by Richard Reed
“Origen was based in Caesarea, a town in what is now modern Israel, which by the late 3rd century had become a major seat of Christian learning. He was a scholar who travelled widely, and he compiled a list of Christian works which he considered ‘inspired’. Later, Eusebius, also based in Caesarea, drew on Origen’s work to compile his own list of what he considered suitable works – it was he who chose to leave out the so-called gnostic gospels such as those of Thomas and Mary, though he did not go so far as to call them heretical. Interestingly, Eusebius also considered the book of Revelation to be unsuitable.”
Marianne paused and gave a wry smile. “It’s ironic that so-called evangelical Christians cite Revelation first and foremost in their preaching – yet they also teach that the Bible is, word for word, the word of God, because the men who put it together were ‘divinely inspired’. On that basis they should remove Revelation from their Bibles!
“Anyway, it wasn’t until Athanasius of Alexandria came along that the New Testament took shape. He went through the list drawn up by Eusebius and edited it according to his own extremely dogmatic beliefs – it was he who reinstated Revelation. In his famous Easter Letter of AD 367, Athanasius produced a list of 27 books that he declared to be the only ones that should be given credence by the Church, and they are exactly the same texts as in the modern New Testament.
“But there’s more you should know about Athanasius: he is on record as being a violent man, who thought nothing of using beatings, kidnapping and imprisonment to silence his opponents – fellow Christians, such as the followers of Arius, who happened to have differing beliefs. The Arians just didn’t ‘buy it’ that Jesus was actually God while he was alive on Earth, but rather sent from God to show us that by following his example of love, compassion and forgiveness, we all have the potential to become the sons and daughters of God.
“At one point, the Arian belief dominated Christian thought, and Arians outnumbered those who believed that God himself had literally descended to earth. But Athanasius was having none of it. He waged such a powerful campaign of intimidation and propaganda that his arguments won the day; he justified his behaviour by saying he was ‘saving all future Christians from hell’. It gets worse, though: he was cited as the inspiration for the Inquisition against the Cathars set up by Pope Gregory IX in 1231 – which, of course, went on to spread fear and torture throughout the world against anyone who dared disagree with Rome’s dogma.
“So the New Testament as you know it today was compiled by the man whose brutal behaviour inspired the Inquisition!” Marianne paused, her soft, dark eyes hardening. “I am sorry – it makes me angry at how the word of Our Lord has been manipulated and misrepresented over the centuries.”
“Don’t apologise – I completely agree with you,” said Rachel. “So basically what you’re saying is that Mary’s role as Christ’s foremost disciple was edited out of the Bible. It’s like something out of Orwell’s 1984: it’s as if she were made a ‘non-person’; deliberately written out of history – at least, as far as they were able.”
“Exactement! In the Pistis Sophia alone, her name is mentioned 150 times. Compare that with just 13 times across all four gospels in the New Testament and you have an idea how much of a political exercise the New Testament really is.”
“Look, I mean no disrespect, but can we save the history lesson for later?” said David, interrupting. “You come across as a very genuine person, Marianne. But all I have heard so far is conjecture – that and a few rambling verses on a parchment found in Mary’s tomb. Or what is purported to be Mary’s tomb. Forgive me for being blunt, but before we go off on a treasure hunt for this so-called gospel, what evidence, if any, do you have that Jesus was even married – let alone that you are the direct descendant of Christ?”
Chapter 41
Tuscany, northern Italy, August 1451
Cliché or not, it was love at first sight when Da Vinci first set eyes on Caterina. Her smooth olive skin, her flowing mane of dark hair, her slim, lissom body – they would be enough to enchant any mortal man. But it was those mysterious dark brown eyes that drew him in, and in which he frequently found himself lost. And that fierce intelligence was an enticing challenge…
As for Caterina… well, Ser Piero was rather more handsome than she had expected, with a sparkle in his eye that brought feelings she had never experienced before. Quite dashing, if truth be told, though a little old, at 36, but certainly a more attractive proposition than many of the older men she might have been expected to marry.
Caterina went about her household chores with more good grace than she had intended, and as Ser Vanni had hoped, embarrassed glances soon turned into ardent stares. And as their relationship became less formal, so the feelings intensified.
Finally, one sultry summer’s evening as they lay in the orange grove at Ser Piero’s old stone villa in Vinci, watching the sun set over the gentle folds of the bronzed Tuscan countryside, listening to the cicadas’ endless song, he found the courage to kiss Caterina – and found it eagerly returned.
From their first coupling, their relationship assumed an intensity that neither had expected, and for a few months they led an idyllic existence.
As with all clandestine lovers who assume no-one else is privy to their trysts, they continued their liaisons cloaked in a blind passion that soon became the talk of the goodwives of Vinci. It wasn’t long before word reached the ears of Del Viva, and one afternoon he took Da Vinci to task over lunch at an inn near his practice in Florence.
“Do you still have honourable intentions toward my daughter Albiera,” he queried, as they finished their pots of ale.
Da Vinci reddened and paused while he drained the last dregs of his beer. “That was certainly my intention,” he said, hesitantly.
