Inferno: A Novel

by Dan Brown

  High atop the central peak of the church, a slender statue of St. Mark gazed down into the square that bore his name. His feet rested atop a crested arch that was painted midnight blue and dotted with golden stars. Against this colorful backdrop, the golden winged lion of Venice stood as the shimmering mascot of the city.

  It was beneath the golden lion, however, that St. Mark’s displayed one of its most famous treasures—four mammoth copper stallions—which at the moment were glinting in the afternoon sun.

  The Horses of St. Mark’s.

  Poised as if prepared to leap down at any moment into the square, these four priceless stallions—like so many treasures here in Venice—had been pillaged from Constantinople during the Crusades. Another similarly looted work of art was on display beneath the horses at the southwest corner of the church—a purple porphyry carving known as The Tetrarchs. The statue was well known for its missing foot, broken off while it was being plundered from Constantinople in the thirteenth century. Miraculously, in the 1960s, the foot was unearthed in Istanbul. Venice petitioned for the missing piece of statue, but the Turkish authorities replied with a simple message: You stole the statue—we’re keeping our foot.

  “Mister, you buy?” a woman’s voice said, drawing Langdon’s gaze downward.

  A heavyset Gypsy woman was holding up a tall pole on which hung a collection of Venetian masks. Most were in the popular volto intero style—the stylized full-faced, white masks often worn by women during Carnevale. Her collection also contained some playful half-faced Colombina masks, a few triangle-chinned bautas, and a strapless Moretta. Despite her colorful offerings, though, it was a single, grayish-black mask at the top of the pole that seized Langdon’s attention, its menacing dead eyes seeming to stare directly down at him over a long, beaked nose.

  The plague doctor. Langdon averted his eyes, needing no reminder of what he was doing here in Venice.

  “You buy?” the Gypsy repeated.

  Langdon smiled weakly and shook his head. “Sono molto belle, ma no, grazie.”

  As the woman departed, Langdon’s gaze followed the ominous plague mask as it bobbed above the crowd. He sighed heavily and raised his eyes back to the four copper stallions on the second-floor balcony.

  In a flash, it hit him.

  Langdon felt a sudden rush of elements crashing together—Horses of St. Mark’s, Venetian masks, and pillaged treasures from Constantinople.

  “My God,” he whispered. “That’s it!”

  CHAPTER 72

  Robert Langdon was transfixed.

  The Horses of St. Mark’s!

  These four magnificent horses—with their regal necks and bold collars—had sparked in Langdon a sudden and unexpected memory, one he now realized held the explanation of a critical element of the mysterious poem printed on Dante’s death mask.

  Langdon had once attended a celebrity wedding reception at New Hampshire’s historic Runnymede Farm—home to Kentucky Derby winner Dancer’s Image. As part of the lavish entertainment, the guests were treated to a performance by the prominent equine theatrical troupe Behind the Mask—a stunning spectacle in which riders performed in dazzling Venetian costumes with their faces hidden behind volto intero masks. The troupe’s jet-black Friesian mounts were the largest horses Langdon had ever seen. Colossal in stature, these stunning animals thundered across the field in a blur of rippling muscles, feathered hooves, and three-foot manes flowing wildly behind their long, graceful necks.

  The beauty of these creatures left such an impression on Langdon that upon returning home, he researched them online, discovering the breed had once been a favorite of medieval kings for use as warhorses and had been brought back from the brink of extinction in recent years. Originally known as Equus robustus, the breed’s modern name, Friesian, was a tribute to their homeland of Friesland, the Dutch province that was the birthplace of the brilliant graphic artist M. C. Escher.

  As it turned out, the powerful bodies of the early Friesian horses had inspired the robust aesthetic of the Horses of St. Mark’s in Venice. According to the Web site, the Horses of St. Mark’s were so beautiful that they had become “history’s most frequently stolen pieces of art.”

  Langdon had always believed that this dubious honor belonged to the Ghent Altarpiece and paid a quick visit to the ARCA Web site to confirm his theory. The Association for Research into Crimes Against Art offered no definitive ranking, but they did offer a concise history of the sculptures’ troubled life as a target of pillage and plunder.

