaged in the occult. In fact, the most famous member of the Royal Society, Sir Isaac Newton, was utterly obsessed with alchemy.”
Hearing that, Edie nearly gagged on her coffee. “Isaac Newton was an alchemist!?”
“The aim of alchemy is to glean the secret of creation, the Genesis code a tempting lure for any man.”
“And the Freemasons? Where do they fit into the picture?”
“Despite their outrageous claims of an ancient pedigree, the Freemasons were founded in 1717. And it’s no coincidence that the founding members were all fellows in the Royal Society.”
“So, it makes perfect sense for Benjamin Franklin to join the Philadelphia Lodge. He figured the Freemasons might have the lowdown on the Emerald Tablet given their interest in the occult.”
“And while he was at it, Franklin could climb the social ladder and gain entrée into the charmed circles of English society. Armed with wit, charisma, and innate intelligence, Dr. Franklin ascended to the top rung, that of grand master. A brilliant move, really. Given the rigid class structure of the eighteenth century, becoming a Freemason enabled Franklin, an autodidactic of humble birth, to hobnob with the crème de la crème.”
“Do you think there’s any chance he actually found the Emerald Tablet?”
Blue eyes gleaming, Caedmon handed her the next page of Franklin’s handwritten missive. “I am keen to find out.”
CHAPTER 59
In 1765, I returned to London a loyal supporter of the king. I leave ten years later an embittered traitor to the Crown. Continually I did urge harmonious accord between parent and child, my efforts for naught. May Providence prove me wrong, but I fear the relationship is now strained beyond repair. My actions this night will further weaken the fragile bond. As fate would have it, the object that has long held my fascination is at the heart of the severance. I speak, of course, of the Emerald Ta
blet.
Unlike my first youthful sojourn, I arrived in London a Freemason grand master and Royal Society fellow. Soon after my arrival, a fellow Mason, his tongue loosened with drink, let slip that Sir Francis Dashwood had been entrusted with the Brothers’ most sacred relic. The man’s name was familiar enough to me, Dashwood a known confidant of the king. Having caught the scent, I immediately set about to make Dashwood’s acquaintance. As those in the upper echelons will attest, Dashwood is a charming fellow, possessed of a courtier’s manners and the morals of a whore. Indeed, he lived his life ad libitum, always at pleasure’s beck and call. Furthermore, he surrounded himself with a handpicked circle, a privileged gathering of freethinkers, libertines, and artists, all members of the aristocratic class who held to the shared belief that they were exempt from the rules that bound the lower castes.
I secured an invitation to join Dashwood and his compatriots for an evening’s revel. Laughter the most expedient means to gain a man’s confidence, I liberally peppered my speech with bawdy jests and risqué witticisms. Over the years, I had perfected the art of playing the fool, the jester often the wisest man at court, privy to all manner of intrigue. To my surprise, I discovered that Dashwood and his inner circle, Freemasons all, spent a goodly amount of time plotting the course of king and empire. Their political discourse exposed a surprising undercurrent, the king’s confidant not as enamored of the royal personage as he did profess in public. In truth, Dashwood held a low opinion of the monarch and expressed disdain for the monarchy in general. With the conceit of the high born, Dashwood claimed that society would be better served if educated men of high rank served as overseers for a new world order. Having read the New Atlantis, I recognized the scheme. Dashwood and his associates had taken upon themselves the role played by the scholars who resided at Solomon’s House. Dashwood ardently maintained that society’s salvation is entirely dependent upon men of noble birth, the “anointed ones” who will implement Bacon’s utopian vision. Because of their superior intellect, they would decide each man’s lot in life, be he yeoman or tinsmith or printer. And as the most exalted members of society, Dashwood and his inner circle would also be the guardians of the sacred teachings. The common man, dumb as dirt, must content himself with plowing the field and printing the page while the intellectual elites busied themselves creating a new religion that would merge the three people of the Book. In Dashwood’s utopia, Christians, Hebrews, and Muslims would all worship the Light, as man did in the days when the pharaohs ruled, occultism woven into the very warp and woof of their Masonic scheme. Privately, I took issue with all of this. Indeed, a benevolent tyrant is still a tyrant.