“Was?”
“In truth, she is but 16.”
“A marriageable age – you find her pretty, do you not?”
“She is most certainly attractive, but she is very young. And while I made the promise to marry with every good intention, I have to confess I have found my heart drawn to another.”
“You are referring, I assume, to your maidservant?”
Da Vinci’s face turned scarlet. “She is my housekeeper, but it is an informal arrangement requested by her stepfather – it is really more of a guardianship.”
“A guardianship?” Del Viva’s eyebrows shot up. “And what kind of relationship do you have with your ward?” he asked pointedly.
“Sir!…” protested Da Vinci. “I am not her guardian in law; rather she was entrusted to my care. In return, she keeps house for me to help pay her way.”
“It seems she is paying in other currency, too, if the goodwives of Vinci are to be believed.”
“I cannot comment on market gossip, sir. I do not deny we have a close relationship; it is for that reason that I wish to wed her. Of course, I very much regret having to break my betrothal to your daughter, but I must follow my heart. I have to confess that we are very much in love.”
“Love – pha! I was in love when I was 16, but I soon learned the error of my ways. Love is for youthful trysts – the stuff of poetry and plays. It is not something that should concern men of status. We have the potential to form a great practice, you and I, perhaps with a couple of other fellows I know. Would you throw it all away for a few nights of passion with a girl? It fades soon enough, let me tell you.”
“As I have said, I must follow my heart…”
“Da Vinci, I urge you to think this through very carefully,” said Del Viva coldly, dropping his air of bonhomie. “It will not go well for you if you if you pursue this course. By breaking your betrothal you will be dishonouring both myself and my daughter. And by having an intimate relationship with a young woman who is in your care, you put your legal career at risk.”
“I repeat, I am not her legal guardian…”
“If she was entrusted to you in Ser Vanni’s will, then, as you should know, whether you were explicitly cited
as her guardian or not, you have a moral and legal obligation to care for her. And that does not include bedding her!”
“Sir!”
Del Vivo held up his hand to silence his protests. “How old is she?”
“Twenty, sir.”
“A wardship does not expire until a woman is 25, or she is married – you, of all people, should know that. And you cannot marry your own ward without special dispensation from the republic’s ruling council – and you know who controls that. Do you have the wealth to grease the palm of the Medicis? I think not. You must not pursue this liaison further if you wish to keep your licence to practice. Unless you wish to wait five years, of course. But I should warn you that I have eyes and ears in Vinci, and if I hear of any malpractice, the authorities shall hear of it.”
Da Vinci glared at him angrily.
“Come, my friend – I have no wish to harm you,” said Del Viva, resuming his earlier tone. “I am merely trying to save you from yourself. I know a young man’s blood can run hot – and a young woman’s, too, for all that. Do not jeopardise your whole career for this infatuation; for that’s all it is. You are doing her no service if you sully her good name. Watch over her, as you were bidden, and find her a husband as soon as you are able.”
* * * *
“You would give me up for that milksap?” exploded Caterina. “Does our relationship mean nothing to you? Have you bedded me for sport?”
“You cannot believe that of me, Caterina – I love you more than life itself. But what am I to do? He has me in a double bind. If I insist on continuing this relationship with you I shall be disbarred. Under law – at least, as Del Vivo interprets it – I will not be free to marry you until you are 25. There is no logical solution.”
“What if I were to tell you I am with-child? Would that make a difference to your logic?” she said stingingly.
“With-child? I cannot believe it!”
“You think babies are delivered by storks, perhaps?”
“My love, I had no idea…” Da Vinci paced up and down the room nervously. “What am I to do? If I lose my career, I am nothing…”
“If that is your only response then I will save you the worry. You may consider our relationship at an end,” said Caterina savagely, her dark eyes blazing with fury.
Chapter 42
Marianne smiled patiently. “You have every right to ask that question, David,” she said. “Tell me, can you read Egyptian Coptic?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” he said slowly.
“That’s a shame. Never mind, I’m sure you know where to get this translated, if you wish.” She opened a small jewellery casket and withdrew a fragment of what appeared to be ancient papyrus, sandwiched between two thin sheets of clear plastic. “This has been in our family for many years, and it goes some way to answering the first part of your question. Experts say it is probably 4th century AD, though it’s been suggested it may be a copy of an earlier Greek source. Here is the translation they have made – as you can see, it’s only a fragment, so the lines don’t follow on from one another:
‘…not to me. My mother gave to me life…
The disciples said to Jesus…
…deny. Mary is worthy of it…
Jesus said to them, My wife…
She will be able to be my disciple…
Let wicked people swell up…
As for me, I dwell with her in order to…
…an image’
At the words ‘Jesus said to them, My wife’, Rachel and David looked at each other in astonishment. “And this is genuine?” queried David.
“As far as we can tell. As I have said, it has been analysed by several experts.”
“You say it has been in your family for many years. Do you know how it came into your possession?”
“It is thought to be one of a number of manuscripts originally collected by Saunière. How it came to him we cannot be sure – he may have found it in the crypt, or he may have bought it from an antiquarian.”