  The four copper horses had been cast in the fourth century by an unknown Greek sculptor on the island of Chios, where they remained until Theodosius II whisked them off to Constantinople for display at the Hippodrome. Then, during the Fourth Crusade, when Venetian forces sacked Constantinople, the ruling doge demanded the four precious statues be transported via ship all the way back to Venice, a nearly impossible feat because of their size and weight. The horses arrived in Venice in 1254, and were installed in front of the facade of St. Mark’s Cathedral.

  More than half a millennium later, in 1797, Napoleon conquered Venice and took the horses for himself. They were transported to Paris and prominently displayed atop the Arc de Triomphe. Finally, in 1815, following Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo and his exile, the horses were winched down from the Arc de Triomphe and shipped on a barge back to Venice, where they were reinstalled on the front balcony of St. Mark’s Basilica.

  Although Langdon had been fairly familiar with the history of the horses, the ARCA site contained a passage that startled him.

  The decorative collars were added to the horses’ necks in 1204 by the Venetians to conceal where the heads had been severed to facilitate their transportation by ship from Constantinople to Venice.

  The doge ordered the heads cut off the Horses of St. Mark’s? It seemed unthinkable to Langdon.

  “Robert?!” Sienna’s voice was calling.

  Langdon emerged from his thoughts, turning to see Sienna pushing her way through the crowd with Ferris close at her side.

  “The horses in the poem!” Langdon shouted excitedly. “I figured it out!”

  “What?” Sienna looked confused.

  “We’re looking for a treacherous doge who severed the heads from horses!”

  “Yes?”

  “The poem isn’t referring to live horses.” Langdon pointed high on the facade of St. Mark’s, where a shaft of bright sun was illuminating the four copper statues. “It’s referring to those horses!”

  CHAPTER 73

  On board The Mendacium, Dr. Elizabeth Sinskey’s hands were trembling. She watched the video in the provost’s study, and although she had seen some terrifying things in her life, this inexplicable movie that Bertrand Zobrist had made before his suicide left her feeling as cold as death.

  On the screen before her, the shadow of a beaked face wavered, projected on the dripping wall of an underground cavern. The silhouette continued speaking, proudly describing his masterpiece—the creation called Inferno—which would save the world by culling the population.

  God save us, Sinskey thought. “We must …” she said, her voice quavering. “We must find that underground location. It may not be too late.”

  “Keep watching,” the provost replied. “It gets stranger.”

  Suddenly the shadow of the mask grew larger on the wet wall, looming hugely before her, until a figure stepped suddenly into the frame.

  Holy shit.

  Sinskey was staring at a fully outfitted plague doctor—complete with the black cloak and chilling beaked mask. The plague doctor was walking directly toward the camera, his mask filling the entire screen to terrifying effect.

  “ ‘The darkest places in hell,’ ” he whispered, “ ‘are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.’ ”

  Sinskey felt goose bumps on her neck. It was the same quotation that Zobrist had left for her at the airline counter when she had eluded him in New York a year ago.

  �
��I know,” the plague doctor continued, “that there are those who call me monster.” He paused, and Sinskey sensed his words were directed at her. “I know there are those who think me a heartless beast who hides behind a mask.” He paused again, stepping closer still to the camera. “But I am not faceless. Nor am I heartless.”

  With that, Zobrist pulled off his mask and lowered the hood of his cloak—his face laid bare. Sinskey stiffened, staring into the familiar green eyes she had last seen in the darkness of the CFR. His eyes in the video had the same passion and fire, but there was something else in them now—the wild zeal of a madman.

  “My name is Bertrand Zobrist,” he said, staring into the camera. “And this is my face, unveiled and naked for the world to see. As for my soul … if I could hold aloft my flaming heart, as did Dante’s Lord for his beloved Beatrice, you would see I am overflowing with love. The deepest kind of love. For all of you. And, above all, for one of you.”

  Zobrist stepped closer still, gazing deep into the camera and speaking softly, as if to a lover.

  “My love,” he whispered, “my precious love. You are my beatitude, my destroyer of all vices, my endorser of all virtue, my salvation. You are the one who lay naked at my side and unwittingly helped me across the abyss, giving me the strength to do what I now have done.”

  Sinskey listened with repulsion.

  “My love,” Zobrist continued in a doleful whisper that echoed in the ghostly subterranean cavern in which he spoke. “You are my inspiration and my guide, my Virgil and my Beatrice all in one, and this masterpiece is as much yours as it is mine. If you and I, as star-crossed lovers, never touch again, I shall find my peace in knowing that I have left the future in your gentle hands. My work below is done. And now the hour has come for me to climb again to the world above … and rebehold the stars.”

  Zobrist stopped talking, and the word stars echoed a moment in the cavern. Then, very calmly, Zobrist reached out and touched the camera, ending his transmission.

  The screen went black.

  “The underground location,” the provost said, turning off the monitor. “We don’t recognize it. Do you?”

  Sinskey shook her head. I’ve never seen anything like it. She thought of Robert Langdon, wondering if he had made any more headway in deciphering Zobrist’s clues.

  “If it’s of any help,” the provost said, “I believe I know who Zobrist’s lover is.” He paused. “An individual code-named FS-2080.”

  Sinskey jumped up. “FS-2080?!” She stared at the provost in shock.

  The provost looked equally startled. “That means something to you?”

  Sinskey gave an incredulous nod. “It most certainly does.”

  Sinskey’s heart was pounding. FS-2080. While she didn’t know the identity of the individual, she certainly knew what the code name stood for. The WHO had been monitoring similar code names for years.

  “The Transhumanist movement,” she said. “Are you familiar with it?”

  The provost shook his head.

  “In the simplest terms,” Sinskey explained, “Transhumanism is a philosophy stating that humans should use all available technologies to engineer our own species to make it stronger. Survival of the fittest.”

  The provost shrugged as if unmoved.

  “Generally speaking,” she continued, “the Transhumanist movement is made up of responsible individuals—ethically accountable scientists, futurists, visionaries—but, as in many movements, there exists a small but militant faction that believes the movement is not moving fast enough. They are apocalyptic thinkers who believe the end is coming and that someone needs to take drastic action to save the future of the species.”

  “And I’m guessing,” the provost said, “that Bertrand Zobrist was one of these people?”

  “Absolutely,” Sinskey said. “A leader of the movement. In addition to being highly intelligent, he was enormously charismatic and penned doomsday articles that spawned an entire cult of zealots for Transhumanism. Today, many of his fanatical disciples use these code names, all of which take a similar form—two letters and a four-digit number—for example, DG-2064, BA-2105, or the one you just mentioned.”

  “FS-2080.”

  Sinskey nodded. “That could only be a Transhumanist code name.”

  “Do the numbers and letters have meaning?”

  Sinskey motioned to his computer. “Pull up your browser. I’ll show you.”

  The provost looked uncertain but went to his computer and launched a search engine.

  “Search for ‘FM-2030,’ ” Sinskey said, settling in behind him.

  The provost typed FM-2030, and thousands of Web pages appeared.

  “Click any of them,” Sinskey said.

  The provost clicked the top hit, which returned a Wikipedia page showing a picture of a handsome Iranian man—Fereidoun M. Esfandiary—whom it described as an author, philosopher, futurist, and forefather of the Transhumanist movement. Born in 1930, he was credited with introducing Transhumanist philosophy to the multitudes, as well as presciently predicting in vitro fertilization, genetic engineering, and the globalization of civilization.

  According to Wikipedia, Esfandiary’s boldest claim was that new technologies would enable him to live to be a hundred years old, a rarity for his generation. As a display of his confidence in future technology, Fereidoun M. Esfandiary changed his name to FM-2030, a code name created by combining his first and middle initials along with the year in which he would turn one hundred. Sadly, he succumbed to pancreatic cancer at age seventy and never reached his goal, but in honor of his memory, zealous Transhumanist followers still paid tribute to FM-2030 by adopting his naming technique.

  When the provost finished reading, he stood up and walked to the window, staring blankly out at the ocean for a long moment.

  “So,” he finally whispered, as if thinking aloud. “Bertrand Zobrist’s lover—this FS-2080—is obviously one of these … Transhumanists.”

  “Without a doubt,” Sinskey replied. “I’m sorry I don’t know exactly who this FS-2080 is, but—”

  “That was my point,” the provost interrupted, still staring out to sea. “I do know. I know exactly who it is.”

  CHAPTER 74

  The air itself seems fashioned of gold.

  Robert Langdon had visited many magnificent cathedrals in his life, but the ambience of St. Mark’s Chiesa d’Oro always struck him as truly singular. For centuries it had been claimed that simply breathing the air of St. Mark’s would make you a richer person. The statement was intended to be understood not only metaphorically, but also literally.

  With an interior veneer consisting of several million ancient gold tiles, many of the dust particles hovering in the air were said to be actual flecks of gold. This suspended gold dust, combined with the bright sunlight that streamed through the large western window, made for a vibrant atmosphere that helped the faithful attain both spiritual wealth and, provided they inhaled deeply, a more worldly enrichment in the form of gilding their lungs.

  At this hour, the low sun piercing the west window spread out over Langdon’s head like a broad, gleaming fan, or an awning of radiant silk. Langdon could not help but draw an awestruck breath, and he sensed Sienna and Ferris do the same beside him.

  “Which way?” Sienna whispered.

  Langdon motioned toward a set of ascending stairs. The museum section of the church was on the upper level and contained an extensive exhibit devoted to the Horses of St. Mark’s, which Langdon believed would quickly reveal the identity of the mysterious doge who had severed the animals’ heads.

  As they climbed the stairs, he could see that Ferris was struggling again with his breathing, and Sienna caught Langdon’s eye, which she had been trying to do for several minutes now. Her expression was cautionary as she nodded discreetly toward Ferris and mouthed something Langdon couldn’t understand. Before he could ask her for clarification, though, Ferris glanced back, a split second too late, for Sienna had already averted her ey
es and was staring directly at Ferris.

  “You okay, Doctor?” she asked innocently.

  Ferris nodded and climbed faster.

  The talented actress, Langdon thought, but what was she trying to tell me?

  When they reached the second tier, they could see the entire basilica spread out beneath them. The sanctuary had been constructed in the form of a Greek Cross, far more square in appearance than the elongated rectangles of St. Peter’s or Notre-Dame. With a shorter distance from narthex to altar, St. Mark’s exuded a robust, sturdy quality, as well as a feeling of greater accessibility.

  Not to appear too accessible, however, the church’s altar resided behind a columned screen topped by an imposing crucifix. It was sheltered by an elegant ciborium and boasted one of the most valuable altar-pieces in the world—the famed Pala d’Oro. An expansive backdrop of gilded silver, this “golden cloth” was a fabric only in the sense that it was a fused tapestry of previous works—primarily Byzantine enamel—all interwoven into a single Gothic frame. Adorned with some thirteen hundred pearls, four hundred garnets, three hundred sapphires, as well as emeralds, amethysts, and rubies, the Pala d’Oro was considered, along with the Horses of St. Mark’s, to be one of the finest treasures in Venice.

  Architecturally speaking, the word basilica defined any eastern, Byzantine-style church erected in Europe or the West. Being a replica of Justinian’s Basilica of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople, St. Mark’s was so eastern in style that guidebooks often suggested it as a viable alternative to visiting Turkish mosques, many of which were Byzantine cathedrals that had been turned into Muslim houses of worship.

  While Langdon would never consider St. Mark’s a stand-in for the spectacular mosques of Turkey, he did have to admit that one’s passion for Byzantine art could be satisfied with a visit to the secret suite of rooms just off the right transept in this church, in which was hidden the so-called Treasure of St. Mark—a glittering collection of 283 precious icons, jewels, and chalices acquired during the looting of Constantinople.