“But I thought he ordered Marie Dénarnaud to burn all his papers?” said Rachel.
“Indeed he did – there are many corroborating accounts from villagers of Marie burning papers after his death. But some may already have been given to one of his confidantes, such as his fellow priest in Rennes-les-Bains, Abbé Henri Boudet. Boudet actually died a couple of years before Saunière, but they were close friends. Boudet may have passed it on to his successor at Rennes, Rescanières – who was mysteriously murdered shortly after he took up the post.”
“Another murder in the Rennes saga?” queried Rachel incredulously.
“Indeed – and there are others. In 1967 a briefcase of papers relating to Rennes-le-Château belonging to a collector was being taken by a courier named Fakhar ul Islam to an agent in what was then West Germany. He was refused entry at the border, and returned to Paris. His body was later found on the railway tracks at Melun, near Paris. Needless to say, the briefcase was missing.” Marianne paused, biting her lip. “We have reason to believe this fragment was in that briefcase. Grandmère had no idea about the courier’s death, or, indeed, that it had been stolen, or she would obviously have had nothing to do with it. But she bought it in 1968 with a collection of other papers about Rennes, and it seems the most likely origin.”
There was a brief silence as Rachel and David tried to make sense of the latest piece of information.
“Are there any other documents like this? asked David.
“Nothing this old; most are from Saunière’s time, or his predecessor a century earlier, Abbé Antoine Bigou – the priest who commissioned the de Blanchefort headstone. There is one interesting paper that Bigou left in the parish records of births, marriages and deaths.” She reached into a briefcase and pulled out a faded sheet of paper. “This is a photocopy.”
Rachel and David stared at the piece of paper. On it had been scrawled, ten times, one under the other – as if written by a schoolboy copying lines – the phrase ‘Jesus de galilee nest point icy’.
“‘Jesus of Galilee was not here…’ translated Rachel. “That’s really weird – and I’m not talking about the spelling.”
“You can say that again,” said David. “What’s it supposed to prove, anyway?” he said, turning to Marianne.
“It doesn’t really prove anything… Except that, perhaps, if Jesus wasn’t there, at Rennes, maybe somebody else – Mary – was.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch,” said David. “It’s certainly another fascinating part of the riddle that is Rennes-le-Château, but I’m not convinced it actually means much. That Coptic fragment, on the other hand, is of real importance. I hadn’t even heard of it – you should get it out there to the academic community and get it authenticated.”
“The thought had crossed my mind, but I didn’t really want to part with it,” said Marianne.
“Nevertheless, it deserves to be made public – it certainly made me sit up and think. Why don’t you send it to Karen King?”
“The professor of divinity at Harvard?”
“Yes, she’s turned the study of Mary Magdalene into something of a crusade.”
“An unfortunate turn of phrase in Cathar country, David, but you’re quite right,” put in the Count. “She has been championing the Madeleine’s cause, and she is undoubtedly an expert in her field. I think, perhaps, Marianne, we should do as David suggests – the time is soon coming when we will need all the evidence we can assemble to reinforce your story. I’ll use an intermediary in Germany that I know, if you’re agreeable; he’s reliable and can be trusted to keep our identities a secret.”
“Very well,” said Marianne. “Which brings us back to the final piece of evidence, which we have already touched upon – although sadly it has not been in my family’s possession for many centuries.”
“The Lost Gospel?” queried Rachel.
“Indeed. After Mary’s death, the gospel was carefully guarded by a small group of her followers who later became part of the
Cathar movement. As a result, some of its teachings became part of the Cathar faith – we know the Cathars believed that Jesus and Mary were married. However, in the 13th century, the Pope’s crusade proved disastrous for the Magdalene legacy. The Madeleine at the time was caught up in the slaughter of the so-called heretics, and she was with them during their last stand at the isolated mountain fortress of Montségur. Thankfully, however, her daughter was smuggled out shortly before the end of the nine-month siege.”
“And I’ll bet she was carrying the gospel,” said Rachel.
“We believe she was,” said Marianne, “though much has been lost in the mists of time. Her escape from Montségur carrying a great treasure became part of local folklore – though no-one knew her identity or the true nature of the treasure she carried. Some think this was the start of the Grail legend that spread throughout Europe. Indeed, one of the earliest Grail stories, Parzival, written by Wolfram von Eschenbach, also in the 13th century, relates that the Grail castle is called Monsalvat, which, like Montségur, means ‘secure mountain’.”
“A coincidence?” queried David.
“Possibly,” said Marianne. “You are a hard one to convince! How about this: when the Cathars at Montségur finally surrendered, they were given the chance to live by renouncing their faith. More than 200 refused to do so, and were burned alive in a pyre at the foot of the mountain. That must have taken a huge amount of faith – not to mention courage. It is known that shortly before their surrender, a number of the faithful had been given the consolamentum perfecti – the Cathar sacrament, similar to Holy Communion, bonding the spark of God within all of us to the God above. Now, if that had been administered by the Madeleine, a direct descendant of Our Lord, and she had vowed to accompany them into the flames, would that have been worth dying for